Chapter IV: Act III: Scene I (1)

Some time Later. Room in the Palace of Shushan.

[_Enter Ahafid and Smerdis._]

_Ahafid_

[_Singing._]

In the morning man may flourish
In the evening be cut down;
Dawn may find a hero famous,
Nightfall see him lose renown.

_Smerdis_

[_Singing._]

In his youth Ahafid's singing
Was the pride of Persia's rule;
Now that age has come upon him,
Hear him braying like a mule.

_Ahafid_

Still singing like a nightingale, say you?

_Smerdis_

[_Aloud._]

I did. [_Aside_] The long-eared kind that crops the grass.

_Ahafid_

Haman's hanged upon the scaffold that
He built for Mordecai. The Jew now wears
The signet ring that sealed his nation's life.
His nation's life? But how can he explain
The slaughter of the Persian hosts?

_Smerdis_

Now if he would, I think he could, and if he should,
He'd thus explain: "The hosts were slain because my brain
Was not insane. So I raised Cain, obtained the reign
Of this campaign, and still remain, though they were slain."

_Ahafid_

I think I must be growing deaf. You rhymed?

_Smerdis_

I only spoke a little joke. If I could sing, I'd say the ring,
And not the king explains the thing.

_Ahafid_

But does
The God of Abraham inspire revenge?
The worshippers of Moloch would have shrunk
From such a day of death. I marvel that
Queen Esther did not intervene. She rules
The king. But wherefore did I say the king?

_Smerdis_

I think it must have been to rhyme with ring.

_Ahafid_

Darius' son's a spineless debauchee.

[_Sings._]

The Jew the purple robe enfolds
And eke the royal gown;
For Mordecai the sceptre holds
And Esther wears the crown.

[_Exit Ahafid._]

_Smerdis_

Ahafid said he couldn't sing Ahasuerus' praise,
And that his harp had lost the tone it had in other days.
But though the Jews are on the throne and Xerxes maudlin full,
Ahafid once more tunes his lyre and bellows like a bull.

Look out, here comes the Jew, a cloud upon
His brow, the weight of empires on his brain.
What matters does he now revolve? I fear
The day of Adar troubles Mordecai.
We'll stand aside and hear the premier.

[_Exit Smerdis._]

[_Enter Mordecai meditatively, followed by Zeresh, who is
unseen by him at first._]

_Mordecai_

The name of Haman perish from the earth!
The seed of Abraham be multiplied
Until they are as numberless as sands
Upon ocean's shore! This was my prayer,
I learned it at my mother's knee. Was I
Not justified?

_Zeresh_

[_Disguised as a Hebrew woman._]

The Holy Scripture saith,
"Vengeance belongs to God."

_Mordecai_

But was I not
His instrument? Jehovah wrought through me;
His will, not mine was done.

_Zeresh_

And yet His will
Was yours?

_Mordecai_

The wicked Haman would have slain
Even the queen herself and every Jew
That lives within the hundred provinces
Of Xerxes' weak and vacillating rule.

_Zeresh_

Thy action was no more than self-defense?

_Mordecai_

Not self-defense of Mordecai alone,
But of my blood, of Esther and the sons
Of Jacob, exiled and defenseless else.
The God of Abraham may chasten, but
He keeps his promises, nor will forsake.
Rameses sat upon his haughty throne
And knew not Joseph, for my people were
Oppressed with bitter bondage and their lives
Made hard in mortar and in brick; but still
They grew in numbers and increased and waxed
Exceeding mighty, till the land was filled
With them. And then the king was sore afraid
And wroth because the Jews had never bent
The knee at Egypt's shrines. He could enslave
But not corrupt the children of the true
And living God. And then he called
The Hebrew midwives and commanded them
To slay thereafter every son that might
Be born to Jacob's sacred blood. God kept
His covenant with Abraham and raised
Up Moses, the deliverer, and when
The plagues had failed to soften Pharaoh's heart,
The Lord smote every firstborn in the land
Of Egypt, save where hyssop mixed with blood
Was sprinkled on the lintel of the door
And on the two side posts, as Moses had
Directed. Saviour of his people, son
Of Amram and of Jochebed, obscure
Levites, found in an ark of bulrushes
Afloat among the flags near by the spot
Where Pharaoh's daughter bathed, and yet, and yet--

_Zeresh_

Was Moses not selected by the Lord
To lead the Israelites into the Land
Of Promise?

_Mordecai_

[_As in soliloquy._]

And did he not talk with God
Upon the Mount of Sinai, when smoke
Enveloped all the peak, and even priests
Were not allowed upon that holy ground?
Was I more lowly than was Amram's child?

_Zeresh_

Yet God exalted him until the throne
Of Egypt was within his grasp.

_Mordecai_

Though I,
Like Jesse's son, was once a shepherd's lad,
To-day I rule ten million souls.
Now Moses was a vessel of the Lord
When Death passed over every Hebrew home,
But slew the firstborn where no blood was found.
Was this revenge? Not Moses' hand, but God's
Was red.

_Zeresh_

The servant must obey his Lord.

_Mordecai_

I did not plot the Persians' death. The plan
Of God was in it all.

_Zeresh_

Else why were you
Made premier at the moment when the Jews
Faced death in every province of the king?

_Mordecai_

It was my hand that stopped the massacre,
But God avenged the awful wrong!

_Zeresh_

And Esther! How is it with her? You made
Her queen. She was a humble Hebrew girl,
Unknown and friendless, but for Mordecai.

_Mordecai_

She should be grateful for the crown I gave.

_Zeresh_

But Hatach says her cheeks are often wet
With tears.

_Mordecai_

It may be that she weeps for him
Who won her girlish heart before we came
To Shushan or had ever seen the king.

_Zeresh_

And yet that can not be. The shepherd's crook
Is not the golden sceptre of a king.
I have no doubt that she has long since ceased
To think of youthful dreams. She rules the king,
And what more does a woman want?

_Mordecai_

I did
Not hope to make her understand at once.
My reasons were too subtle for her heart.
And so I kept my counsel, for I knew
No girl would ever sacrifice her love
To save the remnant of a nation's life.

_Zeresh_

[_Justifying._]

And why might even Esther not forget
When once she felt the spell of royal power--
The tinsel show and glamour of the court?
No woman lives that would not be a queen.

_Mordecai_

I knew Ahasuerus was a brute,
But what of that? Through Esther I have saved
A half a million souls.

_Zeresh_

[_Aside._]

Through Esther you
Have slain a million souls.

_Mordecai_

When Jepthah vowed
A vow unto the Lord he kept his pledge
And slew the only daughter of his flesh
For a burnt offering unto God, because
The Ammonites, his enemy, had been
Delivered to the hands of Israel.
Now Esther was my only child.

_Zeresh_

[_A little sarcastically._]

You have
Not sacrificed, but elevated her.
Although she does not understand your heart,
She can but bless her uncle Mordecai.

_Mordecai_

But why should Esther weep? She risked her life
At my behest, but did she not obtain
Great favor with the king?

_Zeresh_

And Esther's life
Was forfeit then through Haman's wicked hate.

_Mordecai_

I wear the royal robe of blue and white.

_Zeresh_

Does Esther think because her vanity
Is flattered by the jewels of a queen
That Mordecai is moved by pomp and show?

_Mordecai_

'Tis not the kingly trappings but the seal--
Not sceptre merely but the signet ring,
Not rank, but rule that Mordecai would have.
I can not understand her tears no more
Than she knows why I wear the crown. But I
Am justified. Jehovah wrought through me.

[_Exit Mordecai._]

_Zeresh_

[_Bursting into fury._]

Jehovah wrought through him! Hell wrought through him!
I marvel that his tongue is not consumed
By blasted lies. Wait till he feels the flame
That rages in my heart. Hell may not burn
A Jew, but even he can not withstand
The simoon of a fiery dragon's breath!

_Parshandatha_

But Zeresh, was the Jew not justified?

_Zeresh_

Justified! gratified! satisfied! Parshandatha,
Justified in Jepthah; gratified
That he is like the meek and lowly son
Of Amram; satisfied that now the crown
Of Persia presses only Hebrew brows.

_Parshandatha_

[_Sarcastically._]

You do forget my lord, Darius' son.
You can not think the blood of Jacob flows
Through Xerxes' veins? Does he not wear the crown?

_Zeresh_

[_With contempt._]

Ahasuerus wears a pigeon's heart.
The Persian robe's a Jewish gabardine;
The crown, a Hebrew priest's phylactery.
But did you say forget? Have you been so
Long with me, dear, and doubt my memory?
Forget Ahasuerus, did you say?
That minion of a Jewish girl, who sealed
The death of Haman and his sons? His face
Is seared upon my heart, his image burnt
Into my brain. I tell you Xerxes is
No longer king.

_Parshandatha_

But is not Esther queen?

_Zeresh_

Parshandatha, why do you taunt me thus?
Have I not proved your friend? Do I deserve
Your mockery?

_Parshandatha_

I do but speak to sting
You to revenge.

_Zeresh_

Let fly your venom then.
The Persian empire is in arms. To-night
The king does hold a great carouse. The Jew
Will sit in state beside the profligate.
This blade I have prepared against that hour.
The queen, I understand, will be a blaze
Of gems. Ahasuerus boasts this night
Would all but wreck a petty kingdom.

_Parshandatha_

He
Should never live to see the rising sun.

_Zeresh_

The rising sun! My dear, he shall not see
The Pleiades again, and they are up
At nine. When cornet and the trumpet bruit
The entry of the queen, a hundred blades
Like this [_disclosing dagger_] shall be unsheathed.
Parshandatha,
You know whose blood my blade shall drink!
My hour has come! Ah, Esther, you shall sup
Once more with Haman and your drunken lord,
While Zeresh keeps her lonely watch
Beneath the silent, glittering stars. Come on!

[_Exeunt Zeresh and Parshandatha._]

[_Curtain._]

SCENE II

Place--Outer hall to throne room, curtain back.

Time--The following evening.

[_Enter Vashti and Esther from opposite sides of the stage._]

_Esther_

Ah, here already, Vashti, at my poor
Request, who dared defy a despot king's
Command to come before him and his lords?
Your beauty, radiant and spotless, grows
Each hour of exiled life more potent still
Than when it hurled an oriental crown,
With all its flashing jewels, in the face
Of brutal Xerxes rather than unveil
Unto a drunken court of lustful eyes.
Uncrowned, deposed, you are, yet thrice a queen!

_Vashti_

The sting, the sting of your envenomed words!

_Esther_

Forgive me, dear, I do not mock your fate;
No word of mine is spoke in scorn. I would
Exchange the royal robe and crown I wear
For just one hour of virtuous freedom that
Belongs to you.

_Vashti_

I can not understand!

_Esther_

I know; 'tis my misfortune, and I called
You to the palace that I might explain.
Yet every word seems cruel mockery.
I do not blame you that your cheek, as chaste
As lilies, blushes at my seeming shame.
Yet, Vashti, can you not believe I need
Your sympathy? I crave your high respect?

_Vashti_

You must an explanation.

_Esther_

Well, did you
Not sacrifice a queenship for the gem
That every woman holds above a throne?
How can we estimate your loss? The pomp
That follows majesty; the crooking knee;
Ten thousand minions at your beck and call;
A thousand sycophantic, fawning lords;
A hundred gleaming jeweled chandeliers;
The radiance and rich magnificence
Of court; long hours of revel and of wine;
And then above the splendor and the show
God's finger writing on the wall! Is this
The precious price that you have paid?

_Vashti_

This is
The price.

_Esther_

Sweet friend, I thank you. Yes, your loss
Has been my gain! Yet what reward have I?
How I do hate the crown that you did spurn!
O how I love the pearl of greatest price!
God pardon my great sin!

Vashti, I am
A daughter of Rebecca and the blood
Of Rachel pulses in my veins! Beyond
The northern hills, within a valley green,
A shepherd watches o'er his flocks to-night
Beside a starlit stream, and dreams of her
Who gave the promise of her hand when life
Was young and all the earth was pure and fair.

His love was constant as the northern star,
And mine was like the needle pointing true.
That day is but a sad remembrance now.
I never knew the ones who gave me life.
My uncle, Mordecai, who sits in state
Beside the king instructed me in love
And knowledge of my people. Every night,
As well as every day, like Daniel, I
Was taught to pray, my window open toward
Jerusalem. God softened Cyrus' heart
Because of Daniel's prayer. But, Vashti, you
Must know from Persian Gulf to Caspian Sea,
The sons of Jacob still in exile groan
Beneath a tyrant's yoke. I hear the wail
Of Rachel weeping for her children still;
I hear my lover playing on his flute,
Who waits the coming of a faithless bride!
_But Mordecai has stayed the hand of Death!_

_Vashti_

And you did eat your heart to save your blood?

_Esther_

You comprehend at last? Your sympathy,
O Vashti, I must have, if not respect,
Else can I not return unto the king. [_Vashti weeps._]
There, there, I thank you, sister, friend, proud queen!
The tears that glitter on your cheeks are worth
A diadem of sparkling Indian stones.
But weep no more--your hand--for Esther's heart
Can now endure, since Vashti understands!
The stars are twinkling in the northern skies;
They shimmer on the stream beyond the hills;
The shepherd's reed is wailing on the breeze;
The revels in the palace now begin;
The call has come; I must no longer stay.
The daughter of a Benjamite will lay
Her heart upon the altar of her blood.
Hear you the crimson riot in my veins?
'Tis Rachel's voice! I would that you could know!
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
Forgive me, Vashti, for my brain's distraught!

The lights die out beyond the palace walls.
The stars are hid.... I can no longer hear
The wailing flute.... Return unto your hut.
Ahasuerus calls with mantling wine.
My place is yonder by the king. I go!

[_Exeunt Esther and Vashti._]

[_Enter Ahafid and Smerdis._]

_Ahafid_

The last word has been spoken
The last true song been sung;
My country's heart is broken,
The poet's harp unstrung.

_Smerdis_

Ahafid seems to harp upon his strings.

_Ahafid_

It seems Ahasuerus means to drink
The cup of revel to its bitter lees.

_Smerdis_

The deeper in the cup he goes
The sweeter is the wine that flows;
The closer to the lees, he thinks,
The purer is the wine he drinks.

_Ahafid_

Messengers from every province bring
Reports of mutterings and dangerous
Revolt. But Xerxes, heedless still, declares
This night shall dim the glories of the past.

_Smerdis_

[_Sings._]

The lower in the lamp the oil
The fewer are the days of toil.
The brighter burns the wick of life,
The sooner end the days of strife.
'Tis not for oil that Xerxes cares,
But brilliancy of flame that flares.

_Ahafid_

I hate the Hebrews and their Jewish God;
I hate Jehovah for his jealous love,
But Mordecai refuses to attend
The feast. The God of Israel must save
Us now, or Persia perish utterly.

My hand will pen no ribald verse
This revel to adorn;
Ye gods, inspire my tongue to curse
The day the king was born.

[_Exit Ahafid._]

_Smerdis_

The more he swears the less he sings,
Then welcome is this news he brings;
For listening to his song is worse
Than hearing old Ahafid curse.

[_Exit Smerdis._]

[_Re-enter Ahafid._]

_Ahafid_

[_Sings._]

Persia's heart is beating low,
Thinking of the long ago,
When the king that wore the crown
Was a prince of great renown;
When her name without a peer
Did inspire the world with fear;
But to-night her sovereign's lust
Trails her banner in the dust.

Now my life is ebbing fast,
Dreaming of the glorious past;
Feeling all the shame and smart,
Dying of a broken heart.

[_Sinks to floor._]

[_Curtain._]

SCENE III

[_Curtain rises on Ahasuerus and his court._]

_Ahasuerus_

Sha-ashgaz, keeper of the concubines,
Ahasuerus drinks your health
And bids you bring immediately before
The court the serpents of the Orient!
The king would have a night of revelry.

[_The court fool, Smerdis, dances out before the court._]

_Ahasuerus_ (_Continues_)

What, Smerdis, is the office of a fool?

_Smerdis_

To charm these serpents of the Orient!
[_Aside_] But more to furnish brains for idiot kings.

_Ahasuerus_

Now tell the chief musicians every one
To string his harp with golden wire and tune
His finest Persian reed to touch the heart
With joy. To-night the emperor of the East,
The monarch of the world from Babylon
To India, would show munificence
Of entertainment never seen within
The palace walls before.

_Smerdis_

You do forget
That night six years ago. The palace was
A blaze of light. The air was fragrant with
The breath of spice from off the Indian seas.
Ahasuerus, flushed with flattery
And wine, was mad with passion....

_Ahasuerus_

[_Impetuously._]

Smerdis, charm
These serpents, if you will, your glittering words
Are meaningless to me. Carshena, let
The Jewish Esther come in Tyrian robe,
In such a gown as never Vashti wore!

_Smerdis_

[_Aside._]

His orders have not always been obeyed.

_Ahasuerus_

And I would have my queen adorned with gems,
That diamond cluster from beyond the Ind,
Which, sparkling in her aureole of gold, bedims
The constellation of the Southern Cross.

_Smerdis_

[_Aside._]

And makes the Persian peasants mourn their loss!

_Ahasuerus_

I say, Meheuman, this shall be a night
In which Ahasuerus feasts his friends--
A banquet for the soul, as well as flesh.

_Smerdis_

[_Aside._]

A famished soul such feasting would refresh!

_Ahasuerus_

For who does not delight to look upon
The rhythmic beauty of voluptuous form?

_Smerdis_

[_Aside._]

Cold-blooded heart a writhing snake can warm!

_Ahasuerus_

Whose ear is not enthralled by luscious lute,
Whose heart is not inspired by festive song!

_Smerdis_

[_Aside._]

The one bowed down by tyranny and wrong!

_Ahasuerus_

But why has Mordecai delayed to come?
The hated sons of Haman are no more;
That reprobate who would have slain the queen
Herself to gratify his wounded pride
Has long since festered in the rain and sun.
No enemy remains alive who dares
To touch the people of the Jew that saved
The life of Persia's king. He wears my ring;
The purple of my empire is a shield
Against the world. I do not understand
Why Mordecai is late. He should be here;
The tabor and tymbrel sound anon.

_Smerdis_

[_Dances and capers before the king, then speaks
solemnly._]

O king, I know why Mordecai is late,
He sits once more beside the palace gate,
In sackcloth and bemoans his fate.
He sits and dreams of hills and streams
That flow through pasture lands and fields.
He sees a child of golden hair,
As happy as the vibrant air,
And hears the notes and pulse of song
Where birds and sheep and shepherds throng.
And then he turns to banquet halls
And scenes like this in palace walls,
Where lords and queens and fools and kings,
And concubines and underlings,
Made one with wine and passion's thrall,
Throw dice with Death, nor heed the call
That comes from Persia's bleeding heart,
[_Aside_] (A fool that can not play his part).
And this explains why he is late,
The Jew beside the palace gate.

_Ahasuerus_

You are a jester, not a bard. Your cap
And bells, or else Death wins his throw with you.
Meheuman, call the poet of the court,
The great Ahafid. Let him celebrate
This feast in song. This rhyming fool presumes
Too much upon the patience of the king.

_Smerdis_

Your majesty, I did but rhyme because
Ahafid's dead.

_Ahasuerus_

Ahafid dead? What caused
His death?

_Smerdis_

[_Aside._]

A broken heart. [_Aloud._] He broke his harp
And died of grief. [_Aside again._] The good gray poet could
Remember real kings.

_Ahasuerus_

Of grief? The fool!
Well, let the younger minstrel, Saadi sing.

_Saadi_

[_Sings._]

Lift the voice and let us sing,
The monarch's on his throne;
Xerxes is the greatest king
The world has ever known.
Women, wine and happy song,
Let the revels ring,
Lift your voices loud and long,
For Xerxes is our king.

[_Much revel and dancing. The trumpet sounds._]

_Ahasuerus_

Ahafid's death was only Persia's gain.

[_Meditatively._]

Could Vashti look upon this gorgeous scene
The bitter tears would scald her faded cheeks
At thoughts of her own folly.

[_Confusion and much disturbance. Ahasuerus, surprised,
cries in angry passion._]

Ho! What means
This rude confusion? Who has dared disturb
The king in this unwonted way?

[_Enter messenger._]

_Messenger_

Tidings,
O king, of riot and revolt!

_Ahasuerus_

Restore
The court to order. I will hear no news!
There is no news but this night's joy. What fear
Need Persia have? The world is safe;
The emperor lives! Go put the messengers to death!
This is no time to cloud the royal brow!
Bring forth the vintage from the deepest vault.
Here are a hundred irised pearls. They cost
A million sesterces. Let each man crush
A lustrous shell and drink it to the health
Of Esther, beauteous queen of all the East.
Arise! She comes! A blaze of splendor. Now
Let every instrument be sounded.
The revels shall continue till the dawn!

_Zeresh_

[_Rushing in with uplifted dagger and thrusting it into
the heart of Esther, crying as she flourishes it before
the astonished court._]

The dawn, O king, is breaking in the east!

[_Curtain._]

FINIS

POEMS AND SONNETS

To
DOCTOR W. W. RAY
PHYSICIAN, SCIENTIST, POET, MUSICIAN

To Whom
Whether in Art or Nature
Truth is Beauty and Beauty Truth,
To Whose Appreciation and Enthusiasm I Owed my Intellectual
Awakening in Youth, and Whose Friendship and Love
have Increased That Obligation Immeasureably
as the Years have Passed,

I Dedicate these Poems
With the Affection of a Full Heart

COTTON NOE

"_Then why not praise the tallow-dip, the dog irons and the crane,
The kettle singing on the coals, or hanging to a chain?_"]

Poems and Sonnets

THE OLD DOG IRONS

Oh, the old, old dog irons! How the picture thrills my soul,
As I stir the ashes of the past and find this living coal:
When I blow the breath of memory it flashes into flame,
That seems to me far brighter than the most undying fame.
Will you listen to the story of my early childhood days
When I read the mystic symbols in the embers and the blaze
Of the old wide-open fireplace, where the backlog, all aglow
With its shifting scenes of fancy, was a motion picture show?
I know about your natural gas, your stoves and anthracite,
Your phonograph and telephone and incandescent light;
I've heard about the comforts and the use of gasoline,
And the educative value of a Pathe photo-scene;
The future of the biplane and the wonders of the press,
And the blessings of the wireless when a ship is in distress.
I marvel at invention and its all but magic art,
But the things that make for happiness concern the human heart.
Then why not praise the tallow dip, the dog irons and the crane,
The kettle singing on the coals, or hanging to a chain?
The children gathered round the hearth to hear of early days--
The wildcat and the panther, the redman's sneaking ways;
The bravery of our fathers, the scalping knife and gun,
The courage of the women folks; I tell you, boys, 'twas fun.
We roasted sweet potatoes and we talked of Marion's men,
How they routed all the redcoats, or slew them in the fen.
We learned to love our country and we swore to tell the truth,
And do no deed of treachery and never act uncouth;
To guard the honor of our name, and shield a virtuous home,
To read the Proverbs and the Psalms and love the sacred tome.
I know our home was humble then--rag carpet on the floor--
But the stranger found a welcome there, the latch-string on the door.
The well-sweep and the woodpile and the ox team in the shed,
Dried apples hung around the walls, and pumpkins overhead--
Not sanitary, I'll admit, nor stylish-like, nor rich,
But health and comfort and content; now tell me, which is which?
Then who can blame me that I love the good old dog iron days,
When men had hearts and character that fortune couldn't faze;
The years before the slitted skirts and the Turkish cigarettes,
When women wove their linsey clothes instead of devilish nets;
When children did the chores at night, nor ever heard of gym,
Or movements such as boy scouts, yet kept in health and trim.
We spent our evenings all at home, and read and sang and played,
Or talked of work and feats of strength, or what our crops had made;
And when we mentioned quilting bees and apple-peeling time,
We had in mind our sweethearts and we sometimes made a rhyme:
'Twas then I read my future in the embers and the blaze,
And this is why I celebrate the good old dog iron ways.

THE AGE ELECTRIC

The glory of the good old days has passed from earth away,
The lumbering loom, the spinning wheel, Maud Muller raking hay;
The old rail fence, the moldboard plough, the scythe and reaping hook,
Corn shuckings, and Virginia reel, and young folks' bashful look.
Now poor old father limps behind his motorcycle son
And sees the world go whizzing by and knows his race is run.
With rheumatism in his joints and crotchets in his brain,
He finds that he can hardly catch th' accommodation train.
Two dozen bottles of the oil of Dr. Up-To-Date
Would put to flight the rheumatiz and straighten out his pate;
But fogy folks don't have the faith, nor interest in the race,
They'd rather drive a slow coach horse than go at such a pace.
Efficiency! efficiency! In business, church and school,
Where Culture in a dunce's cap sits grinning on a stool,
And wondering where the thing will end, and what the prize will be,
When Intellect, all geared and greased, is mere machinery.
Old Homer and the Iliad, the Trojan and the Greek,
The Parthenon and Phidias, not ancient, but antique.
Great Caesar and the Gallic War and Virgil with his rhyme,
And Cicero have all gone down beneath the wheel of time.
And Dante now lies buried deep beneath the art debris,
Where Michael Angelo once wrought for immortality.
The Swan of Avon's not in school, but on the movie screen,
The Prince of Denmark can not talk but still he may be seen.
All history and literature, philosophy and truth
Would take about three evenings off of any modern youth
To master through the picture art if he the time could spare,
From vaudeville shows and joy rides and tango with the fair.
The problem is to find an hour so busy is the age,
And so important is the work and tempting is the wage.
Then what's the use of poetry or history anyhow?
Best turn your back upon the past and face the present _now_!
Get busy, and be on the job, the world will pay for skill.
It says: "Deliver me the goods, and then present your bill."
The family circle and the talk around the old hearth stone,
The sage advice, when backlogs glowed and grease lamps dimly shone,
Are mouldy pictures of the past, mere myths of long ago,
When grandsires had found out some things that children didn't know.
How many bushels can you raise upon your plot of ground?
How many blades of grass now grow where once just one was found?
Oh! Nature is the proper theme, but better Wordsworth drop,
San Jose scale and coddling moth will get your apple crop.
Ben Johnson and Will Shakespeare and Goldsmith all are dead.
Put nodules in alfalfa roots not dramas in your head.
Tomato canning's orthodox if done with due dispatch,
Don't let your daughter dream of fame, just show her how to patch.
The laws of sanitation soon will put the fly to flight,
Then stop tuberculosis next and win the hookworm fight.
If man could live a century it may be in the strife,
He'd learn to make a _living_ if he didn't make a _life_!
What matter if the primrose is beside the river's brim,
A yellow primrose growing there and nothing more to him,
He's caught the trick of sustenance (but lost his taste for rhyme),
Though the oxen in the clover fields have had that all the time!

GRANDMOTHER DAYS

Ah, Grandmother Young was wrinkled and old
When she sat by the mantelpiece;
And she wore a cap with many a fold
Of ribbon and lace, as rich as gold,
And worked in many a crease:
And the billowy clouds of smoke that rolled
From her little stone pipe whenever she told
Of the quest of the Golden Fleece,
Wrought me to think that Grandmother Young
Was shriveled and gray when Homer sung
Of the gods of ancient Greece.

But all of her marvelous mythical lore
Was naught to her magical power--
Transforming a house with a puncheon floor
To a palace of wealth with a golden door
That lead to a castle tower--
An attic loft with a wonderful store
Of things that we feared, but longed to explore--
Our grandmother's ancient dower.
Oh, grandmother's charm could change but a base
Rude vessel of clay to a Haviland vase,
A weed to a royal flower.

Ah, grandmother's home was a temple of grace
And my child-heart worshipped there,
When Balm-of-Gilead around the place,
Like incense, for a mile of space,
Perfumed the glorious air;
And the song that came from the feathered race
In the boughs of the tangled interlace
Of apple and peach and pear,
Enthralled me like the magic spell
Of siren music when it fell
On old Ulysses' ear.

Last summer I passed where the palace once stood
Whose beauty my life beguiled;
It's a cabin now; and the charmed wood
Of sugar and oak, in brotherhood
Of walnut and hickory, aisled
For gathering nuts and the merry mood
That only our childhood understood,
By man has been defiled.
Oh, how can I ever cease to praise
The fairy enchantment of grandmother days
When I was a little child!

JUST TO DREAM

Just to dream when sapphire skies
Are as blue as maidens' eyes;
Just to dream when petals sow
All the earth with pink and snow;
Just to sit by youth's bright stream,
Gazing at its crystal gleam--
Listening to the wren and dove--
Hearing only songs of love--
_Just to dream_.

Just to dream of sabre's flash
When the lines of battle clash;
See the army put to rout--
Hear the world's triumphant shout;
Just to dream our name supreme--
Hero of a poet's theme,
First among the sons of men,
Master of the sword or pen--
_Just to dream_.

Just to dream when skies grow gray,
Just to dream the days away--
Living over childhood's joys,
Sorrow that no longer cloys;
Just to muse of days that seem
Like the sunlight's golden beam,
Summer nights and winter's snow.
Just to dream of long ago--
_Just to dream_.

AMNEMON

"Dear, the struggle has been hard and long--
The wine-press I have trodden,
Paved with flint and shard;
And many times my feet have stained
The flagstones of the street with blood.
Out yonder in the park where life's rich chalice
Sparkles with the wine of happiness and love
The world was always dull and dark to me.
Hours I have stood upon the beach
And watched the whitecaps glinting
In the sunlight and listened to the breakers
Booming on the sinuous shore,
While little children clapped their hands
And shouted out across the waters,
And gray-haired men and women shook their heads
In silence and looked toward the sunset.
But everything was always meaningless to me.
Season after season I have watched the butterflies
By millions come and go
And katydids each year have sung
The song monotonous and passed away.
Yesterday the sun arose upon another world.
Gray skies have turned to brilliant blue;
The droning hum of beetles on the breeze
Is like an orchestra of lovely music.
The air is sweet and fresh as dewdrops in convolvuli.
For two bright hours I have strolled
Among the flowering shrubbery near the seashore,
Listening to a song I had not heard for years.
And now once more that I am happy,
May I not confess it all?
I did you wrong, great wrong.
There was no stain upon my life,
No taint of blood within my veins.
I came of Pilgrim stock, vigorous and strong.
I did not understand my heart,
And knowing all the stress you placed upon heredity,
I told a falsehood, partly as a test of love,
And part for self-protection.
I have suffered much, but justly.
You said my story broke your heart,
And left me where I stood,
Pondering on the sin I had committed.
I had proved your love, but all too late.
Your talent meant a brilliant future,
And I knew your great ambition.
For years I scanned the periodicals
Where names of most renown in literature are found,
Expecting always to see my lover's there,
But always doomed to disappointment.
And yet I now rejoice
That you have not achieved great fame,
For otherwise I could not write this letter.
Perhaps 'twere best that I should never send it;
If so, it will not find its way to you.
It may be that you think me dead,
Or worse--I may have been forgotten.
This is April twenty-first;
The hillsides now are pink with peach and apple bloom.
I will arrive in Salt Lake City, May the third,
And be at Hotel Utah.
If your heart, through all these years,
Like mine, has hungered, you will be there too.
Geraldine."

Alfred Milner read this letter
While great drops of perspiration
Stood upon his brow and trembling hand.
For seven winters he had tried
To bury in oblivion a face and form
That always with the dogwood blossoms
Came again, and each time seemed more fair.
He had tried for fame and failed.
But now his book that bore a pen name only
Was selling daily by the thousands
And fame and fortune, latter-day twin saints,
Were building him a shrine.
But did she know of his success,
And was her conduct
Years before base cowardice?
Had she only told the cruel tale
Because she knew his theory of insane blood,
And hid her lack of faith
By taking refuge in his prejudice?
Or was her story true?
If true or false, why had she kept it back
Until she knew red passion
Was a-riot in his heart?
He tore the letter into strips
And blew them fiercely through the air.
He had suffered much himself,
But she was not concerned.
What if this letter had been sent
To open healing wounds,
To win some wager with another man
To whom she boasted of her power?
He would not go!

The air was growing foul and stuffy
In his suite of rooms,
And Alfred threw the window open.
The subway in the distance
Rumbled like a gathering storm;
The palisades across the Hudson
Now were darkling in the falling shadows.

April thirtieth at noon.
The Rocky Mountains looked like towers
On the Chinese Wall a hundred miles away.
Would he make connection at Pueblo?
The gray monotony of grass and cacti
Had begun to wear upon his nerves.
He longed to see the Royal Gorge--
The steep and jagged heights of hills.
They spoke of giant strength
He needed for the coming struggle.
It might be that the air
From off eternal snows
Would cool the fever in his brain.

"May second, and yonder lies the Great Salt Lake,
Or else a mirage on the desert's rim."

Alfred put his pen upon the register
Of Hotel Utah,
And read the list of names above.
She was there, "Geraldine Mahaffy."
Finally he scrawled a signature,
But wrote his _nom de plume_.
The clerk thrust out his hand and beamed.
Two porters swooped upon his grips,
And soon the lobby hummed.
But Alfred Milner sat alone within his room
Battling with emotions he could neither
Overcome nor understand.
He did not know the stir his name upon the register
Had made below, or knew what name he wrote.
At last: "Geraldine Mahaffy:
This is May the third and I am here."
Thoughtfully he creased the sheet
And rang: "Room ten, and answer, please."

The smell of brine was heavy on the air
That blew across the lake.
The mountains to the north were white with snow above
And dogwood petals on the southern slopes.
But winter was forgotten in the plains,
For rivulets imprisoned long in cataracts
Were leaping over waterfalls
And shouting like a red bird,
In an April cedar tree.

Milner drew a long deep breath of spring
And walked into the parlor.
"Alfred!"
"Geraldine!"

"Last night I dreamed of Cornell days,
And saw the redbuds blooming in the hills
Behind the cliffs of Ithaca!"

"The ice in Cascadilla Creek is gone.
All night I heard the roaring of the falls!"

"The call of flickers sounded through the canyons
Of Old Buttermilk, and peckerwoods were beating
Reveilles before the sun was up!"

"Two blue birds built a mansion
In a dead oak trunk
And called the world to witness!"

"Alfred!"
"Geraldine!"

"The train for California leaves at nine!"

Some hours out from Great Salt Lake,
The sand dunes stretching southward
O'er a waste of shrubbery and alkali
Were shimmering in the sunshine
Like copper kettles on a field of bronze.

"Dear Alfred, can you still recall
Those afternoons upon the cliffs above Cayuga Lake?
The little city, Ithaca,
Was like a jewel on the breast of Nature.
The lake a band of silver, stretching northward.
A hundred waterfalls were visible
From where we used to sit.
We often thought the lime-washed houses
Far to west, resembled whited decks
Upon a sea of emerald;
And wondered if our own good ship
Would one day cast its anchor in the harbor.
Over to the right the Cornell towers,
Like mediaeval castles beetling o'er the precipice,
Were keeping silent watch above it all.
The memory of those blessed days alone
Has kept my heart alive."

"But Geraldine, our vessel richly laden
Has at last come in
Nor ever will put out to sea again.
Happy as those moments were,
Forget the past, so fraught with bitterness to me."

The desert now a hundred miles behind
Was fading like a crescent sea beach
In the setting sun.
Slowly like a giant serpent
The Sunset Limited climbed the great Sierras
And started down the western slope at dawn.
The valley of the Sacramento
Never bloomed so beautiful before.
The blue Pacific through the haze
Was like a canvas sea.
Peace permeated all the earth.
The sun at last was resting on the ocean's rim.
The turquoise waters turned to liquid gold.

"Life, O my beloved, is like eternal seas--
Emerald in the morning, changing into opal,
Amethyst and pearl, but ruby red at last.
Behold the Golden Gate!
The seas beyond are all like that!"

Morning in the Sacramento!
Petals, dew and fragrance--indescribable!
Plumage, song and sunshine,
And over all a California sky!

"O Alfred, could it only be like this forever!
Back yonder in New York,
The world is built of brick and mortar,
And men forget the handiwork of God.
How can a poet hope to win a name
Where men are mad for gold?"

"A name! Why Geraldine! I had forgot
To tell the story of my fame.
The ecstacy of these three days
Had blotted all earthly fortune from my memory.
I am Ralph Nixon, author of the _Topaz Mystery_."

"Ralph Nixon! You! Then who am I?"
A heavy tide of blood swept over
All the tracery of the bitter past,
And in a moment more
She lay unconscious on a bed of thorny cactus.

The _City Argentina_ blew a long loud blast
And anchored in the bay.
The woman opened wondering eyes
And looked at Milner.
"Why do you call me Geraldine?
My Christian name's Amnemon.
We never met before.
I am Major Erskine's wife.
We live in Pasadena.
I do not know your name or face,
Nor how I came to be with you.
I never saw this place before,
But those are California hills
And yonder is the great Pacific.
The mystery of who you are,
And where I am, I can not solve.
I only know I wish to see my home and child;
Little Alfred never has been left alone,
And may be calling for his mother now.
You seem to be a gentleman.
Please show me to the nearest train
That goes to Pasadena."

Half in fright and half in rage
Milner looked at Geraldine and tried to speak.
The mountains reeled and pitched into the sea.
A clevage in the brain! But whose?
This was insanity, but whether his
Or hers he was unable to decide.
The memory of the Cornell days came back--
The cliffs above the lake, the emerald farms,
The gorges and the waterfalls,
And finally the wild, weird light
That played in iridescent eyes
That last day on the hills--
The story of the tainted blood and what it meant
For future generations.
Milner saw an eagle soaring high above the park
And then he heard a scream
As though a ball had pierced its heart.
The bird careened and dropped a hundred feet,
Then spreading broad its wings again,
Shot upward to the heights.

The train for Pasadena speeded onward
Toward its destination.
A poet sat within his room
That opened on the Golden Gate
And as the sun dropped into the wave,
He wrote a Requiem to Hope,
That filled the earth with fame.

A ROMANCE OF THE CUMBERLAND

Early in the day they passed the pinnacle,
And now the shadow of each human form
Was lengthening backwards like Lombardy poplars
Fallen toward the east.
For days the fairest maiden of the caravan
Had fevered--whether from malaria and fatigue,
Or more because of one whom they had left behind,
Beyond the wooded mountains,
Neither sire nor matron could agree.
But Martha Waters, as they laid her stretcher down
And prepared the camp for coming night,
Declared unless they rested here for days to come,
Her bones must bleach beside the trail
That led into the Dark and Bloody Ground.

And so they waited for the fever to abate,
But when they thought her strong enough,
A score of hardy pioneers trudged down
The slope and launched canoes and dug-outs
And a flatboat in the turgid waters
Of the Cumberland, for heavy rains had fallen
And all the mountain streams were swollen
In these early days of June.
But the air was sweet with the odor
Of wild honeysuckle and the ivy
With its starry clusters fringed
The milky way of elder bloom
That filled each sheltered cove
Like constellations on a summer night.
But now the rains had ceased, the air
Was fresh and bracing, and each glorious day
Out-rivaled all the rest in beauty.
Lying on her pallet on the flatboat,
The maiden breathed the fragrant atmosphere,
And drank refreshing whiffs of air
That drove the fever from her blood
And wakened dreams of conquest
In the wilderness toward which
Her life was drifting rapidly.
But how could she find heart for conquest?
Why seek this new land anyway, where only
And forever to card the wool and spin the flax
Would be the woman's portion?
Would ever in the forest or beyond it
In the rolling bluegrass,
Return the vision that was hers,
When only a few brief months ago
She watched the sea gulls battling with the storm
Above the waves of Chesapeake Bay?
Oh, how that day was filled with meaning
For her now! For as the birds disported
With the whirlpools of the air,
A lover's magic words were whispered in her ear,
How that storm and stress of life to those that love
Are little more than winds to swallows of the sea.
But now, if hardship meant so little,
Why had he remained behind, when she
Was forced to go upon the long and weary journey?
Ah! Could it be he cared no longer for her love?
His arm was strong. Then was his heart
Not brave enough to conquer this new world,
Where savage lurked and wild beast made
The darkness dreaded by the most courageous soul?

For days the fleet had drifted down the river,
But now her boat was anchored to a tree
That grew upon an island in the Cumberland,
And every man and woman but the convalescent
Had gone ashore to stalk a deer or gather berries
That everywhere were found along the river bank.
But Martha Waters lay upon her bed and pondered--
Dreaming day dreams, as she watched
A golden oriole who fed her young
In boughs that overhung the water,
And a vague unhappiness arose
Within her heart, until she tossed
Again in fever on her couch.
She could hear the roaring falls
A mile below, but she thought the sounding
Cataract the sickness booming in her ears again.
When she looked to eastward where the mountain
Rose a thousand feet, she saw a crown of wealth
Upon its crest of which no pioneer yet had dreamed.
Long she lay and marveled at its beauty,
Wondering how many ages would elapse before
The god of Mammon would transport its treasures
To his marts beside the sea.
Feverish she mused and pondered until at last she slept.
And then upon the little island,
A city rose as from the ocean wave--
A city of a thousand streets, and every house
Was made from trees that grew upon the mountain.
Many were the palaces of wealth and beauty,
But those who dwelt therein she did not recognize.
Strange were their faces and their manners haughty,
And while they lived in luxury and ease,
Others toiled at mill and furnace. Oh! The awful din
Of sledge and hammer, beating in her ears.
She woke. A storm seemed just about to burst in fury,
So loud and terrible was the roaring!
But the sky was clear. It is the booming
Of the falls, for her boat has broke its moorings,
And now is rapidly drifting toward the cataract,
But four hundred yards away!

She leaped upon her feet and screamed for help.
It was impossible for her to swim ashore,
And her fever-wasted frame could find no strength
With which to steer the boat.
Again she saw the crown of wealth
Upon the mountain top, untouched by human hands.
But the island city now had faded from her vision,
The mountain lowered and the world grew dark.
Onward the boat shot faster toward the roaring falls.
But look! A race is on! A birch canoe,
Driven by as swift a hand as ever gripped
An oar, is leaping o'er the waves in mad pursuit.
With every stroke the Indian bark is gaining twenty feet.
Will it reach the flatboat soon enough to save the girl?
But who is he that rides the fleet canoe?
No red man ever had an arm like that,
For already he has reached the speeding raft,
And with gigantic strength he steers it toward the shore.
But no! The current is too swift!
A moment more and all will be engulfed within
The swirling flood. It is too late! Too late?
But love is swifter than the angry tide,
For like a mighty porpoise, wallowing in the wave,
The valiant hero leaps into the stream,
And holding Martha Waters in his strong right arm
High above the water, reaches shore
A hundred feet above the deadly precipice.

The air was growing chilly even on this summer night,
And the emigrants had gathered round a crackling fire,
Discoursing of the past, and listening to a modest tale of love.
Simply and unfaltering James Hunt related
How his heart had hungered back beside the old Potomac,
Till he found he could no longer brook the passion
That grew stronger as the days of summer lengthened.
At last he started, and following every night
The blazing dogstar, and resting through the day till evening,
In just three weeks he reached the river
Where he found the birch canoe that rode
The seething waters like a greyhound of the ocean.
Then the maiden told her vision of the island city,
How its palaces and mansions, rich as gold and beautiful as crystal,
Were constructed by her people, toiling hundreds,
Sore and weary, of times cold and hungry.
She had seen them fell the forests,
Hew and mill and dress the lumber,
Till the soil and reap the harvests, gathering into others' garners.
Stalwart were these men and women, pure of heart
And strong of muscle, fitted for the tasks before them.
She had seen her brothers laboring at the forge and sounding anvil;
Sisters toiling at the wheel and distaff, heard them at the loom
While flying shuttle threaded warp with web of beauty;
Watched them till they fell asleep with weariness,
While the sons of leisure feasted.
Thus the maiden told her story, saying:
"Shall we undertake the journey? Plows are waiting
In the furrows back in Maryland, my people,
Back beyond the rugged mountain. There are harvests
Yet ungarnered, waiting for scythe and sickle.
Calculate the cost, and weigh it, for my vision is prophetic.
For my part, I choose this lover, for my guide and valiant leader.
He shall point the way forever,
Though he take the road that's darkest."

Then James Hunt, the hero lover,
Who had never quailed at danger,
Trembling for his happy passion,
Rose and pointed toward the westward,
Toward the Pleiades descending,
Deep behind the gloomy forest.
"Let us face toward dark Kentucky, fell its forests,
Build its roads and bridge its rivers,
Give our children to the nation.
What though others reap our harvests,
Hoard the wealth we have created?
Ours shall be the nobler portion.
Blessed is the one that suffers,
If he spends himself for others.
Should the toiling millions falter,
Though they work for others' comfort,
Building homes they can not enter?
Christ was born within a manger,
May we not produce a leader,
Who shall save our nation's honor?
At to-morrow morning's dawning,
Ere the sunrise gild the treetops,
Let us take the darkling pathway."

Still the Pleiades are circling,
Still the dogstar glows in heaven,
But the oak and pine and poplar
All have gone from off the mountain--
Passed into the marts of Mammon,
By the hands of toil and labor.
Silent are the loom and distaff,
In the cabin and the cottage,
And the songs of scythe and sickle
Gathering in the golden harvests.
But the pain of drudgery lingers,
And the heart still longs and hungers
For the fruitage it shall gather,
Yet beyond the wooded westward.

MORNING GLORIES.

A roguish laugh, a rustling vine,
I turn my eager eye;
Big drops of dew in bells of blue
And red convolvuli.

But nothing more; I hold my breath
And strain my eager eye;
A yellow crown, two eyes of brown,
And pink convolvuli!

The golden curls, the elfish laugh,
Rose cheeks and glittering eye
Are glories, too, like bells of blue
And red convolvuli.

CHRISTMASTIDE

Evergreen and tinsel'd toys,
Drums and dolls, and bursting joys--
Blessed little girls and boys!

Holly, bells, and mistletoe,
Tinkling sledges, here we go--
Youth and maiden o'er the snow.

Chilling winds and leaden days,
Vesper songs and hymns of praise
Silver hair and dying blaze!

Christmas morn and yuletide eve,
Dear Lord, help us to believe--
Naught but blessings we receive.

KINSHIP

Oh, little children, ye who watch the trains go by,
With yearning faces pressed against the window panes,
You do not know the reason why
Your lingering image dims my eye
Though I have passed beyond the hills into the rolling plains.

Dear little children, I once watched the trains go by,
And hungered, much as when I feel the silent stars;
And then I saw the cold gray skies,
And felt the warm tears in my eyes,
When far beyond the distant hills I heard the rumbling cars.

PRECOCITY

"Oh, grandfather, what are the stars?
Stones on the hand of God?
I heard you call that red one Mars
And those three Aaron's rod;
And these are great Orion's band!"
"My child, you are too young to understand!"

"Oh, grandfather, what are the winds
That sough and moan and sigh?
Does God grow angry for men's sins
He lifts the waves so high?
And blows his breath o'er sea and land?"
"My boy, you are too young to understand!"

"Oh, grandfather, what are the clouds
In yonder sunset sky?
They look to me like winding shrouds
For men about to die!
Dear grandfather, your trembling hand!"
"My son, you are too young to understand!"

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