Chapter 10 No.10

Thou art the rock of empire, set mid-seas

Between the East and West, that God has built;

Advance thy Roman borders where thou wilt,

While run thy armies true with His decrees.

Law, justice, liberty,-great gifts are these;

Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt,

Lest, mixt and sullied with his country's guilt,

The soldier's life-stream flow and Heaven displease.

Two swords there are: one naked, apt to smite,

Thy blade of war; and, battled-storied, one

Rejoices in the sheath and hides from light

American I am; would wars were done!

Now westward look, my country bids Good-night,-

Peace to the world from ports without a gun!

G.E. Woodberry.

* * *

Jerry an' Me.

No matter how the chances are,

Nor when the winds may blow,

My Jerry there has left the sea

With all its luck an' woe:

For who would try the sea at all,

Must try it luck or no.

They told him-Lor', men take no care

How words they speak may fall-

They told him blunt, he was too old,

Too slow with oar an' trawl,

An' this is how he left the sea

An' luck an' woe an' all.

Take any man on sea or land

Out of his beaten way,

If he is young 'twill do, but then,

If he is old an' gray,

A month will be a year to him,

Be all to him you may.

He sits by me, but most he walks

The door-yard for a deck,

An' scans the boat a-goin' out

Till she becomes a speck,

Then turns away, his face as wet

As if she were a wreck.

I cannot bring him back again,

The days when we were wed.

But he shall never know-my man-

The lack o' love or bread,

While I can cast a stitch or fill

A needleful o' thread.

God pity me, I'd most forgot

How many yet there be,

Whose goodmen full as old as mine

Are somewhere on the sea,

Who hear the breakin' bar an' think

O' Jerry home an'-me.

H. Rich.

* * *

The Gravedigger.

Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old,

And well his work is done;

With an equal grave for lord and knave,

He buries them every one.

Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip,

He makes for the nearest shore;

And God, who sent him a thousand ship,

Will send him a thousand more;

But some he'll save for a bleaching grave,

And shoulder them in to shore,-

Shoulder them in, shoulder them in,

Shoulder them in to shore.

Oh, the ships of Greece and the ships of Tyre

Went out, and where are they?

In the port they made, they are delayed

With the ships of yesterday.

He followed the ships of England far

As the ships of long ago;

And the ships of France they led him a dance,

But he laid them all arow.

Oh, a loafing, idle lubber to him

Is the sexton of the town;

For sure and swift, with a guiding lift,

He shovels the dead men down.

But though he delves so fierce and grim,

His honest graves are wide,

As well they know who sleep below

The dredge of the deepest tide.

Oh, he works with a rollicking stave at lip,

And loud is the chorus skirled;

With the burly note of his rumbling throat

He batters it down the world.

He learned it once in his father's house

Where the ballads of eld were sung;

And merry enough is the burden rough,

But no man knows the tongue.

Oh, fair, they say, was his bride to see,

And wilful she must have been,

That she could bide at his gruesome side

When the first red dawn came in.

And sweet, they say, is her kiss to those

She greets to his border home;

And softer than sleep her hand's first sweep

That beckons, and they come.

Oh, crooked is he, but strong enough

To handle the tallest mast;

From the royal barque to the slaver dark,

He buries them all at last.

Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip,

He makes for the nearest shore;

And God, who sent him a thousand ship,

Will send him a thousand more;

But some he'll save for a bleaching grave,

And shoulder them in to shore,-

Shoulder them in, shoulder them in,

Shoulder them in to shore.

B. Carman.

* * *

The Absence of Little Wesley.

HOOSIER DIALECT.

Sence little Wesley went, the place seems all so strange and still-

W'y, I miss his yell o' "Gran'pap!" as I'd miss the whipperwill!

And to think I ust to scold him fer his everlastin' noise,

When I on'y rickollect him as the best o' little boys!

I wisht a hunderd times a day 'at he'd come trompin' in,

And all the noise he ever made was twic't as loud ag'in!-

It 'u'd seem like some soft music played on some fine insturment,

'Longside o' this loud lonesomeness, sence little Wesley went!

Of course the clock don't tick no louder than it ust to do-

Yit now they's times it 'pears like it 'u'd bu'st itse'f in two!

And let a rooster, suddent-like, crow som'er's clos't around,

And seems's ef, mighty nigh it, it 'u'd lift me off the ground!

And same with all the cattle when they bawl around the bars,

In the red o' airly mornin', er the dusk and dew and stars,

When the neighbers' boys 'at passes never stop, but jes' go on,

A-whistlin' kind o' to theirse'v's-sence little Wesley's gone!

And then, o' nights, when Mother's settin' up oncommon late,

A-bilin' pears er somepin', and I set and smoke and wait,

Tel the moon out through the winder don't look bigger'n a dime,

And things keeps gittin' stiller-stiller-stiller all the time,-

I've ketched myse'f a-wishin' like-as I dumb on the cheer

To wind the clock, as I hev done fer mor'n fifty year,-

A-wishin' 'at the time bed come fer us to go to bed,

With our last prayers, and our last tears, sence little Wesley's dead!

J.W. Riley.

* * *

Be Thou a Bird, My Soul.

Be thou a bird, my soul, and mount and soar

Out of thy wilderness,

Till earth grows less and less,

Heaven, more and more.

Be thou a bird, and mount, and soar, and sing,

Till all the earth shall be

Vibrant with ecstasy

Beneath thy wing.

Be thou a bird, and trust, the autumn come,

That through the pathless air

Thou shalt find otherwhere

Unerring, home.

* * *

Opportunity.

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:-

There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;

And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged

A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords

Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner

Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.

A craven hung along the battle's edge,

And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel-

That blue blade that the king's son bears,-but this

Blunt thing!"-he snapt and flung it from his hand,

And lowering crept away and left the field.

Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,

And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,

Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,

And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout

Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down,

And saved a great cause that heroic day.

E.R. Sill.

* * *

Dutch Lullaby.[14]

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night

Sailed off in a wooden shoe,-

Sailed on a river of misty light

Into a sea of dew.

"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"

The old moon asked the three.

"We have come to fish for the herring-fish

That live in this beautiful sea;

Nets of silver and gold have we,"

Said Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sung a song,

As they rocked in the wooden shoe;

And the wind that sped them all night long

Ruffled the waves of dew;

The little stars were the herring-fish

That lived in the beautiful sea.

"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,

But never afeard are we!"

So cried the stars to the fishermen three,

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw

For the fish in the twinkling foam,

Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe,

Bringing the fishermen home;

'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed

As if it could not be;

And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed

Of sailing that beautiful sea;

But I shall name you the fishermen three:

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,

And Nod is a little head,

And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies

Is a wee one's trundle-bed;

So shut your eyes while Mother sings

Of wonderful sights that be,

And you shall see the beautiful things

As you rock on the misty sea

Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,-

Wynken,

Blynken,

And Nod.

E. Field.

[14] From "A Little Book of Western Verse," copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.

* * *

The Maryland Yellow-throat.[15]

While May bedecks the naked trees

With tassels and embroideries,

And many blue-eyed violets beam

Along the edges of the stream,

I hear a voice that seems to say,

Now near at hand, now far away,

"Witchery-witchery-witchery."

An incantation so serene,

So innocent, befits the scene:

There's magic in that small bird's note-

See, there he flits-the yellow-throat:

A living sunbeam, tipped with wings,

A spark of light that shines and sings

"Witchery-witchery-witchery."

You prophet with a pleasant name,

If out of Mary-land you came,

You know the way that thither goes

Where Mary's lovely garden grows:

Fly swiftly back to her, I pray,

And try, to call her down this way,

"Witchery-witchery-witchery!"

Tell her to leave her cockleshells,

And all her little silver bells

That blossom into melody,

And all her maids less fair than she.

She does not need these pretty things,

For everywhere she comes, she brings

"Witchery-witchery-witchery!"

The woods are greening overhead,

And flowers adorn each mossy bed;

The waters babble as they run-

One thing is lacking, only one:

If Mary were but here to-day,

I would believe your charming lay,

"Witchery-witchery-witchery!"

Along the shady road I look-

Who's coming now across the brook?

A woodland maid, all robed in white-

The leaves dance round her with delight,

The stream laughs out beneath her feet-

Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete,

"Witchery-witchery-witchery!"

H. Van Dyke.

[15] From "The Builders and Other Poems," copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

* * *

The Silence of Love.

Oh, inexpressible as sweet,

Love takes my voice away;

I cannot tell thee, when we meet,

What most I long to say.

But hadst thou hearing in thy heart

To know what beats in mine,

Then shouldst thou walk, where'er thou art,

In melodies divine.

So warbling birds lift higher notes

Than to our ears belong;

The music fills their throbbing throats,

But silence steals the song.

G.E. Woodberry.

* * *

The Secret.

Nightingales warble about it,

All night under blossom and star;

The wild swan is dying without it,

And the eagle cryeth afar;

The sun he doth mount but to find it,

Searching the green earth o'er;

But more doth a man's heart mind it,

Oh, more, more, more!

Over the gray leagues of ocean

The infinite yearneth alone;

The forests with wandering emotion

The thing they know not intone;

Creation arose but to see it,

A million lamps in the blue;

But a lover he shall be it

If one sweet maid is true.

G.E. Woodberry.

* * *

The Whip-poor-will.[16]

Do you remember, father,-

It seems so long ago,-

The day we fished together

Along the Pocono?

At dusk I waited for you,

Beside the lumber-mill,

And there I heard a hidden bird

That chanted, "whip-poor-will,"

"Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!"

Sad and shrill,-"whippoorwill!"

The place was all deserted;

The mill-wheel hung at rest;

The lonely star of evening

Was quivering in the west;

The veil of night was falling;

The winds were folded still;

And everywhere the trembling air

Re-echoed "whip-poor-will!"

"Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!"

Sad and shrill,-"whippoorwill!"

You seemed so long in coming,

I felt so much alone;

The wide, dark world was round me,

And life was all unknown;

The hand of sorrow touched me,

And made my senses thrill

With all the pain that haunts the strain

Of mournful whip-poor-will.

"Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!"

Sad and shrill,-"whippoorwill!"

What did I know of trouble?

An idle little lad;

I had not learned the lessons

That make men wise and sad,

I dreamed of grief and parting,

And something seemed to fill

My heart with tears, while in my ears

Resounded "whip-poor-will."

"Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!"

Sad and shrill,-"whippoorwill!"

'Twas but a shadowy sadness,

That lightly passed away;

But I have known the substance

Of sorrow, since that day.

For nevermore at twilight,

Beside the silent mill,

I'll wait for you, in the falling dew,

And hear the whip-poor-will.

"Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!"

Sad and shrill,-"whippoorwill!"

But if you still remember,

In that fair land of light,

The pains and fears that touch us

Along this edge of night,

I think all earthly grieving,

And all our mortal ill,

To you must seem like a boy's sad dream,

Who hears the whip-poor-will.

"Whippoorwill! whippoorwill!"

A passing thrill-"whippoorwill!"

H. Van Dyke.

[16] From "The Builders, and Other Poems," copyright, 1897, Charles Scribner's Sons.

* * *

Fertility.

Spirit that moves the sap in spring,

When lusty male birds fight and sing,

Inform my words, and make my lines

As sweet as flowers, as strong as vines,

Let mine be the freshening power

Of rain on grass, of dew on flower;

The fertilizing song be mine,

Nut-flavored, racy, keen as wine.

Let some procreant truth exhale

From me, before my forces fail;

Or ere the ecstatic impulse go,

Let all my buds to blossoms blow.

If quick, sound seed be wanting where

The virgin soil feels sun and air,

And longs to fill a higher state,

There let my meanings germinate.

Let not my strength be spilled for naught,

But, in some fresher vessel caught,

Be blended into sweeter forms,

And fraught with purer aims and charms.

Let bloom-dust of my life be blown

To quicken hearts that flower alone;

Around my knees let scions rise

With heavenward-pointed destinies.

And when I fall, like some old tree,

And subtile change makes mould of me,

There let earth show a fertile line

Whence perfect wild-flowers leap and shine!

M. Thompson.

* * *

The Veery.[17]

The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring,

When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring.

So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie,

I longed to hear a simpler strain,-the wood notes of the veery.

The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather;

It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together;

He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie;

I only know one song more sweet,-the vespers of the veery.

In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure,

I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure:

The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery,

And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery.

But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing;

New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing:

And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary,

I fain would hear, before I go, the wood notes of the veery.

H. Van Dyke.

[17] From "The Builders, and Other Poems," copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

* * *

The Eavesdropper.

In a still room at hush of dawn,

My Love and I lay side by side

And heard the roaming forest wind

Stir in the paling autumn-tide.

I watched her earth-brown eyes grow glad

Because the round day was so fair;

While memories of reluctant night

Lurked in the blue dusk of her hair.

Outside, a yellow maple-tree,

Shifting upon the silvery blue

With small innumerable sound,

Rustled to let the sunlight through.

The livelong day the elvish leaves

Danced with their shadows on the floor;

And the lost children of the wind

Went straying homeward by our door.

And all the swarthy afternoon

We watched the great deliberate sun

Walk through the crimsoned hazy world,

Counting his hilltops one by one.

Then as the purple twilight came

And touched the vines along our eaves,

Another Shadow stood without

And gloomed the dancing of the leaves.

The silence fell on my Love's lips;

Her great brown eyes were veiled and sad

With pondering some maze of dream,

Though all the splendid year was glad.

Restless and vague as a gray wind

Her heart had grown, she knew not why.

But hurrying to the open door,

Against the verge of western sky

I saw retreating on the hills,

Looming and sinister and black,

The stealthy figure swift and huge

Of One who strode and looked not back.

B. Carman.

* * *

Sesostris.

Sole Lord of Lords and very King of Kings,

He sits within the desert, carved in stone;

Inscrutable, colossal, and alone,

And ancienter than memory of things.

Graved on his front the sacred beetle clings;

Disdain sits on his lips; and in a frown

Scorn lives upon his forehead for a crown.

The affrighted ostrich dare not dust her wings

Anear this Presence. The long caravan's

Dazed camels stop, and mute the Bedouins stare.

This symbol of past power more than man's

Presages doom. Kings look-and Kings despair:

Their sceptres tremble in their jewelled hands

And dark thrones totter in the baleful air!