O! James Whitcomb Riley!
This Man From Down On The Farm--one-while
your constant Companion, in work most
Congenial, all-while your Faithful Friend--rejoices.
and is exceeding Glad, That All Is Well With You!
For no one knew, better than you,
the Wisdom, the Beauty, of Death!
No one the more fully realized
the Folly, the Futility, of human Grief!
You firmly believed, that he, who follows The Christ;
that he, who, in all Humility, bears the Cross; that
he, who, in all Gratitude, wears upon his unworthy brow,
the imprint of the Kiss Divine!--the Kiss of Forgiveness
Complete--you firmly believed, that he ought to be
brave enough, strong enough, to meet the Call,
whensoever, wheresoever, it may chance to come.
You firmly believed that the Call always
comes at the Right Moment: that Incompletion
Here, finds its Completement There: that every
human Life holds--like the Palace of Aladdin--its
unfinished Window: that the finite mind,
hampered by its mortality, is a clog to any
Completion, to any Earthly Perfection.
Therefore, feeling, believing, as you did Here,
now knowing, as you must _know_ There,
this Man rejoices, and is exceeding Glad,
That All Is Well With You!
O! James Whitcomb Riley
Your Nature-on the surface--was
Simple, Honest, Open, Direct.
It was all of that but--it was More!
It was deeper than Tears!
It was wider than Laughter!
It was more profound, more subtle,
than either your spoken Word.
or, your written, your printed Thought.
You were infinitely better than the
Very Best that you ever did!
High Praise, but True!
Your nature was strangely Complex:
There was the Man!
There was the Poet!
There was the Mystic!
The Man could be known--and was--of all men.
The Poet could be read--as he was--and he understood.
He could Sing--as he did--Songs
which caught the Hearts of the
People--from the Cradle to the Grave!
The Mystic!
O! James Whitcomb Riley!
That Mystic Element in your Nature!
It was held under a Strong Curb:
It was constantly held in Check:
But it was never Overcome!
It was a Mood--not a Madness.
It seldom made an Outward Sign.
Then, it was brief, spasmodic, eratic.
It was known to but few, even of those
who came with you, in constant contact.
To this Man, that Mystic Element in your Nature,
made a most wonderful Appeal, deep, strong.
To him, it was the _real_ James Whitcomb Riley!
You were a Mystic, but never a Reformer.
You cheerfully rendered unto Ceasar all things
that were his just due.
You had no desire to overturn Natural Law,
Human Regulation.
You accepted, without question, the Established
Order of Things.
But so strong was this touch of the Mystic
that, it you had desired, you could have,
quickly, thickly, populated some far off Smiling Isle,
of the Fair Summer Seas, with a Band of
Cultured Men, of Cultured Women, ready,
eager, to follow you--that Mystic You! into
the Creation of a New Cult, of a New Religion!
In your Poems there is but a trickle of the Mystic
--a flash a dash--as the falling of a Star!
That Edgar Allen Poe Episode, is the Answer.
You were unduly humiliated by that Incident--
--and it was but as Nothing
But your Super-Sensitiveness, made you Suffer!
O! James Whitcomb Riley!
Death, hath yet other Compensations!
It has placed you Beyond the Cloy of Fulsome Praise:
Beyond the Sting of Cruel Blame: the One,
may not help You the Other, cannot hurt You!
O! James Whitcomb Riley!
Once, when under the Spell of a Mystic Mood,
you sought--as you had often sought before--that
Wise Wizard of White River.
He met you, when you came into that Peaceful
Indiana Valley--where dwells this Wizard--by the
Flowing Fountain of those Healing Waters.
He knew your need; he spoke no unnecessary word;
he quickly set his place in order, and was ready
to go with you--anywhere.
There had been, on your arrival, a clamor to have
you Read that afternoon--but the Wizard
quietly slipped you away.
Out into the Open you drove, in an old Barouche,
behind a Pair of Good Horses.
It was a long Drive; it was a beautiful Drive.
It was driven in Silence.
After several hours--the spell was still upon you--a
sharp turn brought you to the Banks of White River;
and there--under a Clump of the Sycamore, of the
Willow, in a deep, Shady Pool, an Eddy, undisturbed
by the current of the broad, shallow Stream--a
Batch of Boys, swimming, chattering, diving.
"Stop" you said to the driver; "Come here" you called to the Lads.
They came trooping, dripping, out of the Pool.
A change came over you; flinging off your coat,
your hat, you arose to your feet.
There they stood before you, naked, unabashed, curious.
A complacent smile, flickered across the bearded
face of the Wise Wizard. He must have known!
He must have timed your arrival at that particular
spot, at that particular moment.
But even the Wizard could not have known what was to follow.
Without a word of explanation, you gave them, that
crowd of naked Boys--gave it, as you had never
given it before, doubtless, as you never
gave it again--your
"Old Swimmin' Hole"
Oh! the old swimmin' hole! whare the crick so still and deep
Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know
Before we could remember anything but the eyes
Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;
But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,
And its hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore,
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore.
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.
But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll
From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days
When the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways.
How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
They was lot o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole.
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.
Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,
And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;
And it mottled the worter with amber and gold
Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;
And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by
Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,
Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle
As it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place,
The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face;
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot.
And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be--
But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul.
And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.
Their little jaws dropped!
Their little eyes distended!
Their little ears stood erect!
They fairly bristled with an intense attention.
You said the last word, of the last line.
Then--absolute, unbroken--Silence!
Finally--but without another word--you reached
down, patted the youngest one on his wet curly Locks.
The Wizard whispered to the driver "Go."
As the team, in a brisk trot, started away.
you, still standing, coatless, hatless, waved your
hand--in that quick little jerky fashion peculiar
to you--to those little naked Urchins.
With a mighty Shout, they ran back to the Pool,
and gave a rapid-firing Exhibition of the Single
Dive; the Double Dive; and one--a dare-devil--the Triple Dive!
What a Memory, what a Priceless Memory, you must
have given those Boys of Martinsville, that Ideal
Summer Afternoon, in the Long While Ago!
Martinsville! To you of Blessed Memory!
For the sake of an early, enduring, Friendship,
did you not encrust one Jap Miller of
Martinsville with no mean verse?
And did it not run something like this?
Jap Miller down at Martinsville's the blamedest feller yit!
When _he_ starts in a-talkin' other folks is apt to quit!--
'Pears like that mouth o' his'n wuzn't made fer nothin' else
But jes' to argify 'em down and gether in their pelts:
He'll talk you down on tariff; er he'll talk you down on tax.
And prove the pore man pays 'em all and them's about the fac's!
Religen, law, er politics, prize-fightin', er base-ball
Jes' tetch Jap up a little and he'll post you 'bout 'em all.
* * * * *
W'y, that-air blame Jap Miller, with his keen sircastic fun,
Has got more friends than ary candidate 'at ever run!
Don't matter what _his_ views is, when he states the same to you,
They allus coincide with your'n, the same as two and two:
You _can't_ take issue with him--er, at least, they haint no sense
In startin' in to down him, so you better not commence.--
The best way's jes' to listen, like your humble servant does.
And jes' concede Jap Miller is the best man ever wuz!
On the drive back to the little Station, you were
the Man, the Poet, but not the Mystic!
You delighted the Wizard with your genial
flow of Verse, of Story.
When the watchful Wizard, smuggled you aboard
your train--with privacy unbroken you, like
King Saul, returned to your People, refreshed in body,
restored in mind; for had not the Wizard done for you,
as David did for Saul, for had not he brought Peace
to your no longer Troubled Soul?
Did he not say to you, in parting, "All Is Well With You?"
O! James Whitcomb Riley!
It is late in the Afternoon, of a Perfect Summer Day.
This Man From Down On The Farm,
is standing on the Banks Of Wolf Run.
He is thinking of You!
Joyfully, not Regretfully!
A Pastoral Scene stretches before him--
a Scene of much Beauty!
The Cattle stand, not "knee-deep in June"
but well into the pure rippling Waters of an August
Wolf Run, under the dense shade overhead, where
arching branches inter-lock, casting a net-work
of shifting Shadows on the bosom of the Peaceful
Waters, which seem to murmer, as they
flow, your Name--Joyfully, not Mournfully!
James Whitcomb Riley!
James Whitcomb Riley!
James Whitcomb Riley!
Smiling, undulating, across the Creek,
a Blue Grass Meadow gently rolls away,
toward the White, the Winding Pike:
Each blade of Blue Grass--Joyfully,
not Tearfully--seems to whisper your Name:
James Whitcomb Riley!
James Whitcomb Riley!
James Whitcomb Riley!
But Hark! The belated Song of a Mocking Bird--
its Vesper Song--to its enraptured Mate!
This, the Glad Song:
To You James Whitcomb Riley!
The World was full of Roses!
Every Rose held hidden, within its Tremulous Heart, a
Slender Crystal Chalice of Perfumed Dew, which,
overflowing, spilled its Prodigal Sweetness,
onto the Earth, into the Air,
For You James Whitcomb Riley!
--For You, and for All Humanity!
And this, the Joyful Refrain:
--Joy, without Regret!
Joy, without Mourning!
Joy, without Tears!--
--A Refrain which readily, willingly,
finds Grateful Echo in the Heart of
This Man From Down On The Farm!
O! James Whitcomb Riley!
All Is Well With You!
All Is Well With You!
O! James Whitcomb Riley!
All Is Well With You!
O! James Whitcomb Riley!
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