SCENE I
_The interior of NAAMAN'S tent, at night. RUAHMAH alone, sleeping
on the ground. A vision appears to her through the curtains of the
tent: ELISHA standing on the hillside at Dothan: NAAMAN, restored
to sight, comes in and kneels before him. ELISHA blesses him, and
he goes out rejoicing. The vision of the prophet turns to RUAHMAH
and lifts his hand in warning._
ELISHA:
Daughter of Israel, what dost thou here?
Thy prayer is granted. Naaman is healed:
Mar not true service with a selfish thought.
Nothing remains for thee to do, except
Give thanks, and go whither the Lord commands.
Obey,--obey! Ere Naaman returns
Thou must depart to thine own house in Shechem.
[The vision vanishes.]
RUAHMAH: [Waking and rising slowly.]
A dream, a dream, a messenger of God!
O dear and dreadful vision, art thou true?
Then am I glad with all my broken heart.
Nothing remains,--nothing remains but this,--
Give thanks, obey, depart,--and so I do.
Farewell, my master's sword! Farewell to you,
My amulet! I lay you on the hilt
His hand shall clasp again: bid him farewell
For me, since I must look upon his face
No more for ever!--Hark, what sound was that?
[Enter soldier hurriedly.]
SOLDIER:
Mistress, an arméd troop, footmen and horse,
Mounting the hill!
RUAHMAH:
My lord returns in triumph.
SOLDIER:
Not so, for these are enemies; they march
In haste and silence, answering not our cries.
RUAHMAH:
Our enemies? Then hold your ground,--on guard!
Fight! fight! Defend the pass, and drive them down.
[Exit soldier. RUAHMAH draws NAAMAN'S sword from
the scabbard and hurries out of the tent. Confused
noise of fighting outside. Three or four soldiers
are driven in by a troop of men in disguise.
RUAHMAH follows: she is beaten to her knees,
and her sword is broken.]
REZON: [Throwing aside the cloth which covers his face.]
Hold her! So, tiger-maid, we've found your lair
And trapped you. Where is Naaman,
Your master?
RUAHMAH: [Rising, her arms held by two of REZON'S followers.]
He is far beyond your reach.
REZON:
Brave captain! He has saved himself, the leper,
And left you here?
RUAHMAH:
The leper is no more.
REZON:
What mean you?
RUAHMAH:
He has gone to meet his God.
REZON:
Dead? Dead? Behold how Rimmon's wrath is swift!
Damascus shall be mine; I'll terrify
The King with this, and make my terms. But no!
False maid, you sweet-faced harlot, you have lied
To save him,--speak.
RUAHMAH:
I am not what you say,
Nor have I lied, nor will I ever speak
A word to you, vile servant of a traitor-god.
REZON:
Break off this little flute of blasphemy,
This ivory neck,--twist it, I say!
Give her a swift despatch after her leper!
But stay,--if he still lives he'll follow her,
And so we may ensnare him. Harm her not!
Bind her! Away with her to Rimmon's House!
Is all this carrion dead? There's one that moves,--
A spear,--fasten him down! All quiet now?
Then back to our Damascus! Rimmon's face
Shall be made bright with sacrifice.
[Exeunt, forcing RUAHMAH with them. Musical
interlude. A wounded soldier crawls from a
dark corner of the tent and finds the chain
with NAAMAN'S seal, which has fallen to the
ground in the struggle.]
WOUNDED SOLDIER:
The signet of my lord, her amulet!
Lost, lost! Ah, noble lady,--let me die
With this upon my breast.
[The tent is dark. Enter NAAMAN and his company
in haste, with torches.]
NAAMAN:
What bloody work
Is here? God, let me live to punish him
Who wrought this horror! Treacherously slain
At night, by unknown hands, my brave companions:
Tsarpi, my best beloved, light of my soul,
Put out in darkness! O my broken lamp
Of life, where art thou? Nay, I cannot find her.
WOUNDED SOLDIER: [Raising himself on his arm.]
Master!
NAAMAN: [Kneels beside him.]
One living? Quick, a torch this way!
Lift up his head,--so,--carefully!
Courage, my friend, your captain is beside you.
Call back your soul and make report to him.
WOUNDED SOLDIER:
Hail, captain! O my captain,--here!
NAAMAN:
Be patient,--rest in peace,--the fight is done.
Nothing remains but render your account.
WOUNDED SOLDIER:
They fell upon us suddenly,--we fought
Our fiercest,--every man,--our lady fought
Fiercer than all. They beat us down,--she's gone.
Rezon has carried her away a captive. See,--
Her amulet,--I die for you, my captain.
NAAMAN: [He gently lays the dead soldier on the ground, and rises.]
Farewell. This last report was brave; but strange
Beyond my thought! How came the High Priest here?
And what is this? my chain, my seal! But this
Has never been in Tsarpi's hand. I gave
This signet to a captive maid one night,--
A maid of Israel. How long ago?
Ruahmah was her name,--almost forgotten!
So long ago,--how comes this token here?
What is this mystery, Saballidin?
SABALLIDIN:
Ruahmah is her name who brought you hither.
NAAMAN:
Where then is Tsarpi?
SABALLIDIN:
In Damascus.
She left you when the curse of Rimmon fell,--
Took refuge in his House,--and there she waits
Her lord's return,--Rezon's return.
NAAMAN:
'Tis false!
SABALLIDIN:
The falsehood is in her. She hath been friend
With Rezon in his priestly plot to win
Assyria's favour,--friend to his design
To sell his country to enrich his temple,--
And friend to him in more,--I will not name it.
NAAMAN:
Nor will I credit it. Impossible!
SABALLIDIN:
Did she not plead with you against the war,
Counsel surrender, seek to break your will?
NAAMAN:
She did not love my work, a soldier's task.
She never seemed to be at one with me
Until I was a leper.
SABALLIDIN:
From whose hand
Did you receive the sacred cup?
NAAMAN:
From hers.
SABALLIDIN:
And from that hour the curse began to work.
NAAMAN:
But did she not have pity when she saw
Me smitten? Did she not beseech the King
For letters and a guard to make this journey?
Has she not been the fountain of my hope,
My comforter and my most faithful guide
In this adventure of the dark? All this
Is proof of perfect love that would have shared
A leper's doom rather than give me up.
Can I doubt her who dared to love like this?
SABALLIDIN:
O master, doubt her not,--but know her name;
Ruahmah! It was she alone who wrought
This wondrous work of love. She won the King
To furnish forth this company. She led
Our march, kept us in heart, fought off despair,
Watched over you as if you were her child,
Prepared your food, your cup, with her own hands,
Sang you asleep at night, awake at dawn,--
NAAMAN: [Interrupting.]
Enough! I do remember every hour
Of that sweet comradeship! And now her voice
Wakens the echoes in my lonely breast.
Shall I not see her, thank her, speak her name?
Ruahmah! Let me live till I have looked
Into her eyes and called her my Ruahmah!
[To his soldiers.]
Away! away! I burn to take the road
That leads me back to Rimmon's House,--
But not to bow,--by God, never to bow!
SCENE II
TIME: _Three days later_
_Inner court of the House of Rimmon; a temple with huge pillars at
each side. In the right foreground the seat of the King; at the
left, of equal height, the seat of the High Priest. In the
background a broad flight of steps, rising to a curtain of cloudy
gray, embroidered with two gigantic hands holding thunderbolts.
The temple is in half darkness at first. Enter KHAMMA and NUBTA,
robed as Kharimati, or religious dancers, in gowns of black gauze
with yellow embroideries and mantles._
KHAMMA:
All is ready for the rites of worship; our lady will play
a great part in them. She has put on her Tyrian robes,
and all her ornaments.
NUBTA:
That is a sure sign of a religious purpose. She is most
devout, our lady Tsarpi!
KHAMMA:
A favourite of Rimmon, too! The High Priest has assured
her of it. He is a great man,--next to the King, now
that Naaman is gone.
NUBTA:
But if Naaman should come back, healed of the leprosy?
KHAMMA:
How can he come back? The Hebrew slave that went away
with him, when they caught her, said that he was dead.
The High Priest has shut her up in the prison of the
temple, accusing her of her master's death.
NUBTA:
Yet I think he does not believe it, for I heard him telling
our mistress what to do if Naaman should return.
KHAMMA:
What, then?
NUBTA:
She will claim him as her husband. Was she not wedded to
him before the god? That is a sacred bond. Only the High
Priest can loose it. She will keep her hold on Naaman
for the sake of the House of Rimmon. A wife knows her
husband's secrets, she can tell--
[Enter SHUMAKIM, with his flagon, walking unsteadily.]
KHAMMA:
Hush! here comes the fool Shumakim. He is never sober.
SHUMAKIM: [Laughing.]
Are there two of you? I see two, but that is no proof.
I think there is only one, but beautiful enough for
two. What were you talking to yourself about, fairest
one!
KHAMMA:
About the lady Tsarpi, fool, and what she would do if
her husband returned.
SHUMAKIM:
Fie! fie! That is no talk for an innocent fool to hear.
Has she a husband?
NUBTA:
You know very well that she is the wife of Lord Naaman.
SHUMAKIM:
I remember that she used to wear his name and his jewels.
But I thought he had exchanged her,--for a leprosy.
KHAMMA:
You must have heard that he went away to Samaria to look
for healing. Some say that he died on the journey; but
others say he has been cured, and is on his way home
to his wife.
SHUMAKIM:
It may be, for this is a mad world, and men never know
when they are well off,--except us fools. But he must
come soon if he would find his wife as he parted from
her,--or the city where he left it. The Assyrians have
returned with a greater army, and this time they will
make an end of us. There is no Naaman now, and the Bull
will devour Damascus like a bunch of leeks, flowers and
all,--flowers and all, my double-budded fair one! Are
you not afraid?
NUBTA:
We belong to the House of Rimmon. He will protect us.
SHUMAKIM:
What? The mighty one who hides behind the curtain there,
and tells his secrets to Rezon? No doubt he will take
care of you, and of himself. Whatever game is played,
the gods never lose. But for the protection of the
common people and the rest of us fools, I would rather
have Naaman at the head of an army than all the sacred
images between here and Babylon.
KHAMMA:
You are a wicked old man. You mock the god. He will
punish you.
SHUMAKIM: [Bitterly.]
How can he punish me? Has he not already made me a fool?
Hark, here comes my brother the High Priest, and my
brother the King. Rimmon made us all; but nobody knows
who made Rimmon, except the High Priest; and he will
never tell.
[Gongs and cymbals sound. Enter REZON with priests, and the
King with courtiers. They take their seats. A throng of Khali
and Kharimati come in, TSARPI presiding; a sacred dance is
performed with torches, burning incense, and chanting, in
which TSARPI leads.]
CHANT
_Hail, mighty Rimmon, ruler of the whirl-storm,
Hail, shaker of mountains, breaker-down of forests,
Hail, thou who roarest terribly in the darkness,
Hail, thou whose arrows flame across the heavens!
Hail, great destroyer, lord of flood and tempest,
In thine anger almighty, in thy wrath eternal,
Thou who delightest in ruin, maker of desolations,
Immeru, Addu, Berku, Rimmon!
See we tremble before thee, low we bow at thine altar,
Have mercy upon us, be favourable unto us,
Save us from our enemy, accept our sacrifice,
Barku, Immeru, Addu, Rimmon!_
[Silence follows, all bowing down.]
REZON:
O King, last night the counsel from above
Was given in answer to our divination.
Ambassadors must go forthwith to crave
Assyria's pardon, and a second offer
Of the same terms of peace we did reject
Not long ago.
BENHADAD:
Dishonour! Yet I see
No other way! Assyria will refuse,
Or make still harder terms. Disaster, shame
For this gray head, and ruin for Damascus!
REZON:
Yet may we trust Rimmon will favour us,
If we adhere devoutly to his worship.
He will incline his brother-god, the Bull,
To spare us, if we supplicate him now
With costly gifts. Therefore I have prepared
A sacrifice: Rimmon shall be well pleased
With the red blood that bathes his knees to-night!
BENHADAD:
My mind is dark with doubt,--I do forebode
Some horror! Let me go,--I am an old man,--
If Naaman my captain were alive!
But he is dead,--the glory is departed!
[He rises, trembling, to leave the throne. Trumpet
sounds,--NAAMAN'S call;--enter NAAMAN, followed
by soldiers; he kneels at the foot of the throne.]
BENHADAD: [Half-whispering.]
Art thou a ghost escaped from Allatu?
How didst thou pass the seven doors of death?
O noble ghost I am afraid of thee,
And yet I love thee,--let me hear thy voice!
NAAMAN:
No ghost, my King, but one who lives to serve
Thee and Damascus with his heart and sword
As in the former days. The only God
Has healed my leprosy: my life is clean
To offer to my country and my King.
BENHADAD: [Starting toward him.]
O welcome to thy King! Thrice welcome!
REZON: [Leaving his seat and coming toward NAAMAN.]
Stay!
The leper must appear before the priest,
The only one who can pronounce him clean.
[NAAMAN turns; they stand looking each other in the face.]
Yea,--thou art cleansed: Rimmon hath pardoned thee,--
In answer to the daily prayers of her
Whom he restores to thine embrace,--thy wife.
[TSARPI comes slowly toward NAAMAN.]
NAAMAN:
From him who rules this House will I receive
Nothing! I seek no pardon from his priest,
No wife of mine among his votaries!
TSARPI: [Holding out her hands.]
Am I not yours? Will you renounce our vows?
NAAMAN:
The vows were empty,--never made you mine
In aught but name. A wife is one who shares
Her husband's thought, incorporates his heart
With hers by love, and crowns him with her trust.
She is God's remedy for loneliness,
And God's reward for all the toil of life.
This you have never been to me,--and so
I give you back again to Rimmon's House
Where you belong. Claim what you will of mine,--
Not me! I do renounce you,--or release you,--
According to the law. If you demand
A further cause than what I have declared,
I will unfold it fully to the King.
REZON: [Interposing hurriedly.]
No need of that! This duteous lady yields
To your caprice as she has ever done:
She stands a monument of loyalty
And woman's meekness.
NAAMAN:
Let her stand for that!
Adorn your temple with her piety!
But you in turn restore to me the treasure
You stole at midnight from my tent.
REZON:
What treasure! I have stolen none from you.
NAAMAN:
The very jewel of my soul,--Ruahmah!
My King, the captive maid of Israel,
To whom thou didst commit my broken life
With letters to Samaria,--my light,
My guide, my saviour in this pilgrimage,--
Dost thou remember?
BENHADAD:
I recall the maid,--
But dimly,--for my mind is old and weary,
She was a fearless maid, I trusted her
And gave thee to her charge. Where is she now?
NAAMAN:
This robber fell upon my camp by night,--
While I was with Elisha at the Jordan,--
Slaughtered my soldiers, carried off the maid,
And holds her somewhere in imprisonment.
O give this jewel back to me, my King,
And I will serve thee with a grateful heart
For ever. I will fight for thee, and lead
Thine armies on to glorious victory
Over all foes! Thou shalt no longer fear
The host of Asshur, for thy throne shall stand
Encompassed with a wall of dauntless hearts,
And founded on a mighty people's love,
And guarded by the God of righteousness.
BENHADAD:
I feel the flame of courage at thy breath
Leap up among the ashes of despair.
Thou hast returned to save us! Thou shalt have
The maid; and thou shalt lead my host again!
Priest, I command you give her back to him.
REZON:
O master, I obey thy word as thou
Hast ever been obedient to the voice
Of Rimmon. Let thy fiery captain wait
Until the sacrifice has been performed,
And he shall have the jewel that he claims.
Must we not first placate the city's god
With due allegiance, keep the ancient faith,
And pay our homage to the Lord of Wrath?
BENHADAD: [Sinking back upon his throne in fear.]
I am the faithful son of Rimmon's House,--
And lo, these many years I worship him!
My thoughts are troubled,--I am very old,
But still a King! O Naaman, be patient!
Priest, let the sacrifice be offered.
[The High Priest lifts his rod. Gongs and cymbals
sound. The curtain is rolled back, disclosing
the image of Rimmon; a gigantic and hideous idol,
with a cruel human face, four horns, the mane of
a lion, and huge paws stretched in front of him
enclosing a low altar of black stone. RUAHMAH
stands on the altar, chained, her arms are bare
and folded on her breast. The people prostrate
themselves in silence, with signs of astonishment
and horror.]
REZON:
Behold the sacrifice! Bow down, bow down!
NAAMAN: [Stabbing him.]
Bow thou, black priest! Down,--down to hell!
Ruahmah! do not die! I come to thee.
[NAAMAN rushes toward her, attacked by the priests,
crying "Sacrilege! Kill him!" But the soldiers
stand on the steps and beat them back. He springs
upon the altar and clasps her by the hand. Tumult
and confusion. The King rises and speaks with a
loud voice, silence follows.]
BENHADAD:
Peace, peace! The King commands all weapons down!
O Naaman, what wouldst thou do? Beware
Lest thou provoke the anger of a god.
NAAMAN:
There is no God but one, the Merciful,
Who gave this perfect woman to my soul
That I might learn through her to worship Him,
And know the meaning of immortal Love.
BENHADAD: [Agitated.]
Yet she is consecrated, bound, and doomed
To sacrificial death; but thou art sworn
To live and lead my host,--Hast thou not sworn?
NAAMAN:
Only if thou wilt keep thy word to me!
Break with this idol of iniquity
Whose shadow makes a darkness in the land;
Give her to me who gave me back to thee;
And I will lead thine army to renown
And plant thy banners on the hill of triumph.
But if she dies, I die with her, defying Rimmon.
[Cries of "Spare them! Release her! Give us back
our Captain!" and "Sacrilege! Let them die!" Then
silence, all turning toward the King.]
BENHADAD:
Is this the choice? Must we destroy the bond
Of ancient faith, or slay the city's living hope!
I am an old, old man,--and yet the King!
Must I decide?--O let me ponder it!
[His head sinks upon his breast. All stand eagerly
looking at him.]
NAAMAN:
Ruahmah, my Ruahmah! I have come
To thee at last! And art thou satisfied?
RUAHMAH: [Looking into his face.]
Belovéd, my belovéd, I am glad
Of all, and glad for ever, come what may.
Nothing can harm me,--since my lord is come!
APPENDIX
CARMINA FESTIVA
THE LITTLE-NECK CLAM
A modern verse-sequence, showing how a native American subject,
strictly realistic, may be treated in various manners adapted
to the requirements of different magazines, thus combining
Art-for-Art's-Sake with Writing-for-the-Market. Read at the
First Dinner of the American Periodical Publishers' Association,
in Washington, April, 1904.
I
THE ANTI-TRUST CLAM
For _McClure's Magazine_
The clam that once, on Jersey's banks,
Was like the man who dug it, free,
Now slave-like thro' the market clanks
In chains of corporate tyranny.
The Standard Fish-Trust of New York
Holds every clam-bank in control;
And like base Beef and menial Pork,
The free-born Clam has lost its soul.
No more the bivalve treads the sands
In freedom's rapture, free from guilt:
It follows now the harsh commands
Of Morgiman and Rockabilt.
Rise, freemen, rise! Your wrath is just!
Call on the Sherman Act to dam
The floods of this devouring Trust,
And liberate the fettered Clam.
II
THE WHITMANIAC CLAM
For the _Bookman_
Not Dante when he wandered by the river Arno,
Not Burns who plowed the banks and braes of bonnie Ayr,
Not even Shakspere on the shores of Avon,--ah, no!
Not one of those great bards did taste true Poet's Fare.
But Whitman, loafing in Long Island and New Jersey,
Found there the sustenance of mighty ode and psalm,
And while his rude emotions swam around in verse, he
Fed chiefly on the wild, impassioned, sea-born clam.
Thus in his work we feel the waves' bewildering motion,
And winds from mighty mud-flats, weird and wild:
His clam-filled bosom answered to the voice of ocean,
And rose and fell responsively with every tide.
III
IL MERCATORE ITALIANO DELLA CLAMMA
For the _Century Magazine_
"Clam O! Fres' Clam!" How strange it sounds and sweet,
The Dago's cry along the New York street!
"Dago" we call him, like the thoughtless crowd;
And yet this humble man may well be proud
To hail from Petrarch's land, Boccaccio's home,--
Firenze, Gubbio, Venezia, Rome,--
From fair Italia, whose enchanted soil
Transforms the lowly cotton-seed to olive-oil.
To me his chant, with alien accent sung,
Brings back an echo of great Virgil's tongue:
It seems to cry against the city's woe,
In liquid Latin syllables,--_Clamo_!
As thro' the crowded street his cart he jams
And cries aloud, ah, think of more than clams!
Receive his secret plaint with pity warm,
And grant Italia's plea for Tenement-House Reform!
IV
THE SOCIAL CLAM
For the _Smart Set_
Fair Phyllis is another's bride:
Therefore I like to sit beside
Her at a very smart set dinner,
And whisper love, and try to win her.
The little-necks,--in number six,--
That from their pearly shells she picks
And swallows whole,--ah, is it selfish
To wish my heart among those shell-fish?
"But Phyllis is another's wife;
And if she should absorb thy life
'Twould leave thy bosom vacant."--Well,
I'd keep at least the empty shell!
V
THE RECREANT CLAM
For the _Outlook_
Low dost thou lie amid the languid ooze,
Because thy slothful spirit doth refuse
The bliss of battle and the strain of strife.
Rise, craven clam, and lead the strenuous life!
A FAIRY TALE
For the Mark Twain Dinner, December 5, 1905
Some three-score years and ten ago
A prince was born at Florida, Mo.;
And though he came _incognito_,
With just the usual yells of woe,
The watchful fairies seemed to know
Precisely what the row meant;
For when he was but five days old,
(December fifth as I've been told,)
They pattered through the midnight cold,
And came around his crib, to hold
A "Council of Endowment."
"I give him Wit," the eldest said,
And stooped above the little bed,
To touch his forehead round and red.
"Within this bald, unfurnished head,
Where wild luxuriant locks shall spread
And wave in years hereafter,
I kindle now the lively spark,
That still shall flash by day and dark,
And everywhere he goes shall mark
His way with light and laughter."
The fairies laughed to think of it
That such a rosy, wrinkled bit
Of flesh should be endowed with Wit!
But something serious seemed to hit
The mind of one, as if a fit
Of fear had come upon her.
"I give him Truth," she quickly cried,
"That laughter may not lead aside
To paths where scorn and falsehood hide,--
I give him Truth and Honour!"
"I give him Love," exclaimed the third;
And as she breathed the mystic word,
I know not if the baby heard,
But softly in his dream he stirred,
And twittered like a little bird,
And stretched his hands above him.
The fairy's gift was sealed and signed
With kisses twain the deed to bind:
"A heart of love to human-kind,
And human-kind to love him!"
"Now stay your giving!" cried the Queen.
"These gifts are passing rich I ween;
And if reporters should be mean
Enough to spy upon this scene,
'Twould make all other babies green
With envy at the rumour.
Yet since I love this child, forsooth,
I'll mix your gifts, Wit, Love and Truth,
With spirits of Immortal Youth,
And call the mixture Humour!"
The fairies vanished with their glittering train;
But here's the Prince with all their gifts,--_Mark Twain_.
THE BALLAD OF THE SOLEMN ASS
Recited at the Century Club, New York: Twelfth Night. 1906
Come all ye good Centurions and wise men of the times,
You've made a Poet Laureate, now you must hear his rhymes.
Extend your ears and I'll respond by shortening up my tale:--
Man cannot live by verse alone, he must have cakes and ale.
So while you wait for better things and muse on schnapps and salad,
I'll try my Pegasus his wings and sing a little ballad:
A legend of your ancestors, the Wise Men of the East,
Who brought among their baggage train a quaint and curious beast.
Their horses were both swift and strong, and we should think it lucky
If we could buy, by telephone, such horses from Kentucky;
Their dromedaries paced along, magnificent and large,
Their camels were as stately as if painted by La Farge.
But this amazing little ass was never satisfied,
He made more trouble every day than all the rest beside:
His ears were long, his legs were short, his eyes were bleared and dim,
But nothing in the wide, wide world was good enough for him.
He did not like the way they went, but lifted up his voice
And said that any other way would be a better choice.
He braced his feet and stood his ground, and made the wise men wait,
While with his heels at all around he did recalcitrate.
It mattered not how fair the land through which the road might run,
He found new causes for complaint with every Morning Sun:
And when the shades of twilight fell and all the world grew nappy,
They tied him to his Evening Post, but still he was not happy.
He thought his load was far too large, he thought his food was bad,
He thought the Star a poor affair, he thought the Wise Men mad:
He did not like to hear them laugh,--'twas childish to be jolly;
And if perchance they sang a hymn,--'twas sentimental folly!
So day by day this little beast performed his level best
To make their life, in work and play, a burden to the rest:
And when they laid them down at night, he would not let them sleep,
But criticized the Universe with hee-haws loud and deep.
One evening, as the Wise Men sat before their fire-lit tent,
And ate and drank and talked and sang, in grateful merriment,
The solemn donkey butted in, in his most solemn way,
And broke the happy meeting up with a portentous bray.
"Now by my head," Balthazar said (his real name was Choate),
"We've had about enough of this! I'll put it to the vote.
I move the donkey be dismissed; let's turn him out to grass,
And travel on our cheerful way, without the solemn ass."
The vote was aye! and with a whack the Wise Men drove him out;
But still he wanders up and down, and all the world about;
You'll know him by his long, sad face and supercilious ways,
And likewise by his morning kicks and by his evening brays.
But while we sit at Eagle Roost and make our Twelfth Night cheer,
Full well we know the solemn ass will not disturb us here:
For pleasure rules the roost to-night, by order of the King,
And every one must play his part, and laugh, and likewise sing.
The road of life is long, we know, and often hard to find,
And yet there's many a pleasant turn for men of cheerful mind:
We've done our day's work honestly, we've earned the right to rest,
We'll take a cup of friendship now and spice it with a jest.
A silent health to absent friends, their memories are bright!
A hearty health to all who keep the feast with us to-night!
A health to dear Centuria, oh, may she long abide!
A health, a health to all the world,--and the solemn ass, _outside_!
A BALLAD OF SANTA CLAUS
For the St. Nicholas Society of New York
Among the earliest saints of old, before the first Hegira,
I find the one whose name we hold, St. Nicholas of Myra:
The best-beloved name, I guess, in sacred nomenclature,--
The patron-saint of helpfulness, and friendship, and good-nature.
A bishop and a preacher too, a famous theologian,
He stood against the Arian crew and fought them like a Trojan:
But when a poor man told his need and begged an alms in trouble,
He never asked about his creed, but quickly gave him double.
Three pretty maidens, so they say, were longing to be married;
But they were paupers, lack-a-day, and so the suitors tarried.
St. Nicholas gave each maid a purse of golden ducats chinking,
And then, for better or for worse, they wedded quick as winking.
Once, as he sailed, a storm arose; wild waves the ship surrounded;
The sailors wept and tore their clothes, and shrieked "We'll all be
drownded!"
St. Nicholas never turned a hair; serenely shone his halo;
He simply said a little prayer, and all the billows lay low.
The wicked keeper of an inn had three small urchins taken,
And cut them up in a pickle-bin, and salted them for bacon.
St. Nicholas came and picked them out, and put their limbs together,--
They lived, they leaped, they gave a shout, "St. Nicholas forever!"
And thus it came to pass, you know, that maids without a nickel,
And sailor-lads when tempest blow, and children in a pickle,
And every man that's fatherly, and every kindly matron,
In choosing saints would all agree to call St. Nicholas patron.
He comes again at Christmas-time and stirs us up to giving;
He rings the merry bells that chime good-will to all the living;
He blesses every friendly deed and every free donation;
He sows the secret, golden seed of love through all creation.
Our fathers drank to Santa Claus, the sixth of each December,
And still we keep his feast because his virtues we remember.
Among the saintly ranks he stood, with smiling human features,
And said, "_Be good! But not too good to love your fellow-creatures!_"
December 6, 1907.
ARS AGRICOLARIS
An Ode for the "Farmer's Dinner," University Club, New York,
January 23, 1913
All hail, ye famous Farmers!
Ye vegetable-charmers,
Who know the art of making barren earth
Smile with prolific mirth
And bring forth twins or triplets at a birth!
Ye scientific fertilizers of the soil,
And horny-handed sons of toil!
To-night from all your arduous cares released,
With manly brows no longer sweat-impearled,
Ye hold your annual feast,
And like the Concord farmers long ago,
Ye meet above the "Bridge" below,
And draw the cork heard round the world!
What memories are yours! What tales
Of triumph have your tongues rehearsed,
Telling how ye have won your first
Potatoes from the stubborn mead,
(Almost as many as ye sowed for seed!)
And how the luscious cabbages and kails
Have bloomed before you in their bed
At seven dollars a head!
And how your onions took a prize
For bringing tears into the eyes
Of a hard-hearted cook! And how ye slew
The Dragon Cut-worm at a stroke!
And how ye broke,
Routed, and put to flight the horrid crew
Of vile potato-bugs and Hessian flies!
And how ye did not quail
Before th' invading armies of San José Scale,
But met them bravely with your little pail
Of poison, which ye put upon each tail
O' the dreadful beasts and made their courage fail!
And how ye did acquit yourselves like men
In fields of agricultural strife, and then,
Like generous warriors, sat you down at ease
And gently to your gardener said, "Let us have _Pease_!"
But _were_ there Pease? Ah, no, dear Farmers, no!
The course of Nature is not ordered so.
For when we want a vegetable most,
She holds it back;
And when we boast
To our week-endly friends
Of what we'll give them on our farm, alack,
Those things the old dam, Nature, never sends.
O Pease in bottles, Sparrow-grass in jars,
How often have ye saved from scars
Of shame, and deep embarrassment,
The disingenuous farmer-gent,
To whom some wondering guest has cried,
"How _do_ you raise such Pease and Sparrow-grass?"
Whereat the farmer-gent has not denied
The compliment, but smiling has replied,
"To raise such things you must have lots of glass."
From wiles like these, true Farmers, hold aloof;
Accept no praise unless you have the proof.
If niggard Nature should withhold the green
And sugary Pea, welcome the humble Bean.
Even the easy Radish, and the Beet,
If grown by your own toil are extra sweet.
Let malefactors of great wealth and banker-felons
Rejoice in foreign artichokes, imported melons;
But you, my Farmers, at your frugal board
Spread forth the fare your Sabine Farms afford.
Say to Mæcenas, when he is your guest,
"No peaches! try this turnip, 'tis my best."
Thus shall ye learn from labors in the field
What honesty a farmer's life may yield,
And like G. Washington in early youth,
Though cherries fail, produce a crop of truth.
But think me not too strict, O followers of the plough;
Some place for fiction in your lives I would allow.
In January when the world is drear,
And bills come in, and no results appear,
And snow-storms veil the skies,
And ice the streamlet clogs,
Then may you warm your heart with pleasant lies
And revel in the seedsmen's catalogues!
What visions and what dreams are these
Of cauliflower obese,--
Of giant celery, taller than a mast,--
Of strawberries
Like red pincushions, round and vast,--
Of succulent and spicy gumbo,--
Of cantaloupes, as big as Jumbo,--
Of high-strung beans without the strings,--
And of a host of other wild, romantic things!
Why, then, should Doctor Starr declare
That modern habits mental force impair?
And why should H. Marquand complain
That jokes as good as his will never come again?
And why should Bridges wear a gloomy mien
About the lack of fiction for his Magazine?
The seedsman's catalogue is all we need
To stir our dull imaginations
To new creations,
And lead us, by the hand
Of Hope, into a fairy-land.
So dream, my friendly Farmers, as you will;
And let your fancy all your garners fill
With wondrous crops; but always recollect
That Nature gives us less than we expect.
Scorn not the city where you earn the wealth
That, spent upon your farms, renews your health;
And tell your wife, whene'er the bills have shocked her,
"A country-place is cheaper than a doctor."
May roses bloom for you, and may you find
Your richest harvest in a tranquil mind.
[Transcriber's note: "fertilizers" above was "fetilizers"
in the original.]
ANGLER'S FIRESIDE SONG
Oh, the angler's path is a very merry way,
And his road through the world is bright;
For he lives with the laughing stream all day,
And he lies by the fire at night.
Sing hey nonny, ho nonny
And likewise well-a-day!
The angler's life is a very jolly life
And that's what the anglers say!
Oh, the angler plays for the pleasure of the game,
And his creel may be full or light,
But the tale that he tells will be just the same
When he lies by the fire at night.
Sing hey nonny, ho nonny
And likewise well-a-day!
We love the fire and the music of the lyre,
And that's what the anglers say!
To the San Francisco Fly-Casting Club, April, 1913.
HOW SPRING COMES TO SHASTA JIM
I never seen no "red gods"; I dunno wot's a "lure";
But if it's sumpin' takin', then Spring has got it sure;
An' it doesn't need no Kiplins, ner yet no London Jacks,
To make up guff about it, w'ile settin' in their shacks.
It's sumpin' very simple 'at happens in the Spring,
But it changes all the lookin's of every blessed thing;
The buddin' woods look bigger, the mounting twice as high,
But the house looks kindo smaller, tho I couldn't tell ye why.
It's cur'ous wot a show-down the month of April makes,
Between the reely livin', an' the things 'at's only fakes!
Machines an' barns an' buildin's, they never give no sign;
But the livin' things look lively w'en Spring is on the line.
She doesn't come too suddin, ner she doesn't come too slow;
Her gaits is some cayprishus, an' the next ye never know,--
A single-foot o' sunshine, a buck o' snow er hail,--
But don't be disapp'inted, fer Spring ain't goin' ter fail.
She's loopin' down the hillside,--the driffs is fadin' out.
She's runnin' down the river,--d'ye see them risin' trout?
She's loafin' down the canyon,--the squaw-bed's growin' blue,
An' the teeny Johnny-jump-ups is jest a-peekin' thru.
A thousan' miles o' pine-trees, with Douglas firs between,
Is waitin' fer her fingers to freshen up their green;
With little tips o' brightness the firs 'ill sparkle thick,
An' every yaller pine-tree, a giant candle-stick!
The underbrush is risin' an' spreadin' all around,
Jest like a mist o' greenness 'at hangs above the ground;
A million manzanitas 'ill soon be full o' pink;
So saddle up, my sonny,--it's time to ride, I think!
We'll ford er swim the river, becos there ain't no bridge;
We'll foot the gulches careful, an' lope along the ridge;
We'll take the trail to Nowhere, an' travel till we tire,
An' camp beneath a pine-tree, an' sleep beside the fire.
We'll see the blue-quail chickens, an' hear 'em pipin' clear;
An' p'raps we'll sight a brown-bear, er else a bunch o' deer;
But nary a heathen goddess or god 'ill meet our eyes;
For why? There isn't any! They're jest a pack o' lies!
Oh, wot's the use o' "red gods," an' "Pan," an' all that stuff?
The natcheral facts o' Springtime is wonderful enuff!
An' if there's Someone made 'em, I guess He understood,
To be alive in Springtime would make a man feel good.
California, 1913.
A BUNCH OF TROUT-FLIES
For Archie Rutledge
Here's a half-a-dozen flies,
Just about the proper size
For the trout of Dickey's Run,--
Luck go with them every one!
Dainty little feathered beauties,
Listen now, and learn your duties:
Not to tangle in the box;
Not to catch on logs or rocks,
Boughs that wave or weeds that float,
Nor in the angler's "pants" or coat!
Not to lure the glutton frog
From his banquet in the bog;
Nor the lazy chub to fool,
Splashing idly round the pool;
Nor the sullen hornèd pout
From the mud to hustle out!
None of this vulgarian crew,
Dainty flies, is game for you.
Darting swiftly through the air
Guided by the angler's care,
Light upon the flowing stream
Like a wingèd fairy dream;
Float upon the water dancing,
Through the lights and shadows glancing,
Till the rippling current brings you,
And with quiet motion swings you,
Where a speckled beauty lies
Watching you with hungry eyes.
Here's your game and here's your prize!
Hover near him, lure him, tease him,
Do your very best to please him,
Dancing on the water foamy,
Like the frail and fair Salome,
Till the monarch yields at last;
Rises, and you have him fast!
Then remember well your duty,--
Do not lose, but land, your booty;
For the finest fish of all is
_Salvelinus Fontinalis._
So, you plumed illusions, go,
Let my comrade Archie know
Every day he goes a-fishing
I'll be with him in well-wishing.
Most of all when lunch is laid
In the dappled orchard shade,
With Will, Corinne, and Dixie too,
Sitting as we used to do
Round the white cloth on the grass
While the lazy hours pass,
And the brook's contented tune
Lulls the sleepy afternoon,--
Then's the time my heart will be
With that pleasant company!
June 17, 1913.
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
A deeper crimson in the rose,
A fir-tree standeth lonely
A flawless cup: how delicate and fine
A little fir grew in the midst of the wood
A mocking question! Britain's answer came
A silent world,--yet full of vital joy
A silken curtain veils the skies,
A tear that trembles for a little while
Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land,
Afterthought of summer's bloom!
Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days,
All along the Brazos River,
All day long in the city's canyon-street,
All hail, ye famous Farmers!
All night long, by a distant bell
All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still,
Among the earliest saints of old, before the first Hegira
At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream,
At sunset, when the rosy light was dying
Children of the elemental mother,
"Clam O! Fres' Clam!" How strange it sounds and sweet,
Come all ye good Centurions and wise men of the times,
Come, give me back my life again, you heavy-handed Death!
Come home, my love, come home!
Could every time-worn heart but see Thee once again,
Count not the cost of honour to the dead!
Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that wild night
Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow days
Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America,
_Deeds not Words_: I say so too!
Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing;
"Do you give thanks for this?--or that?" No, God be thanked
Do you remember, father,--
Does the snow fall at sea?
Ere thou sleepest gently lay
Fair Phyllis is another's bride:
Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine
Far richer than a thornless rose
Flowers rejoice when night is done,
For that thy face is fair I love thee not:
Four things a man must learn to do
From the misty shores of midnight, touched with splendours of the moon,
Furl your sail, my little boatie:
Give us a name to fill the mind
Glory of architect, glory of painter, and sculptor, and bard,
God said, "I am tired of kings,"--
Great Nature had a million words,
Hear a word that Jesus spake
Heart of France for a hundred years,
Her eyes are like the evening air,
Here's a half-a-dozen flies,
Here the great heart of France,
Home, for my heart still calls me:
Honour the brave who sleep
Hours fly,
How blind the toil that burrows like the mole,
"How can I tell," Sir Edmund said,
_How long is the night, brother,_
How long the echoes love to play
I count that friendship little worth
I envy every flower that blows
I have no joy in strife,
I love thine inland seas,
I never seen no "red gods"; I dunno wot's a "lure";
I never thought again to hear
I put my heart to school
I read within a poet's book
I think of thee when golden sunbeams glimmer
I would not even ask my heart to say
If all the skies were sunshine,
If I have erred in showing all my heart,
If Might made Right, life were a wild-beasts' cage:
If on the closed curtain of my sight
In a great land, a new land, a land full of labour and riches and
confusion,
In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon,
In robes of Tynan blue the King was drest,
In the blue heaven the clouds will come and go,
In the pleasant time of Pentecost,
Into the dust of the making of man,
In warlike pomp, with banners flowing,
It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise His name!)
It's little I can tell
It was my lot of late to travel far
"Joy is a Duty,"--so with golden lore
Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee,
Just to give up, and trust
Knight-Errant of the Never-ending Quest,
Let me but do my work from day to day,
Let me but feel thy look's embrace,
"Lights out" along the land,
Like a long arrow through the dark the train is darting,
Limber-limbed, lazy god, stretched on the rock,
Lord Jesus, Thou hast known
Long ago Apollo called to Aristæus, youngest of the shepherds,
Long had I loved this "Attic shape," the brede
Long, long ago I heard a little song,
Long, long, long the trail
Lover of beauty, walking on the height
Low dost thou lie amid the languid ooze,
March on, my soul, nor like a laggard stay!
Mother of all the high-strung poets and singers departed,
Not Dante when he wandered by the river Arno,
Not to the swift, the race:
Now in the oak the sap of life is welling,
O dark the night and dim the day
O garden isle, beloved by Sun and Sea,
O Lord our God, Thy mighty hand
O mighty river! strong, eternal Will,
O Mother mountains! billowing far to the snow-lands,
O Music hast thou only heard
O who will walk a mile with me
O wonderful! How liquid clear
O youngest of the giant brood
Oh, gallantly they fared forth in khaki and in blue,
Oh, quick to feel the lightest touch
Oh, the angler's path is a very merry way,
Oh, was I born too soon, my dear, or were you born too late,
Oh, what do you know of the song, my dear,
Oh, why are you shining so bright, big Sun,
Once, only once, I saw it clear,--
One sail in sight upon the lonely sea,
Only a little shrivelled seed,
Peace without Justice is a low estate,--
Read here, O friend unknown,
Remember, when the timid light
Saints are God's flowers, fragrant souls
Self is the only prison that can ever bind the soul:
Ship after ship, and every one with a high-resounding name,
Sign of the Love Divine
Some three-score years and ten ago
Soul of a soldier in a poet's frame,
Stand back, ye messengers of mercy! Stand
Stand fast, Great Britain!
The British bard who looked on Eton's walls,
The clam that once, on Jersey's banks,
The cornerstone in Truth is laid,
The cradle I have made for thee
The day returns by which we date our years:
The fire of love was burning, yet so low
The gabled roofs of old Malines
The glory of ships is an old, old song,
The grief that is but feigning,
The heavenly hills of Holland,--
The laggard winter ebbed so slow
The land was broken in despair,
The melancholy gift Aurora gained
The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring,
The mountains that inclose the vale
The nymphs a shepherd took
The other night I had a dream, most clear
The record of a faith sublime,
The river of dreams runs quietly down
The roar of the city is low,
The rough expanse of democratic sea
The shadow by my finger cast
The tide, flows in to the harbour,--
The time will come when I no more can play
The winds of war-news change and veer:
The worlds in which we live at heart are one,
There are many kinds of anger, as many kinds of fire:
There are many kinds of love, as many kinds of light,
There are songs for the morning and songs for the night,
There is a bird I know so well,
They tell me thou art rich, my country: gold
This is the soldier brave enough to tell
This is the window's message,
Thou warden of the western gate, above Manhattan Bay,
Thou who hast made thy dwelling fair
"Through many a land your journey ran,
'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down
To thee, plain hero of a rugged race,
Two dwellings, Peace, are thine
Two hundred years of blessing I record
"Two things," the wise man said, "fill me with awe:
'Twas far away and long ago,
Under the cloud of world-wide war,
Waking from tender sleep,
We men that go down for a livin' in ships to the sea,--
We met on Nature's stage,
What hast thou done, O womanhood of France,
What is Fortune, what is Fame?
What makes the lingering Night so cling to thee?
What shall I give for thee,
What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night,
When down the stair at morning
When May bedecks the naked trees
When Stävoren town was in its prime
When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark
When tulips bloom in Union Square,
When to the garden of untroubled thought
Where's your kingdom, little king?
Who knows how many thousand years ago
Who seeks for heaven alone to save his soul,
Who watched the worn-out Winter die?
Winter on Mount Shasta,
With eager heart and will on fire,
With memories old and wishes new
With two bright eyes, my star, my love
Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls
Ye gods of battle, lords of fear,
Yes, it was like you to forget,
You dare to say with perjured lips,
You only promised me a single hour:
Yours is a garden of old-fashioned flowers;
End of Project Gutenberg's The Poems of Henry Van Dyke, by Henry Van Dyke