And blast some heart with mine!
To me ’tis living death to know
My heart stills poisoned wine!
Ten million, million deaths I live
Each wasting, poisoned hour;
For, whom I love my presence damns--
I blight each blooming flower.
Oh that the grinning skeleton
This faithless flesh doth hold
Might lay its lying mantle off
To dream on downs of mould!
The leaf must fade, the sun must set,
The sweetest day must die;
But Death, Decay, and Woe must live,--
And so, and so must I!
Oh days to me are lengthened years,
The years like ages creep;
I’ve tossed ten million centuries
On life’s unfathomed deep!
I’ve seen the crawling sea-weed rot
In slime upon that sea,
And slimy things find birth therein
To live in death, like me.
I find no peace, I know no rest,
My very self I fly;--
Unfit to love, unfit to live,
And far less fit to die!
THE WEATHER FIEND.
Of the weather
Ask us whether
We enjoy it thus and thus;
If it suits us,
What it boots us,
If it matters much to us.
When it’s raining,
Come complaining
That “it’s muddy out today.”
It will please us
And will ease us
Of the thing we’d like to say.
When a blizzard
Like a lizard
Wriggles up and down your spine,
Don’t be fool-like,
Just keep cool, like
All green “pickles” on the vine.
If it’s cold out,
Don’t be sold out
When you tell somebody so
If he says he
’S melting as he
Gently mops his frigid brow.
If it’s snowing,
With a knowing
Wink within your “weather eye”
It is sound to
Say, “We’re bound to
Have some sleighing by and by.”
If we _shiver_
When your clever
Tongue remarks “_it’s hot as ’ile_,”
It’s because of
Those old _saws_ of
Weather that you always _file_.
We can stand it--
Yes, demand it,
That you be a weather bore,
For we never
Heard such clever
_Originality_ before.
WHO KNOWS!
Ah me!--
O’er the wide
Deep I glide
Where flows
For me
Either waters ’mid the plashes
Of the lacing star-light lashes,
Or a sea ’mid lightning gashes
With their booming cannon-crashes--
Who knows!
Ah me!
In the wide
River’s tide
Still flows
For me
Either waters bearing bubbles
From the waves that pelt the pebbles,
Or a muddy sea of troubles
With its melancholy trebles--
Who knows!
Ah me,
Ah me!
THE DEATH-HOWL.
I shall die to-night, dear mother, I have heard the long death-howl,
That long plaintive, mournful cry like the wail of some lost soul.
And it sounded like a spirit crying through a distant storm,
Moaning that another mortal should put on the brutish form!--
Wailing that a brother-spirit should exchange its form for that
Of the baying hound, or worse, of the death-rhymed Irish rat.
But my mother, darling mother! old Pythagoras was wrong,
For the death-howl dies away, and I hear the angel-song.
--Yet, I’ve heard that death-howl, mother, and I know I’ll die
to-night--
And the room is filling, filling with a strange, unearthly light!
Oh that glorious sight out yonder in the vast eternity
Where the light and song are leading--come! oh come and go with me!
Dearest mother, mother, mother! what a joyous, joyous sight!
Each glad soul as life has dreamed it clad in purest angel-white!
The death-howl’s died away, dear mother,--and I’m dying now
to-night!--
Good-night mother, earth’s dear angel, once more mother, sweet
good-night!
ON PLUCKING A CROCUS.
Sweet Crocus! harbinger of spring,
Awake, with others sleeping,
How have I wrecked thy new-born life
And set thy parent weeping!
See! sad her weeping eyes upturning,
Adrip with love for thee,
And arms outstretched implore thy slayer
That thou’lt returnéd be.
Alas! in vain her tears must flow,
Her palms implore the youth
Who pluckéd thee from out her heart
And set in his such ruth.
I cannot give thee back--I would
I might! I’d send thee thither;
It grieveth me to see her weep,
To know that thou shalt wither.
My heart ne’er tho’t when thee I plucked,
For thou not yet hadst won it,
How much I took, how little gave--
I would I had not done it.
Lift up thy drooping head again--
I would the word would do it!--
Make me not weep for plucking thee;
Thou know’st how much I rue it.
Thy pure and purple-tinted petals,
Thy open lily-lips,
Thy olden-golden anthered stamens
Thy saffron pistil-tips!--
Would I could here embalm them all
And wrap in verses meet
So that thou’dst be, when years should roll,
To others just as sweet!
_Envoy._
’Tis thus, O soul-inspired poet,
The world shall greet thy song--
Shall pluck it from thy throbbing soul
To die amidst the throng.
And thus, O plucker of the crocus,
Shall Death come unto thee--
Shall pluck thee from thy mother’s heart,
Shall thy embalmer be.
So may’st thou live and do and be
That Death, with riches rife,
Shall be thy welcome harbinger,--
The crocus of thy life.
GRAVITY--LIFE!
(After Browning--several miles after.)
Gravity--what?
Attraction we call it,
Yet mind cannot thrall it--
Where is it not?
Life of world-stuff--truly it is!
--Life then of man?--His, and not his!
’Tis of all matter; thus ’tis of man;
’Tis of all space, and spans the world’s span.
Matter, man! Gravity, life!
--Each fits to each; with the other at strife.
Life? It is--what?
Who can explain it?
Mind cannot chain it--
God! how ’tis wrought!
DEATH--LIFE.
Sadly o’er the moor I fare,
Lonely, lonely all the day;
Life nor leaf nor song is there;
Barren, barren all the way.
Sun and spring and hope are bright,
Sweetly, sweetly dreaming there;
Life will wake with love and light,
Joyous, joyous everywhere.
HOT?--WELL, RATHER!
The sun come peekin’ crost the hills
With round, red, shinin’, smilin’ face
That broadened to a grin from ear
To ear,--a most perdigeous space!
Then he showed his teeth an’ slapped his sides
An’ laughed an’ shook with all his might
To think how ’tarnal hot ’t’ould be
Fer us a-sittin’ still ’fore night.
’Twas “purty warm this mornin’” ’fore
’Twas eight o’clock; an’ then ’twas found
“Quite warm”; then “hot”, an’ “awful hot”
Before the minute-hand’s tenth round.
At twelve ’twas “b’ilin’ hot”, and yet
No stop; ’twas “meltin’ hot” at two;
All said, “I’m dyin’ with the heat!”--
“The hottest day I ever knew!”
Why, stalks of corn that mornin’ growed
Full two foot--ears pupo’tional;
An’ then, ’fore night, ’twas dry an’ ripe
Like when you shuck it in the fall.
The steeples on the churches all
Was drawed to more’n three times their height,
An’ lightnin’-rods was stretched to wire
That melted off like wax ’fore night.
The weather-boardin’ all warped off
An’ shingles rolled in little tubes;
Big saw-logs doubled up in bows,
An’ water crystallized in cubes.
The hoops of barrels tumbled off
An’ wagon-tires follered suit;
The forests growed so awful fast
They all was pulled up by the root.
Men melted in the harvest-field
An’ fried to cracklin’s light as chaff,
A-sizzlin’ in a way that made
Old Nickie chuck hisse’f an’ laugh!
In one big city, folks all died
But Smith (Sid. Smith). This chap took off
His flesh an’ lolled ’round in his bones
(But it killed him;--caught cold, and died of a cough).
I can’t begin to tell how hot
It was--it can’t be even guessed.
It’s still so all-infernal hot
I can’t begin to try to rest.
A YEAR AGO.
A year ago
I held the fondest hopes
That ever touched the fondest heart,
Nor dreamed that I should ever part
From all that fancy opes,
A year ago.
A year ago!--
Sweet mem’ry’s golden chime!--
A flower bloomed beneath my sill
And by its soft, enchanting smell
I lost all count of time
A year ago.
A year ago
I slept a bed of peace
Beneath the stars of summer skies
While dreams like dews o’erdropt my eyes
That this should never cease--
A year ago!
A year ago
My morning-glory vine,
Soft whispering with the wings of bees,
Foretold that whisperings like these
Should endlessly be mine--
A year ago!
A year ago
The sun light-kissed the moon,
Glad skies upon the sweet lake hung,
And mingled Life and Love and Song
Rode near their highest noon--
A year ago.
A year ago!--
Then, then each sister vine
Upon a brother sweetly leaned:
Thus we, Dear Heart, ourselves demeaned
When Love had made you mine
A year ago.
A year ago
’Twas Love from sun to sun:
To-day I fold you to my heart
And know that nought but death can part
The love and life begun
A year ago.
THE SWEETEST OF ALL.
There are tears of pity and tears of woe,
And tears half of rapture and pain will fall;
And tears for excess of joy must flow,
But the tears of love are the sweetest of all.
There’s the sorrow of husband, the sorrow of wife,
And the sorrow that knows no recall;
The sorrow of death and the sorrow of life,
But the sorrow of love is the sweetest of all.
Oh the sighs of remorse and the sighs of pain
And the sighs of hope that the heart enthrall
May be sweet to the soul and balm to the brain,
But the sighs of love are the sweetest of all.
There’s the laugh of the farm-boy, free and wild,
The laugh in the boisterous banqueting hall;
The laugh of the sage, the laugh of the child,
But the laugh of love is the sweetest of all.
There are smiles of contentment and smiles of cheer
And smiles that gladden wherever they fall;
There are smiles that banish the thoughts of fear,
But the smiles of love are the sweetest of all.
There’s the kiss sweet-blown from the finger tips,
The kiss of good-bye when the tear-drops fall;
There’s the kiss of a cherishing mother’s lips,
But the kiss of love is the sweetest of all.
There are songs that sing in a minor key,
And songs that the listening heart appall;
There are songs that sing like the constant sea,
But the songs of love are the sweetest of all.
THE LOVER’S COMPLAINT.
Sorrows live and pleasures dee,
Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!
And I’ll wear the willow-tree,
Willow-willow weeping, sweeping low.
For I loved a bonnie lass,
Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!
Bonnie, bonnie Love, alas!
Willow-willow, whither did she go?
Here upon this willow-tree,
Willy-willy-waly weep my woe!
I will hang my harp, and dee,
Willow-willow, will she ever know?
On my heart I’ll place my hand
Willy-willy-waly wailing so!
On my head a green garland,
Willow-willow weeping sleeping so!
Then farewell, my bride and breath,
Willy-willy-waly, waly-oh!
Still I love you, tho’ my death,
Willow-willow wailing--will she know!
[The willow-tree is emblematical of death, or forsaken
love--which, to the lover, is, of course, all the same
thing. The custom of a disappointed lover’s hanging his
harp on a willow-tree and going off to the wars in utter
desperation--hoping to get killed, perhaps, and thus be
revenged on his false sweetheart by making her _sorry_!--;
also the custom of wearing a green-willow garland about the
hat, and leaning up against the tree (they had no fences) to
die, somewhat _à la_ Job’s turkey, I presume, as they used to
do before quicker, modern, new-fangled methods of a lover’s
getting out of the world came in; and the custom of doing
many other things that were done by the young ancient lovers,
is a custom that is dead. The preceding is the wail of one of
these youthful old dolorous fellows, in the English-Ballad
style of his day.]
BUZZ.
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
In my ear the sound is drumming,
On my heart-chords ever strumming,
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
Whence the sound, my soul’s confusion?
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
Comes the sound from days of childhood
Thronging echoes thro’ the wildwood
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
Youth has planted in profusion.
Thro’ the tangles wildly growing
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
Crieth Hope, my lost companion,
Left behind in Wild-oats Cañon,
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
With the sap of manhood flowing.
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
Aged now I listen gladly
To the echoes that so sadly
“Buzz, buzz, buzz!”
WASHINGTON.
_22 Feb._
Great Washington! Dear father of the land
Our glorious Lincoln died to save! thou who
Wast mightiest of men to beat the foe
In war; admired of every nation and
Of every hearth, yet more because thy hand
Was mightiest in peace; exalted thro’
The years to more than Jove’s own heights of blue,
Still ruling us from yon far golden strand!--
For thee this day is made the nation’s day;
For thee the red of dawn, the white of morn,
And spangled blue of night are all unfurled,
Are all the emblems of our love for thee,
To liberty and home God’s greatest boon,
O noblest, grandest, best of all the world!
FREEDOM’S BATTLE SONG.
CANTUS FILIIS VETERANORUM.
We think the thoughts our fathers thought,
And sing the same old songs;
We fight the battles they have fought,
And right the same old wrongs.
CHORUS.
Hurrah! hurrah! oh may its colors wave,
Hurrah! hurrah! the banner of the free,
O’er thee for aye, thou Land our fathers gave,
O Land my home, sweet Land of Liberty.
We breath, the air our fathers breathed,
Inspiring freedom still;
Unsheathe the sword that they unsheathed,
And strike with dauntless will.
--_Chorus._
Behold the same old sun above,
The same old spangled dome
Forever shining out in love
On Freedom’s happy home.
--_Chorus._
We’ll guard the home our fathers won
And fight the latest foe;
We’ll stand by every loyal gun
Where Freedom’s streamers flow.
--_Chorus._
Beneath the stripes of red and white
And starry spangled blue,
Protected by the God of Right
We’ll fight the battle through.
--_Chorus._
We’ll bid defiance to the world
And make the welkin ring,
With Freedom’s dauntless flag unfurled
And God above, our King.
--_Chorus._
’MONG THE MOUNTAINS OF THE SOUL.
My grief lies all within.--_Shakspere, Rich. II._
Tell me not that tears are sorrow,
Tell me not that grief must flow
Like sad drops of rain descending,
Or like streams in valleys low.
Mute and sweet as Death’s own slumber,
In the heart that’s dumb with grief
There is eloquence, and mournful,
That doth shame all tear-relief.
From the heart of silent sorrow,
Clouds of woe can never rise,
And dissolve themselves with raining
To congeal in weeping eyes.
Oh, the heart may bleed with mourning,
And the soul may burst with grief;
Nought of weeping nor of moaning,
Nought of tears can give relief.
Deep among the soul’s great mountains,
Silent as the night doth come,
Clouds of grief may soft be raining,
Shrouding every hill in gloom.
Oh, along the channeled valleys,
Sad as Charon’s river’s roll,
Streams of grief may deep be flowing
’Mong the mountains of the soul.
HAL A-HUNTIN’.
Onct we went a-huntin’,
Pa ’n’ me, we did,
’N’ _I_ went ’long an’ tookt ol’
Rover.--’N’ we did
Have ist the mostest fun!--
’N’ Pa, w’y he tookt a gun.
Rove ist _skeert_ the rabbits
Outen the grass,
’N’en Pa he shooted at ’em
When they runned pas’.
My landy! how they run!
Wushed _I’d_ a had a gun!
Pa ist shooted at ’em,
_Hard_, but couldn’t
Kill ’em, ’cause when _he’d_ shoot,
The _gun_--_w’y_--_wouldn’t_.
’N’en Pa said ’twan’t no fun
A-huntin’ wif _sich_ a gun.
My! but didn’t them rabbits
Go a scootin’!--
’N’ Rover after’m, ist a-
Skallyhootin’!
’N’ Pa said, “see what HE done”
(When he comed home) “_wif his gun!_”
’N’en the hired man ist
Laft an’ shook’n’
When he’d skun ’em all, he
Said, a-lookin’
Solemn-like (in fun),
“What a _dog-gone_ gun.”
’N’en when Ma she fried ’em
’N’ we was a-eatin’
Of ’em up, Ma said ’at
It was beatin’
How that dog could run!--
Guess he’s the goodest gun!
’N’en Pa’s face got red, an’
He scowled at me
_Awful_, ’n’ said, “You little
Young rascal, see
Here! what ’d you go’n’ haft
To tell for?” ’N’en they laft!
Wusht Pa’d take me wif him
Huntin’ again;
But he says ’at I’m too
Awful green--
Rabbits might eat me! I
Guess not! Wonder why?
WRITE FROM THE HEART.
Write from the heart straight outwards
When divinely the feelings glow,
Write for the soul’s satisfaction,
And you’ll fashion the best outward show.
Write as the June rose blossoms,
Always straight from the inside out
Slowly unfolding its petals
From the ports of its Power’s redoubt.
Then from the sweet breathing petals,
That I swear seem almost human to me,
Perfumes rush out thro’ the portals
In the drunkenest ecstasy.
So let your heart in your poem
Breathe its song like a living rose,
Sweet with its deepest-drawn perfumes
As from soul unto soul it goes.
Write from the heart straight outwards,
Caring not for the glitter and show;--
Write as the showers from heaven,
Nor forget how the sweet roses blow.
WHITHER?
Whither this Highway, Child?
“To the Field of Flowers,--to the Flowers wild.”
Whither this Highway, Youth?
“Through the Fields of Love to the home of Ruth.”
Whither this Highway, Man?
“Through the realms of Fame into Class and Clan.”
Whither this Highway, Sire?
“To the silent Tomb with its marble spire!”
Whither, oh whither, Tomb?--
But voiceless it points to the azure dome.
OUR ALMA MATER.
Dear Alma Mater! beloved thro’ all the west!
Thou who hast taught our infant feet the way
Of light and truth! thou who hast been our stay
And prop thro’ all our weakness! thou whose zest
In strength’ning us would never let thee rest,
E’en in thy trials as in prosperity!
’Tis ours to-day in thy adversity
To aid thee, speed thee thro’ this fiery test.
And as thou, like the Phœnix, bird of old,
Comest from forth thy ruined home, for aye
In broader fields to live and grow, from west
To east the lengthened shout is roll’d,
“’Tis ours, by thee made strong, to strengthen thee,
To us, of all the world the dearest, best!”
FATHER TIME.
I am the father of the river,
Of the sea, and of the mountain;
Of the sunlight that doth quiver
In the rainbow of the fountain.
I have raised up men and nations,
I have builded homes and cities;
I have given all their stations,
Him who scorns and him who pities.
I have forged the tears and sorrows
Of a Russia, broken-hearted,
Into chains of sad to-morrows
That but death of kings has parted.
I have woven joy and laughter,
Fairest of life’s flowers,
Into garlands that hereafter
Shall be worn in Eden’s bowers.
Oh the sorrows and the pleasures
Of the world in faultless rhyme
Blend the music of their measures
With the step of Father Time.
THUS LIFE’S TALE.
I.
Away out yonder on the great horizon
Sail, sail away;
Sail, my soul, with thy breaking burthen,
Sail, sail, nor stay.
II.
Away in the westward where the sun is dipping
Gold, gold from the sea,
Gold of a glorious El Dorado--
Sail, sail to-day.
III.
See the straight horizon by the great sun hollowed:
Sail swift that way.
Sail! ’tis the portal the sun has opened,
Sail, sail nor stay.
IV.
The sun is flashing thro’ the broad portcullis:
See, see my sail!
See the shroud thro’ the gate disappearing!--
Thus, thus life’s tale!
_Finale._
The sea is tolling and the mer-folk weeping:
Sailed, sailed away;
Sailed the soul with its life-laded burthen,
Mourned, mourned the clay.
PART OF THE NEW ENGLAND LAMENT.
ON THE KILLING OF SITTING BULL, 1891.
Sitting Bull and the other Sioux
Lived in the land where the blizzards blioux,
And they grioux, and they grioux, and they grioux!--
Till one day they shot him thrioux
And kicked up an awful hullabalioux,--
Bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux, bioux-hioux!
--_Terhwytt-in-the-Twinkle D’Bioux._
ON KINGSLEY’S “FAREWELL.”
Let’s climb the steeps, let’s drink of Kingsley’s fountain;
Let’s stand with him above the rabbled throng
Upon the sun-tipped top of his grand mountain
Of moral song.
Oh listen to the music of the river
Along the channeled valleys of his soul
As its threnode-throbbing echoes on us ever
Their FAREWELL roll:--
“Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;
Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long,
And so make life, and death, and that vast forever
One grand, sweet song.”
THE TRANSFORMATION.
A PSYCHOLOGICAL MYSTERY.
I am not superstitious, not in the least. But that certain things which
we cannot explain by any natural method may happen in the lives of us
all, there is no longer a shadow of a doubt in my own mind.
I had gone to bed as usual and had been sleeping soundly one night,
with only the faint glimmer of a sweet vision now and then flitting
through my mind, when suddenly I was startled from my sleep into a
lively consciousness of a strange presence, and weird, mournful sounds,
as of a dirge, in my room. Moreover, there was a peculiar sensation in
my head, a sensation that I have never before or since felt, a kind of
pain, yet not a pain; for in some indefinable way it was mysteriously
mingled with a peculiar, almost transporting rapture that seemed to
permeate my whole being. Indeed, the pain, starting immediately between
my brows and running back to my crown, seemed born of this pleasurable
sensation, which had no local residence but was in every nerve and
fibre, both together producing that indescribable exhilarating feeling
that I imagine the truly happy in the next world possess. But, you say,
surely the angels have no pain. I hope not; but this I have learned,
that every pleasure of earth has its pain. And as I cannot say that
this sensation was altogether that of a mortal, I cannot say from
experience that there is a pleasure without a pain.
For a moment after awaking, I could not tell where I was or what was
going on. But my senses being quickly roused to their fullest keenness,
I soon saw I was in my own room. But the matter of the presence and
the weird sound was not so easily solved.
I lay quietly for a time, trying to persuade myself that I had been
dreaming and that my waking fancy was merely the hallucination of the
dream that had not yet passed away. Have you never done the like?
However, I soon realized that the presence and the sound, whoever or
whatever they were, were not mere fancy. Still I tried to shake off the
feeling that some one had entered my room; for, as is my custom, I had
securely barred the front door, also my bed-room door, before retiring.
Besides, no one could possibly have climbed in at my windows of the
second story without my knowing it; for when I am so nervous as I was
this night, the slightest sound will waken me. I turned over and looked
out of the window. The moon was still shining, and the trees swayed
with a soft murmur in answer to the light breeze that wantoned among
the virgin May leaves just lately from the bud. There were the houses,
the barns, the road, everything, in fact, just as it really was, and I
knew I could not possibly be asleep.
Still, that consciousness of a presence in my room, stronger and
stronger grown until it had reached conviction, I could not rid myself
of; nor could I shut my ears to the mournful sounds that came from
somewhere--everywhere, it seemed.
Suddenly--most wonderful to tell!--I saw the very faintest streak of
light creep up the farther wall of my room.
All that I have related did not, perhaps, occupy more than a full
minute, though I must confess it seemed much longer.
The thread of light, different from all lights I have ever before seen,
moved toward the ceiling rapidly, and held me in breathless attention.
What could it be!--A ray of the moon through a slit in the curtain that
was gently moved by the breeze blowing through the window? Wait! It
reached the ceiling. Then with such a delicate light that it was almost
imperceptible, it crept along the ceiling diagonally toward me. When it
got immediately above my head, it stopped. What in the world could it
be!
I lay almost breathless, wondering. Wouldn’t you, my friend, if you
should see such a thing in your room? You may not know what you would
do in such case. Possibly you say you would investigate at once. So,
too, had I said many a time,--I would investigate whatever was strange,
doubtful, or inexplicable. But if your hands would not move, if your
feet lay motionless, and if your whole being were thrilled with a
thralling rapture and pain all at once, you would probably do just as I
did,--lie there fascinated.
Suddenly, like a flash, something struck me on the forehead, and
instantly I sat bolt upright in bed. As I rose, whatever it was
that struck me bounded off on the bed, then down on the floor, that
mysterious filmy thread of light following it, and at the same time
clinging to my forehead. I put my hand up to brush it away. But when
I touched it (if I really did touch it, which I doubt, for my hand
seemed suddenly arrested), my whole body trembled as if shaken by some
supernatural power. It was something more than a light,--it was a film,
a thread; and at my touch upon it, that sensation of mingled pain and
rapture was almost beyond my power to survive. I let my hand drop
from it, and unable to resist doing what I did, I rose from my bed and
started to follow up that thread of light and film; for somehow it
seemed attached to my brain, and I involuntarily obeyed the will of
whoever or whatever it was that controlled it. Though fully conscious
of all I was doing, I could not resist. Great beads of sweat stood on
my body, caused partly, I suppose, by extreme nervous excitement and
partly by this influence upon me.