Refreshed by heaven’s sunlit air divine;
With what delight you breathe in rosy ease
The strengthening, restful, blossom-scented breeze!
So, let me wrap you in a blanket shawl,
And veil your face in woollen, when at all
You meet the air. Here in my arms is best
The curtained bedroom where your elders rest;
So shall I guard you from a draught, and so
A mother’s instinct-guided love I’ll show.
Young earnest mind at work!
Each sense attends
To teach you life’s approaching foes and friends;
Eye, ear, nose, tongue, and ever ready hand,
Eager to help you learn and understand.
What floods of happiness the day insures,
While each new knowledge is becoming yours!
So, let me firmly take away from you
The things you so persistently would view;
And when you stretch the hand that tells so much,
Rap your soft knuckles and exclaim, “Don’t touch!”
I’ll tell you what you ought to learn, and so,
A mother’s instinct-guided love I’ll show.
An ordinary child at best,
So neighbors tell;
Not very large and strong, not very well;
A victim to the measles and the croup,
Fevers that flush and chill, and coughs that whoop;
To unknown naughtiness and well-known pain;
No racial progress here—no special gain!
But I, your mother, see with other eyes;
I hold you second to none under skies,
This estimate, unbased on any fact,
Shall teach you how to feel and how to act,
Shall make you wise, and true, and strong, and so,
A mother’s instinct-guided love I’ll show.
THEY WANDERED FORTH.
They wandered forth in springtime woods,
Three women, thickly hung
With yards and yards of woollen goods—
To play that they were young!
The river raced with the racing air;
The woods were wild with song;
The glad birds darted everywhere—
And so they walked along!
Stiff-bodied, fat, oppressed with cloth,
Dull-colored, sad to see,
Slow-moving over the bright grass,
Their shapeless shadows fall and pass,
And dreaming not—alas! alas!
Of what dear life might be!
BABY LOVE.
Baby Love came prancing by,
Cap on head and sword on thigh,
Horse to ride and drum to beat,—
All the world beneath his feet.
Mother Life was sitting there,
Hard at work and full of care,
Set of mouth and sad of eye.
Baby Love came prancing by.
Baby Love was very proud,
Very lively, very loud;
Mother Life arose in wrath,
Set an arm across his path.
Baby Love wept loud and long,
But his mother’s arm was strong.
Mother had to work, she said.
Baby Love was put to bed.
THE MARCH.
THE WOLF AT THE DOOR.
There’s a haunting horror near us
That nothing drives away:
Fierce lamping eyes at nightfall,
A crouching shade by day;
There’s a whining at the threshold,
There’s a scratching at the floor.
To work! To work! In Heaven’s name!
The wolf is at the door!
The day was long, the night was short,
The bed was hard and cold;
Still weary are the little ones,
Still weary are the old.
We are weary in our cradles
From our mother’s toil untold;
We are born to hoarded weariness
As some to hoarded gold.
We will not rise! We will not work!
Nothing the day can give
Is half so sweet as an hour of sleep;
Better to sleep than live!
What power can stir these heavy limbs?
What hope these dull hearts swell?
What fear more cold, what pain more sharp,
Than the life we know so well?
To die like a man by lead or steel
Is nothing that we should fear;
No human death would be worse to feel
Than the life that holds us here.
But this is a fear no heart can face—
A fate no man can dare—
To be run to earth and die by the teeth
Of the gnawing monster there!
The slow, relentless, padding step
That never goes astray—
The rustle in the underbrush—
The shadow in the way—
The straining flight—the long pursuit—
The steady gain behind—
Death-wearied man and tireless brute,
And the struggle wild and blind!
There’s a hot breath at the keyhole
And a tearing as of teeth!
Well do I know the bloodshot eyes
And the dripping jaws beneath!
There’s a whining at the threshold—
There’s a scratching at the floor—
To work! To work! In Heaven’s name!
The wolf is at the door!
THE LOST GAME.
Came the big children to the little ones,
And unto them full pleasantly did say,
“Lo! we have spread for you a merry game,
And ye shall all be winners at the same.
Come now and play!”
_Great is the game they enter in,—
Rouge et Noir on a giant scale,—
Red with blood and black with sin,
Where many must lose and few may win,
And the players never fail!_
Said the strong children to the weaker ones,
“See, ye are many, and we are but few!
The mass of all the counters ye divide,
But few remain to share upon our side.
Play—as we do!”
_Strange is the game they enter in,—
Rouge et Noir on a field of pain!
And the silver white and the yellow gold
Pile and pile in the victor’s hold,
While the many play in vain!_
Said the weak children to the stronger ones,
“See now, howe’er it fall, we lose our share!
And play we well or ill we always lose;
While ye gain always more than ye can use.
Bethink ye—is it fair?”
_Strange is the game they enter in,—
Rouge et Noir, and the bank is strong!
Play they well or play they wide
The gold is still on the banker’s side,
And the game endureth long._
Said the strong children, each aside to each,
“The game is slow—our gains are all too small!
Play we together now, ’gainst them apart;
So shall these dull ones lose it from the start,
And we shall gain it all!”
_Strange is the game that now they win,—
Rouge et Noir with a new design!
What can the many players do
Whose wits are weak and counters few
When the Power and the Gold combine?_
Said the weak children to the stronger ones,
“We care not for the game!
For play as we may our chance is small,
And play as ye may ye have it all.
The end’s the same!”
_Strange is the game the world doth play,—
Rouge et Noir, with the counters gold,
Red with blood and black with sin;
Few and fewer are they that win
As the ages pass untold._
Said the strong children to the weaker ones,
“Ye lose in laziness! ye lose in sleep!
Play faster now and make the counters spin!
Play well, as we, and ye in time shall win!
Play fast! Play deep!”
_Strange is the game of Rouge et Noir,—
Never a point have the little ones won.
The winners are strong and flushed with gain,
The losers are weak with want and pain,
And still the game goes on._
But those rich players grew so very few,
So many grew the poor ones, that one day
They rose up from that table, side by side,
Calm, countless, terrible—they rose and cried
In one great voice that shook the heavens wide,
“WE WILL NOT PLAY!”
_Where is the game of Rouge et Noir?
Where is the wealth of yesterday?
What availeth the power ye tell,
And the skill in the game ye play so well?
If the players will not play?_
THE LOOKER-ON.
The world was full of the battle,
The whole world far and wide;
Men and women and children
Were fighting on either side.
I was sent from the hottest combat
With a message of life and death,
Black with smoke and red with blood,
Weary and out of breath,
Forced to linger a moment,
And bind a stubborn wound,
Cursing the hurt that kept me back
From the fiery battle-ground.
When I found a cheerful stranger,
Calm, critical, serene,
Well sheltered from all danger,
Painting a battle-scene.
He was cordially glad to see me—
The coolly smiling wretch—
And inquired with admiration,
“Do you mind if I make a sketch?”
So he had me down in a minute,
With murmurs of real delight;
My “color” was “delicious,”
My “action” was “just right!”
And he prattled on with ardor
Of the moving scene below;
Of the “values” of the smoke-wreaths,
And “the splendid rush and go”
Of the headlong desperate charges
Where a thousand lives were spent;
Of the “massing” in the foreground
With the “middle distance” blent.
Said I, “You speak serenely
Of the living death in view.
These are human creatures dying—
Are you not human too?
“This is a present battle,
Where all men strive to-day.
How does it chance you sit apart?
Which is your banner—say!”
His fresh cheek blanched a little,
But he answered with a smile
That he fought not on either side;
He was watching a little while.
“Watching!” said I, “and neutral!
Neutral in times like these!”
And I plucked him off his sketching stool
And brought him to his knees.
I stripped him of his travelling cloak
And showed him to the sky:
By his uniform—a traitor!
By his handiwork—a spy!
I dragged him back to the field he left;
To the fate he was fitted for.
We have no place for lookers on
When all the world’s at war!
THE OLD-TIME WAIL.
An Associated Press despatch describe the
utterance of a Banners’ Alliance meeting in
Kansas as consisting mostly of “the old-time
wail of distress.”
Still Dives hath no peace. Broken his slumber,
His feasts are troubled, and his pleasures fail;
For still he hears from voices without number
The same old wail.
They gather yet in field and town and city,—
The people, discontented, bitter, pale,—
And murmur of oppression, pain, and pity,—
The old-time wail.
And weary Dives, jaded in his pleasures,
Finding the endless clamor tiresome, stale—
Would gladly give a part of his wide treasures
To quiet that old wail.
Old? Yes, as old as Egypt. Sounding lowly
From naked millions, in the desert hid,
Starving and bleeding while they builded, slowly,
The Pharaohs’ pyramid.
As old as Rome. That endless empire’s minions
Raised ever and again the same dull cry;
And even Cæsar’s eagle bent his pinions
While it disturbed the sky.
As old as the Dark Ages. The lean peasant,
Numerous, patient, still as time went by
Made his lord’s pastimes something less than pleasant
With that unceasing cry.
It grew in volume down the crowding ages;
Unheeded still, and unappeased, it swelled.
And now it pleads in vain, and now it rages—
The answer still withheld.
A century ago it shrieked and clamored
Till trembled emperors and kings grew pale;
At gates of palaces it roared and hammered,—
The same old wail.
It got no final answer, though its passion
Altered the face of Europe, monarchs slew;
But ere it sank to silence, in some fashion
Others were wailing, too.
And now in broad America we hear it,—
From crowded street, from boundless hill and vale.
Hear, Dives! Have ye not some cause to fear it,—
This old-time wail?
Louder, my brother! Let us wail no longer
Like those past sufferers whose hearts did break.
We are a wiser race, a braver, stronger—
Let us not ask, but take!
So Dives shall have no distress soever,
No sound of anguished voice by land or sea;
The old-time wail shall so be stilled forever,
And Dives shall not be!
FREE LAND IS NOT ENOUGH.
Free land is not enough. In earliest days
When man, the baby, from the earth’s bare breast
Drew for himself his simple sustenance,
Then freedom and his effort were enough.
The world to which a man is born to-day
Is a constructed, human, man-built world.
As the first savage needed the free wood,
We need the road, the ship, the bridge, the house,
The government, society, and church,—
These are the basis of our life to-day,
As much necessities to modern man
As was the forest to his ancestor.
To say to the new-born, “Take here your land;
In primal freedom settle where you will,
And work your own salvation in the world,”
Is but to put the last come upon earth
Back with the dim forerunners of his race
To climb the race’s stairway in one life!
Allied society owes to the young—
The new men come to carry on the world—
Account for all the past, the deeds, the keys,
Full access to the riches of the earth.
Why? That these new ones may not be compelled,
Each for himself, to do our work again—
But reach their manhood even with to-day,
And gain to-morrow sooner. To go on—
To start from where we are and go ahead—
That is true progress, true humanity!
WHO IS TO BLAME?
Who was to blame in that old time
Of the unnoticed groan,
When prisoners without proof of crime
Rotted in dungeons wet with slime,
And died unknown?
When torture was a common thing,
When fire could speak,
When the flayed wretch hung quivering,
And rack-strained tendons, string by string,
Snapped with a shriek?
Is it the Headsman, following still
The laws his masters give?
Is it the Church or King who kill?
Or just the People, by whose will
Church, King, and Headsman live?
The People, bowing slavish knee
With tribute fruits of earth;
The People, gathering to see
The stake, the axe, the gallows-tree,
In brutal mirth!
The People, countenancing pain
By willing presence there;
The People—you might shriek in vain,
Poor son of Abel or of Cain—
The People did not care!
And now, in this fair age we’re in,
Who is to blame?
When men go mad and women sin
Because the life they struggle in
Enforces shame!
When torture is so deep, so wide—
The kind we give—
So long drawn out, so well supplied,
That men die now by suicide,
Rather than live!
Is it the Rich Man, grinding still
The faces of the poor?
Is it our System which must kill?
Or just the People, by whose will
That system can endure?
The People, bowing slavish knee
With tribute fruits of earth;
The People, who can bear to see
In crime and death and poverty
Fair ground for mirth!
The People, countenancing pain
By willing presence there;
The People—you may shriek in vain—
Protest, rebel, beseech, complain—
The People do not care!
Each man and woman feels the weight
Of their own private share;
But for the suffering of the state,
That falls on all men soon or late,
The People do not care!
IF A MAN MAY NOT EAT NEITHER CAN HE WORK.
How can he work? He never has been taught
The free use of what faculties he had.
Why should he work? Who ever yet has thought
To give a love of working to the lad.
How can he work? His life has felt the lack
Of all that makes us work; the proud, the free,
Each saying to the world, “I give you back
Part of the glory you have given me!”
Why should he work? He has no honor high,
Born of great trust and wealth and sense of power;
Honor, that makes us yearn before we die
To add our labor to the world’s rich dower.
How can he work? He has no inner strength
Urging him on to action, no desire
To strain and wrestle, to achieve at length,
Burning in all his veins,—a hidden fire.
Why should he work? There is no debt behind
That man’s nobility most longs to pay;
No claim upon him,—only the one blind
Brute instinct that his dinner lies that way.
And that is not enough. Who may not eat
Freely at life’s full table all his youth,
Can never work in power and joy complete,
In fulness, and in honor, and in truth.
HIS OWN LABOR.
Let every man be given what he earns!
We cry, and call it justice. Let him have
The product of his labor—and no more!
Well, then, let us begin with life’s first needs,
And give him of the earth what he can make;
As much of air and light as he can make,
As much of ocean, and sweet wind and rain,
And flowers, and grass, and fruit, as he can make.
But no, we answer this is mockery:
No man makes these things. But of human wealth
Let every man be given what he makes,
The product of his labor, and no more.
Ah, well! So to the farmer let us give
Corn, and still corn, and only corn at last.
So to the grazier, meat; the fisher, fish;
Cloth to the weaver; to the mason, walls;
And let the writer sit and read his books—
The product of his labor—and naught else!
But no, we answer! Still you laugh at us.
We mean not his own labor in that sense,
But his share in the work of other men.
As much of what they make as he can buy
In fair exchange for labor of his own.
So let it be. As much of life’s rich fruit—
The product of the labor of the world—
As he can equal with his own two hands,
His own supply of energy and skill!
As much of Shakespeare, Homer, Socrates,
As much of Wagner, Beethoven, and Bach,
As much of Franklin, Morse, and Edison,
As much of Watt, and Stephenson and Bell,
Of Euclid, Aristotle, Angelo,
Columbus, Raleigh, and George Washington,
Of all the learning of our patient years,
Of all the peace and smoothness we have won,
Of all the heaped up sciences and arts,
And luxuries that man has ever made,—
He is to have what his own toil can match!
Or, passing even this, giving no thought
To this our heritage, our vast bequest,
Condemn him to no more of human help
From living men than he can give to them!
Toil of the soldiers on the western plains,
Toil of the hardened sailors on the sea,
Toil of the sweating ploughman in the field,
The engine-driver, digger in the mine,
And weary weaver in the roaring mill.
Of all the hands and brains and hearts that toil
To fill the world with riches day by day,
Shall he have naught of this but what one man
Can give return for from his own supply?
Brother—There is no payment in the world!
We work and pour our labor at the feet
Of those who are around us and to come.
We live and take our living at the hands
Of those who are around us and have been.
No one is paid. No person can have more
Than he can hold. And none can do beyond
The power that’s in him. To each child that’s born
Belongs as much of all our human good
As he can take and use to make him strong.
And from each man, debtor to all the world,
Is due the fullest fruit of all his powers,
His whole life’s labor, proudly rendered up,
Not as return—can moments pay an age?
But as the simple duty of a man.
Can he do less—receiving everything?
AS FLEW THE CROSS.
As flew the fiery cross from hand to hand,
Kindling the scattered people to one flame,
Out-blazing fiercely to a sudden war;
As beacon fires flamed up from hill to hill,
Crying afar to valleys hidden wide
To tell their many dwellers of a fear
That made them one—a danger shadowing all!—
So flies to-day the torch of living fire,
From mouth to mouth, from distant ear to ear;
And all the people of all nations hear;
The printed word, the living word that tells
Of the great glory of the coming day,—
The joy that makes us one forevermore!
TO LABOR.
Shall you complain who feed the world?
Who clothe the world?
Who house the world?
Shall you complain who are the world,
Of what the world may do?
As from this hour
You use your power,
The world must follow you!
The world’s life hangs on your right hand!
Your strong right hand!
Your skilled right hand!
You hold the whole world in your hand.
See to it what you do!
Or dark or light,
Or wrong or right,
The world is made by you!
Then rise as you never rose before!
Nor hoped before!
Nor dared before!
And show as was never shown before,
The power that lies in you!
Stand all as one!
See justice done!
Believe, and Dare, and Do!
HARDLY A PLEASURE.
She had found it dull in her city;
So had they, in a different mob.
She travelled to look for amusement;
They travelled to look for a job.
She was loaded with fruit and candy,
And her section piled with flowers,
With magazine, novels, and papers
To shorten the weary hours.
Her friends came down in a body
With farewells merry and sweet,
And left her with laughter and kisses,
On the broad plush-cushioned seat.
She was bored before she started,
And the journey was dull and far.
“Travelling’s hardly a pleasure!”
Said the girl in the palace car.
——————
Then they skulked out in the darkness
And crawled in under the cars,
To ride on the trucks as best they might,
To hang by the chains and bars.
None came to see their starting,
And their friendliest look that day
Was that of a green young brakeman,
Who looked the other way.
They were hungry before they started,
With the hunger that turns to pain—
“Travelling’s hardly a pleasure,”
Said the three men under the train.
——————
She complained of the smoke and cinders,
She complained of the noise and heat,
She complained of the table service,
She complained of the things to eat.
She said it was so expensive,
In spite of one’s utmost care;
That feeing the porters and waiters
Cost as much as a third-class fare.
That the seats were dirty and stuffy,
That the berths were worse by far.
“Travelling’s hardly a pleasure!”
Said the girl in the palace car.
——————
They hung on in desperate silence,
For a word was a tell-tale shout;
Their foul hats low on their bloodshot eyes,
To keep the cinders out.
The dirt beat hard on their faces,
The noise beat hard on their ears,
And a moment’s rest to a straining limb
Meant the worst of human fears.
They clutched and clung in the darkness
While the stiffness turned to pain.
“Travelling’s hardly a pleasure,”
Said the three men under the train.
——————
She stepped airily out in the morning,
When the porter had brushed her awhile.
She gave him a silver dollar;
He gave her an ivory smile.
She complained to her friends that morning
Of a most distressing dream:
“I thought I heard in the darkness
A sort of a jolting scream!
“I thought I felt in the darkness
The great wheels joggle and swing;
Travelling’s hardly a pleasure
When you dream such a horrible thing!”
——————
They crept shuddering out in the morning,
Red spots with the coal’s black stain.
“Travelling’s hardly a pleasure!”
Said the two men under the train.
NATIONALISM.
The nation is a unit. That which makes
You an American of our to-day
Requires the nation and its history,
Requires the sum of all our citizens,
Requires the product of our common toil,
Requires the freedom of our common laws,
The common heart of our humanity.
Decrease our population, check our growth,
Deprive us of our wealth, our liberty,
Lower the nation’s conscience by a hair,
And you are less than that you were before!
You stand here in the world the man you are
Because your country is America.
Our liberty belongs to each of us;
The nation guarantees it; in return
We serve the nation, serving so ourselves.
Our education is a common right;
The state provides it, equally to all,
Each taking what he can, and in return
We serve the state, so serving best ourselves.
Food, clothing, all necessities of life,—
These are a right as much as liberty!
The nation feeds its children. In return
We serve the nation, serving still ourselves—
Nay, not ourselves—ourself! We are but parts,
The unit is the state,—America.
THE KING IS DEAD! LONG LIVE THE KING!
When man, the hunter, winning in the race,
Had conquered much, and, conquering, grown apace,
Till out of victory he found defeat,
And, having eaten all, had naught to eat,—
Then might some Jeremiah sad have said,
Seeing his hopeless case, “The King is dead!”
But man is master most in power to change;
He turned his forest to a cattle range;
There was no foe to strive with—wherefore strive?
No food to kill—he kept his food alive.
Herding his dinner, see him sit and sing
Serene, “The King is dead! Long live the King!”
When man the shepherd, after years did pass,
By nature’s increase grew, until the grass
Failed to support the requisite supply
Of cattle who must live lest he should die;
Again a grieved observer might be led
To pitifully say, “The King is dead!”
But man, who turned his prey into a pet,
To outwit hunger, was not baffled yet;
He’d searched for grass so long he’d learned to praise it,
And now that grass was short—why, he could raise it!
His dinner sprouted with the happy spring
Profuse, “The King is dead! Long live the King!”
When man, the farmer, growing very great,
Out of his children built the busy State,
Those greedy children, to his loud alarm,
Pinched all the profits off the old man’s farm,
Killing the golden goose, and while he bled,
Cried sage economists, “The King is dead!”
But he, good sooth, was never more alive;
He watched the pools and trusts around him strive,
And when he’d learned the trick—it was not long—
He organized himself—a million strong!
Cornered the food supply! A Farmer’s Ring!
Hurrah! “The King is dead! Long live the King!”
“HOW MANY POOR!”