Chapter XI: How to Read Poetry (4)

But covered with ancestral tan,
Beside his wigwam door,
The only real American
Counts idle talk a bore.
“Ugh! Pale-face man he mighty thief.
Much medicine talk about—
It heap too late for Injun chief
To keep-um alien out.”

PATHETIC SELECTIONS IN POETRY

PASSIN’ BY[11]

BY BOMBARDIER B. BUMPAS

Well, I went an’ joined the army, an’ I done my little bit—
’Ere’s the bloke wot put my pot on; yes, I keeps ’im in my kit—
No, ’e ain’t no proper soft-nose; just the end off on the sly;
’E’s the only one wot got me—but I’ve ’eard ’em passin’ by,
God A’mighty! Yes, I’ve ’eard ’em passin’ by.

Passin’ by; passin’ by; with a little whistlin’ sigh,
“Nearly got you that time, Sonny, just a little bit too high,”
Or a crack like, “Jack, look out there: Keep yer ’ead down, mind yer
eye!”
But they’re gone an’ far behind yer ’fore you’ll ’ear ’em passin’ by.

Yes, I lay from Toosday mornin’ till the Wensday afternoon;
’En the Black Watch took their trenches ’en it woke me from a swoon.
I was flamin’, nearly mad wi’ thirst an’ pain, an’ fit to cry,
But I cheered ’em as they trampled on me carcus, passin’ by.
God A’mighty! Yes, I cheered ’em as I ’eard ’em passin’ by.

Passin’ by; passin’ by; trippin’, failin’, gettin’ nigh.
Gettin’ nearer to the trenches, ’en you ’eard a Tommy cry:
“Don’t forget the Belgian wimmen, nor the little bairns forbye.”
God! I wouldn’t be a German when them men was passin’ by.

Then they gathered us together an’ they sorted out the worst—
Wot they called the “stretcher cases”—and they ’tended to us first,
They was overworked an’ crowded, an’ the Doc ’ud give a sigh—
“Hopeless, that case”—“that one, also”—speakin’ softly, passin’ by.
God! They watched ’im, silent, suff’rin’, watchin’, hopin’—passin’ by.

Passin’ by; passin’ by; curt command an’ stifled sigh,
For it ain’t no place for drama, an’ a man ’as got ter die;
’En I thought I ’eard a whimper an’ a little soft reply—
“Greater love than this hath no man”—some one speakin’ passin’ by.

So they ships me off to “Blighty,” ’en they sticks me in a ward,
I was short a leg an’ peeper, but they treats me like a lord.
I’d allus bin a lonely bloke, an’ so I used ter lie
An’ watch the fren’s of other men continual passin’ by,
Sisters, children, wives, an’ mothers, everlastin’ passin’ by.

Passin’ by; passin’ by; with a smile or with a sigh;
With their cigarettes an’ matches, flowers or shirt or pipe or tie;
An’ one ’ud sometimes talk an’ speak—I used ter wonder why—
Cos I ain’t no blame Adonis, not ter notice, passin’ by.

I’m thinkin’ if the angels ’ave a Union Jack around,
An’ sticks it somewhere prominent when Gabriel starts to sound,
The people round that flag will be ’most half the hosts on high—
The men who’ve passed, or waits to pass, or now are passin’ by,
Big ’earted men an’ wimmen, white an’ black, a-passin’ by.

Passin’ by; passin’ by; just to keep that flag on high,
An’ all that flag ’as stood for in the days that’s now gone by;
An’ when they pass before, I’m sure ’E’ll listen to their cry,
An’ ’E’ll treat ’em very gentle, an’ forgive ’em, passin’ by.

JEANIE MORRISON

BY WILLIAM MOTHERWELL

I’ve wandered east, I’ve wandered west,
Through mony a weary way;
But never, never can forget
The luve o’ life’s young day!
The fire that’s blawn on Beltanes e’en
May weel be black ’gin Yule;
But blacker fa’ awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o’ bygane years
Still fling their shadows ower my path,
And blind my een wi’ tears:
They blind my een wi’ saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,
As memory idly summons up
The blithe blinks o’ langsyne.

’Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,
’Twas then we twa did part;
Sweet time,—sad time! twa bairns at scule,
Twa bairns, and but ae heart!
’Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,
To leir ilk ither lear;
And tones and looks and smiles were shed,
Remembered evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that bink,
Cheek touchin’ cheek, loof locked in loof,
What our wee heads could think.
When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,
Wi’ ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
My lesson was in thee.

O, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi’ shame,
Whene’er the scule-weans, laughin’, said
We cleeked thegither hame?
And mind ye o’ the Saturdays,
(The scule then skail’t at noon,)
When we ran off the speel the braes,—
The broomy braes o’ June?

My head rins round and round about,—
My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thochts rush back
O’ scule-time and o’ thee.
O mornin’ life! O mornin’ luve!
O lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts
Like summer blossoms sprang!

O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin’ dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon?
The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin’ o’ the wood
The throssil whusslit sweet;

The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,—
And we, with Nature’s heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;
And on the knowe abune the burn
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o’ joy, till baith
Wi’ very gladness grat.

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trinkled doun your cheek
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,
When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gushed all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled,—unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin I hae bin to thee
As closely twined wi’ earliest thocts
As ye hae been to me?
O, tell me gin their music fills
Thine ear as it does mine!
O, say gin e’er your heart grows grit
Wi’ dreamings o’ langsyne?

I’ve wandered east, I’ve wandered west,
I’ve borne a weary lot;
But in my wanderings, far or near,
Ye never were forgot.
The fount that first burst frae this heart
Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper, as it rins,
The luv o’ life’s young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sindered young
I’ve never seen your face, nor heard
The music o’ your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I dee,
Did I but ken your heart still dreamed
O’ bygone days and me!

CUDDLE DOON

BY ALEXANDER ANDERSON

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi’ muckle faught an’ din;
“Oh, try and sleep, ye waukrief rogues,
Your faither’s comin’ in.”
They never heed a word I speak;
I try to gie a froon,
But aye I hap them up an’ cry,
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.”

Wee Jamie wi’ the curly heid—
He aye sleeps next the wa’—
Bangs up an’ cries, “I want a piece;”
The rascal starts them a’.
I rin an’ fetch them pieces, drinks,
They stop awee the soun’,
Then draw the blankets up an’ cry,
“Noo, weanies, cuddle doon.”

But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab
Cries out, frae neath the claes,
“Mither, mak’ Tam gie ower at once,
He’s kittlin’ wi’ his taes.”
The mischief’s in that Tam for tricks,
He’d bother half the toon,
But aye I hap them up and cry,
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.”

At length they hear their faither’s fit,
An’ as he steeks the door,
They turn their faces to the wa’,
While Tam pretends to snore.
“Hae a’ the weans been gude?” he asks,
As he pits off his shoon;
“The bairnies, John, are in their beds,
An’ lang since cuddled doon.”

And just afore we bed oorsels,
We look at our wee lambs;
Tam has his airm roun’ wee Rab’s neck,
And Rab his airm round Tam’s.
I lift wee Jamie up the bed,
An’ as I straik each croon,
I whisper, till my heart fills up,
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.”

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi’ mirth that’s dear to me;
But soon the big warl’s cark an’ care
Will quaten doon their glee.
Yet, come what will to ilka ane,
May He who rules aboon
Aye whisper, though their pows be beld
“Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon.”

THE PATRIOT

BY ROBERT BROWNING

(_An Old Story_)

It was roses, roses, all the way,
With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day.

The air broke into a mist with bells,
The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.
Had I said, “Good folk, mere noise repels—
But give me your sun from yonder skies!”
They had answered “And afterward, what else?”

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun
To give it my loving friends to keep!
Naught man could do, have I left undone:
And you see my harvest, what I reap
This very day, now a year is run.

There’s nobody on the house-tops now
Just a palsied few at the windows set;
For the best of the sight is, all allow,
At the Shambles’ Gate—or, better yet,
By the very scaffold’s foot, I trow.

I go in the rain, and, more than needs,
A rope cuts both my wrists behind;
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
For they fling, whoever has a mind,
Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds.

Thus I entered, and thus I go!
In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.
“Paid by the world, what dost thou owe
Me?” God might question; now instead,
’Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.

ANNABEL LEE

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love,
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee,
So that her highborn kinsmen came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me;
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,
Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie by the side
Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

THE LOVER OF ANNABEL LEE

BY EDWIN D. CASTERLINE

Often I think of the beautiful soul,
The soul of Annabel Lee,
And the man who loved, in the years gone by,
The soul of Annabel Lee—
His beautiful bride, who sleeps by his side,
By the shores of the sounding sea.

They say he was mad, but the world was mad,
More mad and more wrong than he,
For the soul was true that loved the soul
Of the wondrous Annabel Lee,
And the touch of that love was the love that made
The soul of her lover free.

In the days gone by, in the wreck of things,
From the wave of Life’s wide sea,
They were carried beyond by their kinsmen high,
He and his Annabel Lee;
Her heart was pure, too pure for the world
That chills the heart of the free—
And his was a life that chilled with the life
That passed from Annabel Lee.

But the angels are good; in heaven above
They gather the wrecks of the sea,
They gather the gold from the wrecks of love,
And the soul in its purity free—
So this is what they’ve done with the love
Of Poe and his Annabel Lee.

I’ve stood in the room where they lived and loved,
And my soul touched the Life to be,
And I felt the spell of the hidden light
That lived in Annabel Lee;
And I felt the hand of the man she loved,
(That she loved far better than we,)
And down in my soul the double soul
Awoke the God in me.

So down in my dreams I follow the beams
Of Poe and his Annabel Lee,
And deep in the night I see the pure light
That flashes and quivers to me.
Away in the years where the Future stands,
In the world that is to be,
I know that my hands will clasp the hands
Of Poe and his Annabel Lee.

THE BURIED HEART

BY DENNAR STEWART

“I sleep, but my heart waketh.”

Tread lightly, love, when over my head,
Beneath the daisies lying,
And tenderly press the grassy bed
Where the fallen rose lies dying.

Dreamless I sleep in the quiet ground,
Save when, your foot-fall hearing,
My heart awakes to the old-loved sound
And beats to the step that’s nearing.

Bright shone the moon, last eve, when you came—
Still, dust for dust hath feeling—
The willow-roots whispered low the name
Of him who weeps while kneeling.

The lily-cup holds the falling tears,
The tears you shed above me;
And I know through all these silent years
There’s some one still to love me.

Oh, softly sigh; for I hear the sound
And grieve me o’er your sorrow;
But leave a kiss in the myrtle mound—
I’ll give it back to-morrow.

Whisper me, love, as in moments fled,
While I dream your hand mine taketh;
For the stone speaks false that says, “She’s dead;”
I sleep, but my heart awaketh.

BREAK! BREAK! BREAK!

BY ALFRED TENNYSON

Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman’s boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor-lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But, O, for the touch of a vanish’d hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

BESIDE THE DEAD

BY INA COOLBRITH

(_One of the finest sonnets in the English language_)

It must be sweet, O thou, my dead, to lie
With hands that folded are from every task;
Sealed with the seal of the great mystery,
The lips that nothing answer, nothing ask.
The life-long struggle ended; ended quite
The weariness of patience, and of pain,
And the eyes closed to open not again
On desolate dawn or dreariness of night.
It must be sweet to slumber and forget;
To have the poor tired heart so still at last:
Done with all yearning, done with all regret,
Doubt, fear, hope, sorrow, all forever past:
Past all the hours, or slow of wing or fleet—
It must be sweet, it must be very sweet!

—From “Songs of the Golden Gate,” copyright by _Houghton, Mifflin & Co._, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

ROCKING THE BABY

BY MADGE MORRIS WAGNER

I hear her rocking the baby—
Her room is just next to mine—
And I fancy I feel the dimpled arms
That round her neck entwine,
As she rocks, and rocks the baby,
In the room just next to mine.
I hear her rocking the baby
Each day when the twilight comes,
And I know there’s a world of blessing and love
In the “baby bye” she hums.
I see the restless fingers
Playing with “mamma’s rings,”
And the sweet little smiling, pouting mouth,
That to hers in kissing clings,
As she rocks and sings to the baby,
And dreams as she rocks and sings.

I hear her rocking the baby,
Slower and slower now,
And I know she is leaving her good-night kiss
On its eyes, and cheek, and brow.
From her rocking, rocking, rocking,
I wonder would she start,
Could she know, through the wall between us,
She is rocking on a heart,
While my empty arms are aching
For a form they may not press,
And my emptier heart is breaking
In its desolate loneliness?
I list to the rocking, rocking,
In the room just next to mine,
And breathe a prayer in silence,
At a mother’s broken shrine,
For the woman who rocks the baby
In the room just next to mine.

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

PUT FLOWERS ON MY GRAVE

BY MADGE MORRIS WAGNER

When dead, no imposing funeral rite,
Nor line of praise I crave;
But drop your tears upon my face—
Put flowers on my grave.

Close not in narrow wall the place
In which my heart finds rest,
Nor mark with tow’ring monument
The sod above my breast.

Nor carve on gleaming, marble slab
A burning thought or deed.
Or word of love, or praise, or blame,
For stranger eyes to read.

But deep, deep in your heart of hearts,
A tender mem’ry save;
Upon my dead face drop your tears—
Put flowers on my grave.

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES

BY CHARLES LAMB

I have had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her—
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,
Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,
Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert thou not born in my father’s dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces—

How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I FEEL I’M GROWING AULD, GUDE-WIFE

BY JAMES LINEN

I feel I’m growing auld, gude-wife—
I feel I’m growing auld;
My steps are frail, my een are bleared,
My pow is unco bauld.
I’ve seen the snaws o’ fourscore years
O’er hill and meadow fa’,
And hinnie! were it no’ for you,
I’d gladly slip awa’.

I feel I’m growing auld, gude-wife—
I feel I’m growing auld;
Frae youth to age I’ve keepit warm
The love that ne’er turned cauld.
I canna bear the dreary thocht
That we maun sindered be;
There’s naething binds my poor auld heart
To earth, gude-wife, but thee.

I feel I’m growing auld, gude-wife—
I feel I’m growing auld;
Life seems to me a wintry waste,
The very sun feels cauld.
Of worldly frien’s ye’ve been to me,
Amang them a’ the best;
Now, I’ll lay down my weary head,
Gude-wife, and be at rest.

DA THIEF[12]

BY T. A. DALY

Eef poor man goes
An’ steals a rose
Een Juna-time—
Wan leetla rose—
You gon’ su’pose
Dat dat’s a crime?

Eh! w’at? Den taka look at me,
For here bayfore your eyes you see
Wan thief, dat ees so glad an’ proud
He gona brag of eet out loud!
So moocha good I do, an’ feel,
From dat wan leetle rose I steal,
Dat eef I gon’ to jail to-day
Dey no could tak’ my joy away.
So, leesen! here ees how eet come:
Las’ night w’en I am walkin’ home
From work een hotta ceety street

Ees sudden com’ a smal so sweet
Eet maka heaven een my nose—
I look an’ dere I see da rose!
Not wan, but manny, fine an’ tall,
Dat peep at me above da wall.
So, then, I close my eyes an’ find
Anudder peecture een my mind;
I see a house dat’s small an’ hot
Where many pretta theengs ees not,
Where leetla woman, good an’ true,
Ees work so hard da whole day through,
She’s too wore out, w’en com’s da night,
For smile an’ mak’ da housa bright.

But presto! now I’m home, an’ she
Ees seetin’ on da step weeth me.
Bambino, sleepin’ on her breast,
Ees nevva know more sweeta rest,
An’ nevva was sooch glad su’prise
Like now ees shina from her eyes;
An’ all baycause to-night she wear
Wan leetla rose stuck een her hair.
She ees so please’! Eet mak’ me feel
I shoulda sooner learned to steal!

Eef “thief’s” my name
I feel no shame;
Eet ees no crime—
Dat rose I got.
Eh! w’at? O! not
Een Juna-time!

—Copyright 1912, by _David McKay_, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

THE SAND STORM

BY LOWELL OTUS REESE

We are thirsty, Pedro mio! and the heat waves leap and beat
Where the Spanish daggers quiver in the mighty desert heat,
And the aching eye looks longing from Old Baldy to the east,
Where the Panamint is crouching like some ugly, hidden beast;
’Tis a hell-wind, Pedro mio! and it beats the sandy hail;
And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail.

Oh, the loneliness of nature when she turns on you her frown!
When you feel no eye upon you, save the fierce sun glaring down,
Searing death into your body and despair into your soul,
As you reel across the desert with the sky-line for your goal;
When the breath begins to falter and the step begins to fail,
And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!

Oh, the awfulness of Nature when she turns on you her frown!
When an unseen hand above you is forever pressing down!
When across the hungry desert flames the scorching sword of Death,
And the eyes and lips are blackened in the Spirit’s blighting breath!
Oh, the agony of dying, when the step begins to fail,
And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!

Oh, the dry and flying sand that stings to fever cheek and brow!
Rain of Hell, O, Pedro mio! and the flame is on us now!
Spiral Phantoms on the desert writhe and wriggle slowly by,
Reaching earthward from the bosom from the black and yellow sky;
Oh, the spiral specters writhing where the yuccas beat and flail,
And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!

I have seen it, Pedro mio!—seen it dimly through the wrack!—
Over there beyond the basin where the cloud is whirling black!
Streams of water, peaceful meadows and the shade of bending trees,
Stirring gently—ah, so gently! in the coolest summer breeze.
Let us turn aside and rest there from the fury of the gale;
For the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!

Faster—faster, Pedro mio!—for the blood is in my eyes!
I would reach the blessed water ere it o’er my vision dries!
For it thunders in my temples the tumultuous refrain
Of a mountain torrent singing to the first November rain!
Stumble—stumble—onward—farther from the desiccating hail
Where the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!

We have fallen, Pedro mio! and the vision fair is gone;
But above us and around us yet the tempest hurtles on;
Hark! a swirling raven settles with a flap of twisted wings;
And I seem to feel about us many crawling, creeping things!
We have fallen, Pedro mio! Hark the raging of the gale!
And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!

I am dying, Pedro mio! and I fain would go to sleep.
Faugh! the raven ’lights upon me! and the frightened lizards creep
With a rush of tiny claws across my swollen lips! and swift
O’er my breast, a burning blanket, rushing sand-waves eager drift;
We are dying, Pedro mio! in the awful desert gale!
And the Yellow Snake is hissing by the old Mohave trail!

NATHAN HALE

BY FRANCIS M. FINCH

To drum-beat and heart-beat,
A soldier marches by:
There is color in his cheek,
There is courage in his eye,
Yet to drum-beat and heart-beat
In a moment he must die.

By starlight and moonlight,
He seeks the Briton’s camp;
He hears the rustling flag,
And the arm’d sentry’s tramp;
And the starlight and moonlight
His silent wanderings lamp.

With slow tread and still tread
He scans the tented line;
And he counts the battery guns
By the gaunt and shadowy pine;
And his slow tread and still tread
Gives no warning sign.

The dark wave, the plumed wave,
It meets his eager glance;
And it sparkles ’neath the stars,
Like the glimmer of a lance;—
A dark wave, a plumed wave;
On an emerald expanse.

A sharp clang, a steel clang,
And terror in the sound!
For the sentry, falcon-eyed,
In the camp a spy hath found;
With a sharp clang, a steel clang,
The patriot is bound.

With calm brow, steady brow,
He listens to his doom;
In his look there is no fear,
Nor a shadow-trace of gloom;
But with calm brow and steady brow
He robes him for the tomb.

In the long night, the still night,
He kneels upon the sod;
And the brutal guards withhold
E’en the solemn Word of God!
In the long night, the still night,
He walks where Christ hath trod.

’Neath the blue morn, the sunny morn,
He dies upon the tree;
And he mourns that he can lose
But one life for Liberty;
And in the blue morn, the sunny morn,
His spirit-wings are free.

But his last words, his message-words,
They burn, lest friendly eye
Should read how proud and calm
A patriot could die,
With his last words, his dying words,
A soldier’s battle-cry.

From Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf,
From monument and urn,
The sad of earth, the glad of heaven,
His tragic fate shall learn;
And on Fame-leaf and Angel-leaf
The name of Hale shall burn!

MOTHER AND POET

BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

(_Turin, after news from Gaeta, 1861_)

Dead! One of them shot in the sea by the east,
And one of them shot in the west by the sea!
Dead! both my boys! when you sit at the feast,
And are wanting a great song for Italy free,
Let none look at me!

Yet I was a poetess only last year,
And good at my art, for a woman, men said;
But this woman, this, who is agonized here,—
The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head
Forever instead.

What art can a woman be good at? O, vain!
What art _is_ she good at, but hurting her breast
With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain?
Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed,
And I proud, by that test.

What art’s for a woman? to hold on her knees
Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat
Cling, strangle a little! to sew by degrees
And ’broider the long-clothes and neat little coat!
To dream and to doat!

To teach them.... It stings there! I made them, indeed,
Speak plain the word _country_. I taught them, no doubt,
That a country’s a thing men should die for at need.
I prated of liberty, rights, and about
The tyrant cast out.

And when their eyes flashed.... O my beautiful eyes!...
I exulted! nay, let them go forth at the wheels
Of the guns, and denied not.—But then the surprise
When one sits quite alone!—Then one weeps, then one kneels!
God, how the house feels!

At first, happy news came, in gay letters moiled
With my kisses,—of camp-life and glory, and how
They both loved me, and, soon coming home to be spoiled,
In return would fan off every fly from my brow
With their green laurel-bough.

Then was triumph at Turin: “Ancona was free!”
And some one came out of the cheers in the street,
With a face pale as stone, to say something to me,—
My Guido was dead! I fell down at his feet,
While they cheered in the street.

I bore it; friends soothed me; my grief looked sublime
As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained
To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time
When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained
To the height he had gained.

And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more strong,
Writ now but in one hand: “I was not to faint,—
One loved me for two—would be with me ere long:
And ‘Viva l’Italia!’ he died for, our saint,
Who forbids our complaint!”

My Nanni would add, “He was safe, and aware
Of a presence that turned off the balls,—was impressed
It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear,
And how ’twas impossible, quite dispossessed,
To live on for the rest.”

On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line
Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta!—_Shot._
_Tell His Mother._ Ah, ah, “his,” “their” mother,—not “mine,”
No voice says “my mother” again to me. What!
You think Guido forgot?

Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven,
They drop earth’s affections, conceive not of woe?
I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven
Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so
The above and below.

O Christ of the seven wounds, who look’dst through the dark
To the face of Thy mother! consider, I pray,
How we common mothers stand desolate, mark,
Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away,
And no last word to say!

Both boys dead? but that’s out of nature. We all
Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one.
’Twere imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall;
And, when Italy’s made, for what end is it done,
If we have not a son?

Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta’s taken, what then?
When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport
Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men?
When the guns of Cavalli with final retort
Have cut the game short;

When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee,
When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red,
When you have your country from mountain to sea,
When King Victor has Italy’s crown on his head
(And _I_ have my dead),—

What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low,
And burn your lights faintly! _My_ country is _there_,
Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow:
My Italy’s THERE,—with my brave civic pair,
To disfranchise despair!

Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength,
And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn;
But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length
Into wail such as this,—and we sit on forlorn
When the man-child is born.

Dead! One of them shot by the sea in the east,
And one of them shot in the west by the sea!
Both! both my boys! If in keeping the feast,
You want a great song for your Italy free,
Let none look at me!

DORA

With farmer Allan, at the farm, abode William and Dora. William was his son, and she his niece. He often looked at them and thought, “I’ll make them man and wife.” Now Dora felt her uncle’s will in all, and yearned towards William; but the youth, because he had always been with her in the house, thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day when Allan called his son, and said, “My son, I married late, but I wish to see my grandchild on my knees before I die: and I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora; she is well to look at, thrifty too beyond her age. She is my brother’s daughter: he and I had once hard words, and parted, and he died in foreign lands; but for his sake I cared for his daughter Dora: take her for your wife; for I have wished this marriage, night and day, for many years.”

But William answered short: “I cannot marry Dora; by my life, I will not marry Dora.”

Then the old man was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said: “You will not, boy! You dare to answer thus? But in my time a father’s word was law, and so it shall be now for you. Look to it; consider, William: take a month to think, and let me have an answer to my wish, or by the Lord that made me, you shall pack, and never more darken my doors again.”

But William answered madly; bit his lips, and broke away. The more he looked at her the less he liked her; and his ways were harsh; but Dora bore them meekly. Then, before the month was out he left his father’s house, and hired himself to work within the fields; and, half in love, half spite, he wooed and wed a laborer’s daughter, Mary Morrison.

When the wedding bells were ringing, Allan called his niece and said: “My girl, I love you well; but if you speak with him who was my son, or change a word with her he calls his wife, my home is none of yours. My will is law.” And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, “It cannot be: my uncle’s mind will change!” And days went on, and there was born a boy to William; then distresses came on him, and day by day he passed his father’s gate, heart-broken, and his father helped him not. But Dora stored what little she could save, and sent it them by stealth, nor did they know who sent it; till at last a fever seized on William, and in harvest time he died. Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat and looked with tears upon her boy, and thought hard things of Dora. Dora came and said: “I have obeyed my uncle until now, and I have sinned, for it was all through me this evil came on William at the first. But, Mary, for the sake of him that’s gone, and for your sake, the woman that he chose, and for this orphan, I am come to you. You know there has not been for these five years so full a harvest: let me take the boy, and I will set him in my uncle’s eye among the wheat; that when his heart is glad of the full harvest, he may see the boy, and bless him for the sake of him that’s gone.” And Dora took the child and went her way across the wheat, and sat upon a mound that was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field and spied her not; for none of all his men dare tell him Dora waited with the child. And Dora would have risen and gone to him, but her heart failed her; and the reapers reaped, and the sun fell, and all the land was dark.

But when the morrow came, she rose and took the child once more, and sat upon the mound; and made a little wreath of all the flowers that grew about, and tied it round his hat to make him pleasing in her uncle’s eye. Then when the farmer passed into the field he spied her, and he left his men at work, and came and said: “Where were you yesterday? Whose child is that? What are you doing here?”

So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground, and answered softly, “This is William’s child!”

“And did I not,” said Allan, “did I not forbid you, Dora?”

Dora said again: “Do with me as you will, but take the child, and bless him for the sake of him that’s gone!”

And Allan said, “I see it is a trick got up betwixt you and the woman there. I must be taught my duty, and by you! You knew my word was law, and yet you dared to slight it. Well!—for I will take the boy; but go you hence, and never see me more.”

So saying he took the boy that cried aloud and struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell at Dora’s feet. She bowed over her hands, and the boy’s cry came to her from the field, more and more distant. She bowed down her head, remembering the day when first she came, and all the things that had been. She bowed down and wept in secret; and the reapers reaped, and the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary’s house, and stood upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy was not with Dora. She broke out in praise to God, that helped her in her widowhood. And Dora said, “My uncle took the boy; but, Mary, let me live and work with you; he says that he will never see me more.”

Then answered Mary, “This shall never be, that thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: and, now I think, he shall not have the boy, for he will teach him hardness, and to slight his mother; therefore thou and I will go, and I will have my boy, and bring him home; and I will beg of him to take thee back: but if he will not take thee back again, then thou and I will live within one house, and work for William’s child, until he grows of age to help us.”

So the women kissed each other, and set out, and reached the farm. The door was off the latch: they peeped and saw the boy set up betwixt his grandsire’s knees, who thrust him in the hollows of his arms, and clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, like one that loved him: and the lad stretched out and babbled for the golden seal that hung from Allan’s watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in: but when the boy beheld his mother, he cried out to come to her: and Allan set him down, and Mary said: “O Father!—if you let me call you so—I never came a-begging for myself, or William, or this child; but now I come for Dora: take her back, she loves you well. O Sir, when William died, he died at peace with all men; for I asked him, and he said he could not ever rue his marrying me—I had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said that he was wrong to cross his father thus: ‘God bless him!’ he said, ‘and may he never know the troubles I have gone through!’ Then he turned his face and passed—unhappy that I am! But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you will make him hard, and he will learn to slight his father’s memory; and take Dora back, and let all be as it was before.”

So Mary said, and Dora hid her face by Mary. There was silence in the room; and all at once the old man burst in sobs: “I have been to blame—to blame. I have killed my son. I have killed him—but I loved him—my dear son. May God forgive me! I have been to blame. Kiss me, my children.”

Then they clung about the old man’s neck, and they kissed him many times. And Allan was broken with remorse; and all his love came back a hundred-fold; and for three hours he sobbed o’er William’s child thinking of William. So those four abode in one house together; and as years went forward, Mary took another mate; but Dora lived unmarried until her death.

THE FAMINE[13]

BY HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

O the long and dreary Winter!
O the cold and cruel Winter!
Ever thicker, thicker, thicker,
Froze the ice on lake and river,
Ever deeper, deeper, deeper
Fell the snow o’er all the landscape,
Fell the covering snow, and drifted
Through the forest, round the village.
Hardly from his buried wigwam
Could the hunter force a passage;
With his mittens and his snow-shoes
Vainly walked he through the forest,
Sought for bird or beast and found none,
Saw no track of deer or rabbit,
In the snow beheld no footprints,
In the ghastly, gleaming forest
Fell, and could not rise from weakness,
Perished there from cold and hunger.
O the famine and the fever!
O the wasting of the famine!
O the blasting of the fever!
O the wailing of the children!
O the anguish of the women!
All the earth was sick and famished;
Hungry was the air around them,
Hungry was the sky above them,
And the hungry stars in heaven
Like the eyes of wolves glared at them!
Into Hiawatha’s wigwam
Came two other guests, as silent
As the ghosts were, and as gloomy;
Waited not to be invited,
Did not parley at the doorway,
Sat there without word of welcome
In the seat of Laughing Water;
Looked with haggard eyes and hollow
At the face of Laughing Water.
And the foremost said: “Behold me!
I am Famine, Bukadawin!”
And the other said: “Behold me!
I am Fever, Ahkosewin!”
And the lovely Minnehaha
Shuddered as they looked upon her,
Shuddered at the words they uttered,
Lay down on her bed in silence,
Hid her face, but made no answer;
Lay there trembling, freezing, burning
At the looks they cast upon her,
At the fearful words they uttered.
Forth into the empty forest
Rushed the maddened Hiawatha;
In his heart was deadly sorrow,
In his face a stony firmness;
On his brow the sweat of anguish
Started, but it froze and fell not.
Wrapped in furs and armed for hunting,
With his mighty bow of ash-tree,
With his quiver full of arrows,
With his mittens, Minjekahwun,
Into the vast and vacant forest
On his snow-shoes strode he forward.
“Gitche Manito, the Mighty!”
Cried he with his face uplifted
In that bitter hour of anguish,
“Give your children food, O Father!
Give us food, or we must perish!
Give me food for Minnehaha,
For my dying Minnehaha!”
Through the far-resounding forest,
Through the forest vast and vacant
Rang that cry of desolation,
But there came no other answer
Than the echo of his crying,
Than the echo of the woodlands,
“Minnehaha! Minnehaha!”
All day long roved Hiawatha
In that melancholy forest,
Through the shadow of whose thickets,
In the pleasant days of Summer,
Of that ne’er forgotten Summer,
He had brought his young wife homeward
From the land of the Dacotahs;
When the birds sang in the thickets,
And the streamlets laughed and glistened,
And the air was full of fragrance,
And the lovely Laughing Water
Said with voice that did not tremble,
“I will follow you, my husband!”
In the wigwam with Nokomis,
With those gloomy guests, that watched her,
With the Famine and the Fever,
She was lying, the Beloved,
She, the dying Minnehaha.
“Hark!” she said; “I hear a rushing,
Hear a roaring and a rushing,
Hear the Falls of Minnehaha
Calling to me from a distance!”
“No, my child!” said old Nokomis,
“’Tis the night-wind in the pine-trees!”
“Look!” she said; “I see my father
Standing lonely at his doorway,
Beckoning to me from his wigwam
In the land of the Dacotahs!”
“No, my child!” said old Nokomis,
“’Tis the smoke that waves and beckons!”
“Ah!” said she, “the eyes of Pauguk
Glare upon me in the darkness,
I can feel his icy fingers
Clasping mine amid the darkness!
Hiawatha! Hiawatha!”
And the desolate Hiawatha,
Far away amid the forest,
Miles away among the mountains,
Heard that sudden cry of anguish,
Heard the voice of Minnehaha
Calling to him in the darkness,
“Hiawatha! Hiawatha!”
Over snow-fields waste and pathless,
Under snow-encumbered branches,
Homeward hurried Hiawatha,
Empty-handed, heavy-hearted,
Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing:
“Wahonowin! Wahonowin!
Would that I had perished for you,
Would that I were dead as you are!
Wahonowin! Wahonowin!”
And he rushed into the wigwam,
Saw the old Nokomis slowly
Rocking to and fro and moaning,
Saw his lovely Minnehaha
Lying dead and cold before him,
And his bursting heart within him
Uttered such a cry of anguish,
That the forest moaned and shuddered,
That the very stars in heaven
Shook and trembled with his anguish.
Then he sat down, still and speechless,
On the bed of Minnehaha,
At the feet of Laughing Water,
At those willing feet, that never
More would lightly run to meet him,
Never more would lightly follow.
With both hands his face he covered,
Seven long days and nights he sat there,
As if in a swoon he sat there,
Speechless, motionless, unconscious
Of the daylight or the darkness.
Then they buried Minnehaha;
In the snow a grave they made her,
In the forest deep and darksome,
Underneath the moaning hemlocks;
Clothed her in her richest garments,
Wrapped her in her robes of ermine;
Covered her with snow, like ermine;
Thus they buried Minnehaha.
And at night a fire was lighted,
On her grave four times was kindled,
For her soul upon its journey
To the Islands of the Blessed.
From his doorway Hiawatha
Saw it burning in the forest,
Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks;
From his sleepless bed uprising,
From the bed of Minnehaha,
Stood and watched it at the doorway,
That it might not be extinguished,
Might not leave her in the darkness.
“Farewell,” said he, “Minnehaha!
Farewell, O my Laughing Water!
All my heart is buried with you,
All my thoughts go onward with you!
Come not back again to labor,
Come not back again to suffer,
Where the Famine and the Fever
Wear the heart and waste the body.
Soon my task will be completed,
Soon your footsteps I shall follow
To the Islands of the Blessed,
To the Kingdom of Ponemah,
To the Land of the Hereafter!”

THE CHILDREN OF THE BATTLE-FIELD

BY JAMES GOWDY CLARK

Upon the field of Gettysburg
The summer sun was high,
When Freedom met her haughty foe
Beneath a northern sky.
Among the heroes of the North
That swelled her grand array,
And rushed like mountain eagles forth
From happy homes away,
There stood a man of humble fame,—
A sire of children three,—
And gazed within a little frame
His pictured ones to see:
And blame him not if, in the strife,
He breathed a soldier’s prayer,—
“O Father! shield the soldier’s wife,
And for his children care.”

Upon the field of Gettysburg,
When morning shone again,
The crimson cloud of battle burst
In streams of fiery rain:
Our legions quelled the awful flood
Of shot and steel and shell,
While banners, marked with ball and blood,
Around them rose and fell:
And none more nobly won the name
Of Champion of the Free
Than he who pressed the little frame
That held his children three;
And none were braver in the strife
Than he who breathed the prayer,—
“O Father! shield the soldier’s wife,
And for his children care.”

Upon the field of Gettysburg
The full moon slowly rose,—
She looked, and saw ten thousand brows
All pale in death’s repose;
And down beside a silver stream,
From other forms away,
Calm as a warrior in a dream,
Our fallen comrade lay;
His limbs were cold, his sightless eyes
Were fixed upon the three
Sweet stars that rose in memory’s skies
To light him o’er death’s sea.
Then honored be the soldier’s life,
And hallowed be his prayer,—
“O Father! shield the soldier’s wife,
And for his children care.”

PRESIDENT LINCOLN’S FUNERAL

BY SARAH E. CARMICHAEL

Toll! Toll!
Toll! Toll!
All rivers seaward wend.
Toll! Toll!
Toll! Toll!
Weep for the nation’s friend.

Every home and hall was shrouded,
Every thoroughfare was still;
Every brow was darkly clouded,
Every heart was faint and chill.
Oh! the inky drop of poison
In our bitter draught of grief!
Oh! the sorrow of a nation
Mourning for its murdered chief!

Toll! Toll!
Toll! Toll!
Bound in the reaper’s sheaf—
Toll! Toll!
Toll! Toll!
All mortal life is brief.
Toll! Toll!
Toll! Toll!
Weep for the nation’s chief!

Bands of mourning draped the homestead,
And the sacred house of prayer;
Mourning folds lay black and heavy
On true bosoms everywhere:
Yet there were no tear-drops streaming
From the deep and solemn eye
Of the hour that mutely waited
Till the funeral train went by.
Oh! there is a woe that crushes
All expression with its weight!
There is pain that numbs and hushes
Feeling’s sense, it is so great.

Strongest arms were closely folded,
Most impassioned lips at rest;
Scarcely seemed a heaving motion
In the nation’s wounded breast;
Tears were frozen in their sources,
Blushes burned themselves away;
Language bled through broken heart-threads,
Lips had nothing left to say.
Yet there was a marble sorrow
In each still face, chiseled deep;
Something more than words could utter,
Something more than tears could weep.

Selfishly the nation mourned him,
Mourned its chieftain and its friend;
Eye no traitor mist could darken,
Arm no traitor power could bend;
Heart that gathered the true pulses
Of the land’s indignant veins,
And, with their tempestuous spurning,
Broke the slave’s tear-rusted chains:
Heart that tied its iron fibers
Round the Union’s starry band;
Martyr’s heart, that upward beating,
Broke on hate’s assassin hand!
Oh! the land he loved will miss him,
Miss him in its hour of need!
Mourns the nation for the nation
Till its tear-drops inward bleed.

There is one whose life will mourn him,
With a deep, unselfish woe;
One who owned him chief and master
Ere the nation named him so.
That the land he loved will miss him
Does she either think or care?
No! the chieftain’s heart is shrouded,
And her woman’s world was there.
No! the nation was her rival;
Let its glory shine or dim,
He hath perished on its altar—
What were many such to him?

Toll! Toll!
Toll! Toll!
Never again—no more—
Comes back to earth the life that goes
Hence to the Eden shore!

Let him rest!—it is not often
That his soul hath known repose;
Let him rest!—they rest but seldom
Whose successes challenge foes.
He was weary—worn with watching;
His life-crown of power hath pressed
Oft on temples sadly aching—
He was weary, let him rest.

Toll, bells at the Capital!
Bells of the land, toll!
Sob out your grief with brazen lungs—
Toll! Toll! Toll!

THE FISHERMAN’S STORY

BY HERBERT BASHFORD

I knew he was morose that day
Because he did not speak to me,
But now I know he was away
Upon the hills of Italy.

He showed me once long months before
The picture of a dark-eyed girl
Within a locket that he wore—
A little keepsake wrought of pearl.

His life had known no counter gale,
He had the aid of wind and tide,
And dreamed that soon a snowy sail
Should bear him to his future bride.

’Twas but a letter—nothing much—
A scrap of paper sent to him,
Yet something he did clutch and clutch
The while his dusky eyes grew dim.

And oh, how eagerly he scanned
Each syllable that formed her name!
He crushed the letter in his hand
And fed it to the driftwood flame.

As in a dream he sat and stared
At night’s black pall around us hung;
I would have spoken if I’d dared,
But silence had a gentler tongue.

He did not curse as men will do,
Of grief he gave no outward sign;
That bitter draught of myrrh and rue
He drank as though it had been wine.

With joyless heart he crooned a song
Of love and hope, as day by day
We hauled our heavy seine along
The pebbled beaches of the bay.

At last—ah, Christ, I’ll not forget!
I never saw the like before!
An empty boat—we, chilled and wet,
And ten leagues from our cabin door!

Ten leagues—a stormy row!
But fishermen know naught of fear;
Had we ere this not faced the snow
When winter nights were dark and drear?

Had we not braved the Storm-king’s glee
When winds were shrill and waves were high,
Been battered by a raging sea
And swung below a ragged sky?