Chapter IV

Or will you let him live,
The deep-sea thing,
With the wrecks of all the world
In a black wide ring
By the hole in the bottom of the sea
Where the snake goes down,
Where he waits in the bottom of the sea
For the men that drown?
Chorus:--This is the voice, etc.

THE LITTLE TURTLE

_A Recitation for Martha Wakefield, Three Years Old_

There was a little turtle.
He lived in a box.
He swam in a puddle.
He climbed on the rocks.

He snapped at a musquito.
He snapped at a flea.
He snapped at a minnow.
And he snapped at me.

He caught the musquito.
He caught the flea.
He caught the minnow.
But he didn’t catch me.

THIRD SECTION

COBWEBS AND CABLES

THE SCIENTIFIC ASPIRATION

Would that the dry hot wind called Science came,
Forerunner of a higher mystic day,
Though vile machine-made commerce clear the way--
Though nature losing shame should lose her veil,
And ghosts of buried angel-warriors wail
The fall of Heaven, and the relentless Sun
Smile on, as Abraham’s God forever dies--
Lord, give us Darwin’s eyes!

THE VISIT TO MAB

When glad vacation time began
A snail-king said to his dear spouse,
“Come, let us lock our birch-bark house
And visit some important man.

“Each summer we have hoped to go
To see the sultan Gingerbread
Who wears chopped citron on his head
And currant love-locks in a row.

“And see his vizier Chocolate Bill
And Popcorn Man, his pale young priest.
They live twelve inches to the east
Behind the lofty brown-bread hill.”

His wife said: “Simple elegance
Is what we want. It is the mode
To take the little western road
To where the blue-grass fairies dance.

“I think the queen will recognize
Our atmosphere of wealth and ease.
My steel-grey shell is sure to please,
And she will fear your fiery eyes.”

And so they visited proud Mab.
The firs were laughing overhead,
The chattering roses burned deep-red.
The snails were queer and dumb and drab.

The contrast made them quite the thing.
A setting spells success at times.
Mab gave the queen a book of rhymes.
A tissue-cap she gave the king,

Like caps the children wear for sport.
And vainer than he well could say
He called gay Mab his “pride and stay,”
With pompous speeches to the court.

They journeyed home, made young indeed,
But opening the book of song
Each poem looked so deep and long
They could not bear to start to read.

THE SONG OF THE STURDY SNAILS

Gristly bare-bone fingers
On my window-pane--
The drumbeat of a ghost
Louder than the rain!

Oh frail, storm-shaken hut--
No candle, not a spark
Of fire within the grate.
Oh the lonely dark!

Trembling by the window
I watched the lightning flash
And saw the little villains
Upon the outer sash

And other small musicians
Upon the window-pane--
Garden snails, a-dragging
Their shells amid the rain!

The thunder blew away.
My happiness began.
Over the dripping darkness
Rills of moonlight ran.

In the silence rich
The scratching of the shells
Became a crooning music
A lazy peal of bells.

So fearless in the night
My sluggard brothers bold!
Your fancies swift and glowing;
Your footsteps slow and cold!

My happy beggar-brothers
Tuning all together,
Playing on the pane
Praise of stormy weather!

Upon a ragged pillow
At last I laid my head
And watched the sparkling window
And the wan light on my bed.

Through the glass came flying
Dream snails, with leafy wings--
Glided on the moonbeams--
And all the snails were kings!

With crowns of pollen yellow
And eyes of firefly gold
Behold--to crooning music
Their coiling wings unrolled!

These tiny kings I saw
Reigning over white
Bisque jars of fairy flowers
In sturdy proud delight.

These jars in fairyland
Await good snails that keep
Vigils on the windows
Of beggars fast asleep.

ANOTHER WORD ON THE SCIENTIFIC ASPIRATION

“There’s machinery in the butterfly.
There’s a mainspring to the bee.
There’s hydraulics to a daisy
And contraptions to a tree.

“If we could see the birdie
That makes the chirping sound
With psycho-analytic eyes,
And x ray, scientific eyes,
We could see the wheels go round.”

_And I hope all men
Who think like this
Will soon lie
Underground._

DANCING FOR A PRIZE

Three fairies by the Sangamon
Were dancing for a prize.
The rascals were alike indeed
As they danced with drooping eyes.
I gave the magic acorn
To the one I loved the best,
The imp that made me think of her
My heart’s eternal guest,
My lady of the tea-rose, my lady far away,
Queen of the fleets of No-Man’s-Land
That sail to old Cathay.
How did the trifler hint of her?
Ah, when the dance was done
They begged me for the acorn,
Laughing every one.
Two had eyes of midnight,
And one had golden eyes,
And I gave the golden acorn
To the scamp with golden eyes.
Confessor Dandelion,
My priest so grey and wise
Whispered when I gave it
To the girl with golden eyes:
“She is like your Queen of Glory
On China’s holy strand
Who drove the coiling dragons
Like doves before her hand.”

COLD SUNBEAMS

The Question:
“Tell me, where do fairy queens
Find their bridal veils?”

The Answer:
“If you were now a fairy queen
Then I, your faithless page and bold
Would win the realm by winning you.
Your veil would be transparent gold
White magic spiders wove for you
At cold grey dawn, from sunbeams cold
While robins sang amid the dew.”

FOR ALL WHO EVER SENT LACE VALENTINES

The little-boy lover
And little-girl lover
Met the first time
At the house of a friend.
And great the respect
Of the little-boy lover.
The awe and the fear of her
Stayed to the end.

The little girl chattered
Incessantly chattered,
Hardly would look
When he tried to be nice.
But deeply she trembled
The little-girl lover,
Eaten with flame
While she tried to be ice.

The lion of loving
The terrible lion
Woke in the two
Long before they could wed.
The world said: “Child hearts
You must keep till the summer.
It is not allowed
That your hearts should be red.”

If only a wizard
A kindly grey wizard
Had built them a house
In a cave underground.
With an emerald door,
And honey to eat!
But it seemed that no wizard
Was waiting around.

Oh children with fancies,
The rarest of notions,
The rarest of passions
And hopes here below!
Many a child,
His young heart too timid
Has fled from his princess
No other to know.

I have seen them with faces
Like books out of Heaven,
With messages there
The harsh world should read,
The lions and roses and lilies of love,
Its tender, mystic, tyrannical need.

Were I god of the village
My servants should mate them.
Were I priest of the church
I would set them apart.
If the wide state were mine
It should live for such darlings,
And hedge with all shelter
The child-wedded heart.

MY LADY IS COMPARED TO A YOUNG TREE

When I see a young tree
In its white beginning,
With white leaves
And white buds
Barely tipped with green,
In the April weather,
In the weeping sunshine--
Then I see my lady,
My democratic queen,
Standing free and equal
With the youngest woodland sapling
Swaying, singing in the wind,
Delicate and white:
Soul so near to blossom,
Fragile, strong as death;
A kiss from far off Eden,
A flash of Judgment’s trumpet--
April’s breath.

TO EVE, MAN’S DREAM OF WIFEHOOD AS DESCRIBED BY MILTON

Darling of Milton--when that marble man
Saw you in shadow, coming from God’s hand
Serene and young, did he not chant for you
Praises more quaint than he could understand?

“To justify the ways of God to man”--
So, self-deceived, his printed purpose runs.
His love for you is the true key to him,
And Uriel and Michael were your sons.

Your bosom nurtured his Urania.
Your meek voice, piercing through his midnight sleep
Shook him far more than silver chariot wheels
Or rattling shields, or trumpets of the deep.

Titan and lover, could he be content
With Eden’s narrow setting for your spell?
You wound soft arms around his brows. He smiled
And grimly for your home built Heaven and Hell.

That was his posy. A strange gift, indeed.
We bring you what we can, not what is fit.
Eve, dream of wifehood! Each man in his way
Serves you with chants according to his wit.

A KIND OF SCORN

You do not know my pride
Or the storm of scorn I ride.

I am too proud to kiss you and leave you
Without wonders
Spreading round you like flame.
I am too proud to leave you
Without love
Haunting your very name:
Until you bear the Grail
Above your head in splendor
O child, dear and pale.
I am too proud to leave you
Though we part forevermore
Till all your thoughts
Go up toward Glory’s door.

Oh, I am but a sinner proud and poor,
Utterly without merit
To help you climb in wonder
A stair toward Heaven’s door--
Except that I have prayed my God,
And He will give the Grail,
And you will mourn no longer,
Beset, confused, and pale.
And God will lift you far on high,
The while I pray and pray
Until the hour I die.
The effectual fervent prayer availeth much.
And my first prayer ascends this proud harsh day.

HARPS IN HEAVEN

I will bring you great harps in Heaven,
Made of giant shells
From the jasper sea.
With a thousand burnt up years behind,
What then of the gulf from you to me?
It will be but the width of a thread,
Or the narrowest leaf of our sheltering tree.

You dare not refuse my harps in Heaven.
Or angels will mock you, and turn away.
Or with angel wit,
Will praise your eyes,
And your pure Greek lips, and bid you play,
And sing of the love from them to you,
And then of my poor flaming heart
In the far off earth, when the years were new.

I will bring you such harps in Heaven
That they will shake at your touch and breath,
Whose threads are rainbows,
Seventy times seven,
Whose voice is life, and silence death.

THE CELESTIAL CIRCUS

In Heaven, if not on earth,
You and I will be dancing.
I will whirl you over my head,
A torch and a flag and a bird,
A hawk that loves my shoulder,
A dove with plumes outspread.
We will whirl for God when the trumpets
Speak the millennial word.

We will howl in praise of God,
Dervish and young cyclone.
We will ride in the joy of God
On circus horses white.
Your feet will be white lightning,
Your spangles white and regal,
We will leap from the horses’ backs
To the cliffs of day and night.

We will have our rest in the pits of sleep
When the darkness heaps upon us,
And buries us for æons
Till we rise like grass in the spring.
We will come like dandelions,
Like buttercups and crocuses,
And all the winter of our sleep
But make us storm and sing.

We will tumble like swift foam
On the wave-crests of old ghostland,
And dance on the crafts of doom,
And wrestle on the moon.
And Saturn and his triple ring
Will be our tinsel circus,
Till all sad wraiths of yesterday
With the stars rejoice and croon.

O dancer, love undying,
My soul, my swan, my eagle,
The first of our million dancing years
Dawns, dawns soon.

THE FIRE-LADDIE, LOVE

The door has a bolt.
The window a grate.
O friend we are trapped
In the factory, Fate.
The flames pierce the ceiling.
The brands heap the floor.
But listen, dear heart:
A song at the door!
The forcing of bolts,
The hewing of oak!
A sword breaks the lock
With one cleaving stroke.
Naked and fair
Unscathed and wild
Behold he comes swiftly,
An elfin-eyed child.
The fire-laddie, _Love_,
Is our hero this night,
As he walks on the embers
His plumes are cloud white.
He sings of the lightning
And snow of desire,
His step parts the veil
Of the factory fire.
Oh his chubby child hands,
Oh his long curls agleam,
From out their soft tossing
Comes thunder and dream.
Our fire-laddie, Love,
At the last moment here,
To bear us away
To a road without fear,
To the dark, to the wind,
To the mist, to the dawn,
Where the lilac blooms nod
By the rain renewed lawn.
To a land of deep knowledge
Our tired feet are led,
While the stars of new morning
Still glint overhead.
Sweet Love walks between us
With silences long.
His step is the music.
The day is the song.

FOURTH SECTION

RHYMES CONCERNING THE LATE WORLD WAR AND THE NEXT WAR

IN MEMORY OF MY FRIEND JOYCE KILMER, POET AND SOLDIER

_Written Armistice Day, November eleventh, 1918_

I hear a thousand chimes,
I hear ten thousand chimes,
I hear a million chimes
In Heaven.
I see a thousand bells,
I see ten thousand bells,
I see a million bells
In Heaven.

Listen, friends and companions.
Through the deep heart,
Sweetly they toll.

I hear the chimes
Of tomorrow ring,
The azure bells
Of eternal love....
I see the chimes
Of tomorrow swing:
On unseen ropes
They gleam above.

Rejoice, friends and companions.
Through the deep heart
Sweetly they toll.

They shake the sky
They blaze and sing.
They fill the air
Like larks a-wing,
Like storm-clouds
Turned to blue-bell flowers.
Like Spring gone mad,
Like stars in showers.

Join the song,
Friends and companions.
Through the deep heart
Sweetly they toll.

And some are near,
And touch my hand,
Small whispering blooms
From Beulah Land.
Giants afar
Still touch the sky,
Still give their giant
Battle-cry.

Join hands, friends and companions.
Through the deep heart
Sweetly they toll.

And every bell
Is voice and breath
Of a spirit
Who has conquered death,
In this great war
Has given all,
Like Kilmer
Heard the hero-call.

Join hands,
Poets,
Friends,
Companions.
Through the deep heart
Sweetly they toll!

THE TIGER ON PARADE

The Sparrow and the Robin on a toot
Drunk on honey-dew and violet’s breath
Came knocking at the brazen bars of Death.
And Death, no other than a tiger caged,
In a street parade that had no ending,
Roared at them and clawed at them and raged--
Whose chirping was the height of their offending.
His paws too big--their fluttering bodies small
Escaped unscathed above the City Hall.

They learned new dances, scattering birdy laughter,
And filled again their throats with honey-dew.
A Maltese kitten killed them, two days after.
But they had had their fill. It was enough:--
Had quarreled, made up, on many a lilac swayed,
Darted through sunny thunder-clouds and rainbows,
High above that tiger on parade.

THE FEVER CALLED WAR

Love and Kindness,
Two sad shadows
Over the old nations,
Bigger than the world,
Mists above a grave!

Says Love, the shadow
To Kindness the shadow:--
“I weep for the children
No miracle will save.
All the little children
Are down with the fever,
Thousands upon thousands,
Blind and deaf and mad.
Their fathers are all dead,
And the same raging fever
Is burning up the children,
The babes that once were glad.”

STANZAS IN JUST THE RIGHT TONE FOR THE SPIRITED GENTLEMEN WHO WOULD CONQUER MEXICO

ALEXANDER

Would I might waken in you Alexander,
Murdering the nations wickedly,
Flooding his time with blood remorselessly,
Sowing new Empires, where the Athenian light,
Knowledge and music, slay the Asian night,
And men behold Apollo in the sun.
God make us splendid, though by grievous wrong.
God make us fierce and strong.

MOHAMMED

Would that on horses swifter than desire
We rode behind Mohammed ’round the zones
With swords unceasing, sowing fields of bones,
Till New America, ancient Mizraim,
Cry: “Allah is the God of Abraham.”
God make our host relentless as the sun,
Each soul your spear, your banner and your slave,
God help us to be brave.

NAPOLEON

Would that the cold adventurous Corsican
Woke with new hope of glory, strong from sleep,
Instructed how to conquer and to keep
More justly, having dreamed awhile, yea crowned
With shining flowers, God-given; while the sound
Of singing continents, following the sun,
Calls freeborn men to guard Napoleon’s throne
Who makes the eternal hopes of man his own.

THE MODEST JAZZ-BIRD

The Jazz-bird sings a barnyard song--
A cock-a-doodle bray,
A jingle-bells, a boiler works,
A he-man’s roundelay.

The eagle said, “My noisy son,
I send you out to fight!”
So the youngster spread his sunflower wings
And roared with all his might.

His headlight eyes went flashing
From Oregon to Maine;
And the land was dark with airships
In the darting Jazz-bird’s train.

Crossing the howling ocean,
His bell-mouth shook the sky;
And the Yankees in the trenches
Gave back the hue and cry.

And Europe had not heard the like--
And Germany went down!
The fowl of steel with clashing claws
Tore off the Kaiser’s crown.

When the statue of Andrew Jackson before the White House in Washington is removed, America is doomed. The nobler days of America’s innocence, in which it was set up, always have a special tang for those who are tasty. But this is not all. It is only the America that has the courage of her complete past that can hold up her head in the world of the artists, priests and sages. It is for us to put the iron dog and deer back upon the lawn, the John Rogers group back into the parlor, and get new inspiration from these and from Andrew Jackson ramping in bronze replica in New Orleans, Nashville and Washington, and add to them a sense of humor, till it becomes a sense of beauty that will resist the merely dulcet and affettuoso.

Please read Lorado Taft’s _History of American Sculpture_, pages 123-127, with these matters in mind. I quote a few bits:

“... The maker of the first equestrian statue in the history of American sculpture: Clark Mills.... Never having seen General Jackson or an equestrian statue, he felt himself incompetent ... the incident, however, made an impression on his mind, and he reflected sufficiently to produce a design which was the very one subsequently executed.... Congress appropriated the old cannon captured by General Jackson.... Having no notion, nor even suspicion of a dignified sculptural treatment of a theme, the clever carpenter felt, nevertheless, the need of a feature.... He built a colossal horse, adroitly balanced on the hind legs, and America gazed with bated breath. Nobody knows or cares whether the rider looks like Jackson or not.

“The extraordinary pose of the horse absorbs all attention, all admiration. There may be some subconscious feeling of respect for a rider who holds on so well....”

THE STATUE OF OLD ANDREW JACKSON

_Written while America was in the midst of the war with Germany, August, 1918_

Andrew Jackson was eight feet tall.
His arm was a hickory limb and a maul.
His sword was so long he dragged it on the ground.
Every friend was an equal. Every foe was a hound.

Andrew Jackson was a Democrat,
Defying kings in his old cocked hat.
His vast steed rocked like a hobby horse.
But he sat straight up. He held his course.

He licked the British at Noo Orleens;
Beat them out of their elegant jeans.
He piled the cotton-bales twenty feet high,
And he snorted “freedom,” and it flashed from his eye.

And the American Eagle swooped through the air,
And cheered when he heard the Jackson swear:--
“By the Eternal, let them come.
Sound Yankee Doodle. Let the bullets hum.”

And his wild men, straight from the woods, fought on
Till the British fops were dead and gone.

And now Old Andrew Jackson fights
To set the sad big world to rights.
He joins the British and the French.
He cheers up the Italian trench.
He’s making Democrats of these,
And freedom’s sons of Japanese.
His hobby horse will gallop on
Till all the infernal Huns are gone.

Yes,
Yes,
Yes!
By the Eternal!
Old Andrew Jackson!

SEW THE FLAGS TOGETHER

Great wave of youth, ere you be spent,
Sweep over every monument
Of caste, smash every high imperial wall
That stands against the new World State,
And overwhelm each ravening hate,
And heal, and make blood-brothers of us all.
Nor let your clamor cease
Till ballots conquer guns.
Drum on for the world’s peace
Till the Tory power is gone.
Envenomed lame old age
Is not our heritage,
But springtime’s vast release, and flaming dawn.

Peasants, rise in splendor
And your accounting render
Ere the lords unnerve your hand!
Sew the flags together.
Do not tear them down.
Hurl the worlds together.
Dethrone the wallowing monster
And the clown.
Resolving:--
“Only that shall grow
In Balkan furrow, Chinese row,
That blooms, and is perpetually young.”
That only be held fine and dear
That brings heart-wisdom year by year
And puts this thrilling word upon the tongue:
“The United States of Europe, Asia, and the World.”

“Youth will be served,” now let us cry.
Hurl the referendum.
Your fathers, five long years ago,
Resolved to strike, too late.
Now
Sun-crowned crowds
Innumerable,
Of boys and girls
Imperial,
With your patchwork flag of brotherhood
On high,
With every silk
In one flower-banner whirled--
Rise,
Citizens of one tremendous state,
The United States of Europe, Asia, and the World.

The dawn is rose-drest and impearled.
The guards of privilege are spent.
The blood-fed captains nod.
So Saxon, Slav, French, German,
Rise,
Yankee, Chinese, Japanese,
All the lands, all the seas,
With the blazing rainbow flag unfurled,
Rise, rise,
Take the sick dragons by surprise,
Highly establish,
In the name of God,
The United States of Europe, Asia, and the World.

Written for William Stanley Braithwaite’s Victory Anthology
issued at once, after Armistice Day, November, 1918.

JUSTINIAN

(_The Tory Reply_)

Nay, let us have the marble peace of Rome,
Recorded in the Code Justinian,
Till Pagan Justice shelters man from man.
Fanatics snarl like mongrel dogs; the code
Will build each custom like a Roman Road,
Direct as daylight, clear-eyed as the sun.
God grant all crazy world-disturbers cease.
God give us honest peace.

THE VOICE OF ST. FRANCIS OF ASSISI

I saw St. Francis by a stream
Washing his wounds that bled.
The aspens quivered overhead.
The silver doves flew round.

Weeping and sore dismayed
“Peace, peace,” St. Francis prayed.

But the soft doves quickly fled.
Carrion crows flew round.
An earthquake rocked the ground.

“War, war,” the west wind said.

IN WHICH ROOSEVELT IS COMPARED TO SAUL

_Written and published in 1913, and republished five years
later, in The Boston Transcript, on the death of Roosevelt._

Where is David?... Oh God’s people
Saul has passed, the good and great.
Mourn for Saul, the first anointed,
Head and shoulders o’er the state.

He was found among the prophets:
Judge and monarch, merged in one.
But the wars of Saul are ended,
And the works of Saul are done.

Where is David, ruddy shepherd,
God’s boy-king for Israel?
Mystic, ardent, dowered with beauty,
Singing where still waters dwell?

Prophet, find that destined minstrel
Wandering on the range today,
Driving sheep, and crooning softly
Psalms that cannot pass away.

“David waits,” the prophet answers,
“In a black, notorious den,
In a cave upon the border,
With four hundred outlaw men.

“He is fair and loved of women,
Mighty hearted, born to sing:
Thieving, weeping, erring, praying,
Radiant, royal rebel-king.

“He will come with harp and psaltry,
Quell his troop of convict swine,
Quell his mad-dog roaring rascals,
Witching them with tunes divine.

“They will ram the walls of Zion,
They will win us Salem hill,
All for David, shepherd David,
Singing like a mountain rill.”

HAIL TO THE SONS OF ROOSEVELT

“_Out of the eater came forth meat, and out of the strong came
forth sweetness._”--_Samson’s riddle._

There is no name for brother
Like the name of Jonathan
The son of Saul.
And so we greet you all:
The sons of Roosevelt--
The sons of Saul.

Four brother Jonathans went out to battle.
Let every Yankee poet sing their praise
Through all the days--
What David sang of Saul
And Jonathan, beloved more than all.

God grant such sons, begot of our young men,
To make each generation glad again.
Let sons of Saul be springing up again:
Out of the eater, fire and power again.
From the lost lion, honey for all men.

I hear the sacred Rocky Mountains call,
I hear the Mississippi Jordan call:
“_Stand up, America, and praise them all,
Living and dead, the fine young sons of Saul!_”

THE SPACIOUS DAYS OF ROOSEVELT

These were the spacious days of Roosevelt.
Would that among you chiefs like him arose
To win the wrath of our united foes,
To chain King Mammon in the donjon-keep,
To rouse our godly citizens that sleep
Till as one soul, we shout up to the sun
The battle-yell of freedom and the right--
“Lord, let good men unite.”

Nay, I would have you lonely and despised.
Statesmen whom only statesmen understand,
Artists whom only artists can command,
Sages whom all but sages scorn, whose fame
Dies down in lies, in synonyms for shame
With the best populace beneath the sun.
God give us tasks that martyrs can revere,
Still too much hated to be whispered here.

Would we might drink, with knowledge high and kind
The hemlock cup of Socrates the king,
Knowing right well we know not anything,
With full life done, bowing before the law,
Binding young thinkers’ hearts with loyal awe,
And fealty fixed as the ever-enduring sun--
God let us live, seeking the highest light,
God help us die aright.

Nay, I would have you grand, and still forgotten,
Hid like the stars at noon, as he who set
The Egyptian magic of man’s alphabet;
Or that far Coptic, first to dream in pain
That dauntless souls cannot by death be slain--
Conquering for all men then, the fearful grave.
God keep us hid, yet vaster far than death.
God help us to be brave.

FIFTH SECTION

RHYMES OF THE MIDDLE WEST AND SPRINGFIELD, ILLINOIS

WHEN THE MISSISSIPPI FLOWED IN INDIANA

_Inscribed to Bruce Campbell, who read_ Tom Sawyer _with me in the old house_

Beneath Time’s roaring cannon
Many walls fall down.
But though the guns break every stone,
Level every town:--
Within our Grandma’s old front hall
Some wonders flourish yet:--
The Pavement of Verona,
Where stands young Juliet,
The roof of Blue-beard’s palace,
And Kublai Khan’s wild ground,
The cave of young Aladdin,
Where the jewel-flowers were found,
And the garden of old Sparta
Where little Helen played,
The grotto of Miranda
That Prospero arrayed,
And the cave, by the Mississippi,
Where Becky Thatcher strayed.

On that Indiana stairway
Gleams Cinderella’s shoe.
Upon that mighty mountainside
Walks Snow-white in the dew.
Upon that grassy hillside
Trips shining Nicolette:--
That stairway of remembrance
Time’s cannon will not get--
That chattering slope of glory
Our little cousins made,
That hill by the Mississippi
Where Becky Thatcher strayed.

Spring beauties on that cliffside,
Love in the air,
While the soul’s deep Mississippi
Sweeps on, forever fair.
And he who enters in the cave,
Nothing shall make afraid,
The cave by the Mississippi
Where Tom and Becky strayed.

THE FAIRY FROM THE APPLE-SEED

Oh apple-seed I planted in a silly shallow place
In a bowl of wrought silver, with Sangamon earth within it,
Oh baby tree that came, without an apple on it,
A tree that grew a tiny height, but thickened on apace,
With bossy glossy arms, and leaves of trembling lace.

One night the trunk was rent, and the heavy bowl rocked round,
The boughs were bending here and there, with a curious locust sound,
And a tiny dryad came, from out the doll tree,
And held the boughs in ivory hands,
And waved her black hair round,
And climbed, and ate with merry words
The sudden fruit it bore.
And in the leaves she hides and sings
And guards my study door.

She guards it like a watchdog true
And robbers run away.
Her eyes are lifted spears all night,
But dove-eyes in the day.

And she is stranger, stronger
Than the funny human race.
Lovelier her form, and holier her face.
She feeds me flowers and fruit
With a quaint grace.
She dresses in the apple-leaves
As delicate as lace.
This girl that came from Sangamon earth
In a bowl of silver bright
From an apple-seed I planted in a silly shallow place.

A HOT TIME IN THE OLD TOWN

Guns salute, and crows and pigeons fly,
Bronzed, Homeric bards go striding by,
Shouting “Glory” amid the cannonade:--
It is the cross-roads
Resurrection
Parade.

Actors, craftsmen, builders, join the throng,
Painters, sculptors, florists tramp along,
Farm-boys prance, in tinsel, tin and jade:--
It is the cross-roads
Love and Laughter
Crusade.

The sun is blazing big as all the sky,
The mustard-plant with the sunflower climbing high,
With the Indian corn in fiery plumes arrayed:--
It is the cross-roads
Love and Beauty
Crusade.

Free and proud and mellow jamboree,
Roar and foam upon the prairie sea,
Tom turkeys sing the sun a serenade:--
It is the cross-roads
Resurrection
Parade.

Our sweethearts dance, with wands as white as milk,
With veils of gold and robes of silver silk,
Their caps in velvet pansy-patterns made:--
It is the cross-roads
Resurrection
Parade.

Wandering ’round the shrines we understand,
Waving oak-boughs cheap and close at hand,
And field-flowers fair, for which no man has paid:--
It is the cross-roads
Love and Beauty
Crusade.

Hieroglyphic marchers here we bring.
Rich inscriptions strut and talk and sing.
A scroll to read, a picture-word brigade:--
It is the cross-roads
Love and Laughter
Crusade.

Swans for symbols deck the banners rare,
Mighty acorn-signs command the air,
For hearts of oak, by flying beauty swayed:--
It is the cross-roads
Resurrection
Parade.

The flags are big, like rainbows flashing ’round,
They spread like sails, and lift us from the ground,
Star-born ships, that have come in masquerade:--
It is the cross-roads
Resurrection
Parade.

THE DREAM OF ALL THE SPRINGFIELD WRITERS

I’ll haunt this town, though gone the maids and men,
The darling few, my friends and loves today.
My ghost returns, bearing a great sword-pen
When far off children of their children play.

That pen will drip with moonlight and with fire.
I’ll write upon the church-doors and the walls.
And reading there, young hearts shall leap the higher
Though drunk already with their own love-calls.

Still led of love and arm in arm, strange gold
Shall find in tracing the far-speeding track
The dauntless war-cries that my sword-pen bold
Shall carve on terraces and tree-trunks black--

On tree-trunks black beneath the blossoms white:--
Just as the phosphorent merman, bound for home
Jewels his fire-path in the tides at night
While hurrying sea-babes follow through the foam.

And in December when the leaves are dead
And the first snow has carpeted the street
While young cheeks flush a healthful Christmas red
And young eyes glisten with youth’s fervor sweet--

My pen shall cut in winter’s snowy floor
Cries that in channelled glory leap and shine,
My Village Gospel, living evermore
Amid rejoicing, loyal friends of mine.

THE SPRINGFIELD OF THE FAR FUTURE

Some day our town will grow old.
“She is wicked and raw,” men say,
“Awkward and brash and profane.”
But the years have a healing way.
The years of God are like bread,
Balm of Gilead and sweet.
And the soul of this little town
Our Father will make complete.

Some day our town will grow old,
Filled with the fullness of time,
Treasure on treasure heaped
Of beauty’s tradition sublime.
Proud and gay and grey
Like Hannah with Samuel blest.
Humble and girlish and white
Like Mary, the manger guest.

Like Mary the manger queen
Bringing the God of Light
Till Christmas is here indeed
And earth has no more of night,
And hosts of Magi come,
The wisest under the sun
Bringing frankincense and praise
For her gift of the Infinite One.

AFTER READING THE SAD STORY OF THE FALL OF BABYLON

Oh Lady, my city, and new flower of the prairie,
What have we to do with this long time ago?
Oh lady love,
Bud of tomorrow,
With eyes that hold the hundred years
Yet to ebb and flow,
And breasts that burn
With great great grandsons
All their valor, all their tears,
A century hence shall know,
What have we to do
With this long time ago?

ALEXANDER CAMPBELL

“The present material universe, yet unrevealed in all its area, in all its tenantries, in all its riches, beauty and grandeur will be wholly regenerated. Of this fact we have full assurance since He that now sits upon the throne of the Universe has pledged His word for it, saying: ‘Behold I will create all things new,’ consequently, ‘new heavens, new earth,’ consequently, new tenantries, new employments, new pleasures, new joys, new ecstasies. There is a fullness of joy, a fullness of glory and a fullness of blessedness of which no living man, however enlightened, however enlarged, however gifted, ever formed or entertained one adequate conception.”

The above is the closing paragraph in Alexander Campbell’s last essay in the _Millennial Harbinger_, which he had edited thirty-five years. This paragraph appeared November, 1865, four months before his death.

I--MY FATHERS CAME FROM KENTUCKY

I was born in Illinois,--
Have lived there many days.
And I have Northern words,
And thoughts,
And ways.

But my great grandfathers came
To the west with Daniel Boone,
And taught his babes to read,
And heard the red-bird’s tune;

And heard the turkey’s call,
And stilled the panther’s cry,
And rolled on the blue-grass hills,
And looked God in the eye.

And feud and Hell were theirs;
Love, like the moon’s desire,
Love like a burning mine,
Love like rifle-fire.

I tell tales out of school
Till these Yankees hate my style.
Why should the young cad cry,
Shout with joy for a mile?

Why do I faint with love
Till the prairies dip and reel?
My heart is a kicking horse
Shod with Kentucky steel.

No drop of my blood from north
Of Mason and Dixon’s line.
And this racer in my breast
Tears my ribs for a sign.

But I ran in Kentucky hills
Last week. They were hearth and home....
And the church at Grassy Springs,
Under the red-bird’s wings
Was peace and honeycomb.

II--WRITTEN IN A YEAR WHEN MANY OF MY PEOPLE DIED

I have begun to count my dead.
They wave green branches
Around my head,
Put their hands upon my shoulders,
Stand behind me,
Fly above me--
Presences that love me.
They watch me daily,
Murmuring, gravely, gaily,
Praising, reproving, readily.
And every year that company
Grows the greater, steadily.
And every day I count my dead
In robes of sunrise, blue and red.

III--A RHYMED ADDRESS TO ALL RENEGADE CAMPBELLITES, EXHORTING THEM TO RETURN