SPIDER-WEBS IN VERSE

A COLLECTION OF

LYRICS FOR LEISURE MOMENTS

SPUN AT IDLE HOURS

CHARLES WILLIAM WALLACE

Professor of Rhetoric and Literature Western Normal College

“The spider’s touch—how exquisitely fine!”

—Pope.

LINCOLN, NEB.:

STATE JOURNAL COMPANY, PRINTERS.

1892.

C. W. WALLACE

JUDGE T. D. WALLACE

AND

MRS. OLIVE WALLACE.

My Dear Father and Mother:

No word, no act, no consecrated gift of mine, how great or slight soever it may be, can ever repay the beneficence and love of you to whom I owe life and whatever of prosperity has been granted me.

As my eyes glance in retrospect along the fading perspective of years and lose themselves in the dim days of the cradle, and thence to the present look forwards to the distant peaks of hope that rise above unknown mists and shadows and horizons, I hear the counseling words of a father, and feel the ever-present touch of a mother’s hand, as both guide me with love into the dim unknown of life. Though I pass onwards with a father’s “God-speed,” and a mother’s lingering embrace and loving kiss, and leave you both fondly looking after me, still your presence in my memory is ever a guiding reality that even now directs this good right hand of mine to inscribe these dedicatory words of filial affection.

If in the days agone I ever seemed unheeding of that counsel of a father, and unmindful of that dearest love of a cherished and cherishing mother, I can but say that both that counsel and that love reach through those moulding and shaping years of my life and take hold on my heart with a firmness and a gentleness that nothing else of all the years can boast.

It is but right and just, therefore, that in these your later days I should likewise be your guide and your stay in so far as my hand may let;—that I should reach out my strong young arm and steady the tottering years that throng around you.

Withal, if I can afford you even one slight pleasure, it is my heart’s desire so to do. It is, therefore, with somewhat more than filial love that I dedicate this little volume to you, my Father and my Mother, both together my counselor and guide, still mercifully spared to your children; and in doing so, I can but express the hope that your years may yet be many and happy; that the iris struck by a New Sun from the crystals of the whitened and whitening wintry years may be as full of beauty and joy as were the early spring blossoms of love and hope that you pressed to your bosoms in youth.

Your Son,

CHARLES.

BY THE WAY.

As the presentation of these collected verses in their present printed form has been induced largely by the request of many of my former college students and by the importunities of my most intimate friends, and as this volume has consequently been prepared chiefly for their pleasure, it is hoped that those into whose hands the book may fall are already so well acquainted with the author that the selections themselves need no formal introduction to make them agreeable company and engaging companions.

In justice, I should here say that this collection contains only a few out of the vast number of good, bad, and indifferent pieces of verse that I have been making at odd hours of a busy life, ever since my boyhood, for my own pastime, pleasure, and literary and linguistic improvement, with no thought nor distant dream of ever permitting them thus to invade the domains of the sovereign public.

That the little book that thus modestly goes forth will attain either a large circulation or great popularity I neither expect, nor attempt to bring about; but that men and women with hearts that love and souls that look above may find much quiet pleasure and satisfaction in the following pages I do sincerely hope.

It is neither my desire nor befitting to my work to lay claim to any degree of excellence in the verses herein presented. Quite to the contrary, I see and regret many defects which I can now neither remove nor repair. But, however defective they may be in form or in spirit, I have ever thought that little else than the interpretation of the relations of the human soul to life, here and hereafter, and the presentation of the good, the beautiful, and the true of the human heart is worthy of serious effort.

As a consequence, most of these pieces are dual in meaning—one, in plain view, the reality; the other, less distinct, the finer ideality, the reflection, or mirrored image of the first.

It is this second, this finer and often, at first, obscure meaning that, in my judgment, is the essential—the preserving salt—of any poem. Certainly if not this meaning but the apparent one, the one on the surface, is the basis of judgment on these poems, they will fall far below the estimate accorded that poetry which is deemed worthy of existence.

I wish here to return my thanks for the hearty reception accorded the few selections of the prospectus, and to express the hope that the completed volume will equal whatever expectations the recipients of the prospectus may have.

Also, I cannot pass without noting the fact that a large share of the first edition of this volume was engaged nearly six months before it went to press, even before I had determined what productions I should use, and that, too, upon the mere announcement that the publication was contemplated for the present summer.

I wish, therefore, thus publicly to thank those who have given this substantial earnest of their appreciation.

Any opinion or criticism, favorable or unfavorable, or any suggestion or correction on thought, arrangement, typography, or other point, that the reader may see fit to express, is not only invited and encouraged, but will be most gratefully received and carefully considered.

One word more. If a selection will not bear a second reading, or a third, a fourth, or a fiftieth reading; if it does not grow better and better at each reading; if it does not lift the soul to a higher plane, a nobler aim, a purer life, and a grander view; if at each successive reading something does not come out of it and enter the heart, and then pass back into the poem again, and thus again and again, each beautifying and ennobling the other, like a sunset halo among the clouds and the liquid, translucent image thereof in the mirroring lake, then it is no true poem, and should be cast aside.

The only proof of the excellence of a poem is that it makes the heart larger and the soul nobler for having read it, and that at each successive reading both the poem and the reader grow better and better.

Believing, as I do, that poetry is nothing less than the interpretation of the Divine in the human heart (whether in the mood of tears or of laughter), I can but hope, in entrusting these “children of the brain” to the care of others, that in the heart of each little waif some good may be found, some song may be heard, some beauty be revealed, some experience be verified.

C. W. W.

Lincoln, 22 June, 1892.