1900
Clarence Chatham Cook died at Fishkill-on-the-Hudson May 31, aged 72 years.
CONTENTS
POEMS
BY
CLARENCE COOK
THE MAPLE TREE
AN April sun with April showers
Had burst the buds of lagging flowers;
From their fresh leaves the violets’ eyes
Mirrored the deep blue of the skies;
The daffodils, in clustering ranks,
Fringed with their spears the garden banks,
And with the blooms I love so well
Their paper buds began to swell,
While every bush and every tree
Burgeoned with flowers of melody;
From the quick robin with his range
Of silver notes, a warbling change,
Which he from sad to merry drew
A sparkling shower of tuneful dew,
To the brown sparrow in the wheat
A plaintive whistle clear and sweet.
Over my head the royal sky
Spread clear from cloud his canopy,
The idle noon slept far and wide
On misty hill and river side,
And far below me glittering lay
The mirror of the azure bay.
I stood beneath the maple tree;
Its crimson blooms enchanted me,
Its honey perfume haunted me,
And drew me thither unaware,
A nameless influence in the air.
Its boughs were hung with murmuring bees
Who robbed it of its sweetnesses—
Their cheerful humming, loud and strong,
Drowned with its bass the robin’s song,
And filled the April noontide air
With Labor’s universal prayer.
I paused to listen—soon I heard
A sound of neither bee nor bird,
A sullen murmur mixed with cheer
That rose and fell upon the ear
As the wind might—yet far away
Unstirred the sleeping river lay,
And even across the hillside wheat
No silvery ripples wandered fleet.
It was the murmur of the town,
No song of bird or bee could drown—
The rattling wheels along the street,
The pushing crowd with hasty feet,
The schoolboy’s call, the gossip’s story,
The lawyer’s purchased oratory,
The glib-tongued shopman with his wares,
The chattering schoolgirl with her airs,
The moaning sick man on his bed,
The coffin nailing for the dead,
The new-born infant’s lusty wail,
The bells that bade the bridal hail,
The factory’s wheels that round and round
Forever turn, and with their sound
Make the young children deaf to all
God’s voices that about them call,
Sweet sounds of bird and wind and wave;
And Life no gladder than a grave.
These myriad, mingled human voices,
These intertwined and various noises
Made up the murmur that I heard
Through the sweet hymn of bee and bird.
I said—“If all these sounds of life
With which the noontide air is rife,
These busy murmurings of the bee
Robbing the honied maple tree,
These warblings of the song-birds’ voices,
With which the blooming hedge rejoices,
These harsher mortal chords that rise
To mar Earth’s anthem to the skies,
If all these sounds fall on my ear
So little varying—yet so near—
How can I tell if God can know
A cry of human joy or woe
From the loud humming of the bee,
Or the blithe robin’s melody?”
God sitteth somewhere in his heaven—
About him sing the planets seven;
With every thought a world is made,
To grow in sun or droop in shade;
He holds Creation like a flower
In his right hand—an æon’s hour—
It fades, it dies,—another’s bloom
Makes the air sweet with fresh perfume.
Or, did he listen on that day
To what the rolling Earth might say?
Or, did he mark, as, one by one,
The gliding hours in light were spun?
And if he heard the choral hymn
The Earth sent up to honor him,
Which note rose sweetest to his ear?
Which murmur did he gladliest hear?
ABRAM AND ZIMRI
Poem founded on a Rabinnical Legend
ABRAM and Zimri owned a field together,
A level field, hid in a happy vale;
They ploughed it with one plough, and in the spring
Sowed, walking side by side, the fruitful grain;
Each carried to his home one-half the sheaves,
And stored them, with much labor, in his barns.
Now Abram had a wife and seven sons,
But Zimri dwelt alone within his house.
One night, before the sheaves were gathered in,
As Zimri lay upon his lonely bed,
And counted in his mind his little gains,
He thought upon his brother Abram’s lot,
And said, “I dwell alone within my house,
But Abram hath a wife and seven sons;
And yet we share the harvest sheaves alike:
He surely needeth more for life than I:
I will arise and gird myself, and go
Down to the field, and add to his from mine.”
So he arose and girded up his loins,
And went out softly to the level field.
The moon shone out from dusky bars of clouds,
The trees stood black against the cold blue sky,
The branches waved and whispered in the wind.
So Zimri, guided by the shifting light,
Went down the mountain path, and found the field;
Took from his store of sheave a generous third,
And bore them gladly to his brother’s heap,
And then went back to sleep and happy dreams.
Now that same night, as Abram lay in bed,
Thinking upon his blissful state in life,
He thought upon his brother Zimri’s lot,
And said, “He dwells within his house alone,
He goeth forth to toil with few to help,
He goeth home at night to a cold house,
And hath few other friends but me and mine
(For these two tilled the happy vale alone),
While I, whom Heaven hath very greatly blessed,
Dwell happy with my wife and seven sons,
Who aid me in my toil, and make it light;
And yet we share the harvest sheaves alike;
This, surely, is not pleasing unto God.
I will arise and gird myself, and go
Out to the field, and borrow from my store,
And add unto my brother Zimri’s pile.”
So he arose and girded up his loins,
And went down softly to the level field.
The moon shone out from silver bars of clouds,
The trees stood black against the starry sky,
The dark leaves waved and whispered in the breeze;
So Abram, guided by the doubtful light,
Passed down the mountain path, and found the field,
Took from his store of sheaves a generous third,
And added them unto his brother’s heap;
Then he went back to sleep and happy dreams.
So the next morning, with the early sun,
The brothers rose and went out to their toil;
And when they came to see the heavy sheaves,
Each wondered in his heart to find his heap,
Though he had given a third, was still the same.
Now the next night went Zimri to the field,
Took from his store of sheaves a generous share
And placed them on his brother Abram’s heap;
And then lay down behind his pile to watch.
The moon looked out from bars of silvery cloud,
The cedars stood up black against the sky,
The olive branches whispered in the wind.
Then Abram came down softly from his home,
And, looking to the left and right, went on,
Took from his ample store a generous third,
And laid it on his brother Zimri’s pile.
Then Zimri rose and caught him in his arms,
And wept upon his neck and kissed his cheek,
And Abram saw the whole, and could not speak,
Neither could Zimri, for their hearts were full.
AN APRIL VIOLET
PALE flower, that by this stone
Sweetenest the air alone,
While round thee falls the snow
And the rude wind doth blow.
What thought doth make thee pine
Pale Flower, can I divine?
Say, does this trouble thee
That all things fickle be?
The wind that buffets so
Was kind an hour ago.
The sun, a cloud doth hide,
Cheered thee at morning tide.
The busy pleasuring bee
Sought thee for company.
The little sparrows near
Sang thee their ballads clear.
The maples on thy head
Their spicy blossoms shed.
Because the storm made dumb
The wild bees booming hum;
Because for shivering
The sparrows cannot sing;
Is this the reason why
Thou look’st so woefully?
To-morrow’s laughing sun
Will cheer thee, pallid one;
To-morrow will bring back
The gay bee on his track,
Bursting thy cloister dim
With his wild roistering.
Canst thou not wait the morrow,
That rids thee of thy sorrow?
Art thou too desolate
To smile at any fate?
Then there is naught for thee
But Death’s delivery.
REGRET
LOOK out, sad heart, through wintry eyes
To see thy summer go:
How pallid are thy bluest skies
Behind this veiling snow.
Look out upon thy purple hills,
That all the summer long,
Laughed with an hundred laughing rills,
And sang their summer song.
You only see the sheeted snow
That covers grass and tree;
The frozen streamlets cannot flow,
No bird dares sing to thee.
Look out upon Life’s summer days
That fade like summer flowers;
What golden fruitage for thy praise,
From all those bounteous hours?
Sings any bird, or any wind
Amid thy falling leaves?
Why is it, if thou look’st behind,
Thy heart forever grieves?
L’ENNUI
OH April grass, so truly
My wish for spring divining,
Oh April sun, so gaily
In at my window shining,
What cheer can ye impart
Unto a faded heart?
Oh thoughts of Summer days
Born of the violet’s blue.
Oh wooing western wind,
That maketh all things new—
What cheer can ye impart
Unto a faded heart?
Oh mountains brown and sere,
Mantled in morning light,
Oh golden sunset sea
Wrecked on the shores of night,
What cheer can ye impart
Unto a faded heart?
Oh longings evermore
For some ungiven good,
Oh yearnings to make clear
The dimly understood,
What cheer can ye impart
Unto a faded heart?
Cover thy weary eyes
With hands too weak for prayer,
Think on the happy past,
From other thoughts forbear
Which can no cheer impart
Unto a hopeless heart.
ASPIRATION
THOU sea, whose tireless waves
Forever seek the shore,
Striving to clamber higher,
Yet failing evermore;
Why wilt thou still aspire
Though losing thy desire?
Thou sun, whose constant feet
Mount ever to thy noon,
Thou canst not there remain,
Night quenches thee so soon;
Why wilt thou still aspire
Though losing thy desire?
Rose, in my garden growing,
Unharmed by winter’s snows,
Another winter cometh
Ere all thy buds unclose;
Why wilt thou still aspire
Though losing thy desire?
Mortal, with feeble hands
Striving some work to do,
Fate, with her cruel shears,
Doth all thy steps pursue;
Why wilt thou still aspire
Though losing thy desire?
The Roses, Newburgh,
April 21, 1853.
THE SOUL’S QUESTION
Inscribed to Rev. A. Dwight Mayo
DEAR friend, in whom my soul abides,
Who rulest all its wayward tides,
Accept the feeble song I sing,
And read aright my stammering.