TURKEY
In infidel debate on whence and why,
They hiss my God, and know not whether hale
And wise, or worn and withering am I,
Behind the crimson veil.
Great dawns have shown the way
When we have wandered.
God, in the battle sway,
What have we squandered?
The International William Griffith
TO THE NECROPHILE
(After reading of the affectionate desire of Germany “to get
closer to France,” expressed by the German Secretary of State to
the British Ambassador at Berlin, as published in the British White Papers.)
With love are you gone mad, O lover of France,
That you should be embracing with your arms
Her gory body for the gore that warms
Only a monster in his dalliance?
Alas! she is alive with her alarms,
Unwilling yet for the enraged romance.
Assault her sacredness of Paris, lance
Her flank with such a wound as has its charms.
For you who want for your obscene amours
The body of a soul that is not yours,
For you who want a wound to enter by,
For you who want a corpse upon your heart.
Coupling with France if France would only die,
Not yours the human vow: “Till death us part!”
The Trend Walter Conrad Arensberg
LOUVAIN
Bleeding and torn, ravished with sword and flame,
By that blasphemer prince, who with the name
Of God upon his lips betrayed the state
He falsely swore to hold inviolate,
Made mad by pride and reckless of the rod,
Shaking his mailed fist in the face of God.
But not in vain her martyrdom. Louvain,
Like the brave maid of France shall rise again;
Above her clotted hair a crown shall shine,
From her dark ashes rise a hallowed shrine
Where pilgrims from far lands shall heal their pain,
Shrived by the sacred sorrow of Louvain.
Harper’s Weekly Oliver Herford
THE ANCIENT SACRIFICE
Ye dead and gone great armies of the world,
Sweet gleam the fields where ye were used to pass,
With Death for leader, legioned like the grass,
Day after day by dews of morning pearled.
Ye dead and gone great armies, ye were hurled
’Gainst other armies, great and dead and gone,
In awful dark: ye died before the dawn,
Ne’er knowing how your flags in peace are furled!
Ye are the tall fair forests that were felled
To build a pyre for strife that it might cease;
Ye are the white lambs slaughtered to bring peace;
Ye are the sweet ships sunk that storm be quelled;
And ye are lilies plucked and set like stars
About the blood-stained shrine of bygone wars!
The Bellman Mahlon Leonard Fisher
THE PIPES OF THE NORTH
Do ye hear ’em sternly soundin’ through the noises of the street,
O heart from the heather overseas?
Do ye leap up to greet ’em, does your pulse skip a beat?
There’s a lad with a plaid and naked knees.
Here where all is strange and foreign to the swing of kilt and sporran,
With his head proud and high and a lightin’ in his eye,
He’s skirlin’ ’em, he’s dirlin’ ’em, he’s blowin’ like a storm—
O pipes of the North, O the pibroch pourin’ forth,
You’re fierce and loud as Winter but ye make the blood run warm!
All the battle-names of story, all the jewel-names of song
Down the spate of the clangor swing and reel,
And the claymores come a-flashin’ for a thousand years along
From Can-More to bonnie Charlie and Lochiel.
Though the high-singin’ bugle and the brazen crashin’ fugue’ll—
With the drum and the fife—wake the trampin’ lines to life,
But neighin’ ’em, and brayin’ ’em, and shatterin’ all the air,
O pipes of the North, when the legions thunder forth
There’s naught like ye to lift ’em on to death or glory there!
Now he tunes an ancient ditty for the leal Highland lover,
A rill of the mountain clear and pure,
How the bee is in the blossom and the peewit passin’ over
And the cloud-shadows chasin’ on the moor.
Hark the carol of the chanter rollickin’ a skeltin’ canter,
And the hum of the drones with their “wind-arisin’” tones!
He’s flightin’ ’em, he’s kitin’ ’em, he’s flingin’ gay and free—
O pipes of the North, when the reel comes tumblin’ forth
’Tis the breeze amid the bracken or the wavelets on the sea!
Now hark the wrenchin’ sob of it, the “wild with all regret,”
O heart from the heather overseas,
For the homeland of your fathers, though you’ve never known it yet,
’Tween Tay and the outer Hebrides.
O the rugged misty Highlands, O the grim and lonely islands,
And the solemn fir and pine, and the grey tormented brine—
He’s trailin’ ’em, he’s wailin’ ’em, to tear your bosom’s core!
O pipes of the North, when the long lament goes forth
No sorrow’s left to utter, for the tongue can say no more!
Oh, Breton pipes are clear and strong, and Irish pipes are sweet
And soft upon the heather overseas,
But Scottish aye can take your throat or make ye swing your feet,
O hark the lad a-paddlin’ on the keys!
See him footin’ straight and proud through the wonder-gawkin’ crowd,
With his feathered Glengarry like a gun at the carry;
He’s bellin’ ’em, he’s yellin’ ’em, he’s skirlin’ high to you—
O pipes of the North, O the wild notes rushin’ forth,
Ye’re sure the wings of Gaelic souls as far as blood is true!
Scribner’s Magazine E. Sutton
OUT OF BABYLON
As I stole out of Babylon beyond the stolid warders,
(My soul that dwelt in Babylon long, long ago!)
The sound of cymbals and of lutes, of viols and recorders,
Came up from khan and caravan, loud and low.
As I crept out of Babylon, the clangor and the babel,
The strife of life, the haggling in the square and mart,
Of the men who went in saffron and the men who went in sable,
It tore me and it wore me, yea, it wore my heart.
As I fled out of Babylon, the cubits of the towers
They seemed in very mockery to bar my way;
The incense of the altars, and the hanging-garden flowers,
They lured me with their glamour, but I would not stay.
We still flee out of Babylon, its vending and its vying,
Its crying up to Mammon, its bowing down to Baal;
We still flee out of Babylon, its sobbing and its sighing,
Where the strong grow ever stronger, and the weary fail!
We still flee out of Babylon, the feverish, the fretful,
That saps the sweetness of the soul and leaves but a rind;
We still flee out of Babylon, and fain would be forgetful
Of all within that thrall of wall threatening behind!
Oh, Babylon, oh, Babylon, your toiling and your teeming,
Your canyons and your wonder-wealth,—not for such as we!
We who have fled from Babylon contented are with dreaming,—
Dreaming of earth’s loveliness, happy to be free!
The Bellman Clinton Scollard
“FUNERE MERSIT ACERBO”
(Written by Giosué Carducci at the death of his
little son Dante, and addressed to his brother Dante,
who had taken his own life years before.)
O thou among the Tuscan hills asleep,
Laid with our father in one grassy bed,
Faintly, through the green sod above thy head,
Hast thou not heard a plaintive child’s voice weep?
It is my little son—at thy dark keep
He knocketh, he who wore thy name, thy dread
And sacred name; he too this life hath fled,
Whose ways, my brother, thou didst find so steep.
Among the flower-borders as he played,
By sunny, childish visions smiled upon,
The Shadow caught him to that world how other,—
Thy world long since! So now to that chill shade,
Oh, welcome him! as backward toward the sun
He turns his head, to look, and call his mother.
The Bellman Ruth Shepard Phelps
AFTERWARDS
There was a day when death to me meant tears,
And tearful takings-leave that had to be,
And awed embarkings on an unshored sea,
And sudden disarrangement of the years.
But now I know that nothing interferes
With the fixed forces when a tired man dies;
That death is only answerings and replies,
The chiming of a bell which no one hears,
The casual slanting of a half-spent sun,
The soft recessional of noise and coil,
The coveted something time nor age can spoil;
I know it is a fabric finely spun
Between the stars and dark; to seize and keep,
Such glad romances as we read in sleep.
Boston Transcript Mahlon Leonard Fisher
EVENING
Go, little sorrows! From the evening wood
Faint odors rise, that touch the heart like tears
With inarticulate comfort. Lo, she bears
A weary load—small cares that drug the blood,
Small envies, sick desires for lesser good,—
All day, till now the evening re-appears,
They drop away, and she with wonder rears
Her aching height from needless servitude.
The tree-tops are all music; light and soft
The brook’s small feet go tinkling toward the sea
Bearing the little day’s distress afar;
While yonder, in the stillness set aloft,
My one great Grief, still glimmering down on me,
Smiles tremulous as a bereavèd Star.
Yale Review Charlotte Wilson
LIGHTS THROUGH THE MIST
Some for the sadness and sweetness of far evening bells,
Seeming to call a tryst,
Yet, for my choice, all the comfort and kindness that wells
From lights through the mist.
In the dim dusk so unreal that it seems like a dream
Hard for the heart to resist,
Mellowing the pain of the close-drawing darkness, they stream,
Lights through the mist.
Blurred to new beauty, the blues and the browns and the grays
Shimmer with soft amethyst;
Then God’s own glory of gold as it shines through the haze,
Lights through the mist!
Century William Rose Benét
THE TWELVE-FORTY-FIVE
(For Edward J. Wheeler)
Within the Jersey City shed
The engine coughs and shakes its head.
The smoke, a plume of red and white,
Waves madly in the face of night.
And now the grave, incurious stars
Gleam on the groaning, hurrying cars.
Against the kind and awful reign
Of darkness, this our angry train,
A noisy little rebel, pouts
Its brief defiance, flames and shouts—
And passes on, and leaves no trace.
For darkness holds its ancient place,
Serene and absolute, the king
Unchanged, of every living thing.
The houses lie obscure and still
In Rutherford and Carlton Hill.
Our lamps intensify the dark
Of slumbering Passaic Park.
And quiet holds the weary feet
That daily tramp through Prospect Street.
What though we clang and clank and roar
Through all Passaic’s streets? No door
Will open, not an eye will see
Who this loud vagabond may be.
Upon my crimson cushioned seat,
In manufactured light and heat,
I feel unnatural and mean.
Outside the towns are cool and clean;
Curtained awhile from sound and sight
They take God’s gracious gift of night.
The stars are watchful over them.
On Clifton as on Bethlehem
The angels, leaning down the sky,
Shed peace and gentled dreams. And I—
I ride, I blasphemously ride
Through all the silent countryside.
The engine’s shriek, the headlight’s glare,
Pollute the still nocturnal air.
The cottages of Lake View sigh
And sleeping, frown as we pass by.
Why, even strident Paterson
Rests quietly as any nun.
Her foolish warring children keep
The grateful armistice of sleep.
For what tremendous errand’s sake
Are we so blatantly awake?
What precious secret is our freight?
What king must be abroad so late?
Perhaps Death roams the hills to-night
And we rush forth to give him fight.
Or else, perhaps, we speed his way
To some remote unthinking prey.
Perhaps a woman writhes in pain
And listens—listens for the train!
The train, that like an angel sings,
The train, with healing on its wings.
Now “Hawthorne!” the conductor cries.
My neighbor starts and rubs his eyes.
He hurries yawning through the car
And steps out where the houses are.
This is the reason of our quest!
Not wantonly we break the rest
Of town and village, nor do we
Lightly profane night’s sanctity.
What Love commands the train fulfils,
And beautiful upon the hills
Are these our feet of burnished steel.
Subtly and certainly I feel
That Glen Rock welcomes us to her
And silent Ridgewood seems to stir
And smile, because she knows the train
Has brought her children back again.
We carry people home—and so
God speeds us, wheresoe’er we go.
Hohokus, Waldwick, Allendale
Lift sleepy heads to give us hail.
In Ramsey, Mahwah, Suffern, stand
Houses that wistfully demand
A father—son—some human thing
That this, the midnight train, may bring.
The trains that travel in the day
They hurry folks to work or play.
The midnight train is slow and old
But of it let this thing be told,
To its high honor be it said,
It carries people home to bed.
My cottage lamp shines white and clear.
God bless the train that brought me here!
Smart Set Joyce Kilmer
THE LAST DEMAND
Life, you have bruised me and chilled me; Fate, you have jeered at my pain;
Dreams, you have mocked while you thrilled me—so I turn to the battle again.
Love, you have blessed me and led me; the lips that have kissed you, you smite;
Hope, you have urged me and fled me—but left is the joy of the fight!
Never was I a coward! Now must I prove my worth.
World, I will give you my courage; not tears but a hard-bought mirth.
Work of my hands I grant you, labor and toil of brain,
But heart and soul shall be wanting—for they are dead of pain!
Forward! A fight to the death, then! Life is a sorry jest.
Ahead! To the thick of tumult! Fate is a fool at the best.
Courage! The war gods are greatest! Love is a false, fair light.
To arms! For Dreams are frail bubbles, and Hope but a song in the night.
World, I cast down the gauntlet, for you were made to defy!
Own me a foe for your mettle! Ah, fighting let me die!
Love, Hope and Dreams I give you; Life I fling at your feet;
I will drink to the dregs of the bitter—for once I had tasted of sweet!
Of one last taunt I shall rob you; stern, I will claim my due;
One recompense you shall give me, balm I will snatch from you.
’Tis neither Fame nor Glory—toys to break and regret;
I demand to conquer Memory! I demand that I—forget.
The Smart Set Faith Baldwin
GODSPEED!
The soul speaks “Body o’ mine—and must I lay thee low?
So long I have looked out from thy dear eye!
Ears that have brought me song, and willing hands,
And feet that carried me to pleasant fields—
Shall dust claim all, and must I say good-bye?
Godspeed!”
The body speaks: “Sister o’ mine—I go from whence I came,
Perchance to bloom again, or if required,
When time is ripe, to house another soul.
Thou art more wise than I, yet recketh not,
Oh, soul o’ mine, that I at last am tired!
Godspeed!”
Southern Woman’s Magazine Jane Belfield
AT THE END OF THE ROAD
This is the truth as I see it, my dear,
Out in the wind and the rain:
They who have nothing have little to fear,—
Nothing to lose or to gain.
Here by the road at the end o’ the year,
Let us sit down and drink of our beer,
Happy-Go-Lucky and her Cavalier,
Out in the wind and the rain.
Now we are old, hey, isn’t it fine,
Out in the wind and the rain?
Now we have nothing, why snivel and whine?
What would it bring us again?
When I was young I took you like wine,
Held you and kissed you and thought you divine—
Happy-Go-Lucky, the habit’s still mine,
Out in the wind and the rain.
Oh, my old Heart, what a life we have led,
Out in the wind and the rain!
How we have drunken and how we have fed!
Nothing to lose or to gain.
Cover the fire now; get we to bed.
Long is the journey and far has it led.
Come, let us sleep, lass, sleep like the dead,
Out in the wind and the rain.
The Bellman Madison Cawein
PATH FLOWER
A red-cap sang in Bishop’s wood,
A lark o’er Golder’s lane,
As I the April pathway trod
Bound west for Willesden.
At foot each tiny blade grew big
And taller stood to hear,
And every leaf on every twig
Was like a little ear.
As I too paused, and both ways tried
To catch the rippling rain,—
So still, a hare kept at my side
His tussock of disdain,—
Behind me close I heard a step,
A soft pit-pat surprise,
And looking round my eyes fell deep
Into sweet other eyes;
The eyes like wells, where sun lies too,
So clear and trustful brown,
Without a bubble warning you
That here’s a place to drown.
“How many miles?” Her broken shoes
Had told of more than one.
She answered like a dreaming Muse,
“I came from Islington.”
“So long a tramp?” Two gentle nods,
Then seemed to lift a wing,
And words fell soft as willow-buds,
“I came to find the Spring.”
A timid voice, yet not afraid
In ways so sweet to roam,
As it with honey bees had played
And could no more go home.
Her home! I saw the human lair,
I heard the hucksters bawl,
I stifled with the thickened air
Of bickering mart and stall.
Without a tuppence for a ride,
Her feet had set her free.
Her rags, that decency defied,
Seemed new with liberty.
But she was frail. Who would might note
That trail of hungering
That for an hour she had forgot
In wonder of the Spring.
So shriven by her joy she glowed
It seemed a sin to chat.
“A tea-shop snuggled off the road;”
Why did I think of that?
Oh, frail, so frail! I could have wept,—
But she was passing on,
And I but muddled “You’ll accept
A penny for a bun?”
Then up her little throat a spray
Of rose climbed for it must;
A wilding lost till safe it lay
Hid by her curls of rust;
And I saw modesties at fence
With pride that bore no name;
So old it was she knew not whence
It sudden woke and came;
But that which shone of all most clear
Was startled, sadder thought
That I should give her back the fear
Of life she had forgot.
And I blushed for the world we’d made,
Putting God’s hand aside,
Till for the want of sun and shade
His little children died;
And blushed that I who every year
With Spring went up and down,
Must greet a soul that ached for her
With “penny for a bun!”
Struck as a thief in holy place
Whose sin upon him cries,
I watched the flowers leave her face,
The song go from her eyes.
Then she, sweet heart, she saw my rout,
And of her charity
A hand of grace put softly out
And took the coin from me.
A red-cap sang in Bishop’s wood,
A lark o’er Golder’s lane;
But I, alone, still glooming stood,
And April plucked in vain;
Till living words rang in my ears
And sudden music played:
Out of such sacred thirst as hers
The world shall be remade.
Afar she turned her head and smiled
As might have smiled the Spring,
And humble as a wondering child
I watched her vanishing.
Atlantic Monthly Olive Tilford Dargan
THE GOD-MAKER, MAN
Nevermore
Shall the shepherds of Arcady follow
Pan’s moods as he lolls by the shore
Of the mere, or lies hid in the hollow;
Nevermore
Shall they start at the sound of his reed fashioned flute;
Fallen mute
Are the strings of Apollo,
His lyre and his lute;
And the lips of the Memnons are mute
Evermore;
And the gods of the North,—are they dead or forgetful,
Our Odin and Baldur and Thor?
Are they drunk, or grown weary of worship and fretful,
Our Odin and Baldur and Thor?
And into what night have the Orient deities strayed?
You swart gods of the Nile, in dusk splendors arrayed,
Brooding Isis and sombre Osiris,
You were gone ere the fragile papyrus
That bragged you eternal decayed.
The avatars
But illumine their limited evens
And vanish like plunging stars;
They are fixed in the whirling heavens
No firmer than falling stars;
Brief lords of the changing soul, they pass
Like a breath from the face of a glass,
Or a blossom of summer blown shalloplike over
The clover
And tossed tides of grass.
Sink to silence the psalms and the pæans,
The shibboleths shift, and the faiths,
And the temples that challenged the æons
Are tenanted only by wraiths;
Swoon to silence the cymbals and psalters,
The worship grow senseless and strange,
And the mockers ask, “Where be thy altars?”
Crying, “Nothing is changeless—but Change!”
Yea, nothing seems changeless, but Change.
And yet, through the creed wrecking years,
One story forever appears:
The tale of a City Supernal—
The whisper of Something eternal—
A passion, a hope and a vision
That people the silence with Powers;
A fable of meadows Elysian
Where Time enters not with his Hours;—
Manifold are the tale’s variations,
Race and clime ever tinting the dreams.
Yet its essence, through endless mutations,
Immutable gleams.
Deathless, though godheads be dying,
Surviving the creeds that expire,
Illogical, reason defying,
Lives that passionate, primal desire;
Insistent, persistent, forever
Man cries to the silences, “Never
Shall Death reign the lord of the soul,
Shall the dust be the ultimate goal—
I will storm the black bastions of Night!
I will tread where my vision has trod,
I will set in the darkness a light,
In the vastness, a god!”
As the skull of the man grows broader, so do his creeds;
And his gods they are shaped in his image, and mirror his needs;
And he clothes them with thunders and beauty,
He clothes them with music and fire.
Seeing not, as he bows by their altars,
That he worships his own desire;
And mixed with his trust there is terror,
And mixed with his madness is ruth,
And every man grovels in error,
Yet every man glimpses a truth.
For all of the creeds are false, and all of the creeds are true;
And low at the shrines where my brothers bow, there will I bow too;
For no form of a god, and no fashion
Man has made in his desperate passion
But is worthy some worship of mine;
Not too hot with a gross belief,
Nor yet too cold with pride,
I will bow me down where my brothers bow,
Humble, but open eyed.
Evening Sun Don Marquis