More Songs From Vagabondia

The Project Gutenberg eBook of More Songs From Vagabondia IN A SILENCE. Heart to heart! And the stillness of night and the moonlight, like hushed breathing Silently, stealthily moving across thy hair! O womanly face! Tender and strong and lucent with infinite feeling, Shrinking with startled joy, like wind-struck water, And yet so frank, so unashamed of love! Ay, for there it is, love--that's the deepest. Love's not love in the dark. Light loves wither i' the sun, but Love endureth, Clothing himself with the light as with a robe. I would bare my soul to thy sight-- Leave not a secret deep unsearched, Unrevealing its shame or its glory. Love without Truth shall die as a soul without God. A lying love is the love of a day But the brave and true shall love forever. Build Love a house; Let the walls be thick; Shut him in from the sight of men; But hide not Love from himself. Ah, the summer night! The wind in the trees and the moonlight! And my kisses on thy throat And thy breathing in my hair! Silent, lips to lips! But our souls have held speech, thought answering echoing thought, Though the only words were kisses. THE BATHER. I saw him go down to the water to bathe; He stood naked upon the bank. His breast was like a white cloud in the heaven, that catches the sun; It swelled with the sharp joy of the air. His legs rose with the spring and curve of young birches; The hollow of his back caught the blue shadows: With his head thrown up to the lips of the wind; And the curls of his forehead astir with the wind. I would that I were a man, they are so beautiful; Their bodies are like the bows of the Indians; They have the spring and the grace of bows of hickory. I know that women are beautiful, and that I am beautiful; But the beauty of a man is so lithe and alive and triumphant, Swift as the night of a swallow and sure as the pounce of the eagle. NOCTURNE: IN ANJOU I dreamed of Sappho on a summer night. Her nightingales were singing in the trees Beside the castled river; and the wind Fell like a woman's fingers on my cheek. And then I slept and dreamed and marked no change; The night went on with me into my dream. This only I remember, that I cried: "O Sappho! ere I leave this paradise, Sing me one song of those lost books of yours For which we poets still go sorrowing; That when I meet my fellows on the earth I may rejoice them more than many pearls;" And she, the sweetly smiling, answered me, As one who dreams, "I have forgotten them." NOCTURNE: IN PROVENCE. The blue night, like an angel, came into the room,-- Came through the open window from the silent sky Down trellised stairs of moonlight into the dear room As if a whisper breathed of some divine one nigh. The nightingales, like brooks of song in Paradise, Gurgled their serene rapture to the silent sky-- Like springs of laughter bubbling up in Paradise, The serene nightingales along the riverside Purled low in every tree their star-cool melodies Of joy--in every tree along the riverside. Did the vain garments melt in music from your side? Did you rise from them as a lily flowers i' the air? --But you were there before me like the Night's own bride-- I dared not call you mine. So still and tall you were, I never dreamed that you were mine--I never dreamed I loved you--I forgot I loved you. You were air And music, and the shadows that you stood in, seemed Like priests that keep their sombre vigil round a shrine-- Like sombre priests that watch about a glorious shrine. And then you stepped into the moonlight and laid bare The wonder of your body to the night, and stood With all the stars of heaven looking at you there, As simply as a saint might bare her soul to God-- As simply as a saint might bathe in lakes of prayer-- Stood with the holy moonlight falling on you there Until I thought that in a glory unaware I had seen a soul stand forth and bare itself to God-- A saintly soul lay bare its innocence to God. JUNE NIGHT IN WASHINGTON. The scent of honeysuckle, Drugging the twilight With its sweet opiate of lovers' dreams! The last red glow of the setting sun On the red brick wall Of the neighboring house, And the scramble of red roses over it! Slowly, slowly The night smokes up from the city to the stars, The faint foreshadowed stars; The smouldering night Breathes upward like the breath Of a woman asleep With dim breast rising and falling And a smile of delicate dreams. Softly, softly The wind comes into the garden, Like a lover that fears lest he waken his love, And his hands drip with the scent of the roses And his locks weep with the opiate odor of honeysuckle. Sighing, sighing As a lover that yearns for the lips of his love, In a torment of bliss, In a passionate dreaming of bliss, The wind in the trees of the garden! How intimate are the trees,-- Rustling like the secret darkness of the soul! How still is the starlight,-- Aloof in the placidity of dream! Outside the garden A group of negroes passing in the street Sing with ripe lush voices, Sing with voices that swim Like great slow gliding fishes Through the scent of the honeysuckle: My love's waitin', Waitin' by the river, Waitin' till I come along! Wait there, child; I'm comin' . Jay-bird tol' me, Tol' me in the mornin', Tol' me she'd be there to-night. Wait there, child; I'm comin' . Waves of dream! Spell of the summer night! Will of the grass that stirs in its sleep! Desire of the honeysuckle! And further away, Like the plash of far-off waves in the fluid night, The negroes, singing: Whip-po'-will tol' me, Tol' me in the evenin', "Down by the bend where the cat-tails grow." Wait there, child; I'm comin' . Lo, the moon, Like a galleon sailing the night; And the wash of the moonlight over the roofs and the trees! Oh, my bride, Come down from yonder lattice where you bide Like a charmed princess in a Persian song! I look up at your yellow window-panes, Set in the night with far-off wizardry. Come down, come down; the night is fain of you, The garden waits your footstep on its walks. Lo, the moon, Like a galleon sailing the night; And the wash of the moonlight over the red brick wall and the roses! A gleam of lamplight through an open door! A footfall like the wind's upon the grass! A rustle like the wind's among the leaves!... Dim as a dream of pale peach blooms of light, Blue in the blue soft pallor of the moon, She comes between the trees as a faint tune Falls from a flute far off into the night.... So Death might come to one who knew him Love. A SONG FOR MARNA. Dame of the night of hair Like blue smoke blown! World yet undreamed-of there Lurks to be known. Dame of the dizzy eyes, Lure of dim quests! World of what midnights lies Under thy breasts! Dame of the quench of love, Give me to quaff! There's all the world's made of Under thy laugh. Dame of the dare of gods, Let the sky lower! Time, give the world for odds,-- I choose this hour. SEPTEMBER WOODLANDS. This is not sadness in the wood; The yellowbird Flits joying through the solitude, By no thought stirred Save of his little duskier mate And rompings jolly. If there's a Dryad in the wood, She is not sad. Too wise the spirits are to brood; Divinely glad, They dream with countenance sedate Not melancholy. NANCIBEL. The ghost of a wind came over the hill, While day for a moment forgot to die, And stirred the sheaves Of the millet leaves, As Nancibel went by. Out of the lands of Long Ago, Into the land of By and By, Faded the gleam Of a journeying dream, As Nancibel went by. A VAGABOND SONG. There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood-- Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry Of bugles going by. And my lonely spirit thrills To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills. There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; We must rise and follow her, When from every hill of flame She calls and calls each vagabond by name. THREE OF A KIND. Three of us without a care In the red September Tramping down the roads of Maine, Making merry with the rain, With the fellow winds a-fare Where the winds remember. Three of us with shocking hats, Tattered and unbarbered, Happy with the splash of mud, With the highways in our blood, Bearing down on Deacon Platt's Where last year we harbored. We've come down from Kennebec, Tramping since last Sunday, Loping down the coast of Maine, With the sea for a refrain, And the maples neck and neck All the way to Fundy. Sometimes lodging in an inn, Cosey as a dormouse-- Sometimes sleeping on a knoll With no rooftree but the Pole-- Sometimes halely welcomed in At an old-time farmhouse. Loafing under ledge and tree, Leaping over boulders, Sitting on the pasture bars, Hail-fellow with storm or stars-- Three of us alive and free, With unburdened shoulders! Three of us with hearts like pine That the lightnings splinter, Clean of cleave and white of grain-- Three of us afoot again, With a rapture fresh and fine As a spring in winter! All the hills are red and gold; And the horns of vision Call across the crackling air Till we shout back to them there, Taken captive in the hold Of their bluff derision. Spray-salt gusts of ocean blow From the rocky headlands; Overhead the wild geese fly, Honking in the autumn sky; Black sinister flocks of crow Settle on the dead lands. Three of us in love with life, Roaming like wild cattle, With the stinging air a-reel As a warrior might feel The swift orgasm of the knife Slay him in mid-battle. Three of us to march abreast Down the hills of morrow! With a clean heart and a few Friends to clench the spirit to!-- Leave the gods to rule the rest, And good-by, sorrow! WOOD-FOLK LORE. To T. B. M. For every one Beneath the sun, Where Autumn walks with quiet eyes, There is a word, Just overheard When hill to purple hill replies. This afternoon, As warm as June, With the red apples on the bough, I set my ear To hark and hear The wood-folk talking, you know how. There comes a "Hush!" And then a "Tush," As tree to scarlet tree responds, "Babble away! He'll not betray The secrets of us vagabonds. "Are we not all, Both great and small, Cousins and kindred in a joy No school can teach, No worldling reach, Nor any wreck of chance destroy?" And so we are, However far We journey ere the journey ends, One brotherhood With leaf and bud And everything that wakes or wends. The wind that blows My autumn rose Where Grand Pré looks to Blomidon,-- How great must be The company Of roses he has leaned upon, Since first he shed Their petals red Through Persian gardens long ago, When Omar heard His muttered word Rumoring things we may not know! Our brother ghost, He is a most Incorrigible wanderer; And still to-day He takes his way About my hills of spruce and fir; Will neither bide By the great tide, In apple lands of Acadie, Nor in the leaves About your eaves, Where Scituate looks out to sea. AT MICHAELMAS. About the time of Michael's feast And all his angels, There comes a word to man and beast By dark evangels. Then hearing what the wild things say To one another, Those creatures first born of our gray Mysterious Mother, The greatness of the world's unrest Steals through our pulses; Our own life takes a meaning guessed From the torn dulse's. The draft and set of deep sea-tides Swirling and flowing, Bears every filmy flake that rides, Grandly unknowing. The sunlight listens; thin and fine The crickets whistle; And floating midges fill the shine Like a seeding thistle. The hawkbit flies his golden flag From rocky pasture, Bidding his legions never lag Through morning's vasture. Soon we shall see the red vines ramp Through forest borders, And Indian summer breaking camp To silent orders. The glossy chestnuts swell and burst Their prickly houses Agog at news which reached them first In sap's carouses. The long noons turn the ribstons red, The pippins yellow; The wild duck from his reedy bed Summons his fellow. The robins keep the underbrush Songless and wary, As though they feared some frostier hush Might bid them tarry; Perhaps in the great North they heard Of silence falling Upon the world without a word, White and appalling. The ash-tree and the lady-fern, In russet frondage, Proclaim 'tis time for our return To vagabondage. All summer idle have we kept; But on a morning, Where the blue hazy mountains slept, A scarlet warning Disturbs our day-dream with a start; A leaf turns over; And every earthling is at heart Once more a rover. All winter we shall toil and plod, Eating and drinking; But now's the little time when God Sets folk to thinking. "Consider," says the quiet sun, "How far I wander; Yet when had I not time on one More flower to squander?" "Consider," says the restless tide, "My endless labor; Yet when was I content beside My nearest neighbor?" So wander-lust to wander-lure, As seed to season Must rise and wend, possessed and sure In sweet unreason. For doorstone and repose are good, And kind is duty; But joy is in the solitude With shy-heart beauty. And Truth is one whose ways are meek Beyond foretelling; And far his journey who would seek Her lowly dwelling. She leads him by a thousand heights, Lonelily faring, With sunrise and with eagle flights To mate his daring. For her he fronts a vaster fog Than Leif of yore did, Voyaging for continents no log Has yet recorded. He travels by a polar star, Now bright, now hidden, For a free land, though rest be far And roads forbidden, Till on a day with sweet coarse bread And wine she stays him, Then in a cool and narrow bed To slumber lays him. So we are hers. And, fellows mine Of fin and feather, By shady wood and shadowy brine, When comes the weather For migrants to be moving on, By lost indenture You flock and gather and are gone: The old adventure! I too have my unwritten date, My gypsy presage; And on the brink of fall I wait The darkling message. The sign, from prying eyes concealed, Is yet how flagrant! Here's ragged-robin in the field, A simple vagrant. THE MOTHER OF POETS. To H. F. H. The typewriter ticketh no more in the twilight; The mother of poets is sitting alone; Only the katydid teases the noonday; Where are the good-for-naught wanderbirds flown? Tom's in the North with his purple impressions; Dickon's in London a-building his fame; Fred's in the mountains a-minding his cattle; Kavanagh's teaching and preaching and game. Over in Kingscroft a toiler is writing, The boyish Old Man whom no fate ever floored; Karl's in New York with his briefs and his logic, That subtile mind like a velvet-sheathed sword. Blomidon welcomes his brother in silence; Grand Pré is luring him back to her breast; Faint and far off are the cries of the city, There in the country of infinite rest. All of them turn in their wide vagabondage, Halt and remember a place they have known, Where the typewriter ticketh no more in the twilight, And the mother of poets is sitting alone. There they will surely some April forgather, Drink once together before they depart, One by one over the threshold of silence, On the long trail of the wandering heart. Fear not, little mother, there may be a region Where poets have only to smile and keep still. The tick of the typewriter there will be useless, But there will be need of a motherkin still. A GOOD-BY. For love of the roving foot And joy of the roving eye, God send you store of morrows fair And a good rest by and by! IN A COPY OF BROWNING. Browning, old fellow, Your leaves grow yellow, Beginning to mellow As seasons pass. Your cover is wrinkled, And stained and sprinkled, And warped and crinkled From sleep on the grass. Is it a wine stain, Or only a pine stain, That makes such a fine stain On your dull blue,-- Got as we numbered The clouds that lumbered Southward and slumbered When day was through? What is the dear mark There like an earmark, Only a tear mark A woman let fall?-- As bending over She bade me discover, "Who plays the lover, He loses all!" With you for teacher We learned love's feature In every creature That roves or grieves; When winds were brawling, Or bird-folk calling, Or leaf-folk falling, About our eaves. No law must straiten The ways they wait in, Whose spirits greaten And hearts aspire. The world may dwindle, And summer brindle, So love but kindle The soul to fire. Here many a red line, Or pencilled headline, Shows love could wed line To golden sense; And something better Than wisdom's fetter Has made your letter Dense to the dense. No April robin, Nor clacking bobbin, Can make of Dobbin A Pegasus; But Nature's pleading To man's unheeding, Your subtile reading Made clear to us. You made us farers And equal sharers With homespun wearers In home-made joys; You made us princes No plea convinces That spirit winces At dust and noise. When Fate was nagging, And days were dragging, And fancy lagging, You gave it scope,-- When eaves were drippy, And pavements slippy,-- From Lippo Lippi To Evelyn Hope. When winter's arrow Pierced to the marrow, And thought was narrow, You gave it room; We guessed the warder On Roland's border, And helped to order The Bishop's Tomb. When winds were harshish, And ways were marshish, We found with Karshish Escape at need; Were bold with Waring In far seafaring, And strong in snaring Ben Ezra's creed. We felt the menace Of lovers pen us, Afloat in Venice Devising fibs; And little mattered The rain that pattered, While Blougram chattered To Gigadibs. And we too waited With heart elated And breathing bated, For Pippa's song; Saw Satan hover, With wings to cover Porphyria's lover, Pompilia's wrong. Long thoughts were started, When youth departed From the half-hearted Riccardi's bride; For, saith your fable, Great Love is able To slip the cable And take the tide. Or truth compels us With Paracelsus, Till nothing else is Of worth at all. Del Sarto's vision Is our own mission, And art's ambition Is God's own call. Through all the seasons, You gave us reasons For splendid treasons To doubt and fear; Bade no foot falter, Though weaklings palter, And friendships alter From year to year. Since first I sought you, Found you and bought you, Hugged you and brought you Home from Cornhill, While some upbraid you, And some parade you, Nine years have made you My master still. SHAKESPEARE HIMSELF: FOR THE UNVEILING OF MR. PARTRIDGE'S STATUE OF THE POET. The body is no prison where we lie Shut out from our true heritage of sun; It is the wings wherewith the soul may fly. Save through this flesh so scorned and spat upon, No ray of light had reached the caverned mind, No thrill of pleasure through the life had run, No love of nature or of humankind, Were it but love of self, had stirred the heart To its first deed. Such freedom as we find, We find but through its service, not apart. And as an eagle's wings upbear him higher Than Andes or Himalaya, and chart Rivers and seas beneath; so our desire, With more celestial members yet, may soar Into the space of empyrean fire, Still bodied but more richly than before. The body is the man; what lurks behind Through it alone unveils itself. Therefore We are not wrong, who seek to keep in mind The form and feature of the mighty dead. So back of all the giving is divined The giver, back of all things done or said The man himself in elemental speech Of flesh and bone and sinew utterèd. This is thy language, Sculpture. Thine to reach Beneath all thoughts, all feelings, all desires, To that which thinks and lives and loves, and teach The world the primal selfhood of its sires, Its heroes and its lovers and its gods. So shall Apollo flame in marble fires, The mien of Zeus suffice before he nods, So Gautama in ivory dream out The calm of Time's untrammelled periods, So Sigurd's lips be in themselves a shout. Mould us our Shakespeare, sculptor, in the form His comrades knew, rare Ben and all the rout That found the taproom of the Mermaid warm With wit and wine and fellowship, the face Wherein the men he chummed with found a charm To make them love him; carve for us the grace That caught Anne Hathaway in Shottery-side, The hand that clasped Southampton's in the days Ere that dark dame, of passion and of pride Burned in his heart the brand of her disdain, The eyes that wept when little Hamnet died, The lips that learned from Marlowe's and again Taught riper lore to Fletcher and the rest, The presence and demeanor sovereign At last at Stratford calm and manifest, That rested on the seventh day and scanned His work and knew it good, and left the quest And like his own enchanter broke his wand. No viewless mind! The very shape, no less, He used to speak and smile with, move and stand! God is most God not in his loneliness, Unfellowed, discreationed, unrevealed, Nor thundering on Sinai, pitiless, Nor when the seven vials are unsealed, But when his spirit companions with our thought And in his fellowship our pain is healed; And we are likest God when we are brought Most near to all men. Bring us near to him, The gentle, human soul whose calm might wrought Imperious Lear and made our eyes grow dim For Imogen,--who, though he heard the spheres "Still choiring to the young-eyed cherubim," Could laugh with Falstaff and his loose compeers And love the rascal with the same big heart That o'er Cordelia could not stay its tears. For still the man is greater than his art. And though thy men and women, Shakespeare, rise Like giants in our fancy and depart, Thyself art more than all their masteries, Thy wisdom more than Hamlet's questionings Or the cold searching of Ulysses' eyes, Thy mirth more sweet than Benedick's flouts and flings, Thy smiling dearer than Mercutio's, Thy dignity past that of all thy kings, And thy enchantment more than Prospero's. For thou couldst not have had Othello's flaw, Not erred with Brutus,--greater, then, than those For all their nobleness. Oh, albeit with awe, Leave we the mighty phantoms and draw near The man that fashioned them and gave them law! The Master Poet found with scarce a peer In all the ages his domain to share, Yet of all singers gentlest and most dear! Oh, how shall words thy proper praise declare, Divine in thy supreme humanity And near as the inevitable air? So he that wrought this image deemed of thee; So I, thy lover, keep thee in my heart; So may this figure set for men to see Where the world passes eager for the mart, Be as a sudden insight of the soul That makes a darkness into order start, And lift thee up for all men, fair and whole, Till scholar, merchant farmer, artisan, Seeing, divine beneath the aureole The fellow heart and know thee for a man. AT THE ROAD-HOUSE: IN MEMORY OF ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. You hearken, fellows? Turned aside Into the road-house of the past! The prince of vagabonds is gone To house among his peers at last. The stainless gallant gentleman, So glad of life, he gave no trace, No hint he even once beheld The spectre peering in his face; But gay and modest held the road, Nor feared the Shadow of the Dust; And saw the whole world rich with joy, As every valiant farer must. I think that old and vasty inn Will have a welcome guest to-night, When Chaucer, breaking off some tale That fills his hearers with delight, Shall lift up his demure brown eyes To bid the stranger in; and all Will turn to greet the one on whom The crystal lot was last to fall. Keats of the more than mortal tongue Will take grave Milton by the sleeve To meet their kin, whose woven words Had elvish music in the weave. Dear Lamb and excellent Montaigne, Sterne and the credible Defoe, Borrow, DeQuincey, the great Dean, The sturdy leisurist Thoreau; The furtive soul whose dark romance, By ghostly door and haunted stair, Explored the dusty human heart And the forgotten garrets there; The moralist it could not spoil, To hold an empire in his hands; Sir Walter, and the brood who sprang From Homer through a hundred lands, Singers of songs on all men's lips, Tellers of tales in all men's ears, Movers of hearts that still must beat To sorrows feigned and fabled tears; Horace and Omar, doubting still What mystery lurks beyond the seen, Yet blithe and reassured before That fine unvexed Virgilian mien; These will companion him to-night, Beyond this iron wintry gloom, When Shakespeare and Cervantes bid The great joy-masters give him room. No alien there in speech or mood, He will pass in, one traveller more; And portly Ben will smile to see The velvet jacket at the door. VERLAINE. Avid of life and love, insatiate vagabond, With quest too furious for the graal he would have won, He flung himself at the eternal sky, as one Wrenching his chains but impotent to burst the bond. Yet under the revolt, the revel, the despond, What pools of innocence, what crystal benison! As through a riven mist that glowers in the sun, A stretch of God's blue calm glassed in a virgin pond. Prowler of obscene streets that riot reek along, And aisles with incense numb and gardens mad with rose, Monastic cells and dreams of dim brocaded lawns, Death, which has set the calm of Time upon his song, Surely upon his soul has kissed the same repose In some fair heaven the Christ has set apart for Fauns. DISTILLATION. They that eat the uncrushed grape Walk with steady heels: Lo, now, how they stare and gape Where the poet reels! He has drunk the sheer divine Concentration of the vine. A FRIEND'S WISH. To C. W. S. Give me your last Aloha , When I go out of sight, Over the dark rim of the sea Into the Polar night! And all the Northland give you Skoal for the voyage begun, When your bright summer sail goes down Into the zones of sun! LAL OF KILRUDDEN. Kilrudden ford, Kilrudden dale, Kilrudden fronting every gale On the lorn coast of Inishfree, And Lal's last bed the plunging sea. Lal of Kilrudden with flame-red hair, And the sea-blue eyes that rove and dare, And the open heart with never a care; With her strong brown arms and her ankles bare, God in heaven, but she was fair, That night the storm put in from sea? The nightingales of Inishkill, The rose that climbed her window-sill, The shade that rustled or was still, The wind that roved and had his will, And one white sail on the low sea-hill, Were all she knew of love. So when the storm drove in that day, And her lover's ship on the ledges lay, Past help and wrecking in the gray, And the cry was, "Who'll go down the bay, With half of the lifeboat's crew away?" Who should push to the front and say, "I will be one, be others who may," But Lal of Kilrudden, born at sea! The nightingales all night in the rain, The rose that fell at her window-pane, The frost that blackened the purple plain, And the scorn of pitiless disdain At the hands of the wolfish pirate main, Quelling her great hot heart in vain, Were all she knew of death. Kilrudden ford, Kilrudden dale, Kilrudden ruined in the gale That wrecked the coast of Inishfree, And Lal's last bed the plunging sea. HUNTING-SONG: FROM "KING ARTHUR." Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor, When the horn is on the hill? ( Bugle: Tarantara! With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing, And a ten-tined buck to kill! Before the sun goes down, goes down, We shall slay the buck of ten; ( Bugle: Tarantara! And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha'e venison, When we come home again. Let him that loves his ease, his ease, Keep close and house him fair; ( Bugle: Tarantara! He'll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger And the joy of the open air. But he that loves the hills, the hills, Let him come out to-day! ( Bugle: Tarantara! For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying, And the hunt's up, and away! BUIE ANNAJOHN. Buie Annajohn was the king's black mare, Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn! Satin was her coat and silk was her hair, Buie Annajohn, The young king's own. March with the white moon, march with the sun, March with the merry men, Buie Annajohn! Buie Annajohn, when the dew lay hoar, (Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!) Down through the meadowlands went to war,-- Buie Annajohn, The young king's own. March by the river road, march by the dune, March with the merry men, Buie Annajohn! Buie Annajohn had the heart of flame, Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn! First of the hosts to the hostings came Buie Annajohn, The young king's own. March till we march the red sun down, March with the merry men, Buie Annajohn! Back from the battle at the close of day, (Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn!) Came with the war cheers, came with a neigh, Buie Annajohn, The young king's own. Oh, heavy was the sword that we laid on; But half of the heave was Buie Annajohn, Buie, Buie, Buie Annajohn! MARY OF MARKA. Eric of Marka holds the knife: "A nameless death for a nameless life."-- "Mary of Marka, bid him stay, And the morrow shall be our wedding-day."-- "Will the blessing of priest give back my faith, Or life to the child you left to death?"-- Eric of Marka holds the knife, And turns to the mother that is no wife: "Mary of Marka, have your will! Shall I spare him, or shall I kill?"-- "He wrought me wrong when the days were sweet, And he'll get no more but a winding-sheet." PREMONITION. He said, "Good-night, my heart is light, To-morrow morn at day We two together in the dew Shall forth and fare away. "We shall go down, the halls of dawn To find the doors of joy; We shall not part again, dear heart." And he laughed out like a boy. He turned and strode down the blue road Against the western sky Where the last line of sunset glowed As sullen embers die. The night reached out her kraken arms To clutch him as he passed, And for one sudden moment My soul shrank back aghast. THE HEARSE-HORSE. Said the hearse-horse to the coffin, "What the devil have you there? I may trot from court to square, Yet it neither swears nor groans, When I jolt it over stones." Said the coffin to the hearse-horse, "Bones!" Said the hearse-horse to the coffin, "What the devil have you there, With that purple frozen stare? Where the devil has it been To get that shadow grin?" Said the coffin to the hearse-horse, "Skin!" Said the hearse-horse to the coffin, "What the devil have you there? It has fingers, it has hair; Yet it neither kicks nor squirms At the undertaker's terms." Said the coffin to the hearse-horse, "Worms!" THE NIGHT-WASHERS. Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh! We are the brothers of ghouls, and who In the name of the Crooked Saints are you? We are the washers of shrouds wherein The lovers of beauty who sainted sin Sleep till the Judgment Day begin. When the moon is drifting overhead, We wash the linen of the dead, Stained with yellow and stiff with red. Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh! We are the foul night-washers, and who, By the Seven Lovely sins are you? Here we sit by the river reeds, Rinsing the linen that reeks and bleeds, And craving the help our labor needs. Come, Sir Fop, fall to, fall to! Show us for once what you can do! One day there'll be washing enough for you. Wade in, wade in, where the river runs Clear in the moonlight over the stones! It'll wash the ache from your scrofulous bones. Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh! We are the gossips of fame, and who By the Sinners' Litany are you? Wade in, wade in! The water is cold, The stains are deep, and the linen is old; But surely the sons of the town are bold! Work for us here till the break of day At washing the stains of the dead away, And you shall be merry, come what may! From now till your ninetieth year begins, You shall sin the Seven Lovely sins, While wearing the virtue a cardinal wins. Refuse, and your arms shall be broken and wried, To dangle like fenders over the side Of an empty ship on the harbor tide! They shall gather a waist in their grip no more, As you wander the wide world over and o'er, With the curs at your heels from door to door. With only a stranger to cover your face, You shall die in the streets of an outcast race, And your linen be washed in the market-place! Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh! We are the Scavenger Saints, but who In the name of the Shadowy Kin are you? MR. MOON: A SONG OF THE LITTLE PEOPLE. O Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? Down on the hilltop, Down in the glen, Out in the clearin', To play with little men? Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? O Mr. Moon, Hurry up your stumps! Don't you hear Bullfrog Callin' to his wife, And old black Cricket A-wheezin' at his fife? Hurry up your stumps, And get on your pumps! Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? O Mr. Moon, Hurry up along! The reeds in the current Are whisperin' slow; The river's a-wimplin' To and fro. Or you'll miss the song! Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? O Mr. Moon, We're all here! Honey-bug, Thistledrift, White-imp, Weird, Wryface, Billiken, Quidnunc, Queered; We're all here, And the coast is clear! Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? O Mr. Moon, We're the little men! Dewlap, Pussymouse, Ferntip, Freak, Drink-again, Shambler, Talkytalk, Squeak; Three times ten Of us little men! Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? O Mr. Moon, We're all ready! Tallenough, Squaretoes, Amble, Tip, Buddybud, Heigho, Little black Pip; We're all ready, And the wind walks steady! Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? O Mr. Moon, We're thirty score; Yellowbeard, Piper, Lieabed, Toots, Meadowbee, Moonboy, Bully-in-boots; Three times more Than thirty score. Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? O Mr. Moon, Keep your eye peeled; Watch out to windward, Or you'll miss the fun, Down by the acre Where the wheat-waves run; Keep your eye peeled For the open field. Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? O Mr. Moon, There's not much time! Hurry, if you're comin', You lazy old bones! You can sleep to-morrow While the Buzbuz drones; There's not much time Till the church bells chime. Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? O Mr. Moon, Just see the clover! Soon we'll be going Where the Gray Goose went When all her money Was spent, spent, spent! Down through the clover, When the revel's over! Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? O Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? Down where the Good Folk Dance in a ring, Down where the Little Folk Sing? Moon, Mr. Moon, When you comin' down? HEM AND HAW. Hem and Haw were the sons of sin, Created to shally and shirk; Hem lay 'round and Haw looked on While God did all the work. Hem was a fogy, and Haw was a prig, For both had the dull, dull mind; And whenever they found a thing to do, They yammered and went it blind. Hem was the father of bigots and bores; As the sands of the sea were they. And Haw was the father of all the tribe Who criticise to-day. But God was an artist from the first, And knew what be was about; While over his shoulder sneered these two, And advised him to rub it out. They prophesied ruin ere man was made: "Such folly must surely fail!" And when he was done, "Do you think, my Lord, He's better without a tail?" And still in the honest working world, With posture and hint and smirk, These sons of the devil are standing by While Man does all the work. They balk endeavor and baffle reform, In the sacred name of law; And over the quavering voice of Hem Is the droning voice of Haw. ACCIDENT IN ART. That painter has not with a careless smutch Accomplished his despair?--one touch revealing All he had put of life, thought, vigor, feeling, Into the canvas that without that touch Showed of his love and labor just so much Raw pigment, scarce a scrap of soul concealing! What poet has not found his spirit kneeling A sudden at the sound of such or such Strange verses staring from his manuscript, Written he knows not how, but which will sound Like trumpets down the years? So Accident Itself unmasks the likeness of Intent, And ever in blind Chance's darkest crypt The shrine-lamp of God's purposing is found. IN A GARDEN. Thought is a garden wide and old For airy creatures to explore, Where grow the great fantastic flowers With truth for honey at the core. There like a wild marauding bee Made desperate by hungry fears, From gorgeous If to dark Perhaps I blunder down the dusk of years. AT THE END OF THE DAY. There is no escape by the river, There is no flight left by the fen; We are compassed about by the shiver Of the night of their marching men. Give a cheer! For our hearts shall not give way. Here's to a dark to-morrow, And here's to a brave to-day! The tale of their hosts is countless, And the tale of ours a score; But the palm is naught to the dauntless, And the cause is more and more. Give a cheer! We may die, but not give way. Here's to a silent morrow, And here's to a stout to-day! God has said: "Ye shall fail and perish; But the thrill ye have felt to-night I shall keep in my heart and cherish When the worlds have passed in night." Give a cheer! For the soul shall not give way. Here's to the greater to-morrow That is born of a great to-day! Now shame on the craven truckler And the puling things that mope! We've a rapture for our buckler That outwears the wings of hope. Give a cheer! For our joy shall not give way. Here's in the teeth of to-morrow To the glory of to-day! THIS BOOK WAS PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON AND SON, AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS, DURING OCTOBER, 1896.

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