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Title: The Dyak chief, and other verses

Author: Erwin Clarkson Garrett

Release date: September 26, 2016 [eBook #53149]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DYAK CHIEF, AND OTHER VERSES ***

THE DYAK CHIEF

AND OTHER VERSES

The Dyak Chief

and Other Verses

BY

ERWIN CLARKSON GARRETT

Author of

“My Bunkie and Other Ballads”

NEW YORK

BARSE & HOPKINS

PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1914

BY BARSE & HOPKINS

To My Mother

Some Ye bid to teach us, Lord,

And some Ye bid to learn;

And some Ye bid to triumph—

And some to yearn and yearn:

And some Ye bid to conquer

In blood by land and sea;

And some Ye bid to tarry here—

To prove the love of Thee.

PREFACE

Neither desiring to plagiarize Cæsar nor to compare my book to Gaul, I wish to mention briefly that this volume as a whole is divided into three parts, of which one is occupied by the single poem, “The Dyak Chief,” the verses that give title to the book; another, the second, is occupied by American army ballads, and yet another, the third, is occupied by various verses on miscellaneous subjects.

However, if recollections of my personal campaigns against Cæsar—armed only with a Latin vocabulary and grammar—serve me rightly, the old Roman was not merely a worthy foe, but one who might well be held up as a worthy example; who dealt with his chronicles as he dealt with his enemies on the field, in a simple, direct, forcible manner, bare of circumlocution, tautology or ambiguity—that he who runs may read—and reading, know his Gaul and Gallic chieftains, his Cæsar and his Cæsar’s legionaries, even as Cæsar knew them.

The initial poem, “The Dyak Chief,” forming Part One, is a romance of Central Borneo, that I visited in July, 1908, during a little trip around the World.

Coming over from Java, which I had just finished touring, I arrived at Bandjermasin, in southeastern Borneo, near the coast, and from whence I took a small steamer up the Barito River to Poeroek Tjahoe, pronounced “Poorook Jow,” deep in the interior of the island.

Poeroek Tjahoe was the last white (Dutch) settlement, and from there I went with three Malay coolies five days tramp on foot through the jungle, northwest, penetrating the very heart of Borneo, sleeping the first three nights in the houses of the Dyaks, some nomadic tribes of whom still roam the jungle as head-hunters, and the last two nights upon improvised platforms out in the open, till I reached Batoe Paoe, a town or kampong in the geographical center of the island.

I also visited a nearby village, Olong Liko, afterwards returning by the Moeroeng and Barito Rivers to Poeroek Tjahoe, and from thence back to Bandjermasin on the little river-steamer and then by boat to Singapore, which was the radiating headquarters for my trips to Sumatra, Java, Borneo and Siam.

Having thus reached the very center of Borneo on foot, I had an excellent opportunity to study the country, the people and the general conditions, so that the reader of “The Dyak Chief” need feel no hesitancy in accepting as accurate and authentic, all descriptions, details and touches of “local color” or “atmosphere” contained in the poem.

Full notes on “The Dyak Chief” will be found at the end of the volume.

Part Two contains a number of new American army ballads, gathered mostly as a result of my personal observations and experiences when serving as a private in Companies “L” and “G,” 23rd U. S. Infantry (Regulars) and Troop “I,” 5th U. S. Cavalry (Regulars), during the Philippine Insurrection of 1899-1902.

As I have just mentioned, the army verses are all new ones, and consequently not to be found among those contained in my previous volume, “My Bunkie and Other Ballads.”

Part Three consists of individual poems on various subjects without any interrelation.

It is sincerely hoped that the reader will make full use of the notes appended at the end of the book, which addenda I have endeavored to treat with as much brevity as may be compatible with succinctness.

E. C. G.

Philadelphia, February 1st, 1914.

CONTENTS

PART ONE

PAGE

THE DYAK CHIEF

13

PART TWO—AMERICAN ARMY BALLADS

ON THE WATER-WAGON

33

ARMY OF PACIFICATION

35

SOLITARY

38

THE SULTAN COMES TO TOWN

40

PHILIPPINE RANKERS

45

DOBIE ITCH

48

THE SERVICE ARMS

50

PART THREE—OTHER VERSES

SHAH JEHAN

55

THE OMNIPOTENT

59

THE OUTBOUND TRAIL

62

THE FOOL

64

THE SHIPS

67

THE FIRST POET

68

THE TEST

70

THE PORT O’ LOST DELIGHT

72

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

76

KING BAMBOO

77

MARK TWAIN

79

THE SUMMIT

80

THE LITTLE BRONZE CROSS

81

KEATS

83

CHRISTMAS

84

TUCK AWAY—LITTLE DREAMS

85

BLOODY ANGLE

87

THE MICROBE

89

THE SEAS

90

GOD’S ACRE

92

GOLD

94

THE LEGION

95

THE ALTAR

97

THE SONG OF THE AEROPLANE

99

PACK YOUR TRUNK AND GO

101

WOMAN

103

NIPPON

105

THE NEW BARD

107

FATHER TIME

110

MY LOVES

112

THE FORUM

114

THE MASTERPIECE

116

THE HERITAGE

118

THE ADJUSTING HOUR

120

THE OUTPOSTERS

121

WONDERING

124

LINES TO AN ELDERLY FRIEND

126

BATTLESHIPS

127

THE AMERICAN FLAG

131

THE GREAT DOCTORS

133

THE DREAMER AND THE DOER

134

SPAIN

135

C. Q. D.

138

THE LIGHTS

140

THE CHOSEN

141

THE FAIREST MOON

144

THE STRIVER

146

THE OLD MEN

148

THE FOUR-ROADS POST

150

THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY

152

PHANTOM-LAND

154

THE ROSE

156

PATRIOTISM

157

KELVIN

159

Notes

160

PART ONE

THE DYAK CHIEF

THE DYAK CHIEF

Hear ye a tale from the deepest depths of the heart of Borneo,

Where the Moeroeng leaps in wild cascades,

And the endless green of the jungle fades,

And night shuts down on the fern-choked glades

Where the kampong hearth-fires glow.

Listen, Oh White Man, that ye hear

The words of a Dyak chief,

Till ye learn the weight of the Dyak hate

And the depth of the Dyak grief.

Once in the days of my strength and pride

I loved a kampong maid,

And very old was the tale I told

’Neath the lace of the jungle shade.

And very old was the tale I told,

Though born year by year;

Till I thought of the headless waist I bore—

And I drew the maiden near:

And I pledged her there by the tree-banked stream

Where the rippling shadows flee,

“None but the skull of a kampong chief

Shall hang at my belt for thee.”

II

When over the palm-topped endless hills

First broke the golden day,

The taintless breeze in the highest trees

Laughed as I swung away.

Laughed as I climbed the mountain path

Or skirted the river’s bank,

And the great lianes sung to me

As on my knees I drank.

And the great lianes softly swayed

And twisted in snake-like guise,

Till I lost their sight in the leafy height

Where peeped the purple skies.

And down through the dank morasses

I leapt from clod to clod,

O’er fallen trunk and lifted root

And the ooze of the sunken sod—

Where the tiny trees stand tall and straight,

A mass of mossy green,

And lighting all like a fairy hall

The sunlight sifts between.

Day by day through stress and strain

I pressed my marches through;

Day by day through strain and stress

The weary hours flew.

And silent, from the dank brown leaves

As swept my hurrying tread,

The little waiting leeches rose

And caught me as I sped.

Till my feet and ankles bled in streams—

But I let them clinging stay,

And they swelled to seven times their size

And glutted and fell away.

For never time had I to stop,

And so they sucked their fill,

As I splashed through the knee-deep rivers

And clambered the jungle hill.

And only night could halt me,

And the stars in their proud parade,

They bade me look to the fray before,

And back to the kampong maid.

III

Weary at last I reached a height

That showed a fertile glade,

Where the bending trees of the river brink

Leaned out o’er a wild cascade.

And white above the waving banks

The towering giants rose high,

And tossed their heads in hauteur,

Full-plumed across the sky.

And waved their long lianes

A hundred feet in air,

And shook their clinging vine-leaves

As a Dyak maid her hair.

And down by the Moeroeng’s turning

The river rock rose sheer,

And out of the cracks the tasseled palms

Like mighty plumes hung clear.

While still, behind a boulder,

Where the little ripples gleam,

A fisher sat in his sunken proa

In the midst of the gliding stream.

Only the crash of the underbrush

Told where a hunter sped,

And I caught the glint of the morning sun

On the blow-spear’s glittering head.

Only the crack of a mandauw

Felling the little trees,

And the murmuring call of a water-fall

That echoed the jungle breeze.

But more to me than the hunter—

The fisher and stream and hill—

Was the kampong deep in the hollow,

Nestling dark and still.

Dark and still in the valley,

A single house and strong;

Perched on piles two warriors high

And a hundred paces long.

And straight before the tall-stepped door

The mighty chief poles rose,

And seemed to shake their tasseled tops

In warning to their foes—

As they who slept beneath them

Once did, when in their might—

With shining steel and sinews—

Full-armed they sprang to fight.

Long from the hill-side trees I watched

The water women go

Back and forth to the river bank,

Chattering to and fro.

Long from the hill-side trees I watched

Till—straight as the windless flame—

With spear and shield and mandauw,

The kampong chieftain came.

Full well I knew the waist-cloth blue

Where hung each shriveled head.

Full well I saw the eyes of awe

That followed in his tread.

Full well I heard the spoken word—

The quick obedience fanned—

And I felt the trance of the royal glance

Of the Lord of the Jungle-land.

Lightly he scorned the proffered guard

As he strode the upland grade,

And softly I drew my mandauw

And fingered the sharpened blade.

Was it for game or a head he came

To the hills in the golden morn?

But little I cared as the heavens stared

On the day that my hope was born.

For over and over I muttered—

As I slunk from tree to tree—

“None but the head of a kampong chief

Shall hang at my belt for thee.”

(None but the head of a kampong chief

For you my belt shall grace,

Taken by right in fairest fight—

Full-fronted—face to face.)

And I found a leafy clearing

That lay across his path,

And I stood to wait his coming—

The chieftain in his wrath.

As the moan before the wind-storm

That breaks across the night,

Were the rhythmic, muffled foot falls

Of the war-lord come to fight.

The crack of little branches—

The branches pushed away—

And the Scourge of the Moeroeng Valley

Sprang straight to the waiting fray.

’Twas then I knew the stories true

They told of his fearful fame,

As through my shield a hand’s-length

His hurtling spearhead came.

Stunned I reeled and a moment kneeled

To the shock of the blinding blow,

But I rose again at the stinging pain

And the wet of the warm blood’s flow.

And I staggered straight and I scorned to wait

And I swept my mandauw high—

But ere my stroke descended

He smote me athwart the thigh.

As the lean rattan at the workman’s knife—

As the stricken game in the dell—

As a bird on the wing at the blow-spear’s sting,

To the reddened earth I fell.

And merrily with fiendish glee

He knelt and held me fast;

And I looked on high at the fleecy sky—

And I thought the look was the last.

But by the will that knows no law

I wrenched my right hand free,

And I drove my mandauw’s gleaming point

A hand’s-breadth in his knee.

Stung by the pain he loosened,

And a moment bared his breast,

And like the dash of the lightning flash

My weapon sought its rest.

As a log in the Moeroeng rapids

The mighty chieftain rolled,

And I pinned him fast for the head-stroke,

In the reek of the blood-stained mold.

And I pinned him fast for the head-stroke—

But the glare of the dying eyes

Gleamed forth to show the worthy foe

And the heart that never dies.

. . . . . . . . . .

A moment toward a kampong,

And toward a kampong maid,

I looked ... and a head rolled helpless

To the crash of a falling blade.

IV

With strips from my torn jacket

I bound my arm and thigh,

And I headed back o’er the leafy track

With hope and spirits high.

And as I sped with leaping heart

All Nature seemed to sing;

And my legs ran red where trickling bled

The head of the Jungle King.

The purring tree-tops called me—

The fleecy clouds rolled by—

And the forest green was a sun-shot sheen,

And the sky was a laughing sky.

And only night could halt me,

And the stars in their proud parade,

They bade me look to the path before

That led to the kampong maid.

Bleeding and torn, spent and worn,

At last I reached the hill,

Whence each hearth-light in the falling night

Was a welcome bright and still.

For each hearth-light in the falling night

Cut clear through the growing gloam—

Of all brave things the best that brings

The weary Wanderer home.

But the waiting watchers spied me,

And met me as I ran;

And they saw the head of the chieftain,

And they hailed me man and man.

But through the heart-whole greetings

I felt the anxious gaze,

And over my brain like a pall was lain

The weight of the Doubter’s craze.

And I begged them to tell me quickly—

For I quailed at the story stayed—

And I asked them if aught had happened

To the head of the kampong maid.

And there in the leafy gloaming—

Where the stars lit one by one,

They told me the tale at my homing—

And I felt the passions run—

Hate as the white-hot flame jet—

Shame as the burning bar—

Grief as the poisoned arrow—

Revenge as the salted scar:

Rankling—roaring—blinding—

Rising and ebbing low;

Till overhead the skies burst red,

And I tottered beneath the blow.

For they told of a White Man’s coming,

And the weapon that carries far;

And his love for the Maid—but over it laid

The hush of the falling star.

Faithlessness—treachery—cunning—

Weakness and love and fear—

Oh very old was the tale they told,

Though born year by year.

And I drew my blade and I leapt away—

But they sprang and held me fast:

And they promised me there by the dead chief’s hair,

My hate should be filled to the last.

And they showed me him bound and knotted

To the base of a splintered tree,

Stripped to the sun and spat upon

And taunted—awaiting me.

And I saw her in the shadows—

But ... I might not know her, then—

A sneer for the kampong women—

And a jest for the kampong men.

. . . . . . . . . .

And thus in the days of my strength and pride,

From over the distant sea,

The White Man came in his open shame

And stole my love from me.

V

The next morn at the rising sun

The tom-toms roared their fill,

And echoed like rolling thunder

From hill to farthest hill.

And the birds of the jungle fluttered

And lifted and soared away,

And we dragged the fettered prisoner forth

To blink at the blinding day.

Full length and naked on the ground

We staked him foot and hand,

And we laughed in glee as we watched to see

The pest of the jungle-land.

Oh we laughed in glee as we watched to see

The little leeches swing,

End on end till they reached the flesh

Of the prostrate, struggling Thing.

Like river flies in the summer rains

They covered the White Man o’er—

Body and legs and arms and face,

Till the whole was a bleeding sore.

And the red streams ran from the crusted pools

And crimsoned the leafy ground,

And the scent of gore but brought the more

As the smell of game to the hound.

Hour by hour I watched him die,

Slowly day by day,

Hour by hour I watched the flesh

Sinking and turning gray:

Hour by hour I heard him shriek

To the skies and the White Man’s God—

But only the gluttons came again

And reddened the reeking sod.

Weeping, writhing, groaning—

Paled to an ashen dun—

And the clotted blood turned black as mud

And stunk in the midday sun.

(Bones where stretched the tautening flesh—

A shining, yellow sheen—

And the flies that helped the leeches work

In the stagnant pools between.)

. . . . . . . . . .

Till the fourth day broke in a blaze of gold—

And I knew the end was nigh—

And I called the tribes from near and far,

To watch the White Man die.

From every kampong of the south

Where the broad Barito winds—

From every kampong of the east

The murmuring hill-wind finds—

From every kampong of the west

Where the Djoeloi falls and leaps—

From every kampong of the north

Where the great Mohakkam sweeps—

From east and west and south and north

The mighty warriors came,

To prove the weight of the Dyak hate

And the shame of the naked shame.

In noiseless scorn and wonder

They scanned the victim there,

Except that when an Elder spake

To mock at his despair.

Or when from out the long-house—

Where loosened footboards creaked—

A woman leaned in frenzy

And tore her hair and shrieked.

And from the wooded hill-tops

The answering echoes came,

Till all our far-flung wilderness

Stooped down to curse his name.

In sullen, savage silence

They watched the streamlets flow:

In savage, sullen silence—

The war-lords—row on row—

Ranged around by rank and years,

Oh goodly was the sight,

Square shouldered—spare—with muscles bare

Coiled in their knotted might—

And little serpent eyes that gleamed

In glittering, primal hate,

Like adders, that beneath the leaves

The coming foot falls wait.

The shrunken heads about their belts

Stared with senseless grin,

As though in voiceless mummery

They mocked him in his sin.

As though in sightless greeting—

To make his entry good

To th’ lost and leering legion

Of the martyred brotherhood.

. . . . . . . . . .

We rubbed his lips with costly salt—

(You know how far it comes)—

And when he called for drink—we laughed—

And rolled the Sick-man’s Drums.

. . . . . . . . . .

They beckoned me unto his side—

The blood-stench filled the dell—

They asked me—“Ye are satisfied?”

And I answered—“It is well.”

The final glaze was settling fast—

The weary struggles ceased—

And on his breath was the moan of death

That prayed for life released.

So we propped his mouth wide open

With a knob of rotten vine,

And the leeches entered greedily

As white men to their wine.

Palate and roof and tongue and gums,

They gushed in rivers gay—

And gasping—his own blood choked him—

And his Spirit passed away.

This is the tale the old chief tells

When the western gold-belt dies,

And the jungle trees in the evening breeze

Tower against the skies,

And the good-wife bakes the greasy cakes

Where the kampong hearth-fires rise.

PART TWO

AMERICAN ARMY BALLADS

ON THE WATER-WAGON

Pay-day’s done and I’ve had my little fun—

I’ve had my monthly row—

And they put me in “the mill” and they told me, “Peace be still,”

And—I am on the Water-wagon now.

Oh I’m on the Water-wagon and the time is surely draggin’

And I’m thirsty as I can be;

And I’m nursing of an eye that I got for being fly,

And I’m bunking back o’ bars exclusively.

Now wouldn’t it upset you—now wouldn’t it afret you

If they jugged you ’cause you got a little tight,

And a zig-zag course you laid when doing Dress Parade,

And you really thought Guide Right was Column Right.

Oh I’m on the Water-wagon but the trial is surely laggin’

And I’m dryer than the Arizona dust,

And my throat is full o’ hay and I’m choppin’ wood all day

‘Cause the Sergeant of the Guard, he says I must.

The Jug is rank and slummy and I’m sitting like a dummy

Looking over at the barracks where I hear the mess-tins clang:

And the fool I am comes o’er me, as I chant the same old story,

The Ballad of the Guard-house—until I go and hang:—

“Oh I’m on the Water-wagon, you’ll never see me saggin’,

I am glued and tied and fastened to the seat ...”

And I hear the fellers snicker where the two lone candles flicker,

And I shut-up like a soldier—with the Ballad incomplete.

ARMY OF PACIFICATION

Cuba 1907

I’ve hiked a trail where the last marks fail

And the vine-choked jungles yawn,

I’ve doubled-out on a dirty scout

Two hours before the dawn,

I’ve done my drill when the palms hung still

And the rations nearly gone.

I’ve soldier’d in Pinar del Rio—

In ’Frisco and Aparri—

I’ve lifted their lights through the tropic nights

O’er the breast of a golden sea,

But this is surely the craziest puzzle

That ever has puzzled me.

It’s this. I’m here in Cuba

Where the royal palms swing high,

And the White Man’s plantations of all o’ the Nations

Are scattered ahither and nigh

And the native galoot who must revolute

Though no one can tell you just why.

And when I go mapping the mountain and vale

Or a practice-march happens my way,

Each planter I meet is lovely and sweet

And setteth them up right away,

“And won’t I come in and how’ve I been?”

And—“How long do I think the troops stay?”

They never besprinkled my bosom

When I soldier’d over home,

Nor clasped me in glee when I came from the sea

Where the Seal Rock breakers comb,

Or stamped on a strike and scattered them wide

Like the scud of the back-set foam.

When I saved ’em their stinking Islands

They cursed me for being rough:

(They wouldn’t dare to have soldier’d there

But they called me brutal and tough.

I had done their work and the land was theirs,

Which I reckon was nearly enough).

They never enthuse over khaki or “blues”

Anywhere else I’ve been.

They never go wild and bless the child

And say “Oh Willie come in.”

Though on my soul, I’m damned if I see

Just where is the Cardinal Sin.

I’m only a buck o’ the rank and file

As stupid as I can be,

So this is the craziest puzzle

That ever has puzzled me.

(I’m perfectly dry but I must bat an eye,

For you think that I cannot see.)

SOLITARY

We’re walking our post like a little tin soldier,

Backward and forward we go,

By the Solitary’s cell, which assuredly is hell—

It’s five foot square you know.

The boy was all right but he would get tight

When pay-day came around;

And the non-com he hated was thereupon slated

To measure 5-10 on the ground.

Oh yes, we’ve been in the calaboose,

We’ve done our turn in the jug;

’Cause the fellow we lick must go raise a kick—

The dirty, cowardly mug.

His heart was all right and his arm was all right,

But it’s fearful what drink will do:

And the corporal he hit with the butt of a gun

And nigh put the corporal through.

It’s way against orders, it’s awful, I know,

They’d jug me myself—what’s more—

But I must slip the beggar a chew and a smoke

Just under the jamb of the door.

He’s bound to get Ten and a Bob for sure

Abreaking stone on the Isle,

So they fastened ’im fair in a five foot square

Till the day that they give ’im a trial.

Oh the Corporal o’ the Guard is a wakeful man—

My duty is written plain,

But the Solitary there in his cramped and lonely lair,

It’s enough to drive a man insane.

He’s time to repent for the money that he spent

And the temper that cursed him too,

When he’s breaking rock all day by the shores o’ ’Frisco Bay

Where he sees the happy homeward-bounds come through.

Shall we risk it—shall we risk it—heart o’ mine?

Oh damn the Corporal of the Guard.

While we slip “the makings” under to the Solitary’s wonder,

And the whispered thanks come back—“God bless you, pard.”

THE SULTAN COMES TO TOWN

A Philippine Reminiscence of 1900

The Sultan of Jolo has come to town—

Do tell!

The Sultan of Jolo has come to town—

The Sultan of Jolo of great renown—

And he’s dressed like a general and walks like a clown

As well.

The Sultan of Jolo’s a mighty chief—

My word!

The Sultan of Jolo’s a mighty chief—

(Don’t call ’im a grafter or chicken-thief,

For you’ll surely come to your grief,

If heard).

The Sultan of Jolo’s such a stride,

And style!

The Sultan of Jolo’s such a stride,

And his skin’s the color of rhino hide,

And he cheweth betel-nut beside:

(Oh vile!)

The Sultan of Jolo’s a swell galoot—

You bet.

The Sultan of Jolo’s a swell galoot,

So we line the scorching streets and salute,

(“Presenting Arms” to the royal boot),

And sweat.

The Sultan of Jolo’s a full-fledged king—

I say

The Sultan of Jolo’s a full-fledged king

As down the regiment’s front they swing,

He and his Escort—wing and wing:

Hurray!

The Sultan of Jolo feels his weight,

In truth.

The Sultan of Jolo feels his weight

As he marches by in regal state

With Major Sour and all The Great,

Forsooth.

The Sultan proudly treads the earth

With “cuz.”

The Sultan proudly treads the earth

O’ershadowed by the Major’s girth,

But he knows just what the Major’s worth:

He does.

The Sultan of Jolo’s a haughty bun—

(Don’t quiz).

The Sultan of Jolo’s a haughty bun—

An honest, virtuous gentleman—

And he’s rated high in Washington—

He is.

The Sultan of Jolo’s a splendid bird—

Whoopee!

The Sultan of Jolo’s a splendid bird,

But we in our ignorance pledge our word

His asinine plumage is absurd

To see.

The Sultan and Major Sour are

Such chums:

The Sultan and Major Sour are

So wrapped in love exceeding par,

That war shall never war-time mar—

—what comes.

(The Sultan of Jolo guesseth right—

Yo ho!

The Sultan of Jolo guesseth right,

As sure as daytime follows night,

That Major Sour wouldn’t fight:

Lord—no!)

The Sultan of Jolo is pretty wise—

(And weeds).

The Sultan of Jolo is pretty wise,

In spite of innocent, bovine eyes,

And the soothing tongue o’ the Eastern skies

And creeds.

The Sultan of Jolo passeth by—

Oh Lor’!

The Sultan of Jolo passeth by,

But we in the ranks can’t wink an eye,

Though we think we know the Reasons Why,

And more.

The Sultan of Jolo walketh flat—

(Have a care!)

The Sultan of Jolo walketh flat,

But Nature’s surely the cause of that;

And he’s salaried high—and sleek and fat—

So there!

The Sultan of Jolo laughs in glee—

Why not?

The Sultan of Jolo laughs in glee

As his wages come across the sea

From those who hate polygamy—

God wot!

Oh the Sultan of Jolo’s gold and gilt—

He is.

Oh the Sultan of Jolo’s gold and gilt,

His chest and his sleeves and his good sword hilt,

And he knows the lines on which are built—

His biz.

PHILIPPINE RANKERS

Clear down the thin-thatched barrack-room

The varying voices rise—

The shrill New England teacher’s—

(The wisest of the wise)—

And the Cowboy cleaning cartridges

And telling fearful lies.

The Bowery Boy is fast asleep

Performing Bunk-fatigue,

The Kid who simply can’t keep still

Is pounding through a jig,

And a plain darn fool just sits and sings

And sneaks another swig.

A bouncing bargain-counter clerk

Dilates to Private Brown,

The lordly top-notch swell he is

When he is back in town,

And the scion of an ancient name

Just yawns and hides a frown.

The mountain-riding Parson talks

T’ his Y. M. C. A. band,

And mine Professor’s turning Keats

With hard and grimy hand,

And Johnny’s reading football news

When baseball fills the land.

And some they pull together—

And some won’t gee at all—

And some are looking for a fight

And riding for a fall—

And some, they ran from prison bars;

And some, just heard The Call.

And some are simply “rotters”—

And some the Country’s best:

And some are from the cultured East—

And some the sculptured West:

And some they never heard of Burke—

And some they sport a crest.

(“The Backbone of the Army”—

“The Chosen of the Lord”—

The Faithful of the Fathers—

The Wielders of the Sword—

The hired of the helpless—

The bruisers and the bored.)

The east-sides of the cities

Are aye foregathered here;

The best sides of the cities

Are come from far and near,

To mix their books and Bibles

With oaths and rotten beer.

. . . . . . . . . .

Clear down the mud-browed, blood-plowed ranks

The thin, tanned faces lift;

The long, lean line that hears the whine

Of the bamboo’s silken sift,

And the sudden rush and the chug and the hush

Where the careless bullets drift.

The Parson’s up and shooting

And cursing like a fool;

The Bowery Boy is bleeding fast

In a red and ragged pool;

And mine Professor gags the wound—

(Which he didn’t learn in school).

. . . . . . . . . .

Nor creed nor sign nor order—

Nor clan nor clique nor class:

Never a mark to brand him

As he chokes in the paddy grass:

Only the tide of Bunker Hill,

That ebbs, but may not pass.

DOBIE ITCH

Tell about the fever

And all y’ tropic ills,

Tell about the cholera camp

Over ’mong the hills;

Tell about the small-pox

Where the bamboos switch,

But close y’ face and let me tell

About the Dobie Itch.

It isn’t erysipelas—

It isn’t nettle-rash;

It isn’t got from eating pork,

Or drinking native trash.

You smear your toes with ointment,

And think you’re getting well,

And then the damn thing comes again

And simply raises hell.

You’ve hiked all day in sun and rain

Through hills and paddy mire,

Abaft the slippery googoos

Who shoot—and then retire:

And now you’ve taken off your shoes

And settled for a rest,

When suddenly your feet they start

To itch like all possessed.

(Better take your socks off

And then see how it goes....

“Ouch! m’ bloody stockin’s

Stickin’ to m’ toes.”)

Scratching, scratching, scratching,

Burning scab and sore,

(“Stop, you fool, you’ll poison ’em!”

Hear your bunkie roar).

Never mind the poison—

Ease the maddening pain,

Till your poor old tired feet

Start to bleed again.

Tell about the fever

And all y’ tropic ills,

Tell about the cholera camp

Over ’mong the hills;

Tell about the small-pox

Where the bamboos switch,

But close y’ face and let me tell

About the Dobie Itch.

THE SERVICE ARMS

Clear from clotted Bunker Hill

And frozen Valley Forge,

To the Luzon trenches

And the fern-choked gorge:

All the Service—all the Arms—

Horse and Foot and Guns—

East and West who gave your best—

Stand and pledge your Sons!

THE INFANTRY:

As the Juggernaut slow rolls

Ringing red with reeking tolls,

Crushing out its Hindu souls

In Vishnu’s name:

As the unrelenting tide

Sweeps the weary wreckage wide,

Bidding all men stand aside

Or rue the game:

Meeting front and flank and rear,

Charge on charge with cheer on cheer,

Where the senseless corpses leer

Against the sun:

Sure as fate and faith and sign

I o’erwhelm them—they are mine;

And I pause where weeps the wine

Of battle won.

THE ARTILLERY:

As the slumbering craters wake,

And the neighboring foot hills shake,

As in shotted flame they break

Athwart the sky:

As the swollen streams of Spring

Meet their river wing and wing,

Till it sweeps a monstrous thing

Where cities die:

With a cold sardonic smile,

At a range of half a mile,

I—I lop them off in style

By six and eights:

As they come—their Country’s best—

Like a roaring, seething crest,

And I knock them Galley West

Where Glory Waits.

THE CAVALRY:

As the tidal wave in spate

Batters down the great flood gate

Where the huddled children wait

Behind the doors:

As the eagle in its flight

Sweeps the plain to left and right,

Strewing carnage, wreck and blight

And homeward soars:

As the raging, wild typhoon,

’Neath a white and callous moon,

Lifts the listless low lagoon

Into the sea:

In my tyranny and power

I have swept them where they cower,

I have turned the battle-hour

To the cry of Victory!

PART THREE

OTHER VERSES

SHAH JEHAN

BUILDER OF THE TAJ MAHAL.

They have carried my couch to the window

Up over the river high,

That a Great Mogul may have his wish

Ere he lay him down to die.

And the wish was ever this, and is,

Ere the last least shadows flee,

To gaze at the end o’er the river’s bend

On the shrine that I raised for thee.

And the plans I wrought from the plans they brought,

And I watched it slowly rise,

A vision of snow forever aglow

In the blue of the northern skies.

For I built it of purest marble,

That all the World might see

The depth of thy matchless beauty

And the light that ye were to me.

The silver Jumna broadens—

The day is growing dark,

And only the peacock’s calling

Comes over the rose-rimmed park.

And soon thy sunset marble

Will glow as the amethyst,

And moonlit skies shall make thee rise

A vision of pearly mist.

A vision of light and wonder

For the hordes in the covered wains,

From the snow-peaked north where the tides burst forth

To the Ghauts and the Rajput plains.

From the sapphire lakes in the Kashmir hills,

Whence crystal rivers rise,

To the jungles where the tiger’s lair

Lies bare to the Deccan skies.

And the proud Mahratta chieftains

And the Afghan lords shall see

The tender gleam of thy living dream,

Through all Eternity.

The black is bending lower—

Ah wife—the day-star nears—

And I see you come with calling arms

As ye came in the yester-years.

And the joy is mine that ne’er was mine

By Palace and Peacock Throne—

By marble and gold where the World grows cold

In the seed that It has sown.

More bright than the Rajputana stars

Thine eyes shone out to me—

More gay thy laugh than the rainbow chaff

That lifts from the Southern Sea.

More fair thy hair than any silk

In Delhi’s proud bazaars—

More true thy heart than the tulwar’s start—

Blood-wet in a hundred wars.

More red thy lips than the Flaming Trees

That brighten the Punjab plains—

More soft thy tread than the winds that spread

The last of the summer rains.

No blush of the dawning heavens—

No rose by the garden wall,

May ever seek to match thy cheek—

Oh fairest rose of all.

Above the bending river

The midday sun is gone,

But the glow of thy tomb dispels the gloom

Where doubting shadows yawn.

And the glow of thy tomb shall break the gloom

Through the march of the marching years,

Where, builded and bound from the dome to the ground

It was wrought of a monarch’s tears.

The silver Jumna broadens

Like a moonlit summer sea,

But bank and bower and town and tower

Have bidden farewell to me:

And only the tall white minarets,

And the matchless dome shine through—

The silver Jumna broadens and—

It bears me—love—to you.

THE OMNIPOTENT

The Lord looked down on the nether Earth

He had made so fair and green,

Fertile valleys and snow-capped hills

And the oceans that lie between.

The Lord looked down on Man and Maid,

Through the birth of the crystal air:

And the Lord leaned back in His well-earned rest—

And He knew that the sight was fair.

The eons crept and the eons swept

And His children multiplied,

And ever they lived in simple faith,

And in simple faith they died.

They blessed the earth that gave them birth—

They wept to the midnight star—

And they stood in awe where the tides off-shore

Rose leaping across the bar.

They blessed the earth that gave them birth—

But passed all time and tide,

They blessed their Lord-Creator—

Nor knew Him mystified.

They came and went—the little men—

The men of a primal breed—

And the Lord He gathered them as they lived,

Each in his simple creed.

And the Lord He gathered them as they came—

Ere the Earth had time to cool

And the horde of Cain had clouted the brain

’Neath the lash of a monstrous school.

II

The Lord looked down on the nether Earth

He had made so fair and green—

Fertile valleys and snow-capped hills

And the oceans that lie between.

And He saw the strife of the thousand sects—

And ever anew they came—

Torture and farce and infamy

Committed in His name.

Figure and form and fetich—

Councils of hate and greed—

Prophet on prophet warring,

Each to his separate need.

Symbol and sign and surplice

And ostentatious prayer,

And the hollow mock of the chanceled dark

Flung back through the raftered air.

. . . . . . . . . .

And the Lord He gazèd wistfully

Through the track of a falling star;

And He turned His sight from the homes of men,

Where the ranting cabals are.

THE OUTBOUND TRAIL

The Outbound Trail—The Outbound Trail—

We hear it calling still:

Coralline bight where the waves churn white—

Ocean and plain and hill:

Jungle and palm—where the starlit calm

The Wanderer’s loves fulfil.

Where the bleak, black blizzards blinding sweep

Across the crumpled floe,

And the Living Light makes white the night

Above the boundless snow,

And the sentinel penguins watch the waste

Where the whale and the walrus go:

Where the phosphor fires flash and flare

Along the bellowing bow,

And the soft salt breeze of the Southern Seas

Is sifting across the prow,

And the glittering Cross in the blue-black sky,

The Watcher of Then and Now:

We’ll lift again the lineless plain

Where the deep-cut rivers run—

And the pallid peaks as the eagle seeks

His crag when the day is done:

And the rose-red glaciers glance and gleam

In the glow of the setting sun.

We’ll go once more to a farther shore—

We’ll track the outbound trail;

Harbor and hill where the World stands still—

Where the strange-rigged fishers sail—

And only the tune of the tasseled fronds,

Like the moan of a distant gale.

We’ll tramp anew the jungle through

Where ferned Pitcairnias rise,

And the softly fanned Tjemaras stand

Green lace against the skies,

And the last red ray of the tropic day

Flickers and flares and dies.

Across the full-swung, shifting seas

There comes a beck’ing gleam,

Strong as the iron hand of Fate—

Sweet as a lover’s dream.

What can bind us—what can keep us—

Who shall tell us nay?

When the Outbound Trail is calling us—

Is calling us away.

THE FOOL

In the first gray dawn of history

A Paleolithic man

Observed an irate mammoth—

Observed how his neighbors ran:

And he sat on a naked boulder

Where the plains stretched out to the sun,

And jowl in hand he frowned and planned

As none before had done.

Next day his neighbors passed him,

And still he sat and thought,

And the next day and the next day,

But never a deed was wrought.

Till the fifth sun saw him flaking

Some flint where the rocks fall free—

And the sixth sun saw him shaping

A shaft from a fallen tree.

Enak and Oonak and Anak

And their children and kith and kin,

They paused where they watched him working,

And they smiled and they raised the chin,

And they tapped their foreheads knowingly—

As you and I have done—

But he—he had never a moment

To mark their mocking fun.

And Enak passed on to bury

His brother the mammoth slew.

And Oonak, to stay his starving,

With his fingers grubbed anew.

And Anak, he thought of his tender spouse

An ichthyosaurus ate—

Because in seeking the nearest tree

She had reached it a trifle late.

. . . . . . . . . .

Around the Council fire,

More beast and ape than man,

The hairy hosts assembled,

And their talk to the crazed one ran.

And they said, “It is best that we kill him

Ere he strangle us in the night,

Or brings on our head the curse of the dead

When the thundering heavens light.

“It is best that we rid our caverns

Of neighbors such as these—

It is best—” but the Council shuddered

At the rustle of parting leaves.

Out of the primal forest

Straight to their midst he strode—

Weathered and gaunt—but they gave no taunt—

As he flung to the ground his load.

They eyed them with suspicion—

The long smooth shafts and lean:

They felt of the thong-bound flint barbs—

They saw that the work was clean.

Like children with a plaything,

When first it is understood,

They leapt to their feet and hurled them—

And they knew that the act was good.

They pictured the mighty mammoth

As the hurtling spear shafts sank,

They pictured the unsuspecting game

Down by the river’s bank;

They pictured their safe-defended homes—

They pictured the fallen foe....

And the Fool they led to the highest seat,

Where the Council fires glow.

THE SHIPS

The White Ship lifts the horizon—

The masts are shot with gold—

And I know by the shining canvas

The cargo in the hold.

And now they’ve warped and fastened her,

Where I impatient wait—

To find a hollow mockery,

Or a rank and rotted freight.

. . . . . . . . . .

The Black Ship shows against the storm—

Her hull is low and lean—

And a flag of gore at the stern and fore,

And the skull and bones between.

I shun the wharf where she bears down

And her desperate crew make fast,

But manifold from the darkest hold

Come forth my dreams at last.

The White Ships and the Black Ships

They loom across the sea—

But I may not know until they dock—

The wares they bring to me.

THE FIRST POET

In the days of prose ere a bard arose

There came from a Northern Land,

A man with tales of the spouting whales

And the Lights that the ice-winds fanned.

And they sat them ’round on the barren ground,

And they clicked their spears to the time,

And they lingered each on the golden speech

Of the man with the words that rhyme.

With the words that rhyme like the rolling chime

Of the tread of the rhythmic sea,

And silent they listened with eyes that glistened

In savage ecstasy.

Over the plain as a pall was lain

The hand of the primal heart,

Till slowly there rose through the rock-bound close

The first faint glimmering Start.

As a ray of light in the storm-lashed night,

O’er the virgin forests swept

From the star-staked sea the Symbols Three—

And the cave-men softly wept.

Softly wept as slowly crept

To the depth of the savage brain,

Honor, forsooth, and Faith and Truth—

And they rose from the rock-rimmed plain—

And in twos and threes ’neath the mammoth trees

They whispered as children do:

And the Great World sprang from the Bard that sang,

And the First of the Men that Knew.

THE TEST

The Lord He scanned His children,

His good, well-meaning children,

And He murmured as He saw them

Where they came and paused and passed;

“I will drag them I will drive them

Through the fourfold Hells of Torture,

And—I will test the product

That comes back to me at last.”

His children came—His children paused—

His children slowly passed Him—

And for the sweat upon the brow

And scar upon the cheek,

He heaped the burdens higher—

He cut and smote and lashed them—

And as they swayed and tottered

He hurled them spent and weak.

They cast an eye, a gleaming eye,

Above to where they sought Him—

But blank the empty skies gave back,

And blank the heavens stared.

And even they with riven heart,

Who strove to hide the hiding,

He drove the scalpel deeper,

That the inmost core lay bared.

At last He took the Test-Tubes

And the Acids of the Ages,

And he lit the Mighty Forges

With the Fires of the Years,

And He turned and smote and hammered,

And He poured and paused and pondered,

Till a clear precipitate formed ’neath

A residue of tears.

Across the outer spaces—

Beyond the last least sun-path,

He called them gently homeward

And He murmured as they passed,

“I have driven ye and dragged ye

Through the fourfold Hells of Torture,

And—I will keep the product

That comes back to me at last.”

THE PORT O’ LOST DELIGHT

Some call it Fame or Honor—

Some call it Love or Power—

Whence running rails and bellied sails

The four-banked galleons tower.

To each the separate vision—

To each the guiding light—

Where, ’bove the dim horizon lifts

The Port o’ Lost Delight.

’Mid mighty cheers and the hope of years

They swung the good Ship free,

And with laughter brave she took the wave

Of the wonderful, whispering sea.

Over the scud of the white-capped flood—

Over the strong, young days—

Over the lift of the chaff-churned drift

And the mist of the moonlit haze—

Running the lights o’ the Ports-o’-Call,

Where the beckoning beacons shine;

But she passed them by with callous eye,

Nor saw the luring sign.

Piercing the glow of the ocean’s dawn,

As slow the seas unfold;

Scudding again across the plain

Of rippling, sunset gold.

Joyous and fair in the brine-wet air,

Where the phosphor bow-wave slips,

And the Wraiths of the Deep their secrets keep

Of the tale o’ the passing ships.

II

Till there lifted a wondrous Haven

Across the swinging main,

As ne’er before had lifted—

Nor e’er might lift again.

Clear it shone, each gleaming stone,

Mystic, white and far,

Castle and tree above the sea

Where the lilac combers are.

And over all there came a call,

As a Siren’s soft refrain—

Nor ever a helm to guide her,

The Good Ship turned again.

Swift o’er the back-set breakers

She plunged against the wind,

And never a look to left or right,

And never a thought behind:

Swinging, swaying, singing,

With all her canvas spread,

And bending spars and laughter

She fast and faster sped.

A little space—a little space—

A little nearer, then—

The Haven sank from the sunset sea,

And the sea was a waste again.

III

As the quivering stag at the bullet’s sting,

Who knew not harm was nigh,

So shook the Ship by seam and seam

In the death that may not die.

And though it sailed o’er every wave,

By reef and barrier bar,

’Neath the glare of the South Seas’ scorching sun

And the gleam of the lone North Star.

Though it lifted the lights o’ the Ports-o’-Call,

By green and crimson beam,

It never lifted the Light again—

The Light that fled as a dream.

Over a blue-black endless sea—

Over a timeless void—

Callous and careless plunged the Ship

That never a storm destroyed.

Skimming the foaming coral reef—

Daring the mid-deep wind—

Clipping the roar of the white lee shore

Where the Gods of Chance run blind.

Full belly sail before the gale—

With scuppers churning green—

And eyes set dead in a figure-head

That dipped in the troughs between:

That rose and fell and cut the swell—

Or knew the day or night;

That rose and fell to the soundless bell

Of the Port o’ Lost Delight.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

O’er the rock of all eternal—

Over sacred soil ye’ve trod;

Whither king and priest and people

Make their mockery of God.

Like the rolling of an organ

Down the mighty nave of Time,

In the hush of Things Supernal

Ye have sung of Things Sublime.

Living lilt beyond the starlight—

Living light beyond the spheres—

With a calm majestic cadence

Came the call of all the years.

As a pause across the storm-path—

As the swaying starlit sea—

As the faith of little children—

Ye have writ ETERNITY.

KING BAMBOO

A BALLAD OF THE EAST INDIES

I build them boats and houses—

I check their mountain roads—

I bear their double burdens—

The squeaking, creaking loads.

Adown the broken hill sides

My long, high pipings run,

To bring their water to them

Adripping ’neath the sun.

And when from spring and river

The weary climbers strain,

’Tis I who hold the nectar

To bring them life again.

I am the quivering bridges

That span the deep ravine—

I am the matted fences

That twist and wind between.

When ye sing of the lace Tjemara tree—

When ye speak of the swaying Palm—

When ye talk of the ferned Pitcairnia,

And the monkey’s wild alarm:

When ye tell of the blazing sunsets—

When ye know ye are nearly through—

Bend ye a knee to a Sovereign Lord—

As my flat-nosed children do.

MARK TWAIN

Died, April 21st, 1910

Fresh as the break o’ the dawning—

Clear as the sunlit pool;

Ye came on a World of weariness—

Lord of a kingly school.

Shuttle and lathe and hammer—

Mill and mine and mart—

They paused awhile to linger and smile—

Children again in heart.

And a World of work and trouble

Bent to their tasks anew,

With strength reborn of the joyous morn

Made manifest by you.

. . . . . . . . . .

Again the marts are silenced—

There’s a hush o’er land and sea—

With only the sobs of a Nation,

That loved and honored thee.

THE SUMMIT

Out of the murky valleys

By the sweat of brow and brain;

Out of the dank morasses—

On to the spreading plain:

Climbing the broken ranges—

Falling and driving through,

While the toil and tears of the countless years

Bid ye back to the task anew.

Glory and fame and honor

Perched on the distant peak—

Beckoning over land and sea

To the gaze of the men who seek.

Lifting the faltering footstep—

Bathing the tired brow,

Till out of the lanes of the sunken plains

Ye come to the golden Now.

Far spread the gleaming foot hills,

And the deep, green vales between;

Fair lift the distant coast-lines

And the water’s shifting sheen—

And weary, ye pause on the Summit

For the first victorious breath,

When a hand at your elbow beckons—

And ye know that the hand is Death.

THE LITTLE BRONZE CROSS

THE VICTORIA CROSS IN THE CROWN JEWELS ROOM OF THE TOWER OF LONDON

Glittering—glaring—glistening—

In pompous, proud array;

Maces and crowns and sceptres—

Orders and ribbons gay:

Bright in the white electric light;

Caged and guarded there;

Symbol and sign that the luck of line

A king or a cad might wear.

Blinking—blinding—blazing—

The crown-topped hillock shone,

And the gaping crowd in voices loud

Coveted gilt and stone.

Coveted idle gilt and stone,

Though never stopped to stare

At a little cross on the other side,

Half hid in the alcove there.

But slowly into the Tower

Through the narrow windows crept,

The Winds of the Outer Marches—

The Winds that had seen and wept

At Ladysmith—Trafalgar—

Sebastopol—Lahore;

Khartoum—Seringapatam—

Kabul and Gwalior.

The breath of the red Sirocco

That sweeps from the white Soudan:

The winds that beat through the Kyber Pass

Where the blood of England ran:

The winds that lift o’er the Great South Drift—

O’er the veldt and the frozen plain—

They stooped and kissed the little bronze cross,

And went on their way again.

And the blaze of crowns and sceptres—

The power and pomp of kings;

And the glare of the glittering Orders—

The tinsel of Little Things,

Paled in the ancient Tower—

Faded and died alone,

And only a cross—For Valour—

With mystic brightness shone.

KEATS

Who, in a spirit of supersensitive self-abnegation, had placed upon his tombstone that here lay “one whose name is writ in water.”

If your name is writ in water,

As your humble tombstone saith,

Then it forms a crystal fountain

Born to mock at mortal death.

If your name is writ in water,

’Tis the water of the stream

Where the wise of all the nations

Stoop to drink and stay to dream.

If your name is writ in water,

It has flowed into the sea

Of the ages past and present—

And of Immortality.

CHRISTMAS

Childish prattle and merry laugh

And the joy of Christmas-tide,

And the old are young as the gay bells fling

Their messages far and wide.

Steaming pudding and lighted tree

And the litter of scattered toys,

We’re all of us children again to-day

Along o’ the girls and boys.

(Back behind the happy faces

Lifts another looking through?

Drop your merry mask and tell me

What does Christmas mean to you?)

Laughter long of the joyous throng,

Festival, fun and feast,

And there’s never a care in the echoing air

In the joy of a year released.

There’s never a care in the echoing air—

There’s never a break in the song—

And we rise with the rest when the children are blessed

And the hours have galloped along.

TUCK AWAY—LITTLE DREAMS

His nose was pressed to the grindstone—

His shoulders bent to the wheel,

One of the numbered millions

That bore no right to feel.

Child of a callous calling—

Waif of a wilful day;

I heard him murmur beneath his breath—

“Tuck away—little dreams—tuck away.”

The loom and lathe and ledger—

Pencil and square and drill—

They saw his pain and they laughed again

As hardened headsmen will.

While ’neath their chains and chiding,

Through the gloom of the endless day,

I heard him murmur beneath his breath—

“Tuck away—little dreams—tuck away.”

I saw him going down the hill—

I saw him pause, and start,

And bend again to the grinding grain—

Lord of a broken heart.

The sunset shadows lengthened—

The earth was turning gray,

As I caught the breath of the living death—

“Tuck away—little dreams—tuck away.”

BLOODY ANGLE

July 3, 1863; July 3, 1913

THE SPIRIT OF BLOODY ANGLE SPEAKS.

I saw them charge across the field

The Stars and Bars above them,

I saw them fall in hundreds—

I heard the rebel yell.

Behind me, ’neath the Stars and Stripes,

I watched the blue coats pouring

Into the men of Pickett

The flaming vials of Hell.

I thought of Yorktown—Bunker Hill—

Of Valley Forge and Monmouth.

Again the Elders signed our birth—

The great Bell tolled anew.

And I closed my eyes and shuddered—

And I looked to the Lord of Battle—

And I prayed, “Forgive them Father,

For they know not what they do.”

I saw them striding o’er the field—

A gray-clad, aged remnant;

I heard again across the plain

The piercing rebel call.

Behind me, ’neath a peaceful sky,

I saw the blue coats standing—

I saw the columns meet—clasped hands—

Above my battered wall.

I knew my blood-stained conscience—

My reeking rowels were whitened.

I saw the line of Sections

Fade dim and die away.

And Phœnix-like, from fire and hate,

A reunited nation

Rose up to bless her children,

Forever and for aye.

THE MICROBE

The Microbe said—“There is no Man—

I know there may not be:

I cannot hear his voice that sings—

I cannot see his arm that swings—

I cannot feel his mind that flings

My earth-born destiny.”

The Man-Child said—“There is no God—

I know there may not be:

I cannot pause and meet His eye—

I cannot see His form on high—

I only know an empty sky

Stares mocking back at me.”

THE SEAS

Purple seas and garnet seas, emerald seas and blue,

Foaming seas and frothing seas spraying rainbow dew:

Laughing seas and chaffing seas, gay in the morning light,

Endless seas and bendless seas ayawn in the starless night.

Seas that reach o’er the long white beach

Where the clean-washed pebbles roll,

And the nodding groves and the coral coves

And the deep-toned voices toll.

Seas that lift the broken drift

And crash through the crag-lined fjord—

Seas that cut the channel’s rut

With the thrust of a mighty sword.

Seas that brood in silent mood

When the midnight stars are set—

Seas that roar as a charging boar

Till the rails of the bridge run wet.

Seas that foam where the porpoise roam

And the spouting whale rolls high—

Seas that use in the sunset hues

Till all is a blended sky.

Seas that reek with the golden streak

And the flash of phosphor fire—

Seas that glance in a moonlit dance

With feet that never tire.

Seas that melt in the mist-hung belt

When sky and waters close—

Seas that meet the day’s retreat,

Amber and gold and rose.

Purple seas and garnet seas, emerald seas and blue,

Foaming seas and frothing seas spraying rainbow dew:

Laughing seas and chaffing seas, gay in the morning light,

Endless seas and bendless seas ayawn in the starless night.

GOD’S ACRE

I’m drivin’ backward to the farm—

The harvest day is done,

And I’m passing by God’s Acre

At the setting o’ the Sun:

And I slow the homing horses—

For I must soliloquize

On that white crop standin’ silent

Against the crimson skies.

I guess there’s tares aplenty—

And I guess there’s lots o’ chaff,

And I guess there’s many stories that

Ed make a feller laugh.

And I guess there’s mebbe stories

Ed make a feller weep,

And the Angels kind o’ whisper

As around the stones they creep.

Well, the Lord He up and planted—

And the Harvest’s come to head;

(And He shore is most particular

When all is done and said).

But I reckon when it’s sifted,

And the Crop is in the bin,

It’ll be a durned hard sinner

As the Lord ain’t gathered in.

GOLD

From the green Cycadeæn ages,

From the gloom of the Cambrian fen,

From the days of the mighty mammoth

And the years of the dog-toothed men,

I’ve lifted ye clear to the summits—

A toy of the upper air—

I’ve dashed ye down to the pits again

To laugh at your despair.

I beckoned across the chasm

To watch ye stumble in,

And never a light to left or right

On the crags of shame and sin.

I called ye over mountains—

I called ye over seas—

And ye came in hosts from all the coasts

To taste of the tainted breeze.

Honor and King and Country—

Sire and Seed and God—

Ye have given all to the Siren’s call

When I but chose to nod.

Ye have given all to the Siren’s call—

To the mock of the Siren’s strain—

Ye have made a choice and never a voice

May bid ye back again.

THE LEGION

UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA REUNION ODE

Across the hill I saw them come—

A deep-ranked serried legion.

Across the hill I saw them come—

The faithful cohorts there.

Bank, bar and bench—mine, mart and trench—

From every clime and region,

In manly might and majesty—

And I knew the sight was fair.

I saw them halt against the hill

In loyal lines unbroken;

I heard them answer to the Roll,

Nor ever missed a name;

For they foregathered past recall

Were there by every token,

As, ’cross the valley to a man

The thundering echoes came.

I saw them passing o’er the hill

In serried ranks unbroken;

’Twas stirrup touching stirrup

In the sunshine and the rain.

And good the pride to see them ride

With strength renewed and spoken,

Till love of Pennsylvania

Should call them home again.

THE ALTAR

UPON THE APENNINE HILL OF ROME

’Neath the gardens of the Emperors

Unnoticed you may pass

A little altar nestling

In the poppies and the grass.

No gorgeous columns flank it,

Where priest or Vestal trod—

Only the carven words that sing—

“To the Unknown God.”

The haughty praetor scanned it

With humble, thoughtful air—

The base-born slave espied it

With sullen, frightened stare:

The Roman matron touched it,

And went upon her way—

The gladiator saw it,

And paused awhile to pray.

Even the passing Cæsar

Bowed the imperial head,

With faltering eyes that swept the skies

In reverent fear and dread.

The arching heavens domed it

With royal lapis blue—

The soft Campania’s whisper

Brought the sunshine and the dew:

The candles of the firmament

Bent down their brightest rays,

Where, midst their Pagan Pantheon

A People paused to gaze.

THE SONG OF THE AEROPLANE

I scan your mighty fortresses—

I scorn your splendid fleets—

I chart your chosen cities—

Trenches and lanes and streets.

No secret ’neath the heavens,

No tale of land or sea,

But bares the breast at my behest

To stand revealed to me.

I pierce the rainbow’s bending,

Uncovering fold on fold,

Till I come to the arch’s ending

Where lies the pot of gold.

I romp in the crimson sunset—

I mount the wings o’ the dawn—

I glide o’er the brakes and marshes

To laugh at the startled fawn.

Never a mark may scorn me,

From the noise of the rising quail

To the topmost peak where the eagles seek

Their home in the driving gale.

Where lies the last least wilderness

Man may not dare to know—

Where stands the unscaled mountain,

Fair crowned with virgin snow:

Where hide the hidden ages—

Where flow the golden streams—

Where lurks the land of Crœsus

Or the Lotus-land o dreams:

Up through the rushing firmament,

With never halt or toll,

I bear ye far till ye come where are

The gates of the cherished goal.

. . . . . . . . . .

On the wonderful things I show you

Lucullus-like ye dine—

For the wonderful thoughts I bring you

Ye love and are wholly mine.

PACK YOUR TRUNK AND GO

If you meet a little fräulein

As pretty as a rosebud,

And eyes that make your silly heart-strings

Thump and bump and glow—

Don’t stand and linger dawdlin’

When you know you’re getting maudlin,

But call yourself a bally fool

And pack your trunk and go.

If the mocking, hollow laughter,

Like the creaking of a rafter,

Greets you—standing watching after

At the Chance you didn’t know:

Sneering in its craven power

Comes to seek you by the hour,

Try the palm-grove, veldt or paddy—

Pack your trunk and go.

If the skies are rent asunder

O’er some hasty little blunder,

And you start to really wonder

How wise some people grow:

Let the empty carp-heads haggle—

Let the teacup headwear waggle—

Just tell ’em all to run along—

And pack your trunk and go.

If the silent blades are dipping

And the green canoes are slipping

By the birches white and dripping

In the crimson after-glow:

And the harvest-moon is rising

With a fullness most surprising—

It’s summer on the northern lakes

So pack your trunk and go.

If the Faith your Fathers taught you

And the Land your Fathers wrought you,

(The Land their blood has bought you),

Shall hear the bugles blow—

Don’t watch in doubt and waiting,

Don’t stand procrastinating,

But say good-bye with laughing eye

And pack your trunk and go.

Where the coral turns to cactus,

And the cactus turns to harvest,

And the harvest turns to hemlock,

And the hemlock turns to snow:

By the phosphor-bordered beaches—

By the endless, bendless reaches—

You will find him where the Whisper bade him

Pack his trunk and go.

WOMAN

A REPLY TO RUDYARD KIPLING

“A woman is only a woman”—

These are the words you spoke.

And you deemed they were bright and caustic—

And you thought you had made us a joke.

Well, we who have been in the Tropics,

Who’ve noted the Eastern “way,”

’May be we should half forgive you

For some of the things you say.

When the Cave-man spat on his neighbor

And smote him hip and thigh—

When the Bronze-man slivered the boulders

Where the tin and the copper lie—

When the Iron-man reared him bridges

And engines of steam and steel—

What was the Light that lifted them,

And bade them to live and to feel?

When the sunshine turns to shadow—

And the shadow turns to night;

When faith and fair intention

Have fought them a failing fight;

When Hell has drawn nearest—

And God is very far—

Mayhap ye then can tell us who

The Ministering Angels are?

A rose is only a flower—

Can ye bring us the bud more rare?

“A woman is only a woman”—

Can ye show us the work more fair?

Harrie ye all Creation—

Look ye without surcease,

And when ye are weary and broken, kneel—

To your Master’s masterpiece.

NIPPON

Trust ye the Nations of the Earth

From sea to farthest sea—

But trust ye not, Oh trust ye not

The wily Japanee.

Truth? A jest o’ the High and Low—

A juggler’s tossing toy—

A two-faced guile and a child-like smile—

(Oh Innocence sans alloy!)

Honor? An empty mockery

Beneath the Sunrise Sky;

A hollow, vain, fanatic strain

That lifts with the loud “Banzai!”

Virtue? Not even a figurehead,

So scarce indeed thou art.

Rank to the core a shameless sore

In a yet more shameless heart.

Faith? A faithless phantom

That knows no law or creed.

To flare and wane for the moment’s gain,

And serve the moment’s need.

Trust ye the Nations of the Earth

From sea to farthest sea—

But trust ye not, Oh trust ye not

The wily Japanee.

THE NEW BARD

They had sung the song how very long

Of Love and Faith and Truth:

And they polished fine till it ran as wine,

With never a spot uncouth.

Mellow it spread with softened tread

To the beat of the perfect time—

Chastened and blest and colorless

In stilted, vapid rhyme.

Songs of love that the angels above

Laughed as they bended near—

Songs of fight that the men of might

Sneered as they stopped to hear—

Till a stronger people rising—

They cast the cant aside,

And they lifted free for the open sea

Where the plunging porpoise ride.

For there lifted free from the open sea

The voice of a bard who knew,

And he brought them tales from the spouting whales

Where only the lean gulls flew.

And he brought them tales from the coral bight

Where the lilac waters spend,

And the ceaseless sift of the phosphor drift

Where the palm-lined beaches bend.

But better than all through the endless pall

His clear-shot wordings ran,

And the tale he bore by peace and war

Was the heart of his fellow-man.

Under the ragged raiment—

Under the silken sheen—

They caught the worth of the spinning Earth,

And the black and the gold between.

For ’neath a coat of roughest hide,

And ’neath the rugged brink,

He covered whole the yearning Soul—

The Soul of the Men Who Think.

The Little Things with mystic wings

That flitting merrily,

Bind West and East and best and least,

From sea to outer sea.

The Little Things with mystic wings,

Hidden the eons through—

From his Children’s gaze he swept the haze,

And his Children seeing—knew

Each throbbing lane of pulse and brain—

The far-flung Brotherhood:

The thoughts untold and the hopes unrolled—

And they answered him where they stood:

“In measures strong we’ve heard your song,

And the warm blood mounts again;

And we scorn the beat of the stifled street

And strike for the open main.

“Far back—far back—we leave the plains

To the little hurrying hosts,

And over the seas in the scud-wet breeze

We lift for the Land o’ Ghosts.

“For the Land o’ Ghosts and the laughing coasts

And the goal we hope to win—

Though ne’er we reach the beckoning beach,

Ye have let us look within.

. . . . . . . . . .

“Though ne’er we reach the beckoning beach—

Though it fades ere we leap to land,

Ye have made us rife with the strength of life—

Ye have spoke ... and we understand.”

FATHER TIME

When your doctors fail to render—

When your lotions fail to heal—

When the salted scar is burning—

When aturtle turns the keel:

When the lights are lost to leeward—

When the last least hope is gone—

Then I call ye—Oh my children—

As a Mother calls her spawn.

By no magic may I do it—

By no sudden quick surcease:

Slow, so slow, ye cannot know it

Do I bring ye your release.

As the blackened heavens soften

To the morning’s growing gray,

And the gray spreads gold and crimson

Till in splendor breaks the day:

So by little and by little,

That ye may not know or see,

Do I soothe the salted searing—

Do I bid the shadows flee—

Do I weld the torn heart-cord

No surgeon art may heal,

Till ye lift the fastened latchet

And go forth in laughing weal.

From Eastward and from Westward

I call my broken clan;

We may not meet in lane or street

Or greet us man and man:

But slowly spread my wide-leagued wings—

And falling tenderly,

I wrap my troubled Earth-spawn

Unto the heart of me.

MY LOVES

Oh do you wish to know my Loves?

Then you must come with me

To every land of all the lands

And the waves of every sea.

My love she nestles to my side,

Nor careth who discern,

For she’s the breeze o’ the Southern Seas

Where the egg-spume waters turn.

My love she wraps me in her arms

With a crushing grasp and wild,

For she was born o’ the six-months morn,

A strong, tumultuous child.

My love needs throw a kiss to me,

And the kiss is the rainbow spray,

Then laughing in glee, coquettishly,

She lightly trips away.

My love she comes with open arms,

A dazzling beauty bold—

Lilac and rose and amber,

Scarlet and blazing gold.

My love she gently beckons me

And folds me nearer yet,

A blushing maid with crown of jade

Where the first pale stars are set.

Oh do you wish to know my Loves?

Then you must come with me

To every land of all the lands

And the waves of every sea.

THE FORUM

Here strode triumphant Cæsars

Returning honored home:

Here rose the gorgeous temples

Of proud imperial Rome.

Here burned the Vestal Fire

The endless seasons through:

Here reared the haughty Arches

The far-flung Nations knew.

Lord of the last least horizon—

King of the Outer Seas—

Where beat a heart, where stood a mart,

There bended suppliant knees—

To Thee—Resplendent Sovereign—

Cradled among the hills,

Who still through the countless centuries

The wondering watcher thrills.

Only a Tale of the Ages—

Power and Pride and Death—

And the afterlight of an Empire’s might—

And the soft Campania’s breath.

Only the crumbled marble,

And Memory’s lingering wine,

And the grass and the scarlet poppies

And clover and dandelion.

THE MASTERPIECE

“Des Sohnes letzter Gruss” (“The Son’s last Salutation”). A modern painting by Karl Hoff in the Royal Picture Gallery, Dresden.

We tramped the stretching galleries—

We gazed each priceless gem—

Jordäens—Rubens—Raphael—

We paused and pondered them.

The famous, same Madonnas—

The fatuous forms at ease—

And the Wedding Feast with Cavaliers—

And a drunken Hercules.

We saw the Sistine Mother,

The farthest Nations know—

Till room on room of light and gloom

Swept row on outer row.

And some we knew and reverenced—

Whose praise the wide World sings;

And some we fled with callous dread

For flat and flaccid things.

Till at last at the gallery’s ending

In the room with the roof-let door,

We saw a young man standing—

The Lone Son bid to War.

Lithe and strong and supple,

Clean-limbed, clear-eyed and tall—

And the parting gaze of the parting ways

When the battered trumpets call.

And we saw the widowed Mother—

And the prostrate, sobless grief;

And the pitying priest beside her,

And the gentle, vain relief.

And the Sister—standing—watching—

’Twixt love, reproach and tears—

The tender light of the summer night

Where brood the unfathomed years.

The Maiden—standing, watching—

Fair as the first, faint star:

A dainty symbol sent to prove

How near the angels are.

. . . . . . . . . .

We gleaned the gallery’s gorgeous wealth—

But lost its wondrous worth,

As we bowed a head in silence

To the Good of all the Earth.

THE HERITAGE

Full well they tilled the barren soil—

Full well they sowed the seed—

Full well they held by life and life

The seal of the title deed.

From Bunker Hill to Yorktown

They waged a sacred fray:

Oh Sons of Iron Men give ye not

Your heritage away.

By commerce, mart and culture

Ye’ve raised a mighty state;

But ’ware the pampered spirit,

Ere ye ’ware the worst too late.

By commerce, mart and culture

Thrive ye forevermore,

But hold ye to the Iron Age—

The Iron Age of War.

With rugged heart and sinew—

With spirit stern and high,

Keep ye the ways o’ warrior days—

The days that may not die.

Keep ye the ways o’ warrior days,

Maintain the armor bright,

For where ye’ve raised your fathers blazed—

Hold ye their honor white.

That through the unborn years to come—

Unpampered, age on age—

Shall guarded stand their promised land—

Our Sacred Heritage.

THE ADJUSTING HOUR

Just the Adjusting Hour,

With nobody else around,

And you sort o’ straighten things a bit,

Beginning right down at the ground.

Just the Adjusting Hour,

When plans have gone askew,

And you stand with your back to the fire—

And only your God and you.

Just the Adjusting Hour,

Pondering very slow,

And you lay the firm foundations

And you pray that they will grow—

Tall and strong and splendid—

That they who run may see,

What the Adjusting Hour

Has given to you and me.

THE OUTPOSTERS

We’ve tête-à-têted here and there

Whence all the breezes fan,

From Cuba clear to Tokio

And back to Hindustan.

We’ve journeyed out of Agra

To see the Taj Mahal

Rise mystic white in the moonlit night

Above the Jumna wall.

Along the plains of Java

We shook you by the hand,

And watched among Tosari’s hills

The lace Tjemaras stand:

Or Aden’s great cathedral rocks—

High—majestic—bare—

Or Karnak’s columns rising sheer

Through the clear Egyptian air.

We’ve laughed with you in Poeroek Tjahoe,[A]

In the heart of Borneo,

Ere we hit the trail to northward

Where the lesser rivers flow:

Where the angry Moeroeng cuts the hills

And the endless jungles rise,

And the Dyak kampongs nestle ’neath

The speckless, fleckless skies.

By the myriad ship-lights stretching through

The Roads of Singapore,

By the crooked, winding, white-walled streets

Of burning Bangalore:

By the mighty, gilded Shwe Dagon

Aglitter above the trees,

Where the tiny ti bells tinkle

In the sough of the sunset breeze:

From where the terrace-sculptured gates

Of the great Sri Rangam rise,

To Bangkok’s triple temple roofs,

Red-gold against the skies:

By crowded, sewerless Canton—

By Hong Kong’s towering lights—

By the gorgeous Rajputana stars

That blazon the blue-black nights:

We’ve met you, Men of the Millionth Mark—

Outposters—far—alone—

Beyond the glut of the cities’ rut,

And we claim you for our own.

(Beyond the glut of the cities’ rut

And the roar of the rolling cart,

Beyond the blind of the stifled mind

And the hawking, haggling mart.)

And some of you were “rotters”—

And some were “18 fine”—

But on the whole—we saw your soul—

Oh outbound kin of mine.

So stand we pledged and hand in hand

By every ocean, gulf and land,

Stout hearts and humble knees:

Oh men of the Outer Reaches—

Oh men of the palm-lined beaches—

Oh men where the ice-pack bleaches—

Oh Brethren o’ the far-flung seas.

[A] Pronounced Poorook Jow.

WONDERING

Leaning on the midnight rail,

Looking o’er the sea,

Winking at the little stars,

While they wink at me.

Wondering how it happened

Ages long ago,

Wondering why I’m here to night—

Wondering where I’ll go.

Wondering how the Scorpion

Bends his mighty tail,

Wondering if the Archer’s aim

Makes Antares quail:

Wondering why Australia’s Crown

Happened to be made,

Wondering if I really ought

Not to be afraid.

Wondering if the blackened sea

Ever has a bend,

Wondering if the Milky Way

Ever has an end,

Wondering why the Southern Cross

Has an arm askew,

Wondering lots o’ funny things,

(I wonder, wouldn’t you?)

Wondering where He’s watching from—

Wondering if He’d see

Anything so very small

Just as you or me?

Wondering and wondering—

But still the echoes fail—

And so I’m left awondering

Over the silent rail.

LINES TO AN ELDERLY FRIEND

Written in a presentation copy of “My Bunkie and Other Ballads” given to A. Van Vleck, Esq., of New York City.

Where the sails hang limp and lifeless

In the doldrums’ deadly pause,

Where the lights above the Polar capes

Spread out in a golden gauze:

Where lilac tints are listing

O’er purple tropic seas—

Where the Arctic winds are whistling

And the north-flung rivers freeze—

We’ve met the men the Maker made

To dwell ’neath fir and palm—

And, we salute thee, friend and man—

M’sieur—le gentilhomme.

BATTLESHIPS

Addressed to “little-navy” Congressmen.

Fools there lived when the Nations sprang newborn from the arms of God—

Fools there’ll live when the Nations melt in the mold of the markless sod.

Fools there are and fools there were and fools there’ll ever be—

But none like the fools whom the ages teach, and then refuse to see.

With Other Peoples building them in squadrons—

The Other Peoples laden down with debt—

In the richest of the Nations you’ll cut appropriations,

But the Day of Reckoning—have ye counted yet?

Oh be careful, Oh be meager, Oh My Brothers;

Weigh the cost, and gasp, and pare it down again;

Till the twelve-inch children roar and the troop-ships grate the shore

And you hear the coming tread of marching men.

Then My Brothers, Oh my wise far-seeing Brothers,

Build a Fleet and build it swiftly overnight;

Ah truly ye who knew it all these years can surely do it,

For ye and only ye alone are right.

Go gaze across your growing, waving acres—

Go gaze adown the peaceful, busy street;

May the prestige of your town be your all-in-all renown,

And scorn the men who bid you, “BUILD THE FLEET.”

Or whine about your irrigation ditches—

Much they’ll help a scarred and battle-riven land.

Oh they’ll do a monstrous earning when the crops they grow are burning—

Because you would not hear the clear command.

With the jealous nations standing to the east-ward—

And the Sneaking Cur that watches on the west—

You’ll bargain, skimp and whine till the gray hulls lift the line,

And your children stand betrayèd and confessed.

For the sake of saving five or fifty millions—

For the sake of “politics” or local greed—

Will you brand yourselves arch traitors to the Nation—

You, the sons of men who served us in our need?

Will you risk a land your Sires died to bring you—

A land our faithful Fathers fell to save,

By the bleaching bones of Valley Forge and Monmouth

Or the crimson flood the Bloody Angle gave?

Will you see one half the Nation raped and burning—

Will you learn War’s callous, lurid, livid wrath

By the wailing ’long the wayside, by the ashes of the cities,

Ere your gathered army flings across their path?

You may strut and boast our boundless might and power—

You may call our race the Chosen of the Lord—

But if your town they raze—and if your home’s ablaze

You will wake and learn the Kingdom of the Sword.

You will wake and learn the word your Fathers taught you—

You will wake and learn the truth—but all too late:

By the shrieking shrapnel’s crying—by the homeless, wronged and dying—

You shall count what, you begrudged to Guard the Gate.

THE AMERICAN FLAG

It should be needless to note that the persons here addressed do not comprise the whole American people but a certain distinctive type.

Oh little men and sheltered—

Oh fatted pigs of a sty,

Through the Star Spangled Banner ye calmly sit,

Nor see the wrong, nor the why,

And ye stand with your hats on your thoughtless heads,

When the Flag of the Nation goes by.

Has the lust of the dollar gripped you

Till the fetid brain’s grown cold,

Till ye forget the days that are set

And the glorious deeds of old—

And the Song and the Passing Colors

Are drowned in a flood of gold?

Awake from your listless lethargy—

Arise and understand

The battle-hymn of your fathers—

And the Flag of your Fatherland—

As it rose to the hum of the feet that come

To the drum and the bugle’s call;

As it tasted the dregs of raw reverse—

As it rushed through the breach in the wall:

As it fell again on the gore-wet plain

Till new hands swung it high—

As it dipped in rest to East and West

Where it watched its Children die:

As it swept anew o’er the shotted blue,

And the great gulls reeled in fright;

As it bore the brave ’neath the whispering wave

To the Squadron’s hushed Goodnight:

As it mounted sheer ’mid cheer on cheer,

Till, far o’er land and sea,

It gave each fold to the sunlight’s gold—

And the name of Victory.

Then on your feet when the first proud strain

Of the Anthem rolls on high—

And see that ye stand uncovered

To the Colors passing by

And pray to your God for strength to guard

The Flag ye glorify.

THE GREAT DOCTORS

Chiefs of all the Conquerors—

Kings above the Kings—

Fame beyond all earthly fame

Where the censer swings.

Brave and strong and silent—

Patient, cautious, calm—

E’en as the ministering angels—

Even as Gilead’s Balm—

They come; the quiet god-men,

Where hope has fled apace,

And the Reaper’s scythe is swaying

Across the ashen face.

No miracle proclaims them—

No thundering cheer and drum—

As creeps the light of the starlit night

God’s Emissaries come.

A touch to the raveled life-cord

Or ever it snaps in twain;

And as the light of the starlit night

They silently pass again.

THE DREAMER AND THE DOER

The Dreamer saw a vision

High in th’ empyrean blue,

And slowly it passed until at last

He called to the Man he knew—

“Look, thou Dolt of the Blinded Heart—

Slave of Rod and Rule—

And drink of the wine of my sight divine—

Oh churl of a plodding school!”

The Doer he checked and plotted

And hammered and pieced again,

But his eyes they were on the things that he saw—

The Things of the Earth-bound Men:

And he called to the Dreamer passing—

“Oh stop, thou fool, and see

On water and land the work of my hand,

For the service of such as thee.”

“Dolt,” said the Dreamer, “ye stole my dream

I showed where the lightnings ran ...”

“Fool,” said the Doer, “but for my toil—

Ye’d still be a Stone-age Man.”

SPAIN

Might and far-flung power

And we call the vision Rome,

Where the close-locked legions trample

And the triremes cut the foam.

Grace and regal beauty—

And Athena’s temples rise

Above the fertile Attic plains

And blue Ægean skies.

But when, in wanton whispers

Creeps o’er the tired brain

The word Romance, there falls the trance—

The spell of olden Spain.

. . . . . . . . . .

The humdrum of the city

The workshop and the street,

They gently slip behind us—

As glide our tired feet

O’er the pavements of Sevilla,

Where the Grandees pass again

To ogle in the balconies

The matchless eyes of Spain.

Once more the somersaulting bells

In the great square tower ring—

Once more the sword and cowl draw back—

“The King—make way—The King!”

Sevilla—Mother of a world

Of pride and golden gain,

And greed and love and laughter

Of Periclean Spain.

Once more o’er purple ocean

Or coral-locked lagoon,

We watch the bowsprit cutting

The pathway of the moon.

The long white beach, the swaying palms’

Shifting silver sheen—

And the flickering flares of the flimsy fleet

Where the spear-poised fishers lean.

The low-hung, skimming scuppers—

The flaunting skull and bones—

The buccaneer on his poop-deck

Roaring in thunder tones

To a swarthy, ill-begotten crew—

As slow the daylight dies,

And he lifts with a smile the chartless isle

Where the buried treasure lies.

The lilt of living music

Caressing heart and brain:

Harp, guitar and mandolin

In languorous, limpid strain.

The fluttering fan—the furtive glance—

The black mantilla’s reign—

And the Captains bold who drop their gold

To bask in the eyes of Spain.

The towering galleons plunging

Thrice-tiered above the foam:

The ringing round-shot roaring,

And the crash of the hit gone home:

The yard-arms staggering under,

Where, scorning the iron rain

And showing its fangs to a parting world,

Goes down the Lion of Spain.

. . . . . . . . . .

When the clattering city cloys you

With the stress of its strident call—

When practical, calculating Things

Are domineering all—

When your clamped mind in its weariness

To Romance turns again,

Seek ye the Andalusian crags—

The flare of the gold and crimson flags—

And the scented breath where the night wind drags

Through the Isles of the Spanish Main.

C. Q. D.

THE PRESENT-DAY “S. O. S.”

Cities and kings and nations

Hush at my outer breath,

As sightless I glide o’er the wind-lashed tide

In my race with the deep-sea death.

War and Trade and the Laws ye made

Halt at the Letters Three,

Bound on my errand of mercy—I—

The ultimate C.Q.D.

No wave may intercept me,

Though it tower a hundred feet;

No storm shall ever stay me,

Though sky and waters meet.

Piercing the howling heavens—

Skimming the churning sea—

Through blast and gale I bring the tale—

I—the pitying C.Q.D.

And when through the white-toothed combers

The helping hull looms high,

And when the small-boats leap aside

Through the glare of the red-shot sky,

Out, out across the ocean’s dawn

The final flashes flee—

“All saved!” And the circling shores ring back—

“Thank God—and the C.Q.D!”

THE LIGHTS

The fair-weather lights are gleaming

Across a tranquil main,

By beam and beam so bright they seem

A laughing, endless chain.

The foul-weather lights are few and far—

Nor flash nor leap nor fail—

But slowly burn where the billows churn

In the teeth of the driving gale.

Oh the fair-weather lights o’er the sheltered bights

Are welcome sights to see—

But the foul-weather lights o’ the stormy nights,

Are the Lamps of the Years to be.

THE CHOSEN

And the Guiding One he pointed me

To each and each the deed,

And never a word was ever heard

Of Prophet or Saint or Creed.

And never a word was ever heard

But the path that each had run,

Till the purple mist stooped down and kissed

And said that the work was done.

And there stood he of the iron will

Nor gold could bend or buy:

And there stood she of the Mother Love

That never asketh why.

And there stood he who striving lost,

But striving, gained the Crest:

And there stood she who nursed them back

With bullet-ridden breast.

And there stood he whose right hand gave,

But the left—it never knew:

And there stood she who held him fast

When the Beckoning Whispers blew.

And there stood he who saved a life

By fire, sea or sword:

And these were Chiefs of the Upper Hosts

And first before the Lord.

But high o’er the great Arch-angels,

Higher than any stand,

I saw the chosen of the King

At the right of the Master’s hand.

And I questioning gazed in the deep-lit eyes

And the silent face aglow,

Till the Guiding One It answered me

The word that I wished to know—

“Out of the crash of battle,

Where the shrieking bullet sings,

The roaring front lines reel and rock

As a wounded vulture swings.

“As a wounded vulture halting swings

The quivering squadrons break,

Till the shattered herds catch up the words,

‘Back, back for your Country’s sake!’”

(Back, back to follow after

The light of fearless eyes,

And the sound of a voice that knows no choice

Where the love of a Nation lies.)

And the Guiding One it paused apace,

And then I heard it say—

“And he?—He died in leading

The charge that won the day.”

THE FAIREST MOON

Oh ye who tell of the harvest moon

Above the waving grain,

Oh ye who tell of the silent moon

That glitters across the plain.

Oh ye who tell of the mountain moon

That lifts each peak and crag,

Oh ye who tell of the ocean moon

Where the long, black shadows drag.

Oh ye who tell of the silver moon

In wanton ecstasy,

Ye never tell of the fairest moon—

The fairest moon to me.

’Tis well the tale of the crescent moon

Above the lake-side pine,

And good is your song of the circling moon

Where snowy meadows shine.

And fair’s the lilt of the gleaming moon

Where dazzling rapids leap:

For wondrous bright is the fairy sight

Of the soul of a World asleep.

But a waning moon, just half a moon,

With a rough and ragged rim,

And a mystic light that makes the night

All bright but doubly dim....

Low down, low down in a starry sky,

O’er the shift of a swinging sea

With a mellow fold o’ silver gold,

Reveals my moon to me.

THE STRIVER

The trumpets bore his name afar

By East and West anew,

Where, roaring through the riven tape

The sweeping Conqueror drew.

And East and West they rose and blest

With laurel wreath and cheers,

As they had done ’neath every sun

Adorn the countless years.

The trumpets echoed far ahead—

A faltering footfall trailed,

Till broken flesh that called on flesh

Stumbled and rocked and failed.

A well run dry—a sightless sky—

Where mind and matter part:

A quivering frame—a nameless name—

Wrapped in a lion’s heart.

The nearer stars they winded him—

The farther planets heard;

The outer spheres of all the spheres

Took up the Master’s word.

They lifted him and bouyed him

And bore him gently in

To the Goal of Lost Endeavor—

In the Land of Might-have-been.

THE OLD MEN

Ye sing a song of the young men

In the pride of an early strength,

Ye sing a song of the young men

And ye give it goodly length;

I sing a song of the old men—

Of the men on a homeward tack

And a steady wheel and an even keel

That never a wind may rack.

Ye sing a song of the strong men

In the birth of a splendid youth,

Ye sing a song of the strong men

And ye sing mayhap in truth;

But I—I sing of the old men

Who’ve weathered the outer seas,

And lifting the bark through the growing dark,

Bear back in the sunset breeze.

Ye sing a song of the young men

Ere they reach the second stake,

And a name to choose and a name to lose

In the scruff of the rudder’s wake;

But I—I sing of the old men

In the glow of the tempered days,

Whose chartings show the paths to go

Through the mesh of a million ways.

Ye sing a song of the strong men

In the flush of the first fair blow,

Ye sing a song of the strong men

Or ever the end ye know;

But I—I sing of the old men—

Time-tested—weathered brown—

Who unafraid the port have made,

Where all brave ships go down.

THE FOUR-ROADS POST

They had come at the Spirit’s bidding—

Who bore the right to seek—

And the hungry he brake and gave them bread,

And strength he gave to the weak.

Honor and Gold and Triumph—

Love and Land and Fame—

As they deserved to each he served—

And they left and blessed his name.

And only one was waiting

Before the Giver’s knee,

And He said, “Oh spawn of a troubled Earth—

What may I do for thee?”

And the suppliant cried, “Good Master

I asked nor fame nor gold—

I only seek the bygone peak

Where I saw the lands unfold.

“I only seek the bygone peak

Where every pathway sung,

And every sea had a ship for me,

And all the World was young.

“Oh let me know the place once more,

The parting of the lane—

Oh give me back the Four-Roads Post,

That I may choose again.”

. . . . . . . . . .

The Spirit gazed across the vale

And his eyes had a tender glow,

And his voice ran mild as ye speak to a child,

Wondrous soft and low:

“Little Waif of a Later Day,

Where the unthought hours flee,

The only treasure I have not.

Is the boon that ye ask of me.

“I can give you balms and riches—

I can ease you of your pain—

But I cannot give the Four-Roads Post—

That ye may choose again.”

THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY

Sing me a song of Chivalry,

The little Man-child said.

Of days of old when knights were bold

And fields of honor red.

Take me far to a maiden’s tower

And the black traducer slain;

To Honor and Truth and Faith forsooth—

Oh carry me back again.

So the Waif of Chance be wafted him

And set him down apace,

But never a field of tourney,

And never a knight of grace.

He set him down where the whipping flames

Leap red athwart the sky,

And the crashing wall that forms a pall

Where the fire-fighters lie.

The Waif of Chance he wafted him

Across a broken main,

And the great ship’s roll like a foundering soul

Groaned to the depths again:

But over the breast of the ocean’s crest

The plunging life-boats neared,

And the shout that burst was “Women first,”

And the men that were left—they cheered.

Where the staggering brethren dragged their loads

From the mouth of the stricken mine,

Where the hand at the throttle never flinched

At the sight of the open line;

By curb and forge and death-hung gorge—

By river, sea and plain—

The Waif of Chance the Man-child brought,

And bade him gaze again.

Honor and Faith and Sacrifice

In the midst of the city’s roil—

Faith and Honor and Sacrifice

Where the frontier-hewers toil:

And the Man-child slowly knelt and clasped

The Waif about the knee,

And he murmured low, “Oh now I know—

The Days of Chivalry.”

PHANTOM-LAND

Come board the boat for Phantom-land—

Come join the merry crew;

Come board the boat for Phantom-land

That lies acalling you.

Oh throw away the red-shot day—

The broken, weary night—

And come with me across the sea

To where you lift the light

Of Phantom-land of Phantom-land,

Uprising from the blue,

With mountains green and castles

That stand acalling you.

It doesn’t cost a single cent

To join the joyous band;

You needn’t spend a penny

To reach the sunny land;

So come away at close o’ day

Or in the morning dew,

To Phantom-land to Phantom-land

That lies acalling you.

And they who once have been there—

Who’ve trod the laughing hills,

They’re always going back there—

From roil and toil and ills:

And when they come to Earth again—

(I cross m’ heart, it’s true),

They sing the praise o’ Phantom-land

That lies acalling you.

THE ROSE

He plucked the Rose in anger—

The Rose across his path;

And the thorns they cut and tore him

And scorned him in his wrath.

He plucked the Rose in hauteur

And pride no bond could bind,

And the Rose it tossed its royal head

Nor deigned to look behind.

He plucked the Rose in sadness—

And the red Rose seeing, knew:

And it gave its sweetest incense,

And its petals shone with dew.

He plucked the Rose in gladness—

Nor sorrow’s least alloy—

And the Rose it shook its leaves and laughed

In its tumultuous joy.

By all the devious ways he came—

By every mood and whim;

And as he stooped to gather—

The Rose gave back to him.

PATRIOTISM

Ends of the riven Nation

I’ve drawn near and near,

Duty and love and honor

I’ve garnered year by year;

Oh fair they tell o’ the Lasting Peace,

And the Final Brotherhood,

But I call my sons to the signal guns,

And I know that the call is good.

Mongol and Teuton and Slav and Czech—

Saxon and Celt and Gaul—

Out of the mire at my desire

They leapt to the battle-call,

The Mean and the Low and the Goodly—

Murderer, saint and thief—

From city and plow with lofty brow

They rode to My Belief.

The Mean and the Low and the Goodly

O’er the fields of carnage swept,

And for those that returned, the laurel crown—

And for those that stayed—they wept.

And the Mother showed her stripling

The place where the foeman ran,

And he pledged to the skies with yearning eyes—

And the pledge was the pledge of a man.

Over the field of battle

The well aimed arrows flew,

Over a sea of wreckage

The bending galleons blew;

And where the arrow found him,

Or the round-shot rent atwain,

He fell—but turned in the falling

To bless his Land again.

Ends of the riven Nation

I’ve drawn, near and near,

Duty and love and honor

I’ve garnered year by year;

Oh fair they tell o’ the Lasting Peace,

And the Final Brotherhood,

But I call my sons to the signal guns—

And I know that the call is good.

KELVIN

Never a mark of Mortal Man

But ye delved to a greater depth—

Never a truth of Mortal Truths

But ye stirred it where it slept.

Never a veil but ye drew aside,

Till ye came where the Wide Ways part,

And ye bowed a head as ye lowly said,

“Oh God, how fair Thou art.”

THE END

NOTES

THE DYAK CHIEF

13

The Dyaks, a “brown” race, are the savage inhabitants of Central Borneo, and are said to have come originally from the Malay Peninsula, but to have since been gradually driven into the center of the island by the influx of the present Malays, who now inhabit the coasts and often far inland, especially up the rivers.

The Dyaks, though an old, aboriginal Malay stock, differ radically from the Malays in nearly every particular.

They are a dark-skinned, strong, well-knit, square-shouldered and beautifully muscled type of men, neither tall nor short, fat nor lean, but comparable to the typical American cavalryman or football halfback or trained middle-weight boxer or wrestler.

They have small, dark, heady, snake-like eyes, high cheek bones and straight black hair, often “bobbed” at the neck and frequently with a band around it, giving them much the appearance of North American Indians, were it not that their eyes and noses are smaller. They affect a breech-cloth only, excepting for the sake of warmth, when they don a light cloth jacket or a fibre coat, the latter being a simple affair, hanging straight, with a slit at the top through which the head is placed, after the manner of a present-day American Army “poncho.”

A chief is distinguished by having pheasant feathers falling down the back of one of these coats, and in the town or “kampong” of Olong Liko I was the recipient of the unusual privilege of having a friendly Dyak chief take off his cloak-like garment that I had been examining, put it on over my head, and insist on my keeping it—which it is needless to say I was only too glad to do—and which I still have preserved as the most valued treasure of all the many that I brought back from my travels.

The women are of the typical heavy-waisted savage category, frequently wearing something above the waist, but whose usual costume consists merely of a long cloth, resembling a skirt, wrapped around their legs.

Truth compels me to ungallantly state the ladies are not prepossessing.

The chief occupations of the Dyaks are hunting, fishing and tending their little truck-gardens, which mode of life probably accounts for their average splendid physique.

Moeroeng

13

The Moeroeng (River) is a long stream in Central Borneo that unites with the Djoeloi to form the Barito, the latter being one of the great rivers of Borneo, flowing from its center in a general southerly direction, and emptying into the Java Sea a short distance to the west of the southeastern extremity of the island. Pronunciation: Moeroeng=Mooroong: Djoeloi=Jooloi.

kampong

13

Kampong is a native Dyak village, and consists of from one to three or four long houses, and sometimes small detached ones. The long house, the characteristic building, is anywhere from fifty to two or three hundred feet in length, elevated, on poles, from eight to twenty feet in the air. The sides of the houses are of rough boards or of bark and the roofs usually of bark shingles. The age of the dwellings can be told by the height they stand above the ground, those on the highest poles being the oldest ones, because of the former greater savagery of, and more frequent warfare between, the natives. Here literally we have a case of the home being the fortress.

Within, the long house is of one of two arrangements; either it consists of a huge hall, often decorated with the skull and horns of the chase, running practically the entire length, and with family rooms opening into it and bake-rooms or kitchens at both ends, or the house consists merely of one very long room without partitions, the different families, with their crude cooking hearths, “squatting” around the sides of the room at intervals of ten or fifteen feet. Occasionally some of the families will hang up cloth divisions. Here, truly, we have the communal scheme of living carried to its ultimate extreme.

headless waist

13

The Dyaks are the famous “head-hunters” of Borneo, and although their inhuman proclivities of procuring heads for their belts, in order to give them certain distinctions, among them, the prerogative of marrying, have, at the present time been largely suppressed by the Dutch authorities, nevertheless a traveler’s trip through Central Borneo is dangerous owing to the fact that some actual head-hunting bands are still roaming the dense jungles through which he is passing.

Due to pure luck my path was not crossed by any of these outlaw nomad troops, which is possibly why I am writing this to-day, as one white man, even though armed with a long 38 Army Colt revolver could probably make little headway against a whole band of these savages. My three Malay coolies were highly trustworthy and efficient, but I am not positive as to exactly what extent I could have counted on them in the eventuality of an actual attack.

lianes

14

Long, bare, tropical, vine-like growths that sometimes wrap themselves around the trunk of it tree, and sometimes hang from the branches straight to the ground.

leeches

15

Little gray leeches, up to half an inch in length that, as a barefooted person walks through the jungle, attach themselves to his feet and ankles and suck the blood, until removed or until, having gotten their fill and swollen to many times their former size, fall back to the ground satiated.

In the case of a white man, they will burrow through the seam at the back of his sock to get the blood they crave.

proa

16

Pronounced prow, and is any small crude Dyak or Malay Bornese boat, propelled by paddling.

blow-spear

17

A spear with a hollow shaft through which the Dyaks blow a light, wooden dart or arrow. I have seen these in Java and the Philippines also.

mandauw (or parang)

17

Pronounced mandow, and is the typical Dyak sword with a straight blade broadening gradually until near the end, then abruptly narrowing again to a point. It is sharpened on one edge only.

chief poles

17

High wooden flag-like poles, carved near the base, and with long tassels falling from the top. Erected in front of the long house in memory of dead kampong (village) chiefs.

Moeroeng rapids

21

The Moeroeng River has magnificent rapids, which I and my three Malay coolies shot on my return by river from Olong Liko to Poeroek Tjahoe.

tom-toms

24

Round, drum-like, metal musical instruments, beaten with a stick having a large knob.

(You know how far it comes)

28

Refers to the fact that salt is precious to the Dyaks, and must be gotten from the distant coasts, through traders.

Sick-man’s Drums

28

The heating of the tom-toms, with the playing of other “musical” instruments, when a Dyak is sick. The nearer death, the louder the beating. Supposed to be very efficacious. In this particular case the “Sick-man’s Drums” were, of course, beaten ironically.

greasy cakes

29

Thick, round, half-cooked, greasy, Dyak cakes, utterly indigestible and unprepossessing.

ON THE WATER-WAGON

33

Slang for “not drinking.”

“the mill,”

33

The guard-house or soldier prison.

ARMY OF PACIFICATION

35

Islands

33

The Philippine Islands.

SOLITARY

38

“Solitary confinement” is punishment meted out to particularly obstreperous prisoners or to those under very severe sentence.

calaboose

38

Guard-house or soldier prison.

jug

38

Guard-house or soldier prison.

Ten and a Bob

39

A prisoner’s sentence of ten years and a dishonorable discharge from the Army.

The Isle

39

Refers to Angel Island in San Francisco Bay, used as a discharge station for time-expired soldiers returning from the Philippines after the Insurrection of 1899-1902. On Angel Island there was also a military convict station for serious offenders, who had to break stone.

“the makings” 39.

The paper and tobacco for cigarettes

THE SULTAN COMES TO TOWN

40

The Major’s name was Sour—if we speak in antithesis.

SHAH JEHAN

55

One of the Great Moguls of India, who at Agra built the lovely, white marble Taj Mahal as a mausoleum for his favorite wife, who died in 1629.

Near the city of Aurangabad, in the northwestern part of the state of Hyderabad, is the so-called “Little Taj,” the Mausoleum of Rabi’a Durrani, the wife of a later Great Mogul, Auraugzeb. Though built only of stucco, and not kept in the same immaculate condition as the Taj Mahal, the “Little Taj,” with its inset, pointed arches, viewed at an advantageous distance of several hundred feet, from just within the ground’s entrance, is to me really more beautiful than the splendid Taj Mahal itself, because the height of the “Little Taj,” and, inclusively, of its arches, is greater in proportion to its base than is that of its famous predecessor. The result is a more delicate, lofty and inspiring effect—which effect appears, obviously, to be the most apropos and essential one to obtain in erecting mausoleums of this nature.

Close, detailed inspection of the two tombs would present a diametrically opposite analysis, but in work such as this, it would seem that the most crucial aspect is the ensemble and not the minutiæ or finis.

Rajputana stars

57

When in Rajputana, a great state of northwestern India, I was impressed by the brilliancy of the stars on a clear night. It may have been due to atmospheric or other conditions, but whatever the cause, in no other part of the World have I seen such magnificent stars.

tulwar

57

The large, splendid, curved sword of India.

Flaming Trees

57

The trees that spread out like great umbrellas, covered on top with masses of blood-orange colored blossoms, and called “Flame of the Forest,” though in the Philippines we usually nicknamed them “Fire Trees.”

NIPPON

105

Let us be charitable, and hope that through contact with outside nations the Japanese will eventually be able to eradicate their traits of character, though the probability, much less the possibility, that the leopard can really change its spots, is remote indeed. Among the poorer classes and in the rural interior of Japan, you will, however, sometimes find at least two mitigating attributes, simplicity and kindliness.

MY LOVES

112

The loves here referred to are picked at random from among the many of the World Wanderer. The second stanza refers to the breeze of the South Seas; the third stanza, to the North Wind; the fourth stanza, to the Sea; the fifth stanza, to the Sunrise; the sixth stanza, to the Sunset.

C. Q. D.

138

The old “C. Q. D.,” or present-day “S. O. S.,” the wireless telegraphic signal of ships in distress.

KELVIN

159

The great British scientist. Born in Belfast, Ireland in 1824. Died near Largs, Scotland in 1907. His name is among those the British Government has honored by carving into the floor of Westminster Abbey.

MY   BUNKIE

and   Other   Ballads

By   ERWIN   CLARKSON   GARRETT

Army and Navy Register:

“The poems show a keen appreciation of the romantic and picturesque side of the soldier’s life with touches of humor and pathos that make up the comedy and tragedy of the calling. Mr. Garrett’s verses are truly sympathetic and appeal to worthy sentiment. They are among the best of anything which has been written in any form concerning the Army and they deserve appreciation. If the Army has a poet who has shown himself by his verses capable of expressing in this form service traditions and military life, it must be this former soldier. Mr. Garrett has preserved the varying conditions of the soldier’s life and the soldier’s sentiment in verses that are really worth while.***”

The Philadelphia Record:

“He has a happy knack of making vivid word-pictures; when he describes something of a battle it all seems clear before our vision; when he tells of camp life, the tented fields are there, and the men, and their tasks. When he draws portraits such as those of ‘The Old Sergeant,’ ‘The ex-Soldier’ and ‘The Rookie’ these men stand strong and life-like before us.***”

Chicago Inter-Ocean:

“***‘My Bunkie and Other Ballads,’ by Erwin Clarkson Garrett, are poems straight from the heart of a private soldier, full of freshness and color, swing and melody.***”

“Mr. Garrett’s songs are racy of the soil and of the life they celebrate. They have an appeal for all Americans, but particularly for the thousands of American young men who in war times saw the Philippines over the sights of a Krag-Jorgensen.”

Philadelphia Press:

“The American soldier has found his Kipling in Erwin Clarkson Garrett.***”

The New York Evening Post:

“***They are the poems of a man who has marched and fought and slept with the Army, and they have the right ring.***”

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Table of Contents

The Dyak Chief and Other Verses

PREFACE

CONTENTS

PART ONE THE DYAK CHIEF

THE DYAK CHIEF

II

III

IV

V

PART TWO AMERICAN ARMY BALLADS

ON THE WATER-WAGON

ARMY OF PACIFICATION Cuba 1907

SOLITARY

THE SULTAN COMES TO TOWN A Philippine Reminiscence of 1900

PHILIPPINE RANKERS

DOBIE ITCH

THE SERVICE ARMS

PART THREE OTHER VERSES

SHAH JEHAN BUILDER OF THE TAJ MAHAL.

THE OMNIPOTENT

II

THE OUTBOUND TRAIL

THE FOOL

THE SHIPS

THE FIRST POET

THE TEST

THE PORT O’ LOST DELIGHT

II

III

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

KING BAMBOO A BALLAD OF THE EAST INDIES

MARK TWAIN Died, April 21st, 1910

THE SUMMIT

THE LITTLE BRONZE CROSS THE VICTORIA CROSS IN THE CROWN JEWELS ROOM OF THE TOWER OF LONDON

KEATS

CHRISTMAS

TUCK AWAY—LITTLE DREAMS

BLOODY ANGLE July 3, 1863; July 3, 1913 THE SPIRIT OF BLOODY ANGLE SPEAKS.

THE MICROBE

THE SEAS

GOD’S ACRE

GOLD

THE LEGION UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA REUNION ODE

THE ALTAR UPON THE APENNINE HILL OF ROME

THE SONG OF THE AEROPLANE

PACK YOUR TRUNK AND GO

WOMAN A REPLY TO RUDYARD KIPLING

NIPPON

THE NEW BARD

FATHER TIME

MY LOVES

THE FORUM

THE MASTERPIECE

THE HERITAGE

THE ADJUSTING HOUR

THE OUTPOSTERS

WONDERING

LINES TO AN ELDERLY FRIEND

BATTLESHIPS Addressed to “little-navy” Congressmen.

THE AMERICAN FLAG

THE GREAT DOCTORS

THE DREAMER AND THE DOER

SPAIN

C. Q. D. THE PRESENT-DAY “S. O. S.”

THE LIGHTS

THE CHOSEN

THE FAIREST MOON

THE STRIVER

THE OLD MEN

THE FOUR-ROADS POST

THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY

PHANTOM-LAND

THE ROSE

PATRIOTISM

KELVIN

NOTES

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