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TO JAMES NEWTON MATTHEWS

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER ON THE ANATOMY OF THE SONNET

 
Oho! ye sunny, sonnet-singin' vagrant,
Flauntin' your simmer sangs in sic a weather!
Ane maist can straik the bluebells and the heather
Keekin' aboon the snaw and bloomin' fragrant!
Whiles you, ye whustlin' brither, sic a lay grant
O' a' these janglin', wranglin' sweets thegither,
I weel maun perk my ain doon-drappin' feather
And pipe a wee: Tho' boisterous and flagrant
The winds blow whuzzle-whazzle rhymes that trickle
Fra' aff my tongue less limpid than I'd ha'e them,
I in their little music hap a mickle
O' canty praises, a' asklent to weigh them
Agen your pride, and smile to see them tickle
The warm nest o' the heart wherein I lay them.
 

SONG

 
O I would I had a lover!
A lover! a lover!
O I would I had a lover
With a twinkering guitar,
To come beneath my casement
Singing "There is none above her,"
While I, leaning, seemed to hover
In the scent of his cigar!
 
 
Then at morn I'd want to meet him —
To meet him! to meet him!
O at morn I'd want to meet him,
When the mist was in the sky,
And the dew along the path I went
To casually greet him,
And to cavalierly treat him,
And regret it by and by.
 
 
And I'd want to meet his brother —
His brother! his brother!
O I'd want to meet his brother
At the german or the play,
To pin a rose on his lapel
And lightly press the other,
And love him like a mother —
While he thought the other way.
 
 
O I'd pitilessly test him!
And test him! and test him!
O I'd pitilessly test him
Far beyond his own control;
And every tantalizing lure
With which I could arrest him,
I'd loosen to molest him,
Till I tried his very soul.
 
 
But ah, when I relented —
Relented, relented!
But ah, when I relented
When the stars were blurred and dim,
And the moon above, with crescent grace,
Looked off as I repented,
And with rapture half demented,
All my heart went out to him!
 

WHEN WE THREE MEET

 
When we three meet? Ah! friend of mine
Whose verses well and flow as wine, —
My thirsting fancy thou dost fill
With draughts delicious, sweeter still
Since tasted by those lips of thine.
 
 
I pledge thee, through the chill sunshine
Of autumn, with a warmth divine,
Thrilled through as only I shall thrill
When we three meet.
 
 
I pledge thee, if we fast or dine,
We yet shall loosen, line by line,
Old ballads, and the blither trill
Of our-time singers – for there will
Be with us all the Muses nine
When we three meet.
 

JOSH BILLINGS

DEAD IN CALIFORNIA, OCTOBER 15, 1885

 
Jolly-hearted old Josh Billings,
With his wisdom and his wit,
And his gravity of presence,
And the drollery of it!
Has he left us, and forever?
When so many merry years
He has only left us laughing —
And he leaves us now in tears?
 
 
Has he turned from his "Deer Publik,"
With his slyly twinkling eyes
Now grown dim and heavy-lidded
In despite of sunny skies? —
Yet with rugged brow uplifted,
And the long hair tossed away,
Like an old heroic lion,
With a mane of iron-gray.
 
 
Though we lose him, still we find him
In the mirth of every lip,
And we fare through all his pages
In his glad companionship:
His voice is wed with Nature's,
Laughing in each woody nook
With the chirrup of the robin
And the chuckle of the brook.
 
 
But the children – O the children! —
They who leaped to his caress,
And felt his arms about them,
And his love and tenderness, —
Where – where will they find comfort
As their tears fall like the rain,
And they swarm his face with kisses
That he answers not again?
 

WHICH ANE

 
Which ane, an' which ane,
An' which ane for thee? —
Here thou hast thy vera choice,
An' which sall it be? —
Ye hae the Holy Brither,
An' ye hae the Scholarly;
An', last, ye hae the butt o' baith —
Which sall it be?
 
 
Ane's oot o' Edinborough,
Wi' the Beuk an' Gown;
An' ane's cam frae Cambridge;
An' ane frae scaur an' down:
An' Deil tak the hindmaist!
Sae the test gaes roun':
An' here ye hae the lairdly twa,
An' ane frae scaur an' down.
 
 
Yon's Melancholy —
An' the pipes a-skirlin' —
Gangs limp an' droopet,
Like a coof at hirlin', —
Droopet aye his lang skirts
I' the wins unfurlin';
Yon's Melancholy —
An' the pipes a-skirlin'!
 
 
Which ane, an' which ane,
An' which ane for thee? —
Here thou hast thy vera choice,
An' which sall it be?
Ye hae the Holy Brither,
An' ye hae the Scholarly;
An', last, ye hae the butt o' baith —
Which sall it be?
 
 
Elbuck ye'r bag, mon!
An' pipe as ye'd burst!
Can ye gie's a waur, mon
E'en than the first? —
Be it Meister Wisemon,
I' the classics versed,
An' a slawer gait yet
E'en than the first?
 
 
Then gie us Merriment:
Loose him like a linnet
Teeterin' on a bloomin' spray —
We ken him i' the minute, —
Twinklin' is ane ee asklent,
Wi' auld Clootie in it —
Auld Sawney Lintwhite,
We ken him i' the minute!
 
 
An' which ane, an' which ane,
An' which ane for thee? —
For thou shalt hae thy vera choice,
An' which sall it be? —
Ye hae the Holy Brither,
An' ye hae the Scholarly;
A' last, ye hae the butt o' baith —
Which sall it be?
 

THE EARTHQUAKE

CHARLESTON, SEPTEMBER 1, 1886

 
An hour ago the lulling twilight leant
Above us like a gentle nurse who slips
A slow palm o'er our eyes, in soft eclipse
Of feigned slumber of most sweet content.
The fragrant zephyrs of the tropic went
And came across the senses, like to sips
Of lovers' kisses, when upon her lips
Silence sets finger in grave merriment.
Then – sudden – did the earth moan as it slept,
And start as one in evil dreams, and toss
Its peopled arms up, as the horror crept,
And with vast breast upheaved and rent across,
Fling down the storied citadel where wept,
And still shall weep, a world above its loss.
 

A FALL-CRICK VIEW OF THE EARTHQUAKE

 
I kin hump my back and take the rain,
And I don't keer how she pours;
I kin keep kind o' ca'm in a thunder-storm,
No matter how loud she roars;
I hain't much skeered o' the lightnin',
Ner I hain't sich awful shakes
Afeard o' cyclones– but I don't want none
O' yer dad-burned old earthquakes!
 
 
As long as my legs keeps stiddy,
And long as my head keeps plum',
And the buildin' stays in the front lot,
I still kin whistle, some!
But about the time the old clock
Flops off'n the mantel-shelf,
And the bureau skoots fer the kitchen,
I'm a-goin' to skoot, myself!
 
 
Plague-take! ef you keep me stabled
While any earthquakes is around! —
I'm jes' like the stock, – I'll beller
And break fer the open ground!
And I 'low you'd be as nervous
And in jes' about my fix,
When yer whole farm slides from in-under you,
And on'y the mor'gage sticks!
 
 
Now cars hain't a-goin' to kill you
Ef you don't drive 'crost the track;
Crediters never'll jerk you up
Ef you go and pay 'em back;
You kin stand all moral and mundane storms
Ef you'll on'y jes' behave —
But a' EARTHQUAKE: – Well, ef it wanted you
It 'ud husk you out o' yer grave!
 

LEWIS D. HAYES

OBIT DECEMBER 28, 1886

 
In the midmost glee of the Christmas
And the mirth of the glad New Year,
A guest has turned from the revel,
And we sit in silence here.
 
 
The band chimes on, yet we listen
Not to the air's refrain,
But over it ever we strive to catch
The sound of his voice again; —
 
 
For the sound of his voice was music,
Dearer than any note
Shook from the strands of harp-strings,
Or poured from the bugle's throat. —
 
 
A voice of such various ranges,
His utterance rang from the height
Of every rapture, down to the sobs
Of every lost delight.
 
 
Though he knew Man's force and his purpose,
As strong as his strongest peers,
He knew, as well, the kindly heart,
And the tenderness of tears.
 
 
So is it the face we remember
Shall be always as a child's
That, grieved some way to the very soul,
Looks bravely up and smiles.
 
 
O brave it shall look, as it looked its last
On the little daughter's face —
Pictured only – against the wall,
In its old accustomed place —
 
 
Where the last gleam of the lamplight
Out of the midnight dim
Yielded its grace, and the earliest dawn
Gave it again to him.
 

IN DAYS TO COME

 
In days to come – whatever ache
Of age shall rack our bones, or quake
Our slackened thews – whatever grip
Rheumatic catch us i' the hip, —
We, each one, for the other's sake,
Will of our very wailings make
Such quips of song as well may shake
The spasm'd corners from the lip —
In days to come.
 
 
Ho! ho! how our old hearts shall rake
The past up! – how our dry eyes slake
Their sight upon the dewy drip
Of juicy-ripe companionship,
And blink stars from the blind opaque —
In days to come.
 

LUTHER A. TODD

OBIT JULY 27, 1887, KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI

 
Gifted, and loved, and praised
By every friend;
Never a murmur raised
Against him, to the end!
With tireless interest
He wrought as he thought best, —
And – lo, we bend
Where now he takes his rest!
 
 
His heart was loyal, to
Its latest thrill,
To the home-loves he knew —
And now forever will, —
Mother and brother – they
The first to pass away, —
And, lingering still,
The sister bowed to-day.
 
 
Pure as a rose might be,
And sweet, and white,
His father's memory
Was with him day and night: —
He spoke of him, as one
May now speak of the son, —
Sadly and tenderly, —
Yet as a trump had done.
 
 
Say, then, of him: He knew
Full depths of care
And stress of pain, and you
Do him scant justice there, —
Yet in the lifted face
Grief left not any trace,
Nor mark unfair,
To mar its manly grace.
 
 
It was as if each day
Some new hope dawned —
Each blessing in delay,
To him, was just beyond;
Between whiles, waiting, he
Drew pictures, cunningly —
Fantastic – fond —
Things that we laughed to see.
 
 
Sometimes, as we looked on
His crayon's work,
Some angel-face would dawn
Out radiant, from the mirk
Of features old and thin,
Or jowled with double-chin,
And eyes asmirk,
And gaping mouths agrin.
 
 
That humor in his art,
Of genius born,
Welled warmly from a heart
That could not but adorn
All things it touched with love —
The eagle, as the dove —
The burst of morn —
The night – the stars above.
 
 
Sometimes, amid the wild
Of faces queer,
A mother, with her child
Pressed warm and close to her;
This, I have thought, somehow,
The wife, with head abow,
Unreconciled,
In the great shadow now.
 

…

 
O you of sobbing breath,
Put by all sighs
Of anguish at his death —
Turn – as he turned his eyes,
In that last hour, unknown
In strange lands, all alone —
Turn thine eyes toward the skies,
And, smiling, cease thy moan.
 

WHEN THE HEARSE COMES BACK

 
A thing 'at's 'bout as tryin' as a healthy man kin meet
Is some poor feller's funeral a-joggin' 'long the street:
The slow hearse and the hosses – slow enough, to say the least,
Fer to even tax the patience of the gentleman deceased!
The low scrunch of the gravel – and the slow grind of the wheels, —
The low, slow go of ev'ry woe 'at ev'rybody feels!
So I ruther like the contrast when I hear the whiplash crack
A quickstep fer the hosses,
When the
Hearse
Comes
Back!
 
 
Meet it goin' to'rds the cimet'ry, you'll want to drap yer eyes —
But ef the plumes don't fetch you, it'll ketch you otherwise —
You'll haf to see the caskit, though you'd ort to look away
And 'conomize and save yer sighs fer any other day!
Yer sympathizin' won't wake up the sleeper from his rest —
Yer tears won't thaw them hands o' his 'at's froze acrost his breast!
And this is why – when airth and sky's a-gittin' blurred and black
I like the flash and hurry
When the
Hearse
Comes
Back!
 
 
It's not 'cause I don't 'preciate it ain't no time fer jokes,
Ner 'cause I' got no common human feelin' fer the folks; —
I've went to funerals myse'f, and tuk on some, perhaps —
Fer my heart's 'bout as mal'able as any other chap's, —
I've buried father, mother – but I'll haf to jes' git you
To "excuse me," as the feller says. – The p'int I'm drivin' to
Is, simply, when we're plum broke down and all knocked out o' whack,
It he'ps to shape us up, like,
When the
Hearse
Comes
Back!
 
 
The idy! wadin' round here over shoe-mouth deep in woe,
When they's a graded 'pike o' joy and sunshine, don't you know!
When evening strikes the pastur', cows'll pull out fer the bars
And skittish-like from out the night'll prance the happy stars:
And so when my time comes to die, and I've got ary friend
'At wants expressed my last request – I'll, mebby, rickommend
To drive slow, ef they haf to, goin' 'long the out'ard track,
But I'll smile and say, "You speed 'em
When the
Hearse
Comes
Back!"
 

OUR OLD FRIEND NEVERFAIL

 
O it's good to ketch a relative 'at's richer and don't run
When you holler out to hold up, and'll joke and have his fun;
It's good to hear a man called bad and then find out he's not,
Er strike some chap they call lukewarm 'at's really red-hot;
It's good to know the Devil's painted jes' a leetle black,
And it's good to have most anybody pat you on the back; —
But jes' the best thing in the world's our old friend Neverfail,
When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!
 
 
I like to strike the man I owe the same time I can pay,
And take back things I've borried, and su'prise folks thataway;
I like to find out that the man I voted fer last fall,
That didn't git elected, was a scoundrel after all;
I like the man that likes the pore and he'ps 'em when he can;
I like to meet a ragged tramp 'at's still a gentleman;
But most I like – with you, my boy – our old friend Neverfail,
When he wags yer hand as honest as an old dog wags his tail!
 

DAN O'SULLIVAN

 
Dan O'Sullivan: It's your
Lips have kissed "The Blarney," sure! —
To be trillin' praise av me,
Dhrippin' shwate wid poethry! —
Not that I'd not have ye sing —
Don't lave off for anything —
Jusht be aisy whilst the fit
Av me head shwells up to it!
 
 
Dade and thrue, I'm not the man,
Whilst yer singin', loike ye can,
To cry shtop because ye've blesht
My songs more than all the resht: —
I'll not be the b'y to ax
Any shtar to wane or wax,
Or ax any clock that's woun',
To run up inshtid av down!
 
 
Whist yez! Dan O'Sullivan! —
Him that made the Irishman
Mixt the birds in wid the dough,
And the dew and mistletoe
Wid the whusky in the quare
Muggs av us – and here we air,
Three parts right, and three parts wrong,
Shpiked wid beauty, wit, and song!
 

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY

SEPULTURE – BOSTON, AUGUST 13, 1890

 
Dead? this peerless man of men —
Patriot, Poet, Citizen! —
Dead? and ye weep where he lies
Mute, with folded eyes!
 
 
Courage! All his tears are done;
Mark him, dauntless, face the sun!
He hath led you. – Still, as true,
He is leading you.
 
 
Folded eyes and folded hands
Typify divine commands
He is hearkening to, intent
Beyond wonderment.
 
 
'Tis promotion that has come
Thus upon him. Stricken dumb
Be your moanings dolorous!
God knows what He does.
 
 
Rather as your chief, aspire! —
Rise and seize his toppling lyre,
And sing Freedom, Home, and Love,
And the rights thereof!
 
 
Ere in selfish grief ye sink,
Come! catch rapturous breath and think —
Think what sweep of wing hath he,
Loosed in endless liberty.
 

MEREDITH NICHOLSON

 
Keats, and Kirk White, David Gray and the rest of you
Heavened and blest of you young singers gone, —
Slender in sooth though the theme unexpressed of you,
Leave us this like of you yet to sing on!
Let your Muse mother him and your souls brother him,
Even as now, or in fancy, you do:
Still let him sing to us ever, and bring to us
Musical musings of glory and – you.
 
 
Never a note to do evil or wrong to us —
Beauty of melody – beauty of words, —
Sweet and yet strong to us comes his young song to us
Rippled along to us clear as the bird's.
No fame elating him falsely, nor sating him —
Feasting and fêting him faint of her joys,
But singing on where the laurels are waiting him,
Young yet in art, and his heart yet a boy's.
 

GOD'S MERCY

 
Behold, one faith endureth still —
Let factions rail and creeds contend —
God's mercy was, and is, and will
Be with us, foe and friend.
 

CHRISTMAS GREETING

 
A word of Godspeed and good cheer
To all on earth – or far or near,
Or friend or foe, or thine or mine —
In echo of the voice divine,
Heard when the Star bloomed forth and lit
The world's face, with God's smile on it.
 

TO RUDYARD KIPLING

 
To do some worthy deed of charity
In secret and then have it found out by
Sheer accident, held gentle Elia —
That – that was the best thing beneath the sky!
Confirmed in part, yet somewhat differing —
(Grant that his gracious wraith will pardon me
If impious!) – I think a better thing
Is: being found out when one strives to be.
 
 
So, Poet and Romancer – old as young,
And wise as artless – masterful as mild, —
If there be sweet in any song I've sung,
'Twas savored for that palate, O my Child!
For thee the lisping of the children all —
For thee the youthful voices of old years —
For thee all chords untamed or musical —
For thee the laughter, and for thee the tears.
 
 
And thus, borne to me o'er the seas between
Thy land and mine, thy Song of certain wing
Circles above me in the "pure serene"
Of our high heaven's vast o'er-welcoming;
While, packeted with joy and thankfulness,
And fair hopes many as the stars that shine,
And bearing all love's loyal messages,
Mine own goes homing back to thee and thine.
 

THE GUDEWIFE

 
My gudewife – she that is tae be —
O she sall seeme sang-sweete tae me
As her ain croon tuned wi' the chiel's
Or spinnin'-wheel's.
An' faire she'll be, an' saft, an' light,
An' muslin-bright
As her spick apron, jimpy laced
The-round her waiste. —
Yet aye as rosy sall she bloome
Intil the roome
(The where alike baith bake an' dine)
As a full-fine
Ripe rose, lang rinset wi' the raine,
Sun-kist againe, —
Sall seate me at her table-spread,
White as her bread. —
Where I, sae kissen her for grace,
Sall see her face
Smudged, yet aye sweeter, for the bit
O' floure on it,
Whiles, witless, she sall sip wi' me
Luve's tapmaist-bubblin' ecstasy.
 

TENNYSON

ENGLAND, OCTOBER 5, 1892

 
We of the New World clasp hands with the Old
In newer fervor and with firmer hold
And nobler fellowship, —
O Master Singer, with the finger-tip
Of Death laid thus on thy melodious lip!
 
 
All ages thou has honored with thine art,
And ages yet unborn thou wilt be part
Of all songs pure and true!
Thine now the universal homage due
From Old and New World – ay, and still The New!
 

ROSAMOND C. BAILEY

 
Thou brave, good woman! Loved of every one;
Not only that in singing thou didst fill
Our thirsty hearts with sweetness, trill on trill,
Even as a wild bird singing in the sun —
Not only that in all thy carols none
But held some tincturing of tears to thrill
Our gentler natures, and to quicken still
Our human sympathies; but thou hast won
Our equal love and reverence because
That thou wast ever mindful of the poor,
And thou wast ever faithful to thy friends.
So, loving, serving all, thy best applause
Thy requiem – the vast throng at the door
Of the old church, with mute prayers and amens.
 

MRS. BENJAMIN HARRISON

WASHINGTON, OCTOBER 25, 1892

 
Now utter calm and rest;
Hands folded o'er the breast
In peace the placidest,
All trials past;
All fever soothed – all pain
Annulled in heart and brain,
Never to vex again —
She sleeps at last.
 
 
She sleeps; but O most dear
And best beloved of her
Ye sleep not – nay, nor stir,
Save but to bow
The closer each to each,
With sobs and broken speech,
That all in vain beseech
Her answer now.
 
 
And lo! we weep with you,
One grief the wide world through:
Yet with the faith she knew
We see her still,
Even as here she stood —
All that was pure and good
And sweet in womanhood —
God's will her will.