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diff --git a/34936-8.txt b/34936-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3ccd48a --- /dev/null +++ b/34936-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4356 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Blood of Rachel, by Cotton Noe + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Blood of Rachel + A Dramatization of Esther, and other poems + +Author: Cotton Noe + +Release Date: January 12, 2011 [EBook #34936] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLOOD OF RACHEL *** + + + + +Produced by David Garcia, Christine Aldridge and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) + + + + + +Transcriber's Notes: + +Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. +Passages in gothic fonts are surrounded by =equal signs=. + +Additional notes are located at the end of this e-text. + + + + +[Illustration: + "_I will not come + At his command. I have a royal heart + And will not thus disgrace the Persian throne._"] + + + + + The Blood of Rachel + + =A Dramatization of Esther= + + AND OTHER POEMS + + BY COTTON NOE + _Author of "The Loom of Life"_ + + [Illustration] + + JOHN P. MORTON & COMPANY + INCORPORATED + LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY + 1916 + + + COPYRIGHT 1916 + BY COTTON NOE + + All producing rights reserved, including photo play. + Permission to produce must be obtained from the author. + + + To + HONORABLE MOSES KAUFMAN + + From whom I differ on some political and religious + questions, but whose warm friendship and + keen literary appreciation have been a + source of much inspiration to me, + particularly in the writing + of this drama. + + + + + CONTENTS. + + PAGE + + The Blood of Rachel 1 + + The Old Dog Irons 79 + + The Age Electric 82 + + Grandmother Days 86 + + Just to Dream 88 + + Amnemon 90 + + A Romance of the Cumberland 102 + + Morning Glories 111 + + Christmastide 112 + + Kinship 113 + + Precocity 114 + + The Secret 115 + + A Rhymeless Sonnet 116 + + Ambition 117 + + Opportunity 118 + + Holiday Thoughts 119 + + The Old Year and the New 120 + + Fellow Travelers 121 + + James Whitcomb Riley 122 + + Cale Young Rice 123 + + Pilate's Monologue 124 + + The Virile Spirit 128 + + Bluebird 131 + + An Autumn Minor 132 + + Slabs and Obelisk 133 + + On Broadway 134 + + An Ember Etching 137 + + A Tragedy in Birdland 140 + + + + + PERSONS OF THE DRAMA + + + AHASUERUS _King of Persia_ + + VASHTI _Queen of Persia_ + + ESTHER _Second Queen of Persia_ + + HAMAN _Premier_ + + MORDECAI _A Jew, afterwards Premier_ + + ZERESH _Wife of Haman_ + + MEHEUMAN _A Chamberlain_ + + ABAGTHA _Another Chamberlain_ + + AHAFID _Court Poet_ + + SMERDIS _Court Fool_ + + SAADI _Young Court Poet_ + + PARSHANDATHA _Lady in Waiting to Zeresh_ + + ZETHAR _Lady in Waiting to Vashti_ + + _Chamberlains_, _Ladies and Gentlemen of the Court_, + _Heralds_, _Royal Dancers_, _Nubian Slaves_, + _Waiters_, _and others_. + + + + + The Blood of Rachel + + + + + ACT I + + + SCENE I + + Place--Shushan, the Capital of Persia. + + Time--478 B.C. + + [_A hall in the palace of the king. Enter Smerdis, the + king's jester, and Ahafid, poet and minstrel to the king, + from opposite sides of the hall. Ahafid is already an old + man, with long grey beard and a little stooped with age. + He carries a golden Persian harp on which he plays and + accompanies his own song._] + + _Ahafid_ + + [_Sings._] + + Now War has doffed his mailed coat + And Peace forgot her art; + The lute but not the bugle's note + Can stir the kingly heart; + Nights of revel and carp, + And days of sensuous rust, + How can a poet's harp + Intone a song of lust? + + The king is mad. His flight from Salamis + Was bad enough. But that could be excused. + For six months now what has he done but drink, + Carouse and wallow in lascivious ease, + While subjects driven to despair with tax + Have fallen on the poisoned sword and cursed + In death the son of their once goodly king? + + _Smerdis_ + + Ahafid, you do seem to think the first + Great business of a king is war. Now pray + You, why should Xerxes waste the lusty days + Of youth in bloody strife? To furnish themes, + No doubt, for dullard bards and minstrelsy. + Ahasuerus is the wisest king + That ever sat upon a Persian throne. + You graybeard fool, stupid as poets are. + Can you not see the wisdom of our king + In substitution of the flight for death, + Of feast for fight, of wine for blood? Think you + 'Tis wise to wear the plaited mail of Mars + When Venus bids you to the festival + Of love? + + _Ahafid_ + + You call me then a graybeard fool! + Though I have dropped the purple bloom of spring + The autumn's silvery down may indicate + The ripened fruit of wisdom which your youth + Has never tasted. Smerdis, you are blind! + My beard is white, but vision clear. The king + Does daily waste the substance of his realm, + And nightly dissipates his energies + In vices of the blood. Vashti, the queen, + The idol of her people, is in grief. + + _Smerdis_ + + In grief for what? Does she too wish the king + To take the field? I know our queen is fair + Of face and most voluptuous of form. + Perhaps her grief is due to jealousy. + Would she monopolize his love, because + Her beauty is surpassing? + + _Ahafid_ + + Vashti does + Not know that she is beautiful. She loves + Her country and is brave as well as good. + I dread the issue of this night. The king + Has ordered that the queen be brought before + The court, a target for licentious eyes. + She will refuse to go because her heart + Is pure. Ahasuerus, flushed with wine, + Will brook no opposition to his will. + A tragedy that never Persia knew + Will see the rising of to-morrow's sun. + + _Smerdis_ + + A tragedy no country ever knew-- + A woman who is beautiful, but doesn't know it's true. + + _Ahafid_ + + [_Sings._] + + Oh, for a song to cleanse the heart + Or touch the sceptred power; + Oh, might the gods a strength impart + To meet this tragic hour. + + [_Exeunt Ahafid and Smerdis._] + + [_Enter Vashti and Zethar._] + + _Vashti_ + + Oh, Zethar, do you think this night will end + The revels that dishonor Persia's king? + To-day unknown I strolled through squalid parts + Of this old city and observed the poor. + My lord, unmindful of their misery, + Has laid a heavy tax for his insane + Extravagance upon the helpless child + That begs in Shushan's streets. Not here alone, + This suffering; but Persia's peasantry, + The glory of the old empire, the heart + That once defied the world, is broken on + The wheel of tax. And all for what? + + _Zethar_ + + O queen, + Always the world has had its poverty. + You shall forget the poor. One stoop of wine + Will bring you happiness. Vashti, drink. + + _Vashti_ + + Forgive me, Zethar, but no wine to-night. + + [_Enter Meheuman, Biztha and Abagtha._] + + _Meheuman_ + + [_Loftily._] + + Our most imperial queen, the king has laid + A banquet in the palace garden court, + The crowning act of that munificence + Toward prince and people great and small alike, + Ahasuerus now for many months + Has shown the loyal subjects of his realm. + The adornment of the court displays a rich + Magnificence of taste; the couches are + Of fretted gold and silver set upon + A pavement of mosaic inlaid stone. + The drinking is according to the law-- + None can compel, each vessel is diverse, + But all of gold. Th' abundance of the wine + Shows the unstinted bounty of the king. + Our monarch's heart is merry in the cup, + And boasts that Vashti's beauty does excel + In magic power the fabled Helen's charms, + And bids us bring immediately before + The court great Persia's matchless queen! + + _Vashti_ + + Meheuman, tell Ahasuerus I + Must thank his majesty since he can still + Remember Vashti's beauty, though his grace + Has lost all sense of modesty and shame. + You say his heart is merry now in wine + And that he glories with exceeding pride + Because my face is fair to look upon! + I do not doubt his tongue is eloquent; + The fiery phrase is his! Why, often I + Have heard him praise his horse in language that + Seemed kindled at the altar of the gods. + It may be that he holds me higher than + His hundred concubines. + + _Meheuman_ + + Your majesty, + The king does hold his queen a goddess. + + _Vashti_ + + Well, + Perhaps he thinks himself divine. Go tell + The king I do not wish to be enrolled + Among divinities. I am the queen-- + He must respect me as the one who wears + The Persian crown. + + 'Tis scarce three years since he + Began to reign. He was Darius' son-- + A king of whom the world was proud. He wooed + Me as a prince of noble blood, and I + Received his hand with dignity as well + As love. I was a princess, but I had + A heart. Long since I found that he had none. + A hundred eighty days continuous feast + He has oppressed the people of his rule + With drunken revels and with wanton waste. + And now to crown his sensuality + He sends his vulgar chamberlains to bring + Me to his palace garden that his lords + May gaze with unchaste eyes upon my form. + Meheuman, Biztha, will you tell the king + That Vashti bids him come to her if he + Would see the queen. + + _Meheuman_ + + You understand + The costly hangings of the garden court + Are blue and green and white? + + _Vashti_ + + Now pray you what + Significance has that? What if each couch + Is gold and silver and each goblet set + With stones? + + _Meheuman_ + + The king's great love for Vashti! + + _Vashti_ + + Then + He has prepared this banquet for his queen? + And does he think this is an evidence + Of love. It rather means the king's debauched. + I will not be a party to his sin. + + _Meheuman_ + + The etiquette of court commands you to + Obey. + + _Vashti_ + + Commands! Well, has it come to that? + But I will not obey. I am a queen! + Here! Take this purple robe and coronet, + And tell Ahasuerus to adorn + Some harlot of his harem. She will grace + The queenship of his kingdom better than + A pure and modest wife. + + _Abagtha_ + + You do not know + The meaning of your words! + + _Vashti_ + + Abagtha, why + Do you admonish me? Do I not know + The forfeit? Chamberlains, this message take + Licentious Xerxes from his virtuous queen: + I do not fear his wrath. I will not come + At his command. I have a royal heart + And will not thus disgrace the Persian throne. + The king that's halfway worthy of my hand + Would hate the queen that yielded to his lust. + My heart, O chamberlains, is broken, not + That Vashti's crown is lost, but oh, to see + The regal name of Persia brought so low! + I weep. The tears are for my country. Go! + + [_Exeunt Vashti, Abagtha, etc._] + + [_Curtain is lowered to denote the passage of six years._] + + + SCENE II + + [_Outer hall in palace. Throne room back concealed by + curtain. Queen Esther, disguised by loose dress thrown + over royal robe and head and face below the eyes hidden by + mask, approaches the door where Mordecai, the Jew, is + standing._] + + _Mordecai_ + + Ah, Esther! Though your queenly robe you do + Conceal, I know that regal gait. Before + I ever looked upon these palace walls, + When you were yet a little child beyond + The purple peaks, where shepherds led their flocks + In pastures green, I often dreamed that you + Would one day wear a golden coronet + And sit in majesty upon a throne. + + _Esther_ + + [_Dejectedly._] + + Four years I have been queen, which time I have + Not heard the voice of any one I love; + And though disguised, I hardly dare to speak + My heart even to you. This palace is + A gloomy prison cell. The Persian crown + Is meaningless to me. The hundred gems + That blaze upon its field of gold are dull + And heavy lead. I would exchange it all + For but a glint of sunshine on the hills + Where I was born. But why this interview? + + _Mordecai_ + + My royal niece, I know that you are queen. + + _Esther_ + + A queen? But what of that? Though of my blood, + You can not even look upon my face. + What would you have? + + [_Wailing without._] + + _Mordecai_ + + My daughter, do you hear + The cries of anguish that disturb the peace + Of Shushan's streets? Your people everywhere + Are clothed in sackcloth. Read the king's decree! + + [_Handing her paper._] + + _Esther_ + + [_Reads._] + + "It has been written and commanded by + Ahasuerus, emperor of all + The East, and sealed in every tongue with his + Own ring--the royal seal--that governors + And princes and lieutenants, everyone + Within the Persian rule, shall make and cause + To die and perish every Jew, both young + And old, the women and the children, rich + And poor alike, and forfeit all their goods. + This is Ahasuerus' sovereign will + And shall be done and executed in + The month of Adar on the thirteenth day." + Oh, God! It is Ahasuerus' seal. + + _Mordecai_ + + But Haman's hand. + + _Esther_ + + Why does the premier hate + The Jews? + + _Mordecai_ + + Because the children of the true + And living God will never bend the knee + To heathen pride. He hates the Jews because + Your uncle is a child of Abraham + And will not do obeisance to a son + Of Baal. Esther, though I made you queen, + I plead not for the life of Mordecai, + But for the sacred blood of Israel. + You alone can intervene. Go straight + Before the king and make demand that he + Reverse this law that puts the Jews to death. + + _Esther_ + + A Persian king can not reverse his own + Decree. Besides, the queen who goes into + The presence of her lord unless by his + Express command, must sacrifice her life, + Except through some unguarded impulse he + Extends his golden sceptre that she live. + I can not go unto the king. + + _Mordecai_ + + Your life + Is forfeited already, child; you are + A Jew. + + _Esther_ + + You did conceal my blood nor dare + Reveal my lineage now. Your own deceit + Has brought this death upon the house of Israel, + Nor will Jehovah hold you guiltless in + The hour of doom. + + _Mordecai_ + + Esther, if you keep + Your peace when Rachel's children wail and cry + For help, deliverance will arise + Unto the Jews but you shall be destroyed + And all your father's house. + + _Esther_ + + Depart. [_Sound of trumpets within._] + + The king + Is on his throne. I go, and if I die, + I can but perish. Peace to Israel. + + [_Exit Mordecai._] + + [_The curtain back rises and discloses Ahasuerus on his + throne surrounded by court. Esther approaches to center + of hall before the king, and extends her hands as + though supplicating. The king seems dazed for a moment + and then deeply moved; slowly he lifts the golden + sceptre and extends it toward the queen who approaches + and touches it._] + + _Ahasuerus_ + + Why did you, Esther, O most beauteous queen, + Thus dare to come unbidden to the king? + 'Twas jealous Death unbarred the royal door + That he might claim you for his paramour? + Your innocence and charms have saved your life! + + _Esther_ + + [_Innocently._] + + My lord, how now was I in danger? Ah, + You know I am your loyal wife? I would + Not be your queen alone. The crown is naught + Compared to pleasures of companionship. + O Xerxes, may not Esther share your joys + Of wine and song? Too long you have denied + That which I covet most--to be beside + My king. + + _Ahasuerus_ + + There is no favor, Esther, I + Would longer hold from you; even to half + My kingdom, tell me what you most desire, + And I will give it you. + + _Esther_ + + My lord, I have + Already spoke my heart, but you will not + Believe. To test Ahasuerus' love, + I have a favor I would ask of you; + But first that my most gracious lord may know + His queen has taste and skill as well as charms, + I will prepare a banquet for the king + With my own hands. You are a judge of wine, + And every dish that graces banquet halls. + To-morrow, let Ahasuerus come, + And bring his premier Haman, who no doubt + Can tell a heron from a hawk, and if + My lord shall praise my art, and I + Find favor in his sight, I will make known + My dearest wish. + + _Ahasuerus_ + + Oh, Esther, you have pleased + Your king already far beyond what he + Had ever hoped. To-morrow night at six! + + [_Music and revels. Esther retires._] + + [_The king and retinue retire in opposite direction. + Haman and followers pass out front where Mordecai sits + by the gate, together with others. All except Mordecai + salaam, but the Jew remains stiff, looking Haman + defiantly in the face._] + + [_Curtain._] + + + SCENE III + + Home of Haman--two days later. + + [_Enter Haman, Zeresh, and Parshandatha._] + + _Haman_ + + My star grows brighter with each setting sun; + The lowly child of old Hammedetha + Is first among the servants of the king. + Ah, Mordecai, you did not know I am + An Agagite, who fed upon the breast + Of unrelenting hate toward every child + Of Israel, who will not bend the knee + Save to the God of Abraham. Oh, do + + [_Wailing in Street._] + + You, Zeresh, hear that wail of anguish? Love, + I know that you are proud to be the wife + Of him who can direct such music. + + _Zeresh_ + + I + Am proud of Haman's power. + + _Haman_ + + Go call our friends. + + _Zeresh_ + + Before the rising sun had touched with gold + The treetops on the peaks of Zagros, Tesh, + The son of Zalphon, was abroad + In Shushan on the errand of my lord. + + _Haman_ + + Not only in this city, but, my spouse, + In every province of the king, the Jews + In sackcloth mourn because of Haman's might. + But would you know the secret of my strength? + This ring! The seal of Xerxes. It is death + To every drop of Jacob's blood within + The Domain of Ahasuerus' rule. + + _Zeresh_ + + The guests are coming. + + _Haman_ + + Oh, the messages + Of enmity are swift as shafts of love. + Now, Zeresh, call the servants of the house + And set a sumptuous feast, for Haman would + Take counsel of his friends. + + _Zeresh_ + + My gracious lord, + The table is already set. Go greet + The guests and bring them in. + + [_Exit Haman._] + + [_Zeresh continues._] + + Parshandatha, + What do you think of Haman? Did you note + My lord? + + _Parshandatha_ + + I did, madam. His happiness + Is most complete. His rapid rise to power + Has all but ravished him with joy. And yet, + Methought that something still he lacked. Perhaps + The queen's consent has not yet been obtained + To this decree that puts the Jews to death. + + _Zeresh_ + + What do you mean? The queen's consent? My Lord + Has naught to do with Xerxes' wife, and why + Should he be troubled for a woman's whim? + Besides, who knows but Esther does approve + This slaughter of the Jews? + + _Parshandatha_ + + Approve, madam? + She is a queen, but still a woman! + + _Zeresh_ + + So + Am I, though not a queen! A woman, yes + But with no stomach for that hated race! + + _Parshandatha_ + + 'Tis whispered in the court that Esther is + Herself a Jew. + + _Zeresh_ + + The Persian queen a Jew! + Then let her perish with her blood. + + _Parshandatha_ + + But would + My lord consent to Esther's death? + + _Zeresh_ + + Consent + Again! Parshandatha, why do you harp + Upon consent? Now listen to my words. + But should you e'er disclose one breath + Of what I say, you are yourself a Jew, + Nor is there any power in Persia's king + To save your life. My lord pretends to hate + The Jews. His hate is only wounded pride. + The deference of Mordecai is all + That Haman wants. He does not know the queen + Is Hebrew blood. This fact must still be kept + Concealed--concealed, that is, until the day + Of death. Oh, he shall know who Esther is-- + This Israelite that banquets with my lord! + You think his rise is due to Esther's power? + + _Parshandatha_ + + Madam, I do not know. + + _Zeresh_ + + Not know! not know! + But what think you, Parshandatha? Of course + You do not know. + + _Parshandatha_ + + Madam, he often dines + With Esther and the king. The king no doubt + Is very fond of your most gracious lord. + + _Zeresh_ + + The king! + + _Parshandatha_ + + Mayhap the queen also. Your lord + Is young and handsome still. The king is far + Beyond the queen in years. + + _Zeresh_ + + I can + Not catch your drift. + + _Parshandatha_ + + Madam, your husband has + A ready wit. The queen enjoys life. + + _Zeresh_ + + Enjoys life! + And so do I, and likewise death. Now hold + Your blasted tongue. My husband sups again + To-morrow with the Jewish queen. They say + When Haman dines her majesty prepares + The banquet with her own most dainty hand! + Parshandatha, whose hand, think you, has laid + The feast of Adar? + + _Parshandatha_ + + Zeresh! call you death + A feast! + + _Zeresh_ + + A glorious feast on which my soul + Already feeds, and Esther shall be there! + + [_Re-enter Haman and Friends._] + + _Haman_ + + Be seated at the table. + + Citizens + Of Shushan, patriots of Persia, friends, + The servant of the king has called you here + To tell you of his triumph and to ask + Your sage advice. Two days ago the prince + And I sat down together to a feast + Within the palace walls and drank your health. + The royal cup was blushing like the spume + Of autumn clouds at sunset, when a wail + Arose in Shushan that has sore perplexed + The people. Mordecai, the haughty Jew, + Who sits beside the palace gate, refused + To bow or do me reverence, although + Admonished by the king. I was born + A humble subject in the private ranks + Of life; but now I wear the signet ring + Of Xerxes. Friends, the law that dooms the Jews + To simultaneous slaughter can not be + Revoked. Last night the queen invited me + To banquet with her lord. The necklace that + She wore of iridescent pearls was like + A rainbow over polar snows. Ah, she + Was fair to look upon! And now my cup + Was filled to overflowing-- + + [_Zeresh shows great emotion._] + + (Zeresh, are + You ill?)--when Esther begged that I would come + Again to-morrow to another feast + Her hand would lay for Haman and the king. + My wealth is multiplied beyond my ken; + The sceptre is almost within my grasp. + But all these things avail me naught, so long + As yonder hated Jew remains unbent. + + _A Friend_ + + Destroy the brute at once! + + _Haman_ + + Oh, that will not + Suffice. 'Tis not his death, but homage that + Must sweeten my revenge. Ah, I would see + Him groveling on the earth as Haman passed. + My rank and station must be recognized. + I sit beside the king; I am premier + Of Persia. Yet this Jewish dog is still + Unmoved! + + _Zeresh_ + + Hang him where the kites will eat + His eyes! + + _Haman_ + + O Zeresh, you are like the rising sun-- + An inspiration in the hour of gloom. + We'll build this gallows fifty cubits high, + And then his Hebrew pride will bite the dust. + Oh, I can hear him whining like a cur, + My love, your wisdom is above the head. + A woman's heart is like an oracle + Divine. Prepare this gallows. Friends, I go + At dawn to greet the king. At night we dine + Alone with Esther, and-- + + [_Zeresh faints._] + + Why Zeresh, are + You ill again? Send for the leech. Her blood + Is over wrought with too much happiness. + + [_Curtain._] + + + + + ACT II + + + SCENE I + + Place--The palace of the king. Outer room of banquet + hall. Curtain back. + + [_Enter Meheuman, Biztha, and Smerdis._] + + _Meheuman_ + + Ahafid has become most deaf of late; + Advancing age has wrought a piteous change + In him. He can not understand our king. + + _Smerdis_ + + 'Tis not the king but age that makes him groan. + I mean this age, the age in which we live. + + [_Meheuman and Biztha exeunt on the opposite side of + stage, as Ahafid enters more stooped, and singing._] + + _Ahafid_ + + [_Sings._] + + A country but no king, + An empire but no throne, + An upstart wears the signet ring, + My harp has lost its tone. + I can no longer sing great Persia's praise. + + _Smerdis_ + + The trouble isn't with the harp, the country, king, nor throne; + Nor that an upstart wears the ring: Ahafid's voice is gone. + + _Ahafid_ + + What say you, Smerdis? + + _Smerdis_ + + Art is marvelous. + + _Ahafid_ + + Even Ahasuerus once was king, + He was a despot, it is true, but still + A prince. + + _Smerdis_ + + If prince, then why not still a king? + + _Ahafid_ + + Eh, Smerdis? + + _Smerdis_ + + [_Aloud._] + + More than prince and less than king. + + _Ahafid_ + + Why now the sceptre, aye, almost the crown + Are worn by Haman, not of noble birth, + But lowborn, vulgar, raised by royal will + To first place in a land renowned for blood. + + _Smerdis_ + + To first place in a land renowned for fools. + + _Ahafid_ + + What's that? + + _Smerdis_ + + This Haman is a cunning fox. + + _Ahafid_ + + The exile of the virtuous Vashti was + A fatal sin. + + _Smerdis_ + + She should have feasted with + The king. + + _Ahafid_ + + I did not hear. + + _Smerdis_ + + [_Aloud._] + + Old Xerxes lost + The finest houri in his harem. Oh, + The royal fool! + + _Ahafid_ + + The Jewess Esther's but + A girl, as beauteous as a lustrous star, + But innocent as dawn of dew-washed day. + + _Smerdis_ + + As wise as snakes and innocent as doves! + + _Ahafid_ + + What, Smerdis, what? You catch my simile? + + _Smerdis_ + + Ah, yes, Ahafid, yes, Aurora in + The bath pool. That was fine. Your poetry + Like wine improves with age. Go on, go on, + Let's have another picture of the dawn. + + _Ahafid_ + + Her beauty made her queen, but can not save + Her life. + + _Smerdis_ + + Ahasuerus will attend + To that. + + _Ahafid_ + + [_Not hearing._] Ahasuerus does not seem + To know a Persian law can not be changed. + + _Smerdis_ + + He knows that lawyers can be bribed. + + _Ahafid_ + + What's that? + + _Smerdis_ + + [_Louder._] + + Just thinking of the lustrous stars of dawn. + + _Ahafid_ + + But Mordecai believes that Esther can + Control the king, and yet may save the Jews. + + _Smerdis_ + + I am more interested in fools than Jews. + + _Ahafid_ + + The golden sceptre was extended when + She went into his presence yesterday. + Last night she banqueted with him but still + Refused to name the favor that she wished. + + _Smerdis_ + + A bathrobe or some new stars for her crown. + + _Ahafid_ + + [_Not hearing._] + + The king does not suspect her origin. + What will he do when he finds out the truth? + + _Smerdis_ + + Since when has Xerxes cared for truth? + + _Ahafid_ + + What say? + + _Smerdis_ + + He'll add two extra stars to Esther's crown. + + _Ahafid_ + + Beloved Vashti lives in poverty, + The victim of a lewd and brutal whim. + And now it seems that Esther's fate was sealed + When Haman wrote that every Jew must die + Because the Hebrew Mordecai refused + Obeisance to his over-bearing pride. + + _Smerdis_ + + Watch Esther smash that seal. + + _Ahafid_ + + I did not hear. + + _Smerdis_ + + [_Louder._] + + Still quoting lines upon the innocence + Of lustrous stars, and dawn of dew-washed day. + + _Ahafid_ + + [_Singing._] + + Minstrelsy shall be no more, + The poet's tongue is still; + The strings that woke to deeds of yore + No longer feel the thrill. + + _Smerdis_ + + I'm glad no more we'll feel the thrill + For I, for one have had my fill. + + _Ahafid_ + + Eh, Smerdis? + + _Smerdis_ + + [_Louder._] + + Bathing in that simile. + + [_Exeunt Ahafid and Smerdis._] + + + SCENE II + + [_The curtain rises, disclosing Ahasuerus, Esther, Haman, + and attendants at the banquet table._] + + _Ahasuerus_ + + Beloved Esther, my most beauteous queen, + This banquet does surpass in excellence + Even the feast of yesterday, which you + Prepared for Haman and the king. Your hand + Grows deft with practice. + + _Esther_ + + But, my lord, you are + A connoisseur, and can but speak these words + In flattery. O king, it was my heart, + And not my hand that flavored every dish + That lies before you. + + _Ahasuerus_ + + Esther, now it is + Your tongue that flatters. Still, it does rejoice + Me much to hear such language from the queen. + A connoisseur, say you? Haman, can + You tell me, now, what bay or bight in all + The salted seas once held this shrimp? + + [_Holding up shrimp._] + + _Haman_ + + [_Tasting it meditatively._] + + My lord, + I think it must have been the Persian Gulf. + + _Ahasuerus_ + + Ha, ha, Haman, why you do not know + A wild goose from the Bird of Paradise. + This crangonoid is found nowhere except + Along the Red Sea beach not far from where + The hosts of Pharaoh were engulfed and lost. + + _Esther_ + + [_With suppressed emotion._] + + Oh, king, your tongue is most acute. But whence, + Think you, this tinct of cinnamon that makes + The savor of the dish. + + _Ahasuerus_ + + [_Tasting for a long time._] + + I give it up, + Unless it came from Java or Ceylon. + + _Esther_ + + [_Laughing, changing rapidly to deep feeling._] + + My lord, it is not cinnamon at all, + But spice that grew a thousand years ago + In hills beyond the Jordon. Haman, can + You tell the flavor of the grape that fills + Your goblet? + + _Haman_ + + [_Flattered._] + + Oh, I think it must have grown + In islands of the blue Aegean Sea. + + _Esther_ + + [_Turning to the king._] + + My lord, it is the selfsame cup they drank + From sacred vessels at Belshazzar's feast + That night in Babylon. + + _Haman_ + + What means the queen, + This wine is not that old, and yet, 'tis not + Excelled at banquets of the gods. + + _Ahasuerus_ + + [_Showing effect of wine._] + + Nor kings. + This is a joyous night! Oh, queen, your wit + Has filled my cup with wine of happiness. + What think you, Haman, should be done to him + The king delighteth most to honor now? + + _Haman_ + + Bring forth the robe, O king, your majesty + Does wear, and place it on the one your grace + Does most delight to honor. Xerxes, set + This man upon your royal horse, and place + Your majesty's own jeweled crown upon + His head, and let him be proclaimed + Throughout the public streets. + + _Ahasuerus_ + + [_Rises. Emphatic._] + + So let it then + Be done to Mordecai, the Jew beside + The palace gate. + + _Haman_ + + What words are these? + You can not mean the Jew! + + _Ahasuerus_ + + [_More emphatic._] + + The Jew I mean. + Last night I could not sleep, and so I had + The book of records read, the chronicles, + Wherein I learned that this same Mordecai + The Jew had saved Ahasuerus' life, + When Teresh and another chamberlain + Had sought to lay the hand of violence + Upon your king. Let nothing fail of all + That you have spoken should be done to him + The king delighteth now to honor most. + And Esther, tell Ahasuerus now + Your dearest wish. On yesterday I begged + To know the favor you did most desire + And now it shall be granted unto you, + Whatever your request, even to half + My kingdom, it shall be performed. + + _Esther_ + + [_With hands extended toward the king._] + + Have I + Found favor in your sight, O king, then let + My life be given unto me at my + Petition and my people live at my + Request! For we are sold to be destroyed-- + To perish and be slain. + + _Ahasuerus_ + + [_Surprised and dazed._] + + O where is he-- + Oh, who is he, that dare presume to lay + The hand of violence upon my queen! + + _Esther_ + + There stands this adversary, O my king, + The wicked Haman! + + _Ahasuerus_ + + Haman! Haman! What + Can be the meaning of this speech? This man + I have advanced to be my premier? + + _Esther_ + + I mean this craven whom you have advanced + To put to death with your own royal seal + The queen, as well as every other Jew + That breathes the Persian air, both young and old + Alike, the laughing child and gray-haired sire. + + _Ahasuerus_ + + What! Esther, you a Jew! + + _Esther_ + + [_Proudly._] + + I am a Jew. + A daughter of the tribe of Benjamin-- + Pure Hebrew blood! + + [_A dramatic pause. Esther awaits the decision of the + king, who for a time seems to waver, then extends his + sceptre toward Esther. Harbonah, the king's high officer, + appears. Haman throws himself at Esther's feet._] + + _Haman_ + + [_Pleading._] + + Oh, queen, I do beseech + You, save me from his wrath. + + _Ahasuerus_ + + [_Angrily._] + + Harbonah, let + This traitor, Haman, die at once. + + _Harbonah_ + + My lord, + You know the scaffold that the premier built + For Mordecai? + + _Ahasuerus_ + + The premier! What's that, + Harbonah? You mock your king? Let him + Be hanged upon this gallows. Call the Jew! + He holds the first place in my kingdom now. + + [_Exeunt Ahasuerus, Esther, Haman, Harbonah, and attendants._] + + _Zeresh_ + + [_Who has been concealed in a corner of the hall, advancing._] + + At Esther's feet! An Aggagite! Ha, Ha! + A hater of the Jews! You hypocrite! + A lover of this queen! A paramour + Of her who boasts that she can trace her blood + An unpolluted stream a thousand years + To one who watched his humble flocks on bleak + Judean hills. A shepherd queen that rules + The Persian throne, and you, O Haman, you + That fed on venom for her race, are now, + Though premier, a cringing, craven wretch, + Begging this Jewish girl for worthless life. + "A rainbow over polar snows," ha, ha! + No doubt her grace was fair to look upon. + False-hearted queen, O royal prostitute! + It was your jeweled hand that laid this feast + But Zeresh's heart that furnished all the wine! + + [_Curtain._] + + + + + ACT III + + + SCENE I + + Some time Later. Room in the Palace of Shushan. + + [_Enter Ahafid and Smerdis._] + + _Ahafid_ + + [_Singing._] + + In the morning man may flourish + In the evening be cut down; + Dawn may find a hero famous, + Nightfall see him lose renown. + + _Smerdis_ + + [_Singing._] + + In his youth Ahafid's singing + Was the pride of Persia's rule; + Now that age has come upon him, + Hear him braying like a mule. + + _Ahafid_ + + Still singing like a nightingale, say you? + + _Smerdis_ + + [_Aloud._] + + I did. [_Aside_] The long-eared kind that crops the grass. + + _Ahafid_ + + Haman's hanged upon the scaffold that + He built for Mordecai. The Jew now wears + The signet ring that sealed his nation's life. + His nation's life? But how can he explain + The slaughter of the Persian hosts? + + _Smerdis_ + + Now if he would, I think he could, and if he should, + He'd thus explain: "The hosts were slain because my brain + Was not insane. So I raised Cain, obtained the reign + Of this campaign, and still remain, though they were slain." + + _Ahafid_ + + I think I must be growing deaf. You rhymed? + + _Smerdis_ + + I only spoke a little joke. If I could sing, I'd say the ring, + And not the king explains the thing. + + _Ahafid_ + + But does + The God of Abraham inspire revenge? + The worshippers of Moloch would have shrunk + From such a day of death. I marvel that + Queen Esther did not intervene. She rules + The king. But wherefore did I say the king? + + _Smerdis_ + + I think it must have been to rhyme with ring. + + _Ahafid_ + + Darius' son's a spineless debauchee. + + [_Sings._] + + The Jew the purple robe enfolds + And eke the royal gown; + For Mordecai the sceptre holds + And Esther wears the crown. + + [_Exit Ahafid._] + + _Smerdis_ + + Ahafid said he couldn't sing Ahasuerus' praise, + And that his harp had lost the tone it had in other days. + But though the Jews are on the throne and Xerxes maudlin full, + Ahafid once more tunes his lyre and bellows like a bull. + + Look out, here comes the Jew, a cloud upon + His brow, the weight of empires on his brain. + What matters does he now revolve? I fear + The day of Adar troubles Mordecai. + We'll stand aside and hear the premier. + + [_Exit Smerdis._] + + [_Enter Mordecai meditatively, followed by Zeresh, who is + unseen by him at first._] + + _Mordecai_ + + The name of Haman perish from the earth! + The seed of Abraham be multiplied + Until they are as numberless as sands + Upon ocean's shore! This was my prayer, + I learned it at my mother's knee. Was I + Not justified? + + _Zeresh_ + + [_Disguised as a Hebrew woman._] + + The Holy Scripture saith, + "Vengeance belongs to God." + + _Mordecai_ + + But was I not + His instrument? Jehovah wrought through me; + His will, not mine was done. + + _Zeresh_ + + And yet His will + Was yours? + + _Mordecai_ + + The wicked Haman would have slain + Even the queen herself and every Jew + That lives within the hundred provinces + Of Xerxes' weak and vacillating rule. + + _Zeresh_ + + Thy action was no more than self-defense? + + _Mordecai_ + + Not self-defense of Mordecai alone, + But of my blood, of Esther and the sons + Of Jacob, exiled and defenseless else. + The God of Abraham may chasten, but + He keeps his promises, nor will forsake. + Rameses sat upon his haughty throne + And knew not Joseph, for my people were + Oppressed with bitter bondage and their lives + Made hard in mortar and in brick; but still + They grew in numbers and increased and waxed + Exceeding mighty, till the land was filled + With them. And then the king was sore afraid + And wroth because the Jews had never bent + The knee at Egypt's shrines. He could enslave + But not corrupt the children of the true + And living God. And then he called + The Hebrew midwives and commanded them + To slay thereafter every son that might + Be born to Jacob's sacred blood. God kept + His covenant with Abraham and raised + Up Moses, the deliverer, and when + The plagues had failed to soften Pharaoh's heart, + The Lord smote every firstborn in the land + Of Egypt, save where hyssop mixed with blood + Was sprinkled on the lintel of the door + And on the two side posts, as Moses had + Directed. Saviour of his people, son + Of Amram and of Jochebed, obscure + Levites, found in an ark of bulrushes + Afloat among the flags near by the spot + Where Pharaoh's daughter bathed, and yet, and yet-- + + _Zeresh_ + + Was Moses not selected by the Lord + To lead the Israelites into the Land + Of Promise? + + _Mordecai_ + + [_As in soliloquy._] + + And did he not talk with God + Upon the Mount of Sinai, when smoke + Enveloped all the peak, and even priests + Were not allowed upon that holy ground? + Was I more lowly than was Amram's child? + + _Zeresh_ + + Yet God exalted him until the throne + Of Egypt was within his grasp. + + _Mordecai_ + + Though I, + Like Jesse's son, was once a shepherd's lad, + To-day I rule ten million souls. + Now Moses was a vessel of the Lord + When Death passed over every Hebrew home, + But slew the firstborn where no blood was found. + Was this revenge? Not Moses' hand, but God's + Was red. + + _Zeresh_ + + The servant must obey his Lord. + + _Mordecai_ + + I did not plot the Persians' death. The plan + Of God was in it all. + + _Zeresh_ + + Else why were you + Made premier at the moment when the Jews + Faced death in every province of the king? + + _Mordecai_ + + It was my hand that stopped the massacre, + But God avenged the awful wrong! + + _Zeresh_ + + And Esther! How is it with her? You made + Her queen. She was a humble Hebrew girl, + Unknown and friendless, but for Mordecai. + + _Mordecai_ + + She should be grateful for the crown I gave. + + _Zeresh_ + + But Hatach says her cheeks are often wet + With tears. + + _Mordecai_ + + It may be that she weeps for him + Who won her girlish heart before we came + To Shushan or had ever seen the king. + + _Zeresh_ + + And yet that can not be. The shepherd's crook + Is not the golden sceptre of a king. + I have no doubt that she has long since ceased + To think of youthful dreams. She rules the king, + And what more does a woman want? + + _Mordecai_ + + I did + Not hope to make her understand at once. + My reasons were too subtle for her heart. + And so I kept my counsel, for I knew + No girl would ever sacrifice her love + To save the remnant of a nation's life. + + _Zeresh_ + + [_Justifying._] + + And why might even Esther not forget + When once she felt the spell of royal power-- + The tinsel show and glamour of the court? + No woman lives that would not be a queen. + + _Mordecai_ + + I knew Ahasuerus was a brute, + But what of that? Through Esther I have saved + A half a million souls. + + _Zeresh_ + + [_Aside._] + + Through Esther you + Have slain a million souls. + + _Mordecai_ + + When Jepthah vowed + A vow unto the Lord he kept his pledge + And slew the only daughter of his flesh + For a burnt offering unto God, because + The Ammonites, his enemy, had been + Delivered to the hands of Israel. + Now Esther was my only child. + + _Zeresh_ + + [_A little sarcastically._] + + You have + Not sacrificed, but elevated her. + Although she does not understand your heart, + She can but bless her uncle Mordecai. + + _Mordecai_ + + But why should Esther weep? She risked her life + At my behest, but did she not obtain + Great favor with the king? + + _Zeresh_ + + And Esther's life + Was forfeit then through Haman's wicked hate. + + _Mordecai_ + + I wear the royal robe of blue and white. + + _Zeresh_ + + Does Esther think because her vanity + Is flattered by the jewels of a queen + That Mordecai is moved by pomp and show? + + _Mordecai_ + + 'Tis not the kingly trappings but the seal-- + Not sceptre merely but the signet ring, + Not rank, but rule that Mordecai would have. + I can not understand her tears no more + Than she knows why I wear the crown. But I + Am justified. Jehovah wrought through me. + + [_Exit Mordecai._] + + _Zeresh_ + + [_Bursting into fury._] + + Jehovah wrought through him! Hell wrought through him! + I marvel that his tongue is not consumed + By blasted lies. Wait till he feels the flame + That rages in my heart. Hell may not burn + A Jew, but even he can not withstand + The simoon of a fiery dragon's breath! + + _Parshandatha_ + + But Zeresh, was the Jew not justified? + + _Zeresh_ + + Justified! gratified! satisfied! Parshandatha, + Justified in Jepthah; gratified + That he is like the meek and lowly son + Of Amram; satisfied that now the crown + Of Persia presses only Hebrew brows. + + _Parshandatha_ + + [_Sarcastically._] + + You do forget my lord, Darius' son. + You can not think the blood of Jacob flows + Through Xerxes' veins? Does he not wear the crown? + + _Zeresh_ + + [_With contempt._] + + Ahasuerus wears a pigeon's heart. + The Persian robe's a Jewish gabardine; + The crown, a Hebrew priest's phylactery. + But did you say forget? Have you been so + Long with me, dear, and doubt my memory? + Forget Ahasuerus, did you say? + That minion of a Jewish girl, who sealed + The death of Haman and his sons? His face + Is seared upon my heart, his image burnt + Into my brain. I tell you Xerxes is + No longer king. + + _Parshandatha_ + + But is not Esther queen? + + _Zeresh_ + + Parshandatha, why do you taunt me thus? + Have I not proved your friend? Do I deserve + Your mockery? + + _Parshandatha_ + + I do but speak to sting + You to revenge. + + _Zeresh_ + + Let fly your venom then. + The Persian empire is in arms. To-night + The king does hold a great carouse. The Jew + Will sit in state beside the profligate. + This blade I have prepared against that hour. + The queen, I understand, will be a blaze + Of gems. Ahasuerus boasts this night + Would all but wreck a petty kingdom. + + _Parshandatha_ + + He + Should never live to see the rising sun. + + _Zeresh_ + + The rising sun! My dear, he shall not see + The Pleiades again, and they are up + At nine. When cornet and the trumpet bruit + The entry of the queen, a hundred blades + Like this [_disclosing dagger_] shall be unsheathed. + Parshandatha, + You know whose blood my blade shall drink! + My hour has come! Ah, Esther, you shall sup + Once more with Haman and your drunken lord, + While Zeresh keeps her lonely watch + Beneath the silent, glittering stars. Come on! + + [_Exeunt Zeresh and Parshandatha._] + + [_Curtain._] + + + SCENE II + + Place--Outer hall to throne room, curtain back. + + Time--The following evening. + + [_Enter Vashti and Esther from opposite sides of the stage._] + + _Esther_ + + Ah, here already, Vashti, at my poor + Request, who dared defy a despot king's + Command to come before him and his lords? + Your beauty, radiant and spotless, grows + Each hour of exiled life more potent still + Than when it hurled an oriental crown, + With all its flashing jewels, in the face + Of brutal Xerxes rather than unveil + Unto a drunken court of lustful eyes. + Uncrowned, deposed, you are, yet thrice a queen! + + _Vashti_ + + The sting, the sting of your envenomed words! + + _Esther_ + + Forgive me, dear, I do not mock your fate; + No word of mine is spoke in scorn. I would + Exchange the royal robe and crown I wear + For just one hour of virtuous freedom that + Belongs to you. + + _Vashti_ + + I can not understand! + + _Esther_ + + I know; 'tis my misfortune, and I called + You to the palace that I might explain. + Yet every word seems cruel mockery. + I do not blame you that your cheek, as chaste + As lilies, blushes at my seeming shame. + Yet, Vashti, can you not believe I need + Your sympathy? I crave your high respect? + + _Vashti_ + + You must an explanation. + + _Esther_ + + Well, did you + Not sacrifice a queenship for the gem + That every woman holds above a throne? + How can we estimate your loss? The pomp + That follows majesty; the crooking knee; + Ten thousand minions at your beck and call; + A thousand sycophantic, fawning lords; + A hundred gleaming jeweled chandeliers; + The radiance and rich magnificence + Of court; long hours of revel and of wine; + And then above the splendor and the show + God's finger writing on the wall! Is this + The precious price that you have paid? + + _Vashti_ + + This is + The price. + + _Esther_ + + Sweet friend, I thank you. Yes, your loss + Has been my gain! Yet what reward have I? + How I do hate the crown that you did spurn! + O how I love the pearl of greatest price! + God pardon my great sin! + + Vashti, I am + A daughter of Rebecca and the blood + Of Rachel pulses in my veins! Beyond + The northern hills, within a valley green, + A shepherd watches o'er his flocks to-night + Beside a starlit stream, and dreams of her + Who gave the promise of her hand when life + Was young and all the earth was pure and fair. + + His love was constant as the northern star, + And mine was like the needle pointing true. + That day is but a sad remembrance now. + I never knew the ones who gave me life. + My uncle, Mordecai, who sits in state + Beside the king instructed me in love + And knowledge of my people. Every night, + As well as every day, like Daniel, I + Was taught to pray, my window open toward + Jerusalem. God softened Cyrus' heart + Because of Daniel's prayer. But, Vashti, you + Must know from Persian Gulf to Caspian Sea, + The sons of Jacob still in exile groan + Beneath a tyrant's yoke. I hear the wail + Of Rachel weeping for her children still; + I hear my lover playing on his flute, + Who waits the coming of a faithless bride! + _But Mordecai has stayed the hand of Death!_ + + _Vashti_ + + And you did eat your heart to save your blood? + + _Esther_ + + You comprehend at last? Your sympathy, + O Vashti, I must have, if not respect, + Else can I not return unto the king. [_Vashti weeps._] + There, there, I thank you, sister, friend, proud queen! + The tears that glitter on your cheeks are worth + A diadem of sparkling Indian stones. + But weep no more--your hand--for Esther's heart + Can now endure, since Vashti understands! + The stars are twinkling in the northern skies; + They shimmer on the stream beyond the hills; + The shepherd's reed is wailing on the breeze; + The revels in the palace now begin; + The call has come; I must no longer stay. + The daughter of a Benjamite will lay + Her heart upon the altar of her blood. + Hear you the crimson riot in my veins? + 'Tis Rachel's voice! I would that you could know! + . . . . . . . . . . . . . + Forgive me, Vashti, for my brain's distraught! + + The lights die out beyond the palace walls. + The stars are hid.... I can no longer hear + The wailing flute.... Return unto your hut. + Ahasuerus calls with mantling wine. + My place is yonder by the king. I go! + + [_Exeunt Esther and Vashti._] + + [_Enter Ahafid and Smerdis._] + + _Ahafid_ + + The last word has been spoken + The last true song been sung; + My country's heart is broken, + The poet's harp unstrung. + + _Smerdis_ + + Ahafid seems to harp upon his strings. + + _Ahafid_ + + It seems Ahasuerus means to drink + The cup of revel to its bitter lees. + + _Smerdis_ + + The deeper in the cup he goes + The sweeter is the wine that flows; + The closer to the lees, he thinks, + The purer is the wine he drinks. + + _Ahafid_ + + Messengers from every province bring + Reports of mutterings and dangerous + Revolt. But Xerxes, heedless still, declares + This night shall dim the glories of the past. + + _Smerdis_ + + [_Sings._] + + The lower in the lamp the oil + The fewer are the days of toil. + The brighter burns the wick of life, + The sooner end the days of strife. + 'Tis not for oil that Xerxes cares, + But brilliancy of flame that flares. + + _Ahafid_ + + I hate the Hebrews and their Jewish God; + I hate Jehovah for his jealous love, + But Mordecai refuses to attend + The feast. The God of Israel must save + Us now, or Persia perish utterly. + + My hand will pen no ribald verse + This revel to adorn; + Ye gods, inspire my tongue to curse + The day the king was born. + + [_Exit Ahafid._] + + _Smerdis_ + + The more he swears the less he sings, + Then welcome is this news he brings; + For listening to his song is worse + Than hearing old Ahafid curse. + + [_Exit Smerdis._] + + [_Re-enter Ahafid._] + + _Ahafid_ + + [_Sings._] + + Persia's heart is beating low, + Thinking of the long ago, + When the king that wore the crown + Was a prince of great renown; + When her name without a peer + Did inspire the world with fear; + But to-night her sovereign's lust + Trails her banner in the dust. + + Now my life is ebbing fast, + Dreaming of the glorious past; + Feeling all the shame and smart, + Dying of a broken heart. + + [_Sinks to floor._] + + [_Curtain._] + + + SCENE III + + [_Curtain rises on Ahasuerus and his court._] + + _Ahasuerus_ + + Sha-ashgaz, keeper of the concubines, + Ahasuerus drinks your health + And bids you bring immediately before + The court the serpents of the Orient! + The king would have a night of revelry. + + [_The court fool, Smerdis, dances out before the court._] + + _Ahasuerus_ (_Continues_) + + What, Smerdis, is the office of a fool? + + _Smerdis_ + + To charm these serpents of the Orient! + [_Aside_] But more to furnish brains for idiot kings. + + _Ahasuerus_ + + Now tell the chief musicians every one + To string his harp with golden wire and tune + His finest Persian reed to touch the heart + With joy. To-night the emperor of the East, + The monarch of the world from Babylon + To India, would show munificence + Of entertainment never seen within + The palace walls before. + + _Smerdis_ + + You do forget + That night six years ago. The palace was + A blaze of light. The air was fragrant with + The breath of spice from off the Indian seas. + Ahasuerus, flushed with flattery + And wine, was mad with passion.... + + _Ahasuerus_ + + [_Impetuously._] + + Smerdis, charm + These serpents, if you will, your glittering words + Are meaningless to me. Carshena, let + The Jewish Esther come in Tyrian robe, + In such a gown as never Vashti wore! + + _Smerdis_ + + [_Aside._] + + His orders have not always been obeyed. + + _Ahasuerus_ + + And I would have my queen adorned with gems, + That diamond cluster from beyond the Ind, + Which, sparkling in her aureole of gold, bedims + The constellation of the Southern Cross. + + _Smerdis_ + + [_Aside._] + + And makes the Persian peasants mourn their loss! + + _Ahasuerus_ + + I say, Meheuman, this shall be a night + In which Ahasuerus feasts his friends-- + A banquet for the soul, as well as flesh. + + _Smerdis_ + + [_Aside._] + + A famished soul such feasting would refresh! + + _Ahasuerus_ + + For who does not delight to look upon + The rhythmic beauty of voluptuous form? + + _Smerdis_ + + [_Aside._] + + Cold-blooded heart a writhing snake can warm! + + _Ahasuerus_ + + Whose ear is not enthralled by luscious lute, + Whose heart is not inspired by festive song! + + _Smerdis_ + + [_Aside._] + + The one bowed down by tyranny and wrong! + + _Ahasuerus_ + + But why has Mordecai delayed to come? + The hated sons of Haman are no more; + That reprobate who would have slain the queen + Herself to gratify his wounded pride + Has long since festered in the rain and sun. + No enemy remains alive who dares + To touch the people of the Jew that saved + The life of Persia's king. He wears my ring; + The purple of my empire is a shield + Against the world. I do not understand + Why Mordecai is late. He should be here; + The tabor and tymbrel sound anon. + + _Smerdis_ + + [_Dances and capers before the king, then speaks + solemnly._] + + O king, I know why Mordecai is late, + He sits once more beside the palace gate, + In sackcloth and bemoans his fate. + He sits and dreams of hills and streams + That flow through pasture lands and fields. + He sees a child of golden hair, + As happy as the vibrant air, + And hears the notes and pulse of song + Where birds and sheep and shepherds throng. + And then he turns to banquet halls + And scenes like this in palace walls, + Where lords and queens and fools and kings, + And concubines and underlings, + Made one with wine and passion's thrall, + Throw dice with Death, nor heed the call + That comes from Persia's bleeding heart, + [_Aside_] (A fool that can not play his part). + And this explains why he is late, + The Jew beside the palace gate. + + _Ahasuerus_ + + You are a jester, not a bard. Your cap + And bells, or else Death wins his throw with you. + Meheuman, call the poet of the court, + The great Ahafid. Let him celebrate + This feast in song. This rhyming fool presumes + Too much upon the patience of the king. + + _Smerdis_ + + Your majesty, I did but rhyme because + Ahafid's dead. + + _Ahasuerus_ + + Ahafid dead? What caused + His death? + + _Smerdis_ + + [_Aside._] + + A broken heart. [_Aloud._] He broke his harp + And died of grief. [_Aside again._] The good gray poet could + Remember real kings. + + _Ahasuerus_ + + Of grief? The fool! + Well, let the younger minstrel, Saadi sing. + + _Saadi_ + + [_Sings._] + + Lift the voice and let us sing, + The monarch's on his throne; + Xerxes is the greatest king + The world has ever known. + Women, wine and happy song, + Let the revels ring, + Lift your voices loud and long, + For Xerxes is our king. + + [_Much revel and dancing. The trumpet sounds._] + + _Ahasuerus_ + + Ahafid's death was only Persia's gain. + + [_Meditatively._] + + Could Vashti look upon this gorgeous scene + The bitter tears would scald her faded cheeks + At thoughts of her own folly. + + [_Confusion and much disturbance. Ahasuerus, surprised, + cries in angry passion._] + + Ho! What means + This rude confusion? Who has dared disturb + The king in this unwonted way? + + [_Enter messenger._] + + _Messenger_ + + Tidings, + O king, of riot and revolt! + + _Ahasuerus_ + + Restore + The court to order. I will hear no news! + There is no news but this night's joy. What fear + Need Persia have? The world is safe; + The emperor lives! Go put the messengers to death! + This is no time to cloud the royal brow! + Bring forth the vintage from the deepest vault. + Here are a hundred irised pearls. They cost + A million sesterces. Let each man crush + A lustrous shell and drink it to the health + Of Esther, beauteous queen of all the East. + Arise! She comes! A blaze of splendor. Now + Let every instrument be sounded. + The revels shall continue till the dawn! + + _Zeresh_ + + [_Rushing in with uplifted dagger and thrusting it into + the heart of Esther, crying as she flourishes it before + the astonished court._] + + The dawn, O king, is breaking in the east! + + [_Curtain._] + + + FINIS + + + + +POEMS AND SONNETS + + + To + DOCTOR W. W. RAY + PHYSICIAN, SCIENTIST, POET, MUSICIAN + + To Whom + Whether in Art or Nature + Truth is Beauty and Beauty Truth, + To Whose Appreciation and Enthusiasm I Owed my Intellectual + Awakening in Youth, and Whose Friendship and Love + have Increased That Obligation Immeasureably + as the Years have Passed, + + I Dedicate these Poems + With the Affection of a Full Heart + + COTTON NOE + + +[Illustration: + + "_Then why not praise the tallow-dip, the dog irons and the crane, + The kettle singing on the coals, or hanging to a chain?_"] + + + + +Poems and Sonnets + + + THE OLD DOG IRONS + + Oh, the old, old dog irons! How the picture thrills my soul, + As I stir the ashes of the past and find this living coal: + When I blow the breath of memory it flashes into flame, + That seems to me far brighter than the most undying fame. + Will you listen to the story of my early childhood days + When I read the mystic symbols in the embers and the blaze + Of the old wide-open fireplace, where the backlog, all aglow + With its shifting scenes of fancy, was a motion picture show? + I know about your natural gas, your stoves and anthracite, + Your phonograph and telephone and incandescent light; + I've heard about the comforts and the use of gasoline, + And the educative value of a Pathe photo-scene; + The future of the biplane and the wonders of the press, + And the blessings of the wireless when a ship is in distress. + I marvel at invention and its all but magic art, + But the things that make for happiness concern the human heart. + Then why not praise the tallow dip, the dog irons and the crane, + The kettle singing on the coals, or hanging to a chain? + The children gathered round the hearth to hear of early days-- + The wildcat and the panther, the redman's sneaking ways; + The bravery of our fathers, the scalping knife and gun, + The courage of the women folks; I tell you, boys, 'twas fun. + We roasted sweet potatoes and we talked of Marion's men, + How they routed all the redcoats, or slew them in the fen. + We learned to love our country and we swore to tell the truth, + And do no deed of treachery and never act uncouth; + To guard the honor of our name, and shield a virtuous home, + To read the Proverbs and the Psalms and love the sacred tome. + I know our home was humble then--rag carpet on the floor-- + But the stranger found a welcome there, the latch-string on the door. + The well-sweep and the woodpile and the ox team in the shed, + Dried apples hung around the walls, and pumpkins overhead-- + Not sanitary, I'll admit, nor stylish-like, nor rich, + But health and comfort and content; now tell me, which is which? + Then who can blame me that I love the good old dog iron days, + When men had hearts and character that fortune couldn't faze; + The years before the slitted skirts and the Turkish cigarettes, + When women wove their linsey clothes instead of devilish nets; + When children did the chores at night, nor ever heard of gym, + Or movements such as boy scouts, yet kept in health and trim. + We spent our evenings all at home, and read and sang and played, + Or talked of work and feats of strength, or what our crops had made; + And when we mentioned quilting bees and apple-peeling time, + We had in mind our sweethearts and we sometimes made a rhyme: + 'Twas then I read my future in the embers and the blaze, + And this is why I celebrate the good old dog iron ways. + + + THE AGE ELECTRIC + + The glory of the good old days has passed from earth away, + The lumbering loom, the spinning wheel, Maud Muller raking hay; + The old rail fence, the moldboard plough, the scythe and reaping hook, + Corn shuckings, and Virginia reel, and young folks' bashful look. + Now poor old father limps behind his motorcycle son + And sees the world go whizzing by and knows his race is run. + With rheumatism in his joints and crotchets in his brain, + He finds that he can hardly catch th' accommodation train. + Two dozen bottles of the oil of Dr. Up-To-Date + Would put to flight the rheumatiz and straighten out his pate; + But fogy folks don't have the faith, nor interest in the race, + They'd rather drive a slow coach horse than go at such a pace. + Efficiency! efficiency! In business, church and school, + Where Culture in a dunce's cap sits grinning on a stool, + And wondering where the thing will end, and what the prize will be, + When Intellect, all geared and greased, is mere machinery. + Old Homer and the Iliad, the Trojan and the Greek, + The Parthenon and Phidias, not ancient, but antique. + Great Cæsar and the Gallic War and Virgil with his rhyme, + And Cicero have all gone down beneath the wheel of time. + And Dante now lies buried deep beneath the art debris, + Where Michael Angelo once wrought for immortality. + The Swan of Avon's not in school, but on the movie screen, + The Prince of Denmark can not talk but still he may be seen. + All history and literature, philosophy and truth + Would take about three evenings off of any modern youth + To master through the picture art if he the time could spare, + From vaudeville shows and joy rides and tango with the fair. + The problem is to find an hour so busy is the age, + And so important is the work and tempting is the wage. + Then what's the use of poetry or history anyhow? + Best turn your back upon the past and face the present _now_! + Get busy, and be on the job, the world will pay for skill. + It says: "Deliver me the goods, and then present your bill." + The family circle and the talk around the old hearth stone, + The sage advice, when backlogs glowed and grease lamps dimly shone, + Are mouldy pictures of the past, mere myths of long ago, + When grandsires had found out some things that children didn't know. + How many bushels can you raise upon your plot of ground? + How many blades of grass now grow where once just one was found? + Oh! Nature is the proper theme, but better Wordsworth drop, + San Jose scale and coddling moth will get your apple crop. + Ben Johnson and Will Shakespeare and Goldsmith all are dead. + Put nodules in alfalfa roots not dramas in your head. + Tomato canning's orthodox if done with due dispatch, + Don't let your daughter dream of fame, just show her how to patch. + The laws of sanitation soon will put the fly to flight, + Then stop tuberculosis next and win the hookworm fight. + If man could live a century it may be in the strife, + He'd learn to make a _living_ if he didn't make a _life_! + What matter if the primrose is beside the river's brim, + A yellow primrose growing there and nothing more to him, + He's caught the trick of sustenance (but lost his taste for rhyme), + Though the oxen in the clover fields have had that all the time! + + + GRANDMOTHER DAYS + + Ah, Grandmother Young was wrinkled and old + When she sat by the mantelpiece; + And she wore a cap with many a fold + Of ribbon and lace, as rich as gold, + And worked in many a crease: + And the billowy clouds of smoke that rolled + From her little stone pipe whenever she told + Of the quest of the Golden Fleece, + Wrought me to think that Grandmother Young + Was shriveled and gray when Homer sung + Of the gods of ancient Greece. + + But all of her marvelous mythical lore + Was naught to her magical power-- + Transforming a house with a puncheon floor + To a palace of wealth with a golden door + That lead to a castle tower-- + An attic loft with a wonderful store + Of things that we feared, but longed to explore-- + Our grandmother's ancient dower. + Oh, grandmother's charm could change but a base + Rude vessel of clay to a Haviland vase, + A weed to a royal flower. + + Ah, grandmother's home was a temple of grace + And my child-heart worshipped there, + When Balm-of-Gilead around the place, + Like incense, for a mile of space, + Perfumed the glorious air; + And the song that came from the feathered race + In the boughs of the tangled interlace + Of apple and peach and pear, + Enthralled me like the magic spell + Of siren music when it fell + On old Ulysses' ear. + + Last summer I passed where the palace once stood + Whose beauty my life beguiled; + It's a cabin now; and the charmed wood + Of sugar and oak, in brotherhood + Of walnut and hickory, aisled + For gathering nuts and the merry mood + That only our childhood understood, + By man has been defiled. + Oh, how can I ever cease to praise + The fairy enchantment of grandmother days + When I was a little child! + + + JUST TO DREAM + + Just to dream when sapphire skies + Are as blue as maidens' eyes; + Just to dream when petals sow + All the earth with pink and snow; + Just to sit by youth's bright stream, + Gazing at its crystal gleam-- + Listening to the wren and dove-- + Hearing only songs of love-- + _Just to dream_. + + Just to dream of sabre's flash + When the lines of battle clash; + See the army put to rout-- + Hear the world's triumphant shout; + Just to dream our name supreme-- + Hero of a poet's theme, + First among the sons of men, + Master of the sword or pen-- + _Just to dream_. + + Just to dream when skies grow gray, + Just to dream the days away-- + Living over childhood's joys, + Sorrow that no longer cloys; + Just to muse of days that seem + Like the sunlight's golden beam, + Summer nights and winter's snow. + Just to dream of long ago-- + _Just to dream_. + + + AMNEMON + + "Dear, the struggle has been hard and long-- + The wine-press I have trodden, + Paved with flint and shard; + And many times my feet have stained + The flagstones of the street with blood. + Out yonder in the park where life's rich chalice + Sparkles with the wine of happiness and love + The world was always dull and dark to me. + Hours I have stood upon the beach + And watched the whitecaps glinting + In the sunlight and listened to the breakers + Booming on the sinuous shore, + While little children clapped their hands + And shouted out across the waters, + And gray-haired men and women shook their heads + In silence and looked toward the sunset. + But everything was always meaningless to me. + Season after season I have watched the butterflies + By millions come and go + And katydids each year have sung + The song monotonous and passed away. + Yesterday the sun arose upon another world. + Gray skies have turned to brilliant blue; + The droning hum of beetles on the breeze + Is like an orchestra of lovely music. + The air is sweet and fresh as dewdrops in convolvuli. + For two bright hours I have strolled + Among the flowering shrubbery near the seashore, + Listening to a song I had not heard for years. + And now once more that I am happy, + May I not confess it all? + I did you wrong, great wrong. + There was no stain upon my life, + No taint of blood within my veins. + I came of Pilgrim stock, vigorous and strong. + I did not understand my heart, + And knowing all the stress you placed upon heredity, + I told a falsehood, partly as a test of love, + And part for self-protection. + I have suffered much, but justly. + You said my story broke your heart, + And left me where I stood, + Pondering on the sin I had committed. + I had proved your love, but all too late. + Your talent meant a brilliant future, + And I knew your great ambition. + For years I scanned the periodicals + Where names of most renown in literature are found, + Expecting always to see my lover's there, + But always doomed to disappointment. + And yet I now rejoice + That you have not achieved great fame, + For otherwise I could not write this letter. + Perhaps 'twere best that I should never send it; + If so, it will not find its way to you. + It may be that you think me dead, + Or worse--I may have been forgotten. + This is April twenty-first; + The hillsides now are pink with peach and apple bloom. + I will arrive in Salt Lake City, May the third, + And be at Hotel Utah. + If your heart, through all these years, + Like mine, has hungered, you will be there too. + Geraldine." + + Alfred Milner read this letter + While great drops of perspiration + Stood upon his brow and trembling hand. + For seven winters he had tried + To bury in oblivion a face and form + That always with the dogwood blossoms + Came again, and each time seemed more fair. + He had tried for fame and failed. + But now his book that bore a pen name only + Was selling daily by the thousands + And fame and fortune, latter-day twin saints, + Were building him a shrine. + But did she know of his success, + And was her conduct + Years before base cowardice? + Had she only told the cruel tale + Because she knew his theory of insane blood, + And hid her lack of faith + By taking refuge in his prejudice? + Or was her story true? + If true or false, why had she kept it back + Until she knew red passion + Was a-riot in his heart? + He tore the letter into strips + And blew them fiercely through the air. + He had suffered much himself, + But she was not concerned. + What if this letter had been sent + To open healing wounds, + To win some wager with another man + To whom she boasted of her power? + He would not go! + + The air was growing foul and stuffy + In his suite of rooms, + And Alfred threw the window open. + The subway in the distance + Rumbled like a gathering storm; + The palisades across the Hudson + Now were darkling in the falling shadows. + + April thirtieth at noon. + The Rocky Mountains looked like towers + On the Chinese Wall a hundred miles away. + Would he make connection at Pueblo? + The gray monotony of grass and cacti + Had begun to wear upon his nerves. + He longed to see the Royal Gorge-- + The steep and jagged heights of hills. + They spoke of giant strength + He needed for the coming struggle. + It might be that the air + From off eternal snows + Would cool the fever in his brain. + + "May second, and yonder lies the Great Salt Lake, + Or else a mirage on the desert's rim." + + Alfred put his pen upon the register + Of Hotel Utah, + And read the list of names above. + She was there, "Geraldine Mahaffy." + Finally he scrawled a signature, + But wrote his _nom de plume_. + The clerk thrust out his hand and beamed. + Two porters swooped upon his grips, + And soon the lobby hummed. + But Alfred Milner sat alone within his room + Battling with emotions he could neither + Overcome nor understand. + He did not know the stir his name upon the register + Had made below, or knew what name he wrote. + At last: "Geraldine Mahaffy: + This is May the third and I am here." + Thoughtfully he creased the sheet + And rang: "Room ten, and answer, please." + + The smell of brine was heavy on the air + That blew across the lake. + The mountains to the north were white with snow above + And dogwood petals on the southern slopes. + But winter was forgotten in the plains, + For rivulets imprisoned long in cataracts + Were leaping over waterfalls + And shouting like a red bird, + In an April cedar tree. + + Milner drew a long deep breath of spring + And walked into the parlor. + "Alfred!" + "Geraldine!" + + "Last night I dreamed of Cornell days, + And saw the redbuds blooming in the hills + Behind the cliffs of Ithaca!" + + "The ice in Cascadilla Creek is gone. + All night I heard the roaring of the falls!" + + "The call of flickers sounded through the canyons + Of Old Buttermilk, and peckerwoods were beating + Reveilles before the sun was up!" + + "Two blue birds built a mansion + In a dead oak trunk + And called the world to witness!" + + "Alfred!" + "Geraldine!" + + "The train for California leaves at nine!" + + Some hours out from Great Salt Lake, + The sand dunes stretching southward + O'er a waste of shrubbery and alkali + Were shimmering in the sunshine + Like copper kettles on a field of bronze. + + "Dear Alfred, can you still recall + Those afternoons upon the cliffs above Cayuga Lake? + The little city, Ithaca, + Was like a jewel on the breast of Nature. + The lake a band of silver, stretching northward. + A hundred waterfalls were visible + From where we used to sit. + We often thought the lime-washed houses + Far to west, resembled whited decks + Upon a sea of emerald; + And wondered if our own good ship + Would one day cast its anchor in the harbor. + Over to the right the Cornell towers, + Like mediæval castles beetling o'er the precipice, + Were keeping silent watch above it all. + The memory of those blessed days alone + Has kept my heart alive." + + "But Geraldine, our vessel richly laden + Has at last come in + Nor ever will put out to sea again. + Happy as those moments were, + Forget the past, so fraught with bitterness to me." + + The desert now a hundred miles behind + Was fading like a crescent sea beach + In the setting sun. + Slowly like a giant serpent + The Sunset Limited climbed the great Sierras + And started down the western slope at dawn. + The valley of the Sacramento + Never bloomed so beautiful before. + The blue Pacific through the haze + Was like a canvas sea. + Peace permeated all the earth. + The sun at last was resting on the ocean's rim. + The turquoise waters turned to liquid gold. + + "Life, O my beloved, is like eternal seas-- + Emerald in the morning, changing into opal, + Amethyst and pearl, but ruby red at last. + Behold the Golden Gate! + The seas beyond are all like that!" + + Morning in the Sacramento! + Petals, dew and fragrance--indescribable! + Plumage, song and sunshine, + And over all a California sky! + + "O Alfred, could it only be like this forever! + Back yonder in New York, + The world is built of brick and mortar, + And men forget the handiwork of God. + How can a poet hope to win a name + Where men are mad for gold?" + + "A name! Why Geraldine! I had forgot + To tell the story of my fame. + The ecstacy of these three days + Had blotted all earthly fortune from my memory. + I am Ralph Nixon, author of the _Topaz Mystery_." + + "Ralph Nixon! You! Then who am I?" + A heavy tide of blood swept over + All the tracery of the bitter past, + And in a moment more + She lay unconscious on a bed of thorny cactus. + + The _City Argentina_ blew a long loud blast + And anchored in the bay. + The woman opened wondering eyes + And looked at Milner. + "Why do you call me Geraldine? + My Christian name's Amnemon. + We never met before. + I am Major Erskine's wife. + We live in Pasadena. + I do not know your name or face, + Nor how I came to be with you. + I never saw this place before, + But those are California hills + And yonder is the great Pacific. + The mystery of who you are, + And where I am, I can not solve. + I only know I wish to see my home and child; + Little Alfred never has been left alone, + And may be calling for his mother now. + You seem to be a gentleman. + Please show me to the nearest train + That goes to Pasadena." + + Half in fright and half in rage + Milner looked at Geraldine and tried to speak. + The mountains reeled and pitched into the sea. + A clevage in the brain! But whose? + This was insanity, but whether his + Or hers he was unable to decide. + The memory of the Cornell days came back-- + The cliffs above the lake, the emerald farms, + The gorges and the waterfalls, + And finally the wild, weird light + That played in iridescent eyes + That last day on the hills-- + The story of the tainted blood and what it meant + For future generations. + Milner saw an eagle soaring high above the park + And then he heard a scream + As though a ball had pierced its heart. + The bird careened and dropped a hundred feet, + Then spreading broad its wings again, + Shot upward to the heights. + + The train for Pasadena speeded onward + Toward its destination. + A poet sat within his room + That opened on the Golden Gate + And as the sun dropped into the wave, + He wrote a Requiem to Hope, + That filled the earth with fame. + + + A ROMANCE OF THE CUMBERLAND + + Early in the day they passed the pinnacle, + And now the shadow of each human form + Was lengthening backwards like Lombardy poplars + Fallen toward the east. + For days the fairest maiden of the caravan + Had fevered--whether from malaria and fatigue, + Or more because of one whom they had left behind, + Beyond the wooded mountains, + Neither sire nor matron could agree. + But Martha Waters, as they laid her stretcher down + And prepared the camp for coming night, + Declared unless they rested here for days to come, + Her bones must bleach beside the trail + That led into the Dark and Bloody Ground. + + And so they waited for the fever to abate, + But when they thought her strong enough, + A score of hardy pioneers trudged down + The slope and launched canoes and dug-outs + And a flatboat in the turgid waters + Of the Cumberland, for heavy rains had fallen + And all the mountain streams were swollen + In these early days of June. + But the air was sweet with the odor + Of wild honeysuckle and the ivy + With its starry clusters fringed + The milky way of elder bloom + That filled each sheltered cove + Like constellations on a summer night. + But now the rains had ceased, the air + Was fresh and bracing, and each glorious day + Out-rivaled all the rest in beauty. + Lying on her pallet on the flatboat, + The maiden breathed the fragrant atmosphere, + And drank refreshing whiffs of air + That drove the fever from her blood + And wakened dreams of conquest + In the wilderness toward which + Her life was drifting rapidly. + But how could she find heart for conquest? + Why seek this new land anyway, where only + And forever to card the wool and spin the flax + Would be the woman's portion? + Would ever in the forest or beyond it + In the rolling bluegrass, + Return the vision that was hers, + When only a few brief months ago + She watched the sea gulls battling with the storm + Above the waves of Chesapeake Bay? + Oh, how that day was filled with meaning + For her now! For as the birds disported + With the whirlpools of the air, + A lover's magic words were whispered in her ear, + How that storm and stress of life to those that love + Are little more than winds to swallows of the sea. + But now, if hardship meant so little, + Why had he remained behind, when she + Was forced to go upon the long and weary journey? + Ah! Could it be he cared no longer for her love? + His arm was strong. Then was his heart + Not brave enough to conquer this new world, + Where savage lurked and wild beast made + The darkness dreaded by the most courageous soul? + + For days the fleet had drifted down the river, + But now her boat was anchored to a tree + That grew upon an island in the Cumberland, + And every man and woman but the convalescent + Had gone ashore to stalk a deer or gather berries + That everywhere were found along the river bank. + But Martha Waters lay upon her bed and pondered-- + Dreaming day dreams, as she watched + A golden oriole who fed her young + In boughs that overhung the water, + And a vague unhappiness arose + Within her heart, until she tossed + Again in fever on her couch. + She could hear the roaring falls + A mile below, but she thought the sounding + Cataract the sickness booming in her ears again. + When she looked to eastward where the mountain + Rose a thousand feet, she saw a crown of wealth + Upon its crest of which no pioneer yet had dreamed. + Long she lay and marveled at its beauty, + Wondering how many ages would elapse before + The god of Mammon would transport its treasures + To his marts beside the sea. + Feverish she mused and pondered until at last she slept. + And then upon the little island, + A city rose as from the ocean wave-- + A city of a thousand streets, and every house + Was made from trees that grew upon the mountain. + Many were the palaces of wealth and beauty, + But those who dwelt therein she did not recognize. + Strange were their faces and their manners haughty, + And while they lived in luxury and ease, + Others toiled at mill and furnace. Oh! The awful din + Of sledge and hammer, beating in her ears. + She woke. A storm seemed just about to burst in fury, + So loud and terrible was the roaring! + But the sky was clear. It is the booming + Of the falls, for her boat has broke its moorings, + And now is rapidly drifting toward the cataract, + But four hundred yards away! + + She leaped upon her feet and screamed for help. + It was impossible for her to swim ashore, + And her fever-wasted frame could find no strength + With which to steer the boat. + Again she saw the crown of wealth + Upon the mountain top, untouched by human hands. + But the island city now had faded from her vision, + The mountain lowered and the world grew dark. + Onward the boat shot faster toward the roaring falls. + But look! A race is on! A birch canoe, + Driven by as swift a hand as ever gripped + An oar, is leaping o'er the waves in mad pursuit. + With every stroke the Indian bark is gaining twenty feet. + Will it reach the flatboat soon enough to save the girl? + But who is he that rides the fleet canoe? + No red man ever had an arm like that, + For already he has reached the speeding raft, + And with gigantic strength he steers it toward the shore. + But no! The current is too swift! + A moment more and all will be engulfed within + The swirling flood. It is too late! Too late? + But love is swifter than the angry tide, + For like a mighty porpoise, wallowing in the wave, + The valiant hero leaps into the stream, + And holding Martha Waters in his strong right arm + High above the water, reaches shore + A hundred feet above the deadly precipice. + + The air was growing chilly even on this summer night, + And the emigrants had gathered round a crackling fire, + Discoursing of the past, and listening to a modest tale of love. + Simply and unfaltering James Hunt related + How his heart had hungered back beside the old Potomac, + Till he found he could no longer brook the passion + That grew stronger as the days of summer lengthened. + At last he started, and following every night + The blazing dogstar, and resting through the day till evening, + In just three weeks he reached the river + Where he found the birch canoe that rode + The seething waters like a greyhound of the ocean. + Then the maiden told her vision of the island city, + How its palaces and mansions, rich as gold and beautiful as crystal, + Were constructed by her people, toiling hundreds, + Sore and weary, of times cold and hungry. + She had seen them fell the forests, + Hew and mill and dress the lumber, + Till the soil and reap the harvests, gathering into others' garners. + Stalwart were these men and women, pure of heart + And strong of muscle, fitted for the tasks before them. + She had seen her brothers laboring at the forge and sounding anvil; + Sisters toiling at the wheel and distaff, heard them at the loom + While flying shuttle threaded warp with web of beauty; + Watched them till they fell asleep with weariness, + While the sons of leisure feasted. + Thus the maiden told her story, saying: + "Shall we undertake the journey? Plows are waiting + In the furrows back in Maryland, my people, + Back beyond the rugged mountain. There are harvests + Yet ungarnered, waiting for scythe and sickle. + Calculate the cost, and weigh it, for my vision is prophetic. + For my part, I choose this lover, for my guide and valiant leader. + He shall point the way forever, + Though he take the road that's darkest." + + Then James Hunt, the hero lover, + Who had never quailed at danger, + Trembling for his happy passion, + Rose and pointed toward the westward, + Toward the Pleiades descending, + Deep behind the gloomy forest. + "Let us face toward dark Kentucky, fell its forests, + Build its roads and bridge its rivers, + Give our children to the nation. + What though others reap our harvests, + Hoard the wealth we have created? + Ours shall be the nobler portion. + Blessed is the one that suffers, + If he spends himself for others. + Should the toiling millions falter, + Though they work for others' comfort, + Building homes they can not enter? + Christ was born within a manger, + May we not produce a leader, + Who shall save our nation's honor? + At to-morrow morning's dawning, + Ere the sunrise gild the treetops, + Let us take the darkling pathway." + + Still the Pleiades are circling, + Still the dogstar glows in heaven, + But the oak and pine and poplar + All have gone from off the mountain-- + Passed into the marts of Mammon, + By the hands of toil and labor. + Silent are the loom and distaff, + In the cabin and the cottage, + And the songs of scythe and sickle + Gathering in the golden harvests. + But the pain of drudgery lingers, + And the heart still longs and hungers + For the fruitage it shall gather, + Yet beyond the wooded westward. + + + MORNING GLORIES. + + A roguish laugh, a rustling vine, + I turn my eager eye; + Big drops of dew in bells of blue + And red convolvuli. + + But nothing more; I hold my breath + And strain my eager eye; + A yellow crown, two eyes of brown, + And pink convolvuli! + + The golden curls, the elfish laugh, + Rose cheeks and glittering eye + Are glories, too, like bells of blue + And red convolvuli. + + + CHRISTMASTIDE + + Evergreen and tinsel'd toys, + Drums and dolls, and bursting joys-- + Blessed little girls and boys! + + Holly, bells, and mistletoe, + Tinkling sledges, here we go-- + Youth and maiden o'er the snow. + + Chilling winds and leaden days, + Vesper songs and hymns of praise + Silver hair and dying blaze! + + Christmas morn and yuletide eve, + Dear Lord, help us to believe-- + Naught but blessings we receive. + + + KINSHIP + + Oh, little children, ye who watch the trains go by, + With yearning faces pressed against the window panes, + You do not know the reason why + Your lingering image dims my eye + Though I have passed beyond the hills into the rolling plains. + + Dear little children, I once watched the trains go by, + And hungered, much as when I feel the silent stars; + And then I saw the cold gray skies, + And felt the warm tears in my eyes, + When far beyond the distant hills I heard the rumbling cars. + + + PRECOCITY + + "Oh, grandfather, what are the stars? + Stones on the hand of God? + I heard you call that red one Mars + And those three Aaron's rod; + And these are great Orion's band!" + "My child, you are too young to understand!" + + "Oh, grandfather, what are the winds + That sough and moan and sigh? + Does God grow angry for men's sins + He lifts the waves so high? + And blows his breath o'er sea and land?" + "My boy, you are too young to understand!" + + "Oh, grandfather, what are the clouds + In yonder sunset sky? + They look to me like winding shrouds + For men about to die! + Dear grandfather, your trembling hand!" + "My son, you are too young to understand!" + + + THE SECRET + + Old Santa Claus came with his pack + On his back + Right down the chimney flue; + His long flowing beard was ghostlike and weird + But his cheeks had a ruddy hue; + And his jacket was as red as a woodpecker's head + But his breeches, I think, were blue. + + I heard a soft step like a hoof + On the roof, + And I closed my outside eye; + Then played-like I slept, but the other eye kept + A watch on the jolly old guy; + And I caught him in the act with his bundles all unpacked, + But I'm not going to tell, not I. + + When Santa comes again this year + With his deer + And a sled full of toys for me, + I don't mean to keep either eye from its sleep + While he climbs my Christmas tree; + For I don't think it's right to the happy old wight + To spy on his mystery. + + + A RHYMELESS SONNET + + Sardonic _Death_, clothed in a scarlet shroud, + Salutes his minions on the crumbling thrones + Of Tyranny, and with malicious leer, + He points a fleshless finger toward the fields + Of Belgium: "No harvest since the days + Of Bonaparte and Waterloo hath filled + My flagons with a wine of such a taste; + Your crowns ye hold by rights divine indeed!" + + But _One_ has entered in at lowly doors + And sits by every hearthstone where they will: + "My _Word_ enthron-ed in Democracy + Has twined the holly round Columbia's brow-- + A crown of 'Peace on earth, good will to men.' + I am the _Resurrection_ and the _Life_!" + + + AMBITION + + I covet not the warrior's flashing steel + That drives the dreaded foe to headlong flight; + I envy not the czar his ruthless might + That grinds a state beneath an iron heel; + I do not ask that I may ever feel + The thrill that follows fame's uncertain light; + And in the game of life I do not quite + Expect always to hold a winning deal. + + Grant me the power to help my fellow man + To bear some ill that he may not deserve; + Give me the heart that I may never swerve, + In scorn of Death, to do what good I can; + But most of all let me but light the fires + Upon the altar of the _youth's_ desires. + + + OPPORTUNITY + + I often met her in the days of youth + Along the highway where the world goes by; + And sometimes when I caught her wistful eye + I wondered that it seemed so filled with ruth. + She was a modest maiden, plain, in truth, + And unattractive, and I thought, "Now why + Should one seek her companionship; not I-- + At least, until I've had my fling, forsooth!" + + And so I passed her by and had my day, + And met a thousand whom I thought more fair + In tinsel gowns beneath electric glare-- + A thousand, but they went their primrose way. + Now she's a queen, and boasts a score of sons-- + Her consort he who shunned my charming ones! + + + HOLIDAY THOUGHTS + + The night was like some monster omen ill, + Whose shrieking froze the marrow of my bones; + But day dawned calm, though white as polar zones, + The bluebird shouting "Spring!" from every hill. + The world lay parching in the noonday grill, + And blades of corn were twisting into cones; + But night brought rain, and now, like golden thrones, + The fruited shocks deride October's chill. + + Dear Lord, I would that we might live by faith, + However cold and dark the day may seem, + And trust that every cloud is just a wraith, + And every shadow but a fading dream. + Oh, grant our eyes may see the beacon lights + That blaze forever on the peaks and heights! + + + THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW + + Good-bye, Old Year; our journey has been brief; + I'm sorry now to leave thee dying here, + For thou hast borne my burdens with good cheer, + And never murmured, but assuaged my grief. + When buds of promise never came to leaf; + When broken resolutions, doubt, and fear + Did mock at my defeat, O good Gray Year, + Thy reassuring smile restored belief. + + Good-bye--farewell! I trust thy dear young child, + Who greets me at the gateway of the dawn, + Will deal as gently with me and my friends, + And lead our footsteps through the springtime mild, + O'er summer's lawn, down autumn's slopes, and on + To where the path of chill December ends. + + + FELLOW TRAVELERS + + Old comrade, must we separate to-day? + Sometimes my feet have faltered, sore and tired, + And sometimes in the sloughs and quicksands mired, + But it has always helped to hear you say, + "The road is fine a little further on." + Your optimism and your hearty cheer + Have made the journey pleasant, good Old Year, + And I, in truth, regret to see you gone. + + Young New Year whom you leave me as a guide, + In doubt, would have me pledge a lot of things + Before we start, and make some offerings + To gods whose love, I fear, will not abide. + And yet I like my new companion's face. + Old Year, lend him your wisdom and your grace. + + + JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY + + Beloved Poet, thou hast taught our heart + A sympathy it hardly knew before-- + A yearning kinship and a spirit lore + Of humble folk, a love transcending art! + The pulse of brotherhood throbs in thy song. + No mystic, blindly groping on the shore + Of dark uncertainty; unlike Tagore, + Thy faith is pure and definite and strong. + + Consumpted Jim and thriftless Coon-dog Wess, + The Girly Girl with eyes of limpid blue, + The Raggedy Man that Orphant Annie knew; + The Little Cripple, glad, though motherless; + Poor hare-lip Joney and the Wandering Jew-- + All these thy pen doth glorify and bless! + + + CALE YOUNG RICE + + He loves the boom of breakers on the shore, + And winds that lash the billows into foam; + He loves the placid seas beneath the dome + Of blue infinitudes--not less, but more; + He loves to brood upon the mystic lore + Of silent stars above the silent seas, + And feel the passion of infinities + Beyond, where only Faith would dare explore. + + Thus groping after God has helped him find + Divinity in man (where only sin + And brutal lusts have seemed to hedge him in), + And taught his heart that Fate is never blind. + That somehow, somewhere, now beyond our ken, + One day we'll understand the wrongs of men. + + + PILATE'S MONOLOGUE + + [_This monologue of Pilate to Herod takes place a few + days after the resurrection at the home of Pontius + Pilate. Pilate and Herod are standing on the east porch + of the Governor's mansion in Jerusalem, looking toward + the Mount of Olives. The time is just at sunset._] + + Oh! Herod, couldst thou find no fault in Him-- + The Man of Galilee? Clearly He + Belonged within thy jurisdiction. Didst + Thou fear to do thy duty? Still I blame + Thee not--the mob was clamorous for blood! + I questioned Him, but like a lamb before + His shearers He was dumb and answered me + No word. Was not His silence proof of guilt? + But even then I offered to release + Him, till the rabble shouted, "Crucify + This Man: set free Barabbas, if thou wilt, + But we demand the life of Jesus whom + They call the _Christ_." Oh! dost thou think His blood + Can be upon my head? I washed my hands + Before the multitude and told them I + Was innocent of any crime toward Him. + I scourged Him, it is true, but that was all. + They stripped Him and bedecked Him with a robe + Of scarlet cloth, and placed a crown of thorns + Upon His head, and then they mocked and jeered + And spat upon Him, hailing Him as _King_! + I can not think that this was right, but still + They say He blasphemed and deserved to die. + But what Is blasphemy? + Oh, Herod, I + Can never rid my dreams of Jesus' look. + He turned His eyes upon me as I dipped + My fingers in the bowl--a glance that seemed + More fraught with love and pity than with hate. + He blessed the people as He hung upon + The cross in agony of pain, and prayed + His God to pardon them because they knew + Not what they did. Thou canst not, Herod, think + This Nazarene was more than man? It can't + Be possible that He whom Pilate scourged + Was _Christ_ indeed! But could a _man_ forgive + His murderers? They say the tomb is burst + And that His body is no longer there! + I might endure His curse. My pen has stabbed + To death a thousand men and never felt + Compunction for the deed, because I knew + They hated me. But now the voice that haunts + My sleep asks only blessings on my head. + They say He wept for men because of sin, + And yet no guile was found in Him. If I + Could close my eyes and see that face no more + I might find peace again. + Three nights I have + Not slept. I hear that Judas hanged himself! + And now no guard that watched before + The sepulchre can anywhere be found. + Had I but set the Galilean free! + But did he not insult my majesty? + He must have known I ruled in Cæsar's stead. + What if my wife was troubled in a dream + And suffered many things on His account? + A Roman governor must be a man! + They say the temple's veil was rent in twain-- + The sky was darkened and the sun was hid. + He said I had no power to crucify + Except that it be given from above. + He did not know the strength of Pilate's arm! + 'Tis said He cried, "My God, my God, why hast + Thou now forsaken me?" The earth did quake, + The tombs were cracked, and then the shrouded dead + Stalked ghost-like through the fields and open streets! + Look! Look! What is yon robe of shining white? + Behold the Man--the Man of Galilee! + With outstretched arms He stands on Olivet, + The shadows purpling o'er Gethsemane. + I hear Him cry in agony of soul, + "How often would I, O Jerusalem, + Have gathered unto Me thy children as + A hen her brood beneath her wing, but ye + Would not come." Herod, canst thou hear His voice? + It is impossible! It can not be! + He must not know that I am Pilate! Still + He calls my name! I can not, dare not go! + What would the people think? I will + Be free. There is no blood upon my hands. + See, I wash them clean and am myself + Again. Oh! Now the spell is gone. Though not + The king, I am governor of the Jews! + + + THE VIRILE SPIRIT + + [_Written after reading a letter in which the writer + said: "I covet for our country a great war--one that + will stir our virile spirits and send forth our youth + to fight and die for our country."_] + + What is courage? To face the bursting shell + When rhythmic sheets of fire discover gulfs + Of death, yet rather steel than daunt the heart; + When comrades fall beneath the knapsack's weight, + Foot froze and bleeding on the icy road, + To hear the blasts from towering snow-crowned Alps + Sing only martial airs that stir the blood! + It is a noble thing to die in war-- + To sacrifice the breath of life; to feel + The pain of hunger and of cold, yet flinch + Not that one's country may be great or free. + Many a generation yet unborn + Will bless the name of Valley Forge, and hold + In reverence the field of Gettysburg. + But war is not the only thing that tries + The bravest soul. To live does sometimes take + More courage than to close with death; and oft + The coward shrinks from living when the brave + Man scorns to die. We need no bugle note + To rouse our manhood's strength. The call to men + Is clear and strong. It is not to repel + The Hun, the Teuton, or the Slav, nor yet + To drive the Yellow Peril from the seas. + We must send forth our men to live, not die-- + We need to save, not kill our fellow man, + To smite the Minotaur of Sin, and stop + The tribute greater now than all the tolls + Of war. The beast in man is ravenous + And must be slain. He feeds upon the fruits + Of toil, and blights the home with poverty; + He drags the innocent to dens of shame + To satisfy his brute carnality. + No fiery dragon in the days of myth + Laid waste a land or blasted life with breath + More foul or appetite insatiate. + This is the enemy that we must fight. + No dreadnaughts now afloat, no submarines, + No legions that may ever bivouac on + Our shores, no Zeppelins disgorging fire + Portend the dire disasters wrought upon + Our nation's strength by Avarice and Lust. + The sword of Theseus is too dull a blade, + The arm of Beowulf not strong enough + To battle with Cupidity and Sin. + We need the breastplate of a righteous life, + Our loins must be girt about with truth, + The heart protected by the shield of faith, + And in the right hand there must ever be + The spirit's sword, which is the Word of God! + And even clothed and weaponed thus it takes + A heart as fearless as the dauntless Dane's + To strike the Mammon of Unrighteousness-- + To grapple with this Grendel that invades + The mead-halls still and ravishes our youth. + + + BLUEBIRD. + + Bluebird in the cedar bush-- + Fresh and clean as the evergreen, + Through a rift of leaves, + Or my eye deceives. + But silent! Hush! + He calls, he calls! + The first spring note + From a feathered throat + My heart enthralls; + And my pulses leap + As a child from sleep + On Christmas morn, at the blast of horn, + To meet, to greet, + The choral sweet + From bluebird in the cedar bush: + _At last, at last + The snow and sleet + Of winter's blast + Have passed, have passed, + And spring is here, good cheer, good cheer!_ + The call comes ringing in to me + From Bluebird in the cedar tree. + + + AN AUTUMN MINOR + + Russet and amber and gold, + Crimson and yellow and green, + And far away the blue and gray, + A twinkling silver sheen. + + Violet, scarlet and red, + Purple and dark maroon, + And over it all the music of fall-- + A weird prismatic tune. + + An opera serious and grand, + An orchestra mystic and sad-- + A symphony alone of color and tone + To drive a mortal mad. + + + SLABS AND OBELISK + + Hollyhocks were blooming in the backyard near the barn, + Proud as rhododendrons by a regal mountain tarn, + Purple, white and yellow, blue and velvet red-- + Humble little cottage, but a royal flower bed. + Pink and crimson roses and carnations took your breath-- + Dark-eyed little pansies looking like the Head of Death; + Golden-rayed sunflowers, lifting discs of hazel brown, + Filled the heart with wonder and the garden with renown. + + Little Harold, born a poet, watched the petals blow, + Read the mystic cryptographs his elders didn't know; + Heard the music in the wind like sirens on the shore, + Far beyond the sunset in the land Forevermore. + Oft the village sages saw him lying in the shade, + Gazing where the sun and vapor wrought a strange brocade-- + Tapestries of gold and silver on a field of blue, + Heard him murmur softly riddles no one ever knew. + + All the people pitied Harold, thinking of the end + In the cold, unfeeling world he couldn't comprehend-- + Seeing nothing else but lilies, living in a trance, + In an age of facts and figures, dreaming wild romance. + But the sages now are sleeping on the little hill, + Modest slabs are keeping watch with rue and daffodil. + Harold has an obelisk that towers toward the sky, + Hollyhocks upon his mound to bless and glorify. + + + ON BROADWAY + + Even as to-night on Broadway + Long ago I wandered down + The Great White Way of childhood, + Mystified, enchanted, as I watched + The million butterflies + That tilted through the air in rhythmic flight, + And pulsed above the petaled sweets, + And sipped the nectar of the purple thistle bloom, + Until at last they staggered down the dusty Road to Death. + + + + +POSTSCRIPT + + + + +Postscript + + + AN EMBER ETCHING + + An old man sat before his great log fire + And gazed dreamily into the dying blaze. + His eyes were red as though with weeping. + The long, thin locks of hair + Were spotless as the snow + Silently mantling the earth + That last sad night of the dying year. + Four days and nights + He had sat beside the bed + Of his life-companion. + But now the watchers by the bier + In the adjoining room, + Were dozing in their chairs. + The cold night + Had driven the mice from their hiding, + And the loud tick of the clock + No longer frightened them + As they scampered over the hearth. + + The man was breathing heavily, + Although his eyes were open, + And his stare fixed upon the fire: + _Down by a gnarled oak near the spring + Two children played. + Rebecca had dipped a dock leaf + In the water, + And now whisked it in the sunlight. + Against the trunk of the tree + There was a playhouse made of broken boughs. + The girl's dolls were lying on the green moss bed, + And a little cracked slate lay upon the ground. + An almost illegible scrawl was written on the slate. + Two childish hands had traced their names: + "Rupert--Rebecca." + And the words were linked together by lines + That looked like twisted ropes. + The boy and girl sat down before the playhouse, + And crossed their hands in imitation + Of the lines that bound their names together. + And then they smiled + And looked upon the dolls + Asleep in the fresh June morning._ + + A chunk broke and fell in the ashes. + The blaze died into a glow of coals. + In the gray beyond the dog irons + The old man saw two figures + Sitting before an awning: + _Two golden haired children + Slept in a little bed. + The man and woman who sat beside the shelter + Were old and bent, + Their faces thin and white. + They clasped their hands + And looked into each other's face. + And then they turned and looked + Upon the children. + A coal dropped into the picture, + And the fitful fire died + Into deepening shadows._ + + Next day the pall-bearers + Bore two bodies away + And lowered a single coffin + Into a grave + Beneath the snow-laden cedar. + + + A TRAGEDY IN BIRDLAND + + A little maiden blue-jay, + Fresh from her April morning bath, + Sat on the limb of a weeping willow, + Preening her shining feathers + And dreaming of a song + To which she had listened + On the afternoon of the preceding day. + A wild joy was in her heart + And yet it took all the sunshine and song + From a hundred other throats + To withstand the gloom + That seemed hovering just above her. + She was conscious of the threatening cloud, + But her heart beat furiously + And hope thrilled her bird-being + With an unwonted light. + And yet she knew, + When she dared to think at all, + That it was a hopeless hope + That flooded her soul with love-- + A hope that must ere long + Change to a black despair. + She lifted her crested head + And looked toward the old beech tree + Where her blue-jay lover now sat + In melancholy gloom. + Why not raise her voice + And gladden his heart? + He had been true and faithful + For many weeks, + And his suit would long since + Have won another's love. + Why had she thrilled + At the alien voice of another throat? + She had been a foolish maiden + To have entertained so wild a thought. + + But hark! Again the song! + On the topmost spire + Of yonder Gothic poplar + Sits a cardinal fop, + In a coat of matchless red, + And a beak of shining ivory. + He lifts his sumach plume + Into the glinting sunlight + And sends a Cupid shaft + From his beaded eye + Into the trembling breast + Of little maiden blue-jay. + Poor little mademoiselle! + Once more the notes + Come whistling and glittering + Like a shower of pearls + Through the sunshine: + "Oh! my true love is a little blue-jay-- + Mademoiselle, my bird gazelle, + My little gazelle, and I love her well. + Fresh and sweet from her morning spray + She sits on the willow and her crest is gay-- + Mademoiselle, my little gazelle I love so well." + + Down from his commanding height + Flashed the cardinal flame + And perched on another limb + Of the weeping willow. + And then he strutted and pranced + And capered and danced + And shot his fiery glances + Toward the modest little maiden + Whose heart was now fluttering + Beyond all control. Master blue-jay + Over on the beech bough + Saw the terrible tragedy + That would follow in the wake of betrayal + And was desperate to save this Psyche + To whom he had often poured out his soul + In amorous vows, + Swearing by all the gods in birdland + That there was none other beside her. + But like many another lover + Of larger experience and better advantage, + He forgot that the very way + To lose his loved one + Was to berate his rival, + And lifting his reed + To the upper register of a clarinet, + He almost screamed: + + "He's a liar, he is, by the god of all birds, + A master of villainous art-- + A hypocrite, a varlet, believe not his words, + This dandy, this fop, deceiver, betrayer, + A coward, seducer, a murderous slayer-- + He'll crush thy innocent heart." + + Poor little maiden blue-jay + Heard his screams of anger and despair + But heeded not the warning. + She only fluttered over + To where the cardinal sat + And threw herself under his protecting arm, + Declaring her perfect faith + In his undying love. + + The red prince lifted + His burning plume triumphantly + Into the sunlight, + And shot a contemptuous glance + Toward the old beech tree. + Master Blue-Jay unable + Longer to control himself, + Darted like a lance of blue steel + At the red coat. + But the high churchman was a skilled fencer, + And stepped aside just in time + To send his antagonist + With terrible momentum + Into the thorn tree + Beyond the willow, + Where a moment later he writhed and fluttered, + Pinioned through his body + By a sword-like thorn + That projected from the trunk of the spiny tree. + It was a sight to touch the heart + Of the most abandoned denizen of birdland. + But Mademoiselle Blue-Jay, + Who would ordinarily have wept + At so sad a fate of one of her kind, + Was just now too happy + In the love of her wooer + To notice another; + And unmindful of the ebbing life-blood + That was fast turning her unfortunate lover's coat + Of bright and shining blue + To one of dark and dull maroon, + She nestled close + To the false-hearted ecclesiastic + And sighed the lovelorn sigh + That has come from the maiden heart + Since the foundation of the world. + + The low cedar + In which Madam Blue-Jay-Cardinal now sat + On such a nest of eggs + As no blue-jay had ever brooded over before, + Wondering, fearing, doubting, longing-- + Was only a rod or so from the spiny thorn + Where the dried body of the fated lover + Still hung. + But where now was the supercilious fop + Whose seductive vows of love + Had won the little maiden's confidence + And robbed her true and faithful lover + Of that incense that belonged of right + Only to him? + For more than a week + She had not seen him. + Surely he would return on the morrow, + For he must remember + That soon the little brood + Would need his protecting love. + Yes, he would return again + To praise her slender form and shining crest + And call her once more his little gazelle. + + But the cardinal came not. + The brood had hatched, + And the little birds were covered now + With tiny feathers. + Strange sight! + All the blue-jays in the woods around + Had gathered to witness + What no mortal bird had ever seen before-- + Little birdling blue-jays + With crimson stains on wings and breasts! + And the poor little mother, + Madam Blue-Jay-Cardinal, + No longer mademoiselle, the bird gazelle, + But an outcast and disgraced mother + Of a mongrel offspring, + Left alone in this hour of shame, + Remembered now the words of him + Who had warned against this sad hour. + + But the memory brought her only bitter grief, + And she watched her brood in broken-hearted sorrow, + As they looked with wondering eyes + At the strange panorama in birdland. + And all the blue-jays sat in silent condemnation + Of the unpardonable sin. + There was no mercy + To be found in all the land of birds + For either the forsaken mother + Or her little brood. + The deserted wife and widowed mother blue-jay + Suddenly threw her wings + Over the astonished little children, + As though to wipe the stain of sin + From their innocent lives, + And as she did so, + The crested cardinal + With a fresh crimson bride flashed by, + And perched upon the old beech limb. + And there he sat + In undisturbed and cynical silence, + While all the court + Of high crimes and misdemeanors + Praised his sacerdotal coat and shining mitre. + The mother felt the birdlings stir beneath her wing, + And their scarlet stain suffuse her being. + She looked toward the thorn tree + But no word was spoken. + A wise old owl that moped and moaned + On the limb of a sycamore tree + That overhung the little stream + Suddenly lifted his voice and cried: + + "Let him who is without stain of sin, + Lift the first note of song + Against the little blue-jay." + + But all the woods were still. + Only the thorn tree swayed slightly in the breeze, + And then a flute-like note floated out + Upon the wondering air: + "Oh! my little blue-jay, my little bluebell, + I would I could come to thee; + I would find all the food for thy sin-stained brood, + And thy bridegroom I should be. + That villainous fop on the old beech limb + And the arrogant wife that sits by him + Have broken the heart of my little bluebell, + The little gazelle, the bird gazelle he loved so well, + And they laugh in their cynical glee. + Oh! I would heal thy deep chagrin, + Forgive thy blood-stained life its sin, + And thou shouldst be my beauteous bride, + Forever happy at my side. + My hope, my joy, my love, my pride, + If I could only come to thee, + If I could only come to thee." + + Again the air was silent as the tomb. + The little mother bird + Moved with her frightened children + Toward the old thorn tree. + And when she at last stood + Beneath the sword + Upon which her faithful lover was pinioned + Behold the miracle that was enacted + Before her wondering eyes. + The crimson dyes + That streaked the birdlings' wings and breasts + Turned suddenly to a dull and dark maroon, + And not a jay in all birdland + But would swear that her little children + Now resembled in every line and stain + The dead body of her valiant lover + Who had shed his blood + To save his little bluebell from betrayal. + + + * * * * * + +TRANSCRIBER NOTES: + + +Minor Puncutuation errors have been corrected without comment. + +Stage directions have been placed at uniform indentation, regardless +of where they appeared in the original text. + + +Spelling corrections: + +p. 60, "syncophantic" to "sycophantic" (A thousand sycophantic, fawning +lords;) + +p. 96, "shubbery" to "shrubbery" (O'er a waste of shrubbery and alkali) + + +Word Variations: + +"Agagite" (1) and "Aggagite" (1) +"ghost-like" (1) and "ghostlike" (1) + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Blood of Rachel, by Cotton Noe + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLOOD OF RACHEL *** + +***** This file should be named 34936-8.txt or 34936-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/9/3/34936/ + +Produced by David Garcia, Christine Aldridge and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Kentuckiana Digital Library) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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