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diff --git a/42306-0.txt b/42306-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f926dc6 --- /dev/null +++ b/42306-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1242 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42306 *** + + Transcriber's Note: + + Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as + possible. Some changes of spelling and punctuation at the end of the + text. + + + + + The Calendar + and + Other Verses + by + Irving Sidney Dix + + + + +To Robert Meaker + + + Dear boy, ten summers--ten swift summers now + Have come and gone since last I said good-bye, + Ten idle, wasted summers gone, and how + I hardly know, so swift the seasons fly: + So swift the seasons come, so swift they go, + That scare it seems one brief, one little day, + Since boyish voices bid us come and play: + And little girls did seem to lure us so. + + O Robert!--Robert!--If in Paradise + These idle words of mine can penetrate, + Thou knowest, then, that tears have wet mine eyes, + Thou knowest that I felt thy ruthless fate; + And yet, dear boy, I sometimes feel that thou + Art happier there than I who mourn thee now. + + I. S. D. + +Written in 1912. + + + + +Contents + + + Page + + The Calendar 7 + Niagara 14 + Fairies of the Frost 15 + The Rivermen 16 + The School of Life 17 + A Visit from a Cricket 20 + In Praise of Inez 22 + The Crime of Christmastime 23 + The Miner 25 + Love of Country 27 + The Sinking of the Titanic 27 + War and Peace 30 + Peace and War 31 + To Andrew Carnegie 32 + + + + +Foreword + + +About a year ago, having collected all those poems and verses which I +considered of any value, I took a certain pride in the thought that I +might soon bring under one roof these imaginary children of mine, so +that they might be sheltered in time of storm, as it were, from the +cold, and oftimes unfeeling world of commerce but where friends of +poetry, who had met with some of my stray children of verse in public +journals, might meet with them again, if they desired, with other +friendly faces around one common fireside. + +But I found that the expense incident to such a venture was so great +that unless a large number of copies were sold I would be involved in a +larger debt than I cared to contract. Then the plan of securing +sufficient advance subscriptions to meet part of the expense of a first +edition occurred to me, thereby following the method of Tennyson, Robert +Burns and others, of whose example I needed not to be ashamed, but other +work prevented me, and still prevents me, from carrying out this plan. + +So lest those friends who have shown an interest in my verses should +think that I have turned aside from the Path of Poetry, I herewith offer +"The Calendar and Other Verses," as evidence of my love for and interest +in the greatest of all the arts, hoping that the time may come when I +shall be able to present a more worthy offering to the Muses and perhaps +justify the kind words that have recently appeared in regards to the +author of "The Quiet Life"--A Plain Poem of the Hills, which, in a +revised form, appeared serially during the past summer in The Wayne +Countean. + + I. S. D. + +Shehawken, Pa. + + + + + Copyrighted 1913 + by + IRVING SIDNEY DIX + + + + +The Calendar + +AN IDYLL OF THE HILLS + + +Part 1 + + +JANUARY + + Come walk a mile with me--'Tis January; + The knee-deep snow lies heavy on the ground + And hark!--the icy winds--how swift they hurry + Over the fields with melancholy sound; + And save these winds or some forsaken raven, + Winging its way along yon frozen hill, + Nature is hush'd--her dormant image graven + In marble masks on woodland, lake and rill. + + And look!--the trees their naked trunks are swaying, + As bitterly each blast goes howling by, + And hark!--the music in the hemlocks playing, + Like some lost spirit banished from the sky, + And see the smoke from yonder chimney curling, + Hugs the broad roofs, deep-burden'd with the snow, + While clouds of snow are round the low eaves whirling. + How cold it is!--Come, let us homeward go + There will we find the cheerful fire still burning, + There ruddy warmth will make our faces glow, + And there kind hearts will welcome our returning; + Come!--let us hasten through the drifty snow. + + +FEBRUARY. + + Come walk a mile with me--'Tis February; + The sun is creeping slowly toward the North, + And every breeze to-day seems blithe and merry, + And prophets of the Spring are waking forth-- + The hungry ground-hog casts a thin, gray shadow + Beside his open villa, dark and cold, + And the starv'd hare surveys the icy meadow, + And chipmonks chatter in the leafless wold. + + And hark!--the blue-jay's fife is sounding shrilly, + And merry chickadees are piping loud, + E'en though the bitter North-wind's breath is chilly, + And the great trees are low before him bow'd; + And see!--the Lady of the South is creeping + Higher and higher--'Tis the hour of noon, + And sad-eyed Winter by yon brook is weeping,-- + Yon little brook that sings a pleasant tune. + Yet, as the sun is with the day declining, + Swift, darkening clouds are gathering in the West, + Where the snow-fairies are again designing + Another robe for Nature's barren breast. + + +MARCH. + + Come walk a mile with me--'Tis March and windy, + And Winter's dying breath comes hard and fast, + And hark!--the storm, like death-bells of a Sunday, + Tolls the sad knell upon the icy blast; + Louder and louder now the winds are wailing, + Faster and faster wings the frozen snow, + Darker and darker the cold clouds are sailing, + As the March-storm goes hurrying to and fro. + + But see!--the sun above the clouds is creeping, + And look!--soft flakes are falling, one by one, + And Winter, pale in death, lies gently sleeping, + While Spring awakes e'er half the day is done. + And soon the sun, like some great hearth is burning, + Melting the ghosts of Winter on the hills, + And hark!--the robin from the South returning, + Joins the glad music of the murmuring rills, + And now the farmer-boy, whose heart is leaping, + Gathers the sap that sings a merry song, + While the blue-birds sweet melodies are keeping, + And noisy squirrels leap the trees among. + + +APRIL. + + Come walk a mile with me--'Tis April weather; + A voice like Spring is calling: Let us go + Where violets are blooming on the heather, + And song-birds bend the branches to and fro; + For everywhere the very ground is springing, + And everywhere the grass is getting green-- + How can I now--how can I keep from singing + When all the world is like a fairy scene! + + The buds in all the trees, are ripe for bursting, + And fleecy catkins flutter everywhere, + And every little flower seems a-thirsting + For something sweet and beautiful and fair. + But look!--to Westward--see!--an April shower + Sudden has gathered, darkening the sun, + Yet wait!--beside me lifts a gentle flower, + That lights my pathway, blossoming alone; + And hark!--O hark, the meadow-lark is singing, + Greeting the storm from yon tall maple tree, + While, like a herald in its homeward winging, + Wheels a lone flicker o'er the darkening lea. + + +MAY + + Come walk a mile with me--'Tis merry May-time; + The little lambs are gamboling on the green,-- + Nature is glad--it is her hour of playtime, + And now, or never, her true heart is seen; + The butterflies are floating down from heaven, + And humming-birds again are on the wing,-- + And the kind swallows, seventy times seven, + Fill all the air with merry murmuring. + + And see the lilacs by yon cottage blooming!-- + How sweet the air is!--sweetness everywhere, + For look!--rich apple-blossoms are perfuming + This little lane that leads to woodlands fair,-- + Here honeysuckle-bells are softly swinging, + And pink azaleas perfume all the wood, + And, in the trees, the vireos are singing + Incessantly their songs of solitude, + While round the hill, as slow our steps are wending, + We hear a sweet Voice calling,--"Come, O come!" + For see!--the sun is in the West decending, + And happy hearts are waiting us at home. + + +JUNE + + Come walk a mile with me--'Tis June,--fair June-day, + And Nature smiles--her magic hands are still, + For not a ripple stirs yon lake at noon-day, + And not a breeze disturbs this woody hill; + But hark!--what idle dreamer there is drumming? + It is--it is a pheasant calling--"Come!" + And listen!--like a low voice sweetly humming + Is heard the brook within its forest home. + + But wait!--We cannot wait--'Twill soon be Summer, + So let us now enjoy these days of June, + For hear ye not that late, but welcome comer, + Robert-of-Lincoln carroling his tune; + And see ye not yon oriole high swinging + His basket from that tall and leafy tree-- + O Comrade, Comrade!--Time is swiftly winging,-- + 'Twill not be always June with you and me; + Spring-time is passing--Summer is a-coming, + And soon fair Autumn with her idle dreams, + And then cold Winter, her White hands benumbing + The icy lakes and silent, woodland streams! + + O Comrade!--Comrade!--let us not be weary, + But pick life's pretty blossoms while they bloom, + Forgetting every prospect, sad or dreary, + Avoiding every lane that leads to gloom! + For see!--each flower lifts a golden chalice + Inviting us to drink--Shall we pass by, + With faces sad, nor enter this fair palace + That June has rear'd us 'neath a cloudless sky? + + +PART TWO. + + +JULY. + + Come walk a mile with me--'Tis July weather; + The western sun is burning round and bright, + And not a breeze disturbs yon tiny feather + From a young swallow loosen'd in its flight; + But hark!--in yonder broad and sunlit meadow + The sound of busy mowers fill the air, + While from a tree that casts a pleasing shadow, + Is heard the locust piping shrilly there. + + And see, how strong men lift the scented grasses! + And how they pile the wagons with the hay! + How fast the rake, with rolling burden, passes! + How regular the long, round winrows lay! + And see!--the sun--the great round sun is setting, + Like a red rose upon the distant hill, + Till all the earth seems tenderly forgetting + Day's dying light on meadow, lake and rill; + But come!--for darkness soon will gather round us, + And we must pass through yonder woodlands there; + And then white fields of buckwheat will surround us, + And then--then--home we shall together share. + + +AUGUST + + Come walk a mile with me--'Tis August. Listen! + The meadow-quail is whistling merrily, + And see!--the dew-drops, like great diamonds, glisten + On grass and shrub and bush and bending tree; + And everywhere is peace and joy and plenty, + For everywhere this morning we may go + One seed of Spring has well returned its twenty, + Till Autumn's face with goodness is aglow. + + Yes, oaten fields are white and ripe for reaping, + And green things paling in the garden there + Tell us too well that Summer is a-sleeping, + And harvest-time is on us unaware; + The early apples even now are falling, + The tassel'd corn, the fields of ripening rye, + The purpling grape--all, all are sadly calling + That Summer's glory, too, must fade and die. + But hark!--what sound is that!--it seems like thunder, + And yet 'tis but the wind, within the trees,-- + The far-off wind, fresh-filled with nameless wonder,-- + A prophesy of Autumn's freshening breeze. + + +SEPTEMBER + + Come walk a mile with me--'Tis sweet September; + And quietly the clouds are gliding by, + And silent runs the brook that, you remember, + We pass'd last Spring--it now is dumb and dry, + And overhead, the first red leaf is falling, + And, underfoot, the flowers are fading fast, + While in the air I hear a strange, sad calling + That tells me Summer is forever past. + + And yet how peaceful seems the face of Heaven, + How calm the earth is--Nature is at rest, + And all the hopes that unto Spring were given, + Folds Autumn now in silence to her breast; + The birds are singing, yet not half so sweetly + As when they sung their song at opening Spring, + And flowers are blooming, yet not so completely + As when the birds were first upon the wing; + And I am singing--but the fading glory + Of Autumn-time subdues my idle song, + For what is Autumn but the sweet sad story + Of leaves that fade and lives that last not long. + + +OCTOBER + + Come walk a mile with me--'Tis now October; + And yet the fields put forth fresh blades of green. + Lest the advancing days shall seem to sober, + And prophesy too plainly the unseen; + For Nature loves to lead us forward blindly,-- + Giving a glory to the fading leaf! + Yet were it worse if, speaking less unkindly, + Nature should plainly tell us life is brief. + + The flowers, too, are fading--and are dying, + The leaves are falling, and incessantly, + And on the hills great flocks of crows are crying, + And the blue-jays once more are calling me; + But Winter!--Winter soon, too soon, is coming, + For see!--see there,--the frost is on the grass! + And the wild-bee--I hear no more its humming + As once I did, wherever I might pass; + And robin--he is gone, and all the singing + Of all the sweet birds now no more I hear, + While the dry leaves, to barren branches clinging, + Full plainly speak the passing of the year. + + +NOVEMBER + + Come walk a mile with me--November!--Faintly + The long, blue hills lift to the eastern sky; + 'Tis Indian-summer now--this day seems saintly, + Like some good martyr e'er he goes to die; + The skies are cloudless; not a breeze is blowing, + And silent is each bare and leafless form; + The brooks--how quiet!--I like not their flowing, + For oh,--it is the calm before the storm. + + Yes, yes--e'en now--to Westward--look! a figure + Is sudden forming, stretching forth a wand, + Shaping a shape as of some giant, bigger + Than any fabled thing from Fairyland; + Higher and higher that strange shape is lifting, + Swifter and swifter its fleet heralds run, + Wider and wider its white breath is drifting + As lower sinks the slow decending sun; + And now--the storm!--the storm is on us. Hurry! + Yet see!--the myriad snow-flakes--see them come! + O Comrade!--See!--it is young Winter's flurry-- + And yet 'tis but the storm that drives us home. + + +DECEMBER + + Come walk a mile with me--'Tis dark December; + The cold, rough winds are never, never still; + O for the days of Spring I well remember! + O for the flowers that blossomed on the hill!-- + And wish you not that you,--you too were playing + Upon the hillside, building castles there, + Dreaming sweet dreams, as when we went a-Maying, + Midst singing birds and blossoms sweet and fair? + + But hark, the wind!--and see, the falling snow-flakes! + How thick they come--how beautiful they seem! + Yet I am weary--weary of the snow-flakes-- + O Comrade!--tell me,--is it all a dream; + O Comrade!--Comrade!--Winter is upon us; + Our hopes, like snow-flakes, now are falling fast, + Our dreams are broken--God have mercy on us!-- + We must not perish in the wintry blast-- + For see, O see!--the sun,--the sun is shining! + 'Tis noon, and lo!--yon glorious orb of day + Is turning backward, a New-year designing-- + So shall all Winters turn to Spring alway. + + And so shall Winter be an emblem only + Of the dark days that meet us, one and all, + Making our little lives seem sad and lonely, + Until the New-Year answers to our call, + Until another Spring renewing Nature; + Renews our hopes that were so desolate + Giving us faith that not one living creature + Is blindly born to blindly meet its fate. + + + + +NIAGARA + + + Almighty organ of America, + E'er mortal man thy voice did hear + Thy notes, full clear, + Rose with voluptious music on the air, + Till angels, wondering, hesitated there, + And rude barbarians fell in fear + Beside thy god-like amphitheatre. + + Thus, when thy ancient spirit touch'd those keys, + Those smoothly polished keys, + Those swift and mighty keys + A powerful yet a pleasing note was found + That gave to Silence round + A song whereof no mortal heard a sound, + But which did Heaven please + Through the long centuries, + And unto these. + + Then, when the red-men's blue-eyed brother came + Beside this shrine, thy temple here to claim, + Humbled was he, + Such glory here to see; + Thy awful music's note + Upon his spirit smote + Subduing stronger passions of the mind, + Until, like prisoners, suffering there confined, + Those gentler melodies + Within his bosom there, + Ascended with thy voice to heav'n + In one triumphant prayer. + + Then louder, ye organ of America, + Still louder sound thy anthems on the sky; + And thou, Niagara, e'er thy spirit die, + Wake!--wake the courts of Heaven with thy lay, + Till the dear angels learn like thee to pray + For all the world to-day; + Yet louder, ye organ of America, + Still louder, let thy Spirit from those keys,-- + Those smoothly polished keys, + Those swift and heavy keys,-- + Strike, with inspiring fingers, + Heaven-and-earth's triumphant harmonies. + + + + +FAIRIES OF THE FROST + + + When the Frost-spirit, with her icy wand, + Strikes the cold Northwind, bringing frost and snow, + She sends her Fairies through the frozen land + To deck with sculpture all the world below; + Soon every bank, so lately green with grass, + Like streets of marble to the margin lies, + And here and there, wherever one may pass, + Frail, fairy structures magic-like arise; + The slender willows, bow'd in artless grief, + Appear in white, as pledge of Winter's care, + And every idle reed and clinging leaf + Have spirits, full as bright, beside them there; + While pine and hemlock, shorn of all their green, + Stand out like sculptur'd Druids of the wood; + And the small beeches, hovering between, + Seem children of some banish'd brotherhood; + The broken stumps become as kingly chairs, + The fallen logs, great pillars, round and white, + And the dead branches, Oriental stairs + That lead to rooms all glittering with light; + Each mossy knoll becomes a marble mound, + Th' unlettered stones, all artless works of art, + And e'en the brooklets in the forest round + Are set with diamonds dear to Nature's heart. + + + + +THE RIVERMEN. + + + When, in the days gone by, down the Delaware + The high Spring-floods, with an angry roar + Were running like breakers far up the shore, + Then the riverman by his chimney-seat + Would feel his stout heart strangely beat-- + So 'twas ho! for the raft and the river again, + The raft and the river for rivermen. + + When the creeks flow'd wild round the Delaware, + And the sky showed blue through the sharp Spring air, + And the rafts were waiting the raftmen there, + Then these rivermen were ill-content + Until their backs to the oars were bent-- + So 'twas ho! for the raft and the river again, + The raft and the river for rivermen. + + When, in days gone by, down the Delaware + Those great rafts tethered against the shore, + Were loosed like chafing steeds once more, + Then out of the valleys, and off the hills + The raftmen came flocking with school-boy wills-- + And 'twas ho! for the raft and the river again, + The raft and the river for rivermen. + + + + +THE SCHOOL OF LIFE + + + Life is a school, and all that tread the earth + Are pupils in it. Its lessons all should learn, + And few there be who escape them--and they are fools. + At birth this school begins, at death it ends, + And many terms there be,--and faithful teachers + Not a few. Necessity is one; + For e'en the babe when first it feels the cool + And earthly air, and sees the light of day, + Shrinks from their touch, and cries aloud--herewith + It doth begin to learn the alphabet + Of life. Then hunger comes; and so to ease + Itself the babe doth learn to love the things + That give it life. Thus hour by hour, and day + By day it gathers knowledge at the school + But knows it not--even as wiser men, + Of knowledge full, know scarcely what they do. + + And months pass by--the babe becomes a child, + Eager to learn, to imitate, to know, + Lisping the lessons of a higher grade, + Repeating words of wisdom, gems of truth + That others think the little thing should know; + Until at length in childish innocence + It leaves the kindergarten of the world, + And knocks upon the door of adult life, + And enters there, flushed with the lulling sense + Of something new. The playthings are forgot; + The little bells no longer please the ear, + The little books no longer feed the mind, + The little seats no longer suit the child, + The little friends no longer stir the soul, + For it hath learned the alphabet of life, + And put aside the primer once for all. + There is a longing now for deeper life + That fills the heart to overflow--there is + A tumult now within the swollen veins, + When, for the first, they feel a larger life + In unison close beating to its own-- + There is a hatred of authority + And of restraint--a satisfaction now + As of a soul enamoured with itself, + A soul insolvent on the rising tide + Of pure existence, with such a stubborness + As mocks advice and takes a happy pace, + Securer of its own security. + + And like the waters of a swollen stream, + That leaves its early channels far behind, + Youth ventures into unknown paths, full fed + By surging hopes, by sudden, deep desires, + By wild ambitions and a thousand things, + Unnamed and nameless--rivulets of life + That ever empty in this stirring stream. + Now would the student leave his school, and play + Among the hills, or in the valley's shade,-- + Now would the scholar chafe at books + And knowledge and authority--rough banks + That, like a dyke, hold in life's mighty stream + Until the floods of Springtime can abate, + And in a clearer, safer channel course again. + + So, with life's lessons still unlearned + Full many a scholar e'en would graduate + With highest honors, and in his pride + And surety of knowledge be a god + To give advice to those who should advise; + Forth full of wisdom would he quickly go, + And even issue take with all the world, + But when this truant-fever runs its course, + This hey-day of existence has its turn, + Back to the school the skulking scholar comes, + Like a whipped cur, and willing to be taught + By those same teachers he so lately spurn'd, + And left for larger things. + For manhood now + Is here--the errors and the follies, everyone, + By the wise student surely now are seen, + And in the book of life he reads with ready eye + The rules and lessons, and considers well + His bold instructors,--Want,--Adversity,-- + And Disappointment, with her heavy hand; + The whip of Scorn, and Sorrow's bitter book, + And Sickness' long and tedious term, + And all the various teachers of the school. + And if perchance these lessons be forgot, + These, his instructors, will rehearse him well, + Lest he forget in later life these things, + And be a dullard in the school of schools, + A freshman wise in his own foolishness. + + So manhood comes--and so it surely goes, + From grade to grade and term to term, + With all the questions and perplexing rules, + And devious methods of the Master-mind, + Who holds the key to all the questionings, + Yet leaves the student to himself alone, + Half puzzled by the figures on the dial + That tell the hour when he shall graduate + Above earth's petty problems, and shall hold + A clearance to that life which is to come, + And whereunto he graduates, perchance, + A better man. + A better man--if not, + So shall he go again in that same grade + Where like a laggard half-asleep in school, + He wakes to find himself a scholar still, + With all the vexing problems yet unsolved, + Which, in his idleness and lust of life, + Were left until the morrow, and the sun + To usher in another dreamless day. + So manhood comes--and so it surely goes, + Till those who here have studied to become + Proficient in the lessons of this life, + Shall be excused from school, and left to play + By running brooks and hills that shout for joy, + And living waters wild in their delight. + + So is it meet that all should labor now + To learn these lessons well, so, when the day + Of graduation comes, a Voice will say:-- + Well-done; perfect in life, perfect in death; + Receive thy rich reward, for thou hast found-- + Perfection is the only key to Heaven. + + + + +A VISIT FROM THE CRICKET + + +I. + + Thou shrill-voiced cricket there + In yonder corner, + Thou remindest me + Of joys departed, and of fair + And fallen summer. O little mourner, + Cease thy pensive fluting, + Lest a flood of melancholy, + Sad as thine, + That to my heart is suiting, + Encompass me--it is unholy + Thus to pine + For fallen joys or days departed, + E'en though thou art so broken-hearted, + For moments are divine. + + +II. + + Silent art thou?--thanks to thee, + O little cricket + Underneath my chair; + Thanks to thee--yet would I see + Thy shadow less--out to yon thicket! + There let thy dull repining + Drive where the winds are driven, + Nor deign to bring + Thy sorrows back--let such be given + To those in shades reclining + Who love to sing, + With thee, of dear departed Summer, + And hear again her sad funereal drummer, + Thou little, mournful thing. + + +III. + + One moment stay--why comest thou + With doleful ditty + Unbidden to my room; + Wee, dusky mourner, do not go, + But say--what is it claims thy pity, + And sets thee telling, telling + Such a solemn story + So to me, + As if there knelling, knelling + Of some departed glory + Dear to thee? + O sad musician, put aside thy fiddle, + And admit life is a riddle, + And Heaven holds the key. + + +IV. + + Thou mindest not; for hark!--again + Resounds thy racket + Shriller than before; + Singst thou this sad strain + As if befitting to thy ebon jacket, + With carvings curious, + And a color glossy, + Like old wine-- + Tiny thing, be not so furious + And uneedful noisy; + Cease to pine + For something fled--for joys or hopes departed, + Or thou wilt make the angels broken-hearted, + O mourner most divine. + + + + +IN PRAISE OF INEZ. + + + Sweet Inez, would that I might pledge + My thoughts to thee with line on line, + And prove, if tender words can prove, + That all my tender thoughts are thine. + + Would that my feeble pen might pluck + From the green fields of poetry, + Some flower, sweet girl, wherewith to deck + Thy name so near, so dear to me. + + Would that my hand might gather here + From the sweet fields of tender thought, + Some blossom, fragrant as the rose, + Some lily, lovely as I ought. + + But why should I commit a sin + By wishing any flower for thee; + Thou art more beautiful, I know, + Than all the flowers of poetry. + + What shall I then with thee compare, + To make a true comparison-- + The dawning day, the dying light, + The rising or the setting sun? + + At morn I see the early sun + Appear with glory in her eye, + But looking there, I think of thee, + And thinking of thee, for thee sigh. + + At noon I see that fervid orb + Proclaim the sultry hour of day, + But looking there, I think of thee, + And thinking of thee, turn away. + + At length I see that same bright sun + Descend below the western blue, + Yet looking there, I think of thee, + And thinking of thee love thee, too. + + Fade then, ye flowers of the field, + And sink, ye dying beams of light, + But let, O let my Inez be + Forever present to my sight. + + + + +THE CRIME OF CHRISTMASTIME. + + +I. + + Two thousand years!--two thousand years + Since Mary, with a mother's fears, + Brought forth for all humanities + The Christian of the centuries; + And now men turn from toil away + To celebrate his natal day + By feasting happy hours away + And giving gifts with lavish hand, + Throughout the length of every land;-- + A noble custom nobly born + In Bethlehem one holy morn, + But intermingling with the good, + A pagan custom long has stood, + As you and I and all may see-- + This war against the greenwood tree, + This robbing of posterity,-- + Until the burden of my rhyme + Is of this crime of Christmastime. + + +II. + + The skies are white with soft moonlight; + In Christian lands the lamps burn bright, + In splendor gleaming from the walls + Of parlors and of festive halls; + Or yet, amid some snow-white choir, + Sweet maidens sing the world's desire, + Till, answering in low refrain, + The people all repeat the strain + Of "peace on earth, to men good-will," + When sudden all the hall is still. + + Then tender music, soft and low, + Heavenward seems to float and flow, + But--mid these glittering lights, O see + The stately form of greenwood tree! + Whose graceful arms are drooping wide + As grieving this fair Christmastide. + + +III. + + The hills are white with lovely light, + And everywhere the stars burn bright + In splendor gleaming on the wood, + Where once, in loyal familyhood, + The evergreens together stood, + But--now no vespers, sweet or low, + In happy measures upward flow, + For there--by Heaven's lights, O see + The absence of the greenwood tree! + Whose noble form once waiving wide, + This melancholy waste did hide. + + +IV. + + Yet here and there a lonely tree + Still sounds a mournful melody, + And answering, in low refrain, + The winds repeat the solemn strain, + Until the hills conscious of harm, + Awaken in a wild alarm, + Until, with trumpets to the sky, + They echo up to Heaven the cry:-- + Ye Forests, rouse--shake off thy shroud, + And sound a protest, long and loud; + Ye Mountains, speak, and Heaven, chide + This carelessness of Christmastide-- + And Man, thou prodigal of Time, + Bestir thyself--and heed my rhyme, + And curb this crime of Christmastime. + + + + +THE MINER. + + + Beyond the beams of brightening day + A lonely miner, moving slow + Along a darkly winding way, + Is daily seen to go, + Where shines no sun or cheerful ray + To make those gloomy caverns gay. + + For there no glorious morning light + Is burning in a cloudless sky + And there no banners flaming bright, + Are lifted heaven-high, + But that lone miner, far from sight, + Treads boundless realms of boundless night. + + There neither brook nor lovely lawn + Allures the miner's weary eye, + For, having caught one glimpse of dawn, + With many an anxious sigh, + Those precious lights are left in pawn + To be by fainter hearts withdrawn. + + Nor tender leaf nor fragrant flower + Dare penetrate that fearful gloom, + Where, low beneath a crumbling tower, + Or dark, resounding room, + Yon miner, in some evil hour, + A ruined prisoner may cower. + + Yet, while the day is speeding on, + Far from those skies that shine so clear, + Far from the glory of the sun + And happy birds that cheer-- + Hark!--through those echoing caves, anon + The hammer's merry monotone. + + There, far from every happy sound + Of blithesome bird or cheerful song, + In yonder solitudes profound, + The miner, all day long, + Hears his own music echo round + Those deep-voiced caverns underground. + + There, in that gloom which doth affright + Faint-hearted, sky-enamoured men, + The miner, with his little light, + Hews out a hollow den, + And seems to find some keen delight + Where others see but noisesome night. + + Thus many a heart, along life's way, + Must labor where no cheerful sun + Of golden hopes or pleasures gay, + Shines till the day is done, + For where the deepest shadows play + The purest hearts are led astray. + + Yet some, unseen by careless Fate, + Know naught of gloom or sorrow here. + But happily, with hearts elate, + They walk a charmed sphere, + And lightly laugh, or lightly prate + Of lonely souls left desolate. + + So are we miners, great and small, + By sunny slope or lower gloom, + And day by day we hear a call + As from the distant tomb, + But, when the evening shadows fall, + The lights of home will gleam for all. + + + + +LOVE OF COUNTRY. + + + Love of country is the life of war; + Love not your country then, + If loving it should lead you into war; + Oh do not be deceived--Love is broader,-- + Love is broader than a wheatfield, + Love is broader than a landscape; + Do not be misled--love the world; + Begin at home--love your birthplace, + Then your county, then your state, + Then your country, then the countries + Of your brothers and sisters, who look + So much like you--like hands, like feet, + Like ears, like eyes, like lips; like sorrows, + Like hopes, like joys; like body, mind + And spirit, for the spirit of one man + Differeth not from the spirit of another, + Or high or low, or rich or poor, being + The same yesterday, to-day and forever. + + Love of country is the life of war; + Love not your country then, + If loving it should lead you into war-- + Should lead you into hatred + Of your neighbor's country--lead you + To strike down even unto death + Your brother who so resembles you, + Made in your image, and in the likeness + Of the living God. + + + + +THE SINKING OF THE TITANIC + + + "Titanic!--rightly named, sir"--says the captain of the ship, + "And the safest of all vessels--now mark her maiden trip," + And all think as the captain thinks--all her two thousand souls + As steadily out o'er the sea the stately vessel rolls. + + For she is shod with iron and her frame is built of oak, + And stout hearts man the vessel, wherefore the captain spoke; + And with naught for pleasure lacking, so stately and so fair, + She seems a floating palace--fit for angels living there. + So "farewell," says merry England, "farewell" says each green isle, + "And blessings for this noble ship on her initial trial, + And praise be to her makers, and good-will to her crew, + And safety to her passengers"--take this as our adieu. + + O there were pleasant partings as the vessel sail'd away, + And there was joy in every heart that pleasant April day, + And there were happy thoughts of home--of meeting kith and kin, + For the stately vessel soon would be her harbor safe within. + + And so blue the sky above them and so blue the wave beneath, + That all,--all thought of living and no one thought of death, + As, hour by hour, the vessel left England far behind, + And, hour by hour, the ship sped on as speeds an ocean wind. + + And when night came, with fond good-nights the floating city slept, + Yet ever o'er the rolling waves the mighty vessel swept, + And no one thought of danger--until with thunderous roar, + The great ship struck the rock-like ice, and shook from floor to + floor. + + Then there was breaking timbers, and bulging plates of steel, + And noise of great commotion along that vessel's keel-- + Then there were cries of anguish, and curses from rough men, + And earnest prayers for safety--O prayers for safety then. + + For women wept in terror, and stout men drop'd a tear, + And the shouting and the tumult was maddening to hear, + Yet there amidst that seething the life-boats, one by one, + Were set adrift at midnight--where cold sea-rivers run. + + Then, on that fated vessel, the thousand waited there + In hope some sea-born sister would snatch them from despair, + But no ship came to aid her, and, in the dead of night, + The noble ship Titanic sank suddenly from sight. + + O midway in old ocean, in her darkest, deepest gloom, + A thousand brave hearts bravely went down to meet their doom,-- + And what a tragic picture!--Oh, what a solemn sight + Upon that fated vessel with the stars still shining bright! + + Then there was time for thinking--O time enough to spare, + And there was time for cursing and time enough for pray'r,-- + Time,--time for retrospection, and time enough to die, + Time, time for life's great tragedy--and time to reason why. + + That was the greatest battle that ever yet was fought; + That was the greatest picture on any canvas wrought; + That was the greatest lesson that mortal man can teach; + That was the greatest sermon that priests of earth can preach. + + Yet no one fought that battle with saber or with gun, + And no one saw that picture, save those brave hearts alone, + And no one read that lesson there written in the dark, + And no one heard that sermon that went straight to its mark. + + Nor shall we know their story, the saddest of the sea, + Or shall we learn the sequel, the sorrow yet to be, + But long shall we remember how brave men bravely died + For some poor, lowly woman with a baby at her side. + + And when the world gets scorning the greatest of the great, + When poverty sits cursing the man of large estate, + O then let men remember, how, in that awful hour, + The wealth of all the world was powerless in its power. + + + + +WAR AND PEACE. + + + War is hell!--war is hell!-- + This is what the war-men yell + Yet they love to be in hell, + Love to hear the iron hail + Strike, till even strong men quail; + Love the dying soldier's knell, + Ringing shot and shrieking shell, + Love to hear the battle-cry, + Love to see men fight and die + With the struggle in their eye-- + War is hell--war is hell,-- + This is what the war-men yell. + + War is wrong--war is wrong; + This the burden of my song: + War is wrong--war is wrong-- + Sound the pean, human tongue; + Let the message far be flung-- + Sound it, sound it heaven-high, + Sound it to the starry sky, + And Heaven, repeat the echoing, + Till all the earth of peace shall sing. + + Peace loves day, but war loves night; + Peace loves calmness, war--to fight + In the wrong or in the right; + Peace the hungry man gives bread, + War would give a stone instead; + Peace is honest--not so war, + Crying--any way is fair; + Peace loves life--War loves the dead + With a halo overhead; + Peace pleads justice--War cries might + In the wrong or in the right; + Peace pleads--love your fellow-man, + War cries--kill him if you can; + Peace no evil thing would slight, + Yet while daring dares not fight, + Knowing might makes nothing right; + Peace means liberty and life, + War means enmity and strife; + Peace means plenty, peace means power, + War means--hell, and would devour + All who do not trust its power; + Peace means joy and love tomorrow, + War means hatred, death and sorrow; + Peace says--Bless you--men are brothers, + War says--Damn you, and all others. + + War is hell, war is hell!-- + This is what the war-men yell; + War is wrong, war is wrong-- + This the burden of my song; + War is wrong, war is wrong, + There never was a just one, + Never; + There never was a just one, + Never. + True as two from two leaves none, + True as days are never done, + True as rivers downward run, + True as heaven holds the sun,-- + War is wrong, war is wrong, + There never was a just one, + Never; + There never was a just one, + Never-- + Sound the message, human tongue, + Sound it, sound it heaven-high, + Sound it to the starry sky, + And Heaven, repeat the echoing + Till all the earth of peace shall sing. + + + + +PEACE AND WAR. + + + Blest is that man who first cries peace, + But curst is he who first cries war, + For war is murder. It must cease + Forever and from everywhere. + + + + +TO ANDREW CARNEGIE. + + + Philanthropist, far-sighted millionaire, + Lover of prose and friend of poetry, + What needs my pen in furtherance declare + Thou art also a friend of liberty,-- + Thou art, indeed, a very Prince of Peace, + Who, conscious of the uselessness of war, + Believest man's red carnage soon should cease, + And nations now for nobler things prepare: + What needs my pen in furtherance recite + Thy kindly interest in the weal of man-- + Yet, lacking need, I nothing lose to write, + But rather gain in praising as I can, + For, if thy wealth the world sweet peace may give, + Perhaps my lines in praise of peace may live. + + + + + Press of + [Illustration: TYPOGRAPHICAL + UNION LABEL CARBONDALE PA] + Munn's Review + + + + + Transcriber's notes: + + The index entries for "The Miner" and "Love of Country" have been + moved from after "The Sinking of the Titanic". + + In "The Miner" a stanza break was inserted before the line + "Nor tender leaf nor fragrant flower". + + The following is a list of other changes made to the original. + The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. + + And prohesy too plainly the unseen; + And prophesy too plainly the unseen; + + As mocks advce and takes a happy pace, + As mocks advice and takes a happy pace, + + These, his instructors, will reherse him well, + These, his instructors, will rehearse him well, + + Ringing shot and shreiking shell, + Ringing shot and shrieking shell, + + Thou are also a friend of liberty,-- + Thou art also a friend of liberty,-- + + Believeth man's red carnage soon should cease, + Believest man's red carnage soon should cease, + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Calendar and Other Verses, by Irving Sidney Dix + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 42306 *** |