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diff --git a/old/53149-0.txt b/old/53149-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 53437c9..0000000 --- a/old/53149-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4449 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Dyak Chief, and other verses, by -Erwin Clarkson Garrett - -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/license - - -Title: The Dyak Chief, and other verses - -Author: Erwin Clarkson Garrett - -Release Date: September 26, 2016 [EBook #53149] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DYAK CHIEF, AND OTHER VERSES *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS, Bryan Ness and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - - - - - - THE DYAK CHIEF - AND OTHER VERSES - - - - - The Dyak Chief - and Other Verses - - BY - ERWIN CLARKSON GARRETT - _Author of_ - “My Bunkie and Other Ballads” - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - BARSE & HOPKINS - PUBLISHERS - - Copyright, 1914 - BY BARSE & HOPKINS - - - - - To My Mother - - - _Some Ye bid to teach us, Lord,_ - _And some Ye bid to learn;_ - _And some Ye bid to triumph--_ - _And some to yearn and yearn:_ - _And some Ye bid to conquer_ - _In blood by land and sea;_ - _And some Ye bid to tarry here--_ - _To prove the love of Thee._ - - - - -PREFACE - - -Neither desiring to plagiarize Cæsar nor to compare my book to Gaul, I -wish to mention briefly that this volume as a whole is divided into -three parts, of which one is occupied by the single poem, “The Dyak -Chief,” the verses that give title to the book; another, the second, is -occupied by American army ballads, and yet another, the third, is -occupied by various verses on miscellaneous subjects. - -However, if recollections of my personal campaigns against Cæsar--armed -only with a Latin vocabulary and grammar--serve me rightly, the old -Roman was not merely a worthy foe, but one who might well be held up as -a worthy example; who dealt with his chronicles as he dealt with his -enemies on the field, in a simple, direct, forcible manner, bare of -circumlocution, tautology or ambiguity--that he who runs may read--and -reading, know his Gaul and Gallic chieftains, his Cæsar and his Cæsar’s -legionaries, even as Cæsar knew them. - -The initial poem, “The Dyak Chief,” forming Part One, is a romance of -Central Borneo, that I visited in July, 1908, during a little trip -around the World. - -Coming over from Java, which I had just finished touring, I arrived at -Bandjermasin, in southeastern Borneo, near the coast, and from whence I -took a small steamer up the Barito River to Poeroek Tjahoe, pronounced -“Poorook Jow,” deep in the interior of the island. - -Poeroek Tjahoe was the last white (Dutch) settlement, and from there I -went with three Malay coolies five days tramp on foot through the -jungle, northwest, penetrating the very heart of Borneo, sleeping the -first three nights in the houses of the Dyaks, some nomadic tribes of -whom still roam the jungle as head-hunters, and the last two nights upon -improvised platforms out in the open, till I reached Batoe Paoe, a town -or kampong in the geographical center of the island. - -I also visited a nearby village, Olong Liko, afterwards returning by the -Moeroeng and Barito Rivers to Poeroek Tjahoe, and from thence back to -Bandjermasin on the little river-steamer and then by boat to Singapore, -which was the radiating headquarters for my trips to Sumatra, Java, -Borneo and Siam. - -Having thus reached the very center of Borneo on foot, I had an -excellent opportunity to study the country, the people and the general -conditions, so that the reader of “The Dyak Chief” need feel no -hesitancy in accepting as accurate and authentic, all descriptions, -details and touches of “local color” or “atmosphere” contained in the -poem. - -Full notes on “The Dyak Chief” will be found at the end of the volume. - -Part Two contains a number of new American army ballads, gathered mostly -as a result of my personal observations and experiences when serving as -a private in Companies “L” and “G,” 23rd U. S. Infantry (Regulars) and -Troop “I,” 5th U. S. Cavalry (Regulars), during the Philippine -Insurrection of 1899-1902. - -As I have just mentioned, the army verses are all new ones, and -consequently not to be found among those contained in my previous -volume, “My Bunkie and Other Ballads.” - -Part Three consists of individual poems on various subjects without any -interrelation. - -It is sincerely hoped that the reader will make full use of the notes -appended at the end of the book, which addenda I have endeavored to -treat with as much brevity as may be compatible with succinctness. - -E. C. G. - -Philadelphia, February 1st, 1914. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PART ONE - - PAGE - - THE DYAK CHIEF 13 - - - PART TWO--AMERICAN ARMY BALLADS - - ON THE WATER-WAGON 33 - ARMY OF PACIFICATION 35 - SOLITARY 38 - THE SULTAN COMES TO TOWN 40 - PHILIPPINE RANKERS 45 - DOBIE ITCH 48 - THE SERVICE ARMS 50 - - - PART THREE--OTHER VERSES - - SHAH JEHAN 55 - THE OMNIPOTENT 59 - THE OUTBOUND TRAIL 62 - THE FOOL 64 - THE SHIPS 67 - THE FIRST POET 68 - THE TEST 70 - THE PORT O’ LOST DELIGHT 72 - WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 76 - KING BAMBOO 77 - MARK TWAIN 79 - THE SUMMIT 80 - THE LITTLE BRONZE CROSS 81 - KEATS 83 - CHRISTMAS 84 - TUCK AWAY--LITTLE DREAMS 85 - BLOODY ANGLE 87 - THE MICROBE 89 - THE SEAS 90 - GOD’S ACRE 92 - GOLD 94 - THE LEGION 95 - THE ALTAR 97 - THE SONG OF THE AEROPLANE 99 - PACK YOUR TRUNK AND GO 101 - WOMAN 103 - NIPPON 105 - THE NEW BARD 107 - FATHER TIME 110 - MY LOVES 112 - THE FORUM 114 - THE MASTERPIECE 116 - THE HERITAGE 118 - THE ADJUSTING HOUR 120 - THE OUTPOSTERS 121 - WONDERING 124 - LINES TO AN ELDERLY FRIEND 126 - BATTLESHIPS 127 - THE AMERICAN FLAG 131 - THE GREAT DOCTORS 133 - THE DREAMER AND THE DOER 134 - SPAIN 135 - C. Q. D. 138 - THE LIGHTS 140 - THE CHOSEN 141 - THE FAIREST MOON 144 - THE STRIVER 146 - THE OLD MEN 148 - THE FOUR-ROADS POST 150 - THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY 152 - PHANTOM-LAND 154 - THE ROSE 156 - PATRIOTISM 157 - KELVIN 159 - - - - -PART ONE - -THE DYAK CHIEF - - - - -THE DYAK CHIEF - - - _Hear ye a tale from the deepest depths of the heart of Borneo,_ - _Where the Moeroeng leaps in wild cascades,_ - _And the endless green of the jungle fades,_ - _And night shuts down on the fern-choked glades_ - _Where the kampong hearth-fires glow._ - - Listen, Oh White Man, that ye hear - The words of a Dyak chief, - Till ye learn the weight of the Dyak hate - And the depth of the Dyak grief. - - Once in the days of my strength and pride - I loved a kampong maid, - And very old was the tale I told - ’Neath the lace of the jungle shade. - - And very old was the tale I told, - Though born year by year; - Till I thought of the headless waist I bore-- - And I drew the maiden near: - - And I pledged her there by the tree-banked stream - Where the rippling shadows flee, - “None but the skull of a kampong chief - Shall hang at my belt for thee.” - - -II - - When over the palm-topped endless hills - First broke the golden day, - The taintless breeze in the highest trees - Laughed as I swung away. - - Laughed as I climbed the mountain path - Or skirted the river’s bank, - And the great lianes sung to me - As on my knees I drank. - - And the great lianes softly swayed - And twisted in snake-like guise, - Till I lost their sight in the leafy height - Where peeped the purple skies. - - And down through the dank morasses - I leapt from clod to clod, - O’er fallen trunk and lifted root - And the ooze of the sunken sod-- - - Where the tiny trees stand tall and straight, - A mass of mossy green, - And lighting all like a fairy hall - The sunlight sifts between. - - Day by day through stress and strain - I pressed my marches through; - Day by day through strain and stress - The weary hours flew. - - And silent, from the dank brown leaves - As swept my hurrying tread, - The little waiting leeches rose - And caught me as I sped. - - Till my feet and ankles bled in streams-- - But I let them clinging stay, - And they swelled to seven times their size - And glutted and fell away. - - For never time had I to stop, - And so they sucked their fill, - As I splashed through the knee-deep rivers - And clambered the jungle hill. - - And only night could halt me, - And the stars in their proud parade, - They bade me look to the fray before, - And back to the kampong maid. - - -III - - Weary at last I reached a height - That showed a fertile glade, - Where the bending trees of the river brink - Leaned out o’er a wild cascade. - - And white above the waving banks - The towering giants rose high, - And tossed their heads in hauteur, - Full-plumed across the sky. - - And waved their long lianes - A hundred feet in air, - And shook their clinging vine-leaves - As a Dyak maid her hair. - - And down by the Moeroeng’s turning - The river rock rose sheer, - And out of the cracks the tasseled palms - Like mighty plumes hung clear. - - While still, behind a boulder, - Where the little ripples gleam, - A fisher sat in his sunken proa - In the midst of the gliding stream. - - Only the crash of the underbrush - Told where a hunter sped, - And I caught the glint of the morning sun - On the blow-spear’s glittering head. - - Only the crack of a mandauw - Felling the little trees, - And the murmuring call of a water-fall - That echoed the jungle breeze. - - But more to me than the hunter-- - The fisher and stream and hill-- - Was the kampong deep in the hollow, - Nestling dark and still. - - Dark and still in the valley, - A single house and strong; - Perched on piles two warriors high - And a hundred paces long. - - And straight before the tall-stepped door - The mighty chief poles rose, - And seemed to shake their tasseled tops - In warning to their foes-- - - As they who slept beneath them - Once did, when in their might-- - With shining steel and sinews-- - Full-armed they sprang to fight. - - Long from the hill-side trees I watched - The water women go - Back and forth to the river bank, - Chattering to and fro. - - Long from the hill-side trees I watched - Till--straight as the windless flame-- - With spear and shield and mandauw, - The kampong chieftain came. - - Full well I knew the waist-cloth blue - Where hung each shriveled head. - Full well I saw the eyes of awe - That followed in his tread. - - Full well I heard the spoken word-- - The quick obedience fanned-- - And I felt the trance of the royal glance - Of the Lord of the Jungle-land. - - Lightly he scorned the proffered guard - As he strode the upland grade, - And softly I drew my mandauw - And fingered the sharpened blade. - - Was it for game or a head he came - To the hills in the golden morn? - But little I cared as the heavens stared - On the day that my hope was born. - - For over and over I muttered-- - As I slunk from tree to tree-- - “None but the head of a kampong chief - Shall hang at my belt for thee.” - - (None but the head of a kampong chief - For you my belt shall grace, - Taken by right in fairest fight-- - Full-fronted--face to face.) - - And I found a leafy clearing - That lay across his path, - And I stood to wait his coming-- - The chieftain in his wrath. - - As the moan before the wind-storm - That breaks across the night, - Were the rhythmic, muffled foot falls - Of the war-lord come to fight. - - The crack of little branches-- - The branches pushed away-- - And the Scourge of the Moeroeng Valley - Sprang straight to the waiting fray. - - ’Twas then I knew the stories true - They told of his fearful fame, - As through my shield a hand’s-length - His hurtling spearhead came. - - Stunned I reeled and a moment kneeled - To the shock of the blinding blow, - But I rose again at the stinging pain - And the wet of the warm blood’s flow. - - And I staggered straight and I scorned to wait - And I swept my mandauw high-- - But ere my stroke descended - He smote me athwart the thigh. - - As the lean rattan at the workman’s knife-- - As the stricken game in the dell-- - As a bird on the wing at the blow-spear’s sting, - To the reddened earth I fell. - - And merrily with fiendish glee - He knelt and held me fast; - And I looked on high at the fleecy sky-- - And I thought the look was the last. - - But by the will that knows no law - I wrenched my right hand free, - And I drove my mandauw’s gleaming point - A hand’s-breadth in his knee. - - Stung by the pain he loosened, - And a moment bared his breast, - And like the dash of the lightning flash - My weapon sought its rest. - - As a log in the Moeroeng rapids - The mighty chieftain rolled, - And I pinned him fast for the head-stroke, - In the reek of the blood-stained mold. - - And I pinned him fast for the head-stroke-- - But the glare of the dying eyes - Gleamed forth to show the worthy foe - And the heart that never dies. - - * * * * * - - A moment toward a kampong, - And toward a kampong maid, - I looked ... and a head rolled helpless - To the crash of a falling blade. - - -IV - - With strips from my torn jacket - I bound my arm and thigh, - And I headed back o’er the leafy track - With hope and spirits high. - - And as I sped with leaping heart - All Nature seemed to sing; - And my legs ran red where trickling bled - The head of the Jungle King. - - The purring tree-tops called me-- - The fleecy clouds rolled by-- - And the forest green was a sun-shot sheen, - And the sky was a laughing sky. - - And only night could halt me, - And the stars in their proud parade, - They bade me look to the path before - That led to the kampong maid. - - Bleeding and torn, spent and worn, - At last I reached the hill, - Whence each hearth-light in the falling night - Was a welcome bright and still. - - For each hearth-light in the falling night - Cut clear through the growing gloam-- - Of all brave things the best that brings - The weary Wanderer home. - - But the waiting watchers spied me, - And met me as I ran; - And they saw the head of the chieftain, - And they hailed me man and man. - - But through the heart-whole greetings - I felt the anxious gaze, - And over my brain like a pall was lain - The weight of the Doubter’s craze. - - And I begged them to tell me quickly-- - For I quailed at the story stayed-- - And I asked them if aught had happened - To the head of the kampong maid. - - And there in the leafy gloaming-- - Where the stars lit one by one, - They told me the tale at my homing-- - And I felt the passions run-- - - Hate as the white-hot flame jet-- - Shame as the burning bar-- - Grief as the poisoned arrow-- - Revenge as the salted scar: - - Rankling--roaring--blinding-- - Rising and ebbing low; - Till overhead the skies burst red, - And I tottered beneath the blow. - - For they told of a White Man’s coming, - And the weapon that carries far; - And his love for the Maid--but over it laid - The hush of the falling star. - - Faithlessness--treachery--cunning-- - Weakness and love and fear-- - Oh very old was the tale they told, - Though born year by year. - - And I drew my blade and I leapt away-- - But they sprang and held me fast: - And they promised me there by the dead chief’s hair, - My hate should be filled to the last. - - And they showed me him bound and knotted - To the base of a splintered tree, - Stripped to the sun and spat upon - And taunted--awaiting me. - - And I saw _her_ in the shadows-- - But ... I might not know her, then-- - A sneer for the kampong women-- - And a jest for the kampong men. - - * * * * * - - And thus in the days of my strength and pride, - From over the distant sea, - The White Man came in his open shame - And stole my love from me. - - -V - - The next morn at the rising sun - The tom-toms roared their fill, - And echoed like rolling thunder - From hill to farthest hill. - - And the birds of the jungle fluttered - And lifted and soared away, - And we dragged the fettered prisoner forth - To blink at the blinding day. - - Full length and naked on the ground - We staked him foot and hand, - And we laughed in glee as we watched to see - The pest of the jungle-land. - - Oh we laughed in glee as we watched to see - The little leeches swing, - End on end till they reached the flesh - Of the prostrate, struggling Thing. - - Like river flies in the summer rains - They covered the White Man o’er-- - Body and legs and arms and face, - Till the whole was a bleeding sore. - - And the red streams ran from the crusted pools - And crimsoned the leafy ground, - And the scent of gore but brought the more - As the smell of game to the hound. - - Hour by hour I watched him die, - Slowly day by day, - Hour by hour I watched the flesh - Sinking and turning gray: - - Hour by hour I heard him shriek - To the skies and the White Man’s God-- - But only the gluttons came again - And reddened the reeking sod. - - Weeping, writhing, groaning-- - Paled to an ashen dun-- - And the clotted blood turned black as mud - And stunk in the midday sun. - - (Bones where stretched the tautening flesh-- - A shining, yellow sheen-- - And the flies that helped the leeches work - In the stagnant pools between.) - - * * * * * - - Till the fourth day broke in a blaze of gold-- - And I knew the end was nigh-- - And I called the tribes from near and far, - To watch the White Man die. - - From every kampong of the south - Where the broad Barito winds-- - From every kampong of the east - The murmuring hill-wind finds-- - - From every kampong of the west - Where the Djoeloi falls and leaps-- - From every kampong of the north - Where the great Mohakkam sweeps-- - - From east and west and south and north - The mighty warriors came, - To prove the weight of the Dyak hate - And the shame of the naked shame. - - In noiseless scorn and wonder - They scanned the victim there, - Except that when an Elder spake - To mock at his despair. - - Or when from out the long-house-- - Where loosened footboards creaked-- - A woman leaned in frenzy - And tore her hair and shrieked. - - And from the wooded hill-tops - The answering echoes came, - Till all our far-flung wilderness - Stooped down to curse his name. - - In sullen, savage silence - They watched the streamlets flow: - In savage, sullen silence-- - The war-lords--row on row-- - - Ranged around by rank and years, - Oh goodly was the sight, - Square shouldered--spare--with muscles bare - Coiled in their knotted might-- - - And little serpent eyes that gleamed - In glittering, primal hate, - Like adders, that beneath the leaves - The coming foot falls wait. - - The shrunken heads about their belts - Stared with senseless grin, - As though in voiceless mummery - They mocked him in his sin. - - As though in sightless greeting-- - To make his entry good - To th’ lost and leering legion - Of the martyred brotherhood. - - * * * * * - - We rubbed his lips with costly salt-- - (You know how far it comes)-- - And when he called for drink--we laughed-- - And rolled the Sick-man’s Drums. - - * * * * * - - They beckoned me unto his side-- - The blood-stench filled the dell-- - They asked me--“Ye are satisfied?” - And I answered--“It is well.” - - The final glaze was settling fast-- - The weary struggles ceased-- - And on his breath was the moan of death - That prayed for life released. - - So we propped his mouth wide open - With a knob of rotten vine, - And the leeches entered greedily - As white men to their wine. - - Palate and roof and tongue and gums, - They gushed in rivers gay-- - And gasping--his own blood choked him-- - And his Spirit passed away. - - _This is the tale the old chief tells - When the western gold-belt dies, - And the jungle trees in the evening breeze - Tower against the skies, - And the good-wife bakes the greasy cakes - Where the kampong hearth-fires rise._ - - - - - PART TWO - - AMERICAN ARMY BALLADS - - - - -ON THE WATER-WAGON - - - Pay-day’s done and I’ve had my little fun-- - I’ve had my monthly row-- - And they put me in “the mill” and they told me, “Peace be still,” - And--I am on the Water-wagon now. - - _Oh I’m on the Water-wagon and the time is surely draggin’_ - _And I’m thirsty as I can be;_ - _And I’m nursing of an eye that I got for being fly,_ - _And I’m bunking back o’ bars exclusively._ - - Now wouldn’t it upset you--now wouldn’t it afret you - If they jugged you ’cause you got a little tight, - And a zig-zag course you laid when doing Dress Parade, - And you really thought Guide Right was _Column_ Right. - - _Oh I’m on the Water-wagon but the trial is surely laggin’_ - _And I’m dryer than the Arizona dust_, - _And my throat is full o’ hay and I’m choppin’ wood all day_ - _‘Cause the Sergeant of the Guard, he says I must._ - - The Jug is rank and slummy and I’m sitting like a dummy - Looking over at the barracks where I hear the mess-tins clang: - And the fool I am comes o’er me, as I chant the same old story, - The Ballad of the Guard-house--until I go and hang:-- - - _“Oh I’m on the Water-wagon, you’ll never see me saggin’,_ - _I am glued and tied and fastened to the seat ...”_ - _And I hear the fellers snicker where the two lone candles flicker,_ - _And I shut-up like a soldier--with the Ballad incomplete._ - - - - -ARMY OF PACIFICATION - -Cuba 1907 - - - I’ve hiked a trail where the last marks fail - And the vine-choked jungles yawn, - I’ve doubled-out on a dirty scout - Two hours before the dawn, - I’ve done my drill when the palms hung still - And the rations nearly gone. - - I’ve soldier’d in Pinar del Rio-- - In ’Frisco and Aparri-- - I’ve lifted their lights through the tropic nights - O’er the breast of a golden sea, - But this is surely the craziest puzzle - That ever has puzzled me. - - It’s this. I’m here in Cuba - Where the royal palms swing high, - And the White Man’s plantations of all o’ the Nations - Are scattered ahither and nigh - And the native galoot who _must_ revolute - Though no one can tell you just why. - - And when I go mapping the mountain and vale - Or a practice-march happens my way, - Each planter I meet is lovely and sweet - And setteth them up right away, - “And won’t I come in and how’ve I been?” - And--“_How long do I think the troops stay?_” - - They never besprinkled my bosom - When I soldier’d over home, - Nor clasped me in glee when I came from the sea - Where the Seal Rock breakers comb, - Or stamped on a strike and scattered them wide - Like the scud of the back-set foam. - - When I saved ’em their stinking Islands - They cursed me for being rough: - (They wouldn’t dare to have soldier’d there - But they called me brutal and tough. - I had done their work and the land was theirs, - Which I reckon was nearly enough). - - They never enthuse over khaki or “blues” - Anywhere else I’ve been. - They never go wild and bless the child - And say “Oh Willie come in.” - Though on my soul, I’m damned if I see - Just where is the Cardinal Sin. - - _I’m only a buck o’ the rank and file_ - _As stupid as I can be,_ - _So this is the craziest puzzle_ - _That ever has puzzled me._ - (_I’m perfectly dry but I_ must _bat an eye,_ - _For you think that I cannot see._) - - - - -SOLITARY - - - We’re walking our post like a little tin soldier, - Backward and forward we go, - By the Solitary’s cell, which assuredly is hell-- - It’s five foot square you know. - - The boy was all right but he would get tight - When pay-day came around; - And the non-com he hated was thereupon slated - To measure 5-10 on the ground. - - Oh yes, _we’ve_ been in the calaboose, - We’ve done _our_ turn in the jug; - ’Cause the fellow we lick must go raise a kick-- - The dirty, cowardly mug. - - His heart was all right and his arm was all right, - But it’s fearful what drink will do: - And the corporal he hit with the butt of a gun - And nigh put the corporal through. - - It’s way against orders, it’s awful, I know, - They’d jug me myself--what’s more-- - But I must slip the beggar a chew and a smoke - Just under the jamb of the door. - - He’s bound to get Ten and a Bob for sure - Abreaking stone on the Isle, - So they fastened ’im fair in a five foot square - Till the day that they give ’im a trial. - - Oh the Corporal o’ the Guard is a wakeful man-- - My duty is written plain, - But the Solitary there in his cramped and lonely lair, - It’s enough to drive a man insane. - - He’s time to repent for the money that he spent - And the temper that cursed him too, - When he’s breaking rock all day by the shores o’ ’Frisco Bay - Where he sees the happy homeward-bounds come through. - - Shall we risk it--shall we risk it--heart o’ mine? - Oh _damn_ the Corporal of the Guard. - While we slip “the makings” under to the Solitary’s wonder, - And the whispered thanks come back--“God bless you, pard.” - - - - -THE SULTAN COMES TO TOWN - -A Philippine Reminiscence of 1900 - - - The Sultan of Jolo has come to town-- - Do tell! - The Sultan of Jolo has come to town-- - The Sultan of Jolo of great renown-- - And he’s dressed like a general and walks like a clown - As well. - - The Sultan of Jolo’s a mighty chief-- - My word! - The Sultan of Jolo’s a mighty chief-- - (Don’t call ’im a grafter or chicken-thief, - For you’ll surely come to your grief, - If heard). - - The Sultan of Jolo’s _such_ a stride, - And style! - The Sultan of Jolo’s _such_ a stride, - And his skin’s the color of rhino hide, - And he cheweth betel-nut beside: - (Oh vile!) - - The Sultan of Jolo’s a swell galoot-- - You bet. - The Sultan of Jolo’s a swell galoot, - So we line the scorching streets and salute, - (“Presenting Arms” to the royal boot), - And sweat. - - The Sultan of Jolo’s a full-fledged king-- - I say - The Sultan of Jolo’s a full-fledged king - As down the regiment’s front they swing, - He and his Escort--wing and wing: - Hurray! - - The Sultan of Jolo feels his weight, - In truth. - The Sultan of Jolo feels his weight - As he marches by in regal state - With Major Sour and all The Great, - Forsooth. - - The Sultan proudly treads the earth - With “cuz.” - The Sultan proudly treads the earth - O’ershadowed by the Major’s girth, - But he knows just what the Major’s worth: - _He does_. - - The Sultan of Jolo’s a haughty bun-- - (Don’t quiz). - The Sultan of Jolo’s a haughty bun-- - An honest, virtuous gentleman-- - And he’s rated high in Washington-- - He is. - - The Sultan of Jolo’s a splendid bird-- - Whoopee! - The Sultan of Jolo’s a splendid bird, - But we in our ignorance pledge our word - His asinine plumage is absurd - To see. - - The Sultan and Major Sour are - Such chums: - The Sultan and Major Sour are - So wrapped in love exceeding par, - That war shall never war-time mar-- - --what comes. - - (The Sultan of Jolo guesseth right-- - Yo ho! - The Sultan of Jolo guesseth right, - As sure as daytime follows night, - That Major Sour wouldn’t fight: - Lord--no!) - - The Sultan of Jolo is pretty wise-- - (And weeds). - The Sultan of Jolo is pretty wise, - In spite of innocent, bovine eyes, - And the soothing tongue o’ the Eastern skies - And creeds. - - The Sultan of Jolo passeth by-- - Oh Lor’! - The Sultan of Jolo passeth by, - But we in the ranks can’t wink an eye, - Though we think we know the Reasons Why, - And more. - - The Sultan of Jolo walketh flat-- - (Have a care!) - The Sultan of Jolo walketh flat, - But Nature’s surely the cause of that; - And he’s salaried high--and sleek and fat-- - So there! - - The Sultan of Jolo laughs in glee-- - Why not? - The Sultan of Jolo laughs in glee - As his wages come across the sea - From those who _hate_ polygamy-- - God wot! - - Oh the Sultan of Jolo’s gold and gilt-- - He is. - Oh the Sultan of Jolo’s gold and gilt, - His chest and his sleeves and his good sword hilt, - And he knows the lines on which are built-- - His _biz_. - - - - -PHILIPPINE RANKERS - - - Clear down the thin-thatched barrack-room - The varying voices rise-- - The shrill New England teacher’s-- - (The wisest of the wise)-- - And the Cowboy cleaning cartridges - And telling fearful lies. - - The Bowery Boy is fast asleep - Performing Bunk-fatigue, - The Kid who simply can’t keep still - Is pounding through a jig, - And a plain darn fool just sits and sings - And sneaks another swig. - - A bouncing bargain-counter clerk - Dilates to Private Brown, - The lordly top-notch swell he is - When _he_ is back in town, - And the scion of an ancient name - Just yawns and hides a frown. - - The mountain-riding Parson talks - T’ his Y. M. C. A. band, - And mine Professor’s turning Keats - With hard and grimy hand, - And Johnny’s reading football news - When baseball fills the land. - - And some they pull together-- - And some won’t gee at all-- - And some are looking for a fight - And riding for a fall-- - And some, they ran from prison bars; - And some, just heard The Call. - - And some are simply “rotters”-- - And some the Country’s best: - And some are from the cultured East-- - And some the sculptured West: - And some they never heard of Burke-- - And some they sport a crest. - - (“The Backbone of the Army”-- - “The Chosen of the Lord”-- - The Faithful of the Fathers-- - The Wielders of the Sword-- - The hired of the helpless-- - The bruisers and the bored.) - - The east-sides of the cities - Are aye foregathered here; - The best sides of the cities - Are come from far and near, - To mix their books and Bibles - With oaths and rotten beer. - - * * * * * - - Clear down the mud-browed, blood-plowed ranks - The thin, tanned faces lift; - The long, lean line that hears the whine - Of the bamboo’s silken sift, - And the sudden rush and the chug and the hush - Where the careless bullets drift. - - The Parson’s up and shooting - And cursing like a fool; - The Bowery Boy is bleeding fast - In a red and ragged pool; - And mine Professor gags the wound-- - (Which he didn’t learn in school). - - * * * * * - - _Nor creed nor sign nor order-- - Nor clan nor clique nor class: - Never a mark to brand him - As he chokes in the paddy grass: - Only the tide of Bunker Hill, - That ebbs, but may not pass._ - - - - -DOBIE ITCH - - - _Tell about the fever - And all y’ tropic ills, - Tell about the cholera camp - Over ’mong the hills; - Tell about the small-pox - Where the bamboos switch, - But close y’ face and let me tell - About the Dobie Itch._ - - It isn’t erysipelas-- - It isn’t nettle-rash; - It isn’t got from eating pork, - Or drinking native trash. - You smear your toes with ointment, - And think you’re getting well, - And then the damn thing comes again - And simply raises hell. - - You’ve hiked all day in sun and rain - Through hills and paddy mire, - Abaft the slippery googoos - Who shoot--and then retire: - And now you’ve taken off your shoes - And settled for a rest, - When suddenly your feet they start - To itch _like all possessed_. - - (Better take your socks off - And then see how it goes.... - “Ouch! m’ bloody stockin’s - Stickin’ to m’ toes.”) - - Scratching, scratching, scratching, - Burning scab and sore, - (“Stop, you fool, you’ll poison ’em!” - Hear your bunkie roar). - Never mind the poison-- - Ease the maddening pain, - Till your poor old tired feet - Start to bleed again. - - _Tell about the fever - And all y’ tropic ills, - Tell about the cholera camp - Over ’mong the hills; - Tell about the small-pox - Where the bamboos switch, - But close y’ face and let me tell - About the Dobie Itch._ - - - - -THE SERVICE ARMS - - - _Clear from clotted Bunker Hill - And frozen Valley Forge, - To the Luzon trenches - And the fern-choked gorge: - All the Service--all the Arms-- - Horse and Foot and Guns-- - East and West who gave your best-- - Stand and pledge your Sons!_ - - -THE INFANTRY: - - As the Juggernaut slow rolls - Ringing red with reeking tolls, - Crushing out its Hindu souls - In Vishnu’s name: - As the unrelenting tide - Sweeps the weary wreckage wide, - Bidding all men stand aside - Or rue the game: - - Meeting front and flank and rear, - Charge on charge with cheer on cheer, - Where the senseless corpses leer - Against the sun: - Sure as fate and faith and sign - I o’erwhelm them--they are mine; - And I pause where weeps the wine - Of battle won. - - -THE ARTILLERY: - - As the slumbering craters wake, - And the neighboring foot hills shake, - As in shotted flame they break - Athwart the sky: - As the swollen streams of Spring - Meet their river wing and wing, - Till it sweeps a monstrous thing - Where cities die: - - With a cold sardonic smile, - At a range of half a mile, - I--I lop them off in style - By six and eights: - As they come--their Country’s best-- - Like a roaring, seething crest, - And I knock them Galley West - Where Glory Waits. - - -THE CAVALRY: - - As the tidal wave in spate - Batters down the great flood gate - Where the huddled children wait - Behind the doors: - As the eagle in its flight - Sweeps the plain to left and right, - Strewing carnage, wreck and blight - And homeward soars: - - As the raging, wild typhoon, - ’Neath a white and callous moon, - Lifts the listless low lagoon - Into the sea: - In my tyranny and power - I have swept them where they cower, - I have turned the battle-hour - To the cry of Victory! - - - - - PART THREE - - OTHER VERSES - - - - -SHAH JEHAN - -BUILDER OF THE TAJ MAHAL. - - - They have carried my couch to the window - Up over the river high, - That a Great Mogul may have his wish - Ere he lay him down to die. - - And the wish was ever this, and is, - Ere the last least shadows flee, - To gaze at the end o’er the river’s bend - On the shrine that I raised for thee. - - And the plans I wrought from the plans they brought, - And I watched it slowly rise, - A vision of snow forever aglow - In the blue of the northern skies. - - For I built it of purest marble, - That all the World might see - The depth of thy matchless beauty - And the light that ye were to me. - - The silver Jumna broadens-- - The day is growing dark, - And only the peacock’s calling - Comes over the rose-rimmed park. - - And soon thy sunset marble - Will glow as the amethyst, - And moonlit skies shall make thee rise - A vision of pearly mist. - - A vision of light and wonder - For the hordes in the covered wains, - From the snow-peaked north where the tides burst forth - To the Ghauts and the Rajput plains. - - From the sapphire lakes in the Kashmir hills, - Whence crystal rivers rise, - To the jungles where the tiger’s lair - Lies bare to the Deccan skies. - - And the proud Mahratta chieftains - And the Afghan lords shall see - The tender gleam of thy living dream, - Through all Eternity. - - The black is bending lower-- - Ah wife--the day-star nears-- - And I see you come with calling arms - As ye came in the yester-years. - - And the joy is mine that ne’er was mine - By Palace and Peacock Throne-- - By marble and gold where the World grows cold - In the seed that It has sown. - - More bright than the Rajputana stars - Thine eyes shone out to me-- - More gay thy laugh than the rainbow chaff - That lifts from the Southern Sea. - - More fair thy hair than any silk - In Delhi’s proud bazaars-- - More true thy heart than the tulwar’s start-- - Blood-wet in a hundred wars. - - More red thy lips than the Flaming Trees - That brighten the Punjab plains-- - More soft thy tread than the winds that spread - The last of the summer rains. - - No blush of the dawning heavens-- - No rose by the garden wall, - May ever seek to match thy cheek-- - Oh fairest rose of all. - - Above the bending river - The midday sun is gone, - But the glow of thy tomb dispels the gloom - Where doubting shadows yawn. - - And the glow of thy tomb shall break the gloom - Through the march of the marching years, - Where, builded and bound from the dome to the ground - It was wrought of a monarch’s tears. - - The silver Jumna broadens - Like a moonlit summer sea, - But bank and bower and town and tower - Have bidden farewell to me: - - And only the tall white minarets, - And the matchless dome shine through-- - The silver Jumna broadens and-- - It bears me--love--to you. - - - - -THE OMNIPOTENT - - - The Lord looked down on the nether Earth - He had made so fair and green, - Fertile valleys and snow-capped hills - And the oceans that lie between. - - The Lord looked down on Man and Maid, - Through the birth of the crystal air: - And the Lord leaned back in His well-earned rest-- - And He knew that the sight was fair. - - The eons crept and the eons swept - And His children multiplied, - And ever they lived in simple faith, - And in simple faith they died. - - They blessed the earth that gave them birth-- - They wept to the midnight star-- - And they stood in awe where the tides off-shore - Rose leaping across the bar. - - They blessed the earth that gave them birth-- - But passed all time and tide, - They blessed their Lord-Creator-- - Nor knew Him mystified. - - They came and went--the little men-- - The men of a primal breed-- - And the Lord He gathered them as they lived, - Each in his simple creed. - - And the Lord He gathered them as they came-- - Ere the Earth had time to cool - And the horde of Cain had clouted the brain - ’Neath the lash of a monstrous school. - - -II - - The Lord looked down on the nether Earth - He had made so fair and green-- - Fertile valleys and snow-capped hills - And the oceans that lie between. - - And He saw the strife of the thousand sects-- - And ever anew they came-- - Torture and farce and infamy - Committed in His name. - - Figure and form and fetich-- - Councils of hate and greed-- - Prophet on prophet warring, - Each to his separate need. - - Symbol and sign and surplice - And ostentatious prayer, - And the hollow mock of the chanceled dark - Flung back through the raftered air. - - * * * * * - - And the Lord He gazèd wistfully - Through the track of a falling star; - And He turned His sight from the homes of men, - Where the ranting cabals are. - - - - -THE OUTBOUND TRAIL - - - The Outbound Trail--The Outbound Trail-- - We hear it calling still: - Coralline bight where the waves churn white-- - Ocean and plain and hill: - Jungle and palm--where the starlit calm - The Wanderer’s loves fulfil. - - Where the bleak, black blizzards blinding sweep - Across the crumpled floe, - And the Living Light makes white the night - Above the boundless snow, - And the sentinel penguins watch the waste - Where the whale and the walrus go: - - Where the phosphor fires flash and flare - Along the bellowing bow, - And the soft salt breeze of the Southern Seas - Is sifting across the prow, - And the glittering Cross in the blue-black sky, - The Watcher of Then and Now: - - We’ll lift again the lineless plain - Where the deep-cut rivers run-- - And the pallid peaks as the eagle seeks - His crag when the day is done: - And the rose-red glaciers glance and gleam - In the glow of the setting sun. - - We’ll go once more to a farther shore-- - We’ll track the outbound trail; - Harbor and hill where the World stands still-- - Where the strange-rigged fishers sail-- - And only the tune of the tasseled fronds, - Like the moan of a distant gale. - - We’ll tramp anew the jungle through - Where ferned Pitcairnias rise, - And the softly fanned Tjemaras stand - Green lace against the skies, - And the last red ray of the tropic day - Flickers and flares and dies. - - _Across the full-swung, shifting seas - There comes a beck’ing gleam, - Strong as the iron hand of Fate-- - Sweet as a lover’s dream. - What can bind us--what can keep us-- - Who shall tell us nay? - When the Outbound Trail is calling us-- - Is calling us away._ - - - - -THE FOOL - - - In the first gray dawn of history - A Paleolithic man - Observed an irate mammoth-- - Observed how his neighbors ran: - And he sat on a naked boulder - Where the plains stretched out to the sun, - And jowl in hand he frowned and planned - As none before had done. - - Next day his neighbors passed him, - And still he sat and thought, - And the next day and the next day, - But never a deed was wrought. - Till the fifth sun saw him flaking - Some flint where the rocks fall free-- - And the sixth sun saw him shaping - A shaft from a fallen tree. - - Enak and Oonak and Anak - And their children and kith and kin, - They paused where they watched him working, - And they smiled and they raised the chin, - And they tapped their foreheads knowingly-- - As you and I have done-- - But he--he had never a moment - To mark their mocking fun. - - And Enak passed on to bury - His brother the mammoth slew. - And Oonak, to stay his starving, - With his fingers grubbed anew. - And Anak, he thought of his tender spouse - An ichthyosaurus ate-- - Because in seeking the nearest tree - She had reached it a trifle late. - - * * * * * - - Around the Council fire, - More beast and ape than man, - The hairy hosts assembled, - And their talk to the crazed one ran. - And they said, “It is best that we kill him - Ere he strangle us in the night, - Or brings on our head the curse of the dead - When the thundering heavens light. - - “It is best that we rid our caverns - Of neighbors such as these-- - It is best--” but the Council shuddered - At the rustle of parting leaves. - Out of the primal forest - Straight to their midst he strode-- - Weathered and gaunt--but they gave no taunt-- - As he flung to the ground his load. - - They eyed them with suspicion-- - The long smooth shafts and lean: - They felt of the thong-bound flint barbs-- - They saw that the work was clean. - Like children with a plaything, - When first it is understood, - They leapt to their feet and hurled them-- - And they knew that the act was good. - - They pictured the mighty mammoth - As the hurtling spear shafts sank, - They pictured the unsuspecting game - Down by the river’s bank; - They pictured their safe-defended homes-- - They pictured the fallen foe.... - And the Fool they led to the highest seat, - Where the Council fires glow. - - - - -THE SHIPS - - - The White Ship lifts the horizon-- - The masts are shot with gold-- - And I know by the shining canvas - The cargo in the hold. - - And now they’ve warped and fastened her, - Where I impatient wait-- - To find a hollow mockery, - Or a rank and rotted freight. - - * * * * * - - The Black Ship shows against the storm-- - Her hull is low and lean-- - And a flag of gore at the stern and fore, - And the skull and bones between. - - I shun the wharf where she bears down - And her desperate crew make fast, - But manifold from the darkest hold - Come forth my dreams at last. - - _The White Ships and the Black Ships - They loom across the sea-- - But I may not know until they dock-- - The wares they bring to me._ - - - - -THE FIRST POET - - - In the days of prose ere a bard arose - There came from a Northern Land, - A man with tales of the spouting whales - And the Lights that the ice-winds fanned. - - And they sat them ’round on the barren ground, - And they clicked their spears to the time, - And they lingered each on the golden speech - Of the man with the words that rhyme. - - With the words that rhyme like the rolling chime - Of the tread of the rhythmic sea, - And silent they listened with eyes that glistened - In savage ecstasy. - - Over the plain as a pall was lain - The hand of the primal heart, - Till slowly there rose through the rock-bound close - The first faint glimmering Start. - - As a ray of light in the storm-lashed night, - O’er the virgin forests swept - From the star-staked sea the Symbols Three-- - And the cave-men softly wept. - - Softly wept as slowly crept - To the depth of the savage brain, - Honor, forsooth, and Faith and Truth-- - And they rose from the rock-rimmed plain-- - - And in twos and threes ’neath the mammoth trees - They whispered as children do: - And the Great World sprang from the Bard that sang, - And the First of the Men that Knew. - - - - -THE TEST - - - The Lord He scanned His children, - His good, well-meaning children, - And He murmured as He saw them - Where they came and paused and passed; - “I will drag them I will drive them - Through the fourfold Hells of Torture, - And--I will test the product - That comes back to me at last.” - - His children came--His children paused-- - His children slowly passed Him-- - And for the sweat upon the brow - And scar upon the cheek, - He heaped the burdens higher-- - He cut and smote and lashed them-- - And as they swayed and tottered - He hurled them spent and weak. - - They cast an eye, a gleaming eye, - Above to where they sought Him-- - But blank the empty skies gave back, - And blank the heavens stared. - And even they with riven heart, - Who strove to hide the hiding, - He drove the scalpel deeper, - That the inmost core lay bared. - - At last He took the Test-Tubes - And the Acids of the Ages, - And he lit the Mighty Forges - With the Fires of the Years, - And He turned and smote and hammered, - And He poured and paused and pondered, - Till a clear precipitate formed ’neath - A residue of tears. - - Across the outer spaces-- - Beyond the last least sun-path, - He called them gently homeward - And He murmured as they passed, - “I have driven ye and dragged ye - Through the fourfold Hells of Torture, - And--I will keep the product - That comes back to me at last.” - - - - -THE PORT O’ LOST DELIGHT - - - _Some call it Fame or Honor-- - Some call it Love or Power-- - Whence running rails and bellied sails - The four-banked galleons tower. - To each the separate vision-- - To each the guiding light-- - Where, ’bove the dim horizon lifts - The Port o’ Lost Delight._ - - ’Mid mighty cheers and the hope of years - They swung the good Ship free, - And with laughter brave she took the wave - Of the wonderful, whispering sea. - - Over the scud of the white-capped flood-- - Over the strong, young days-- - Over the lift of the chaff-churned drift - And the mist of the moonlit haze-- - - Running the lights o’ the Ports-o’-Call, - Where the beckoning beacons shine; - But she passed them by with callous eye, - Nor saw the luring sign. - - Piercing the glow of the ocean’s dawn, - As slow the seas unfold; - Scudding again across the plain - Of rippling, sunset gold. - - Joyous and fair in the brine-wet air, - Where the phosphor bow-wave slips, - And the Wraiths of the Deep their secrets keep - Of the tale o’ the passing ships. - - -II - - Till there lifted a wondrous Haven - Across the swinging main, - As ne’er before had lifted-- - Nor e’er might lift again. - - Clear it shone, each gleaming stone, - Mystic, white and far, - Castle and tree above the sea - Where the lilac combers are. - - And over all there came a call, - As a Siren’s soft refrain-- - Nor ever a helm to guide her, - The Good Ship turned again. - - Swift o’er the back-set breakers - She plunged against the wind, - And never a look to left or right, - And never a thought behind: - - Swinging, swaying, singing, - With all her canvas spread, - And bending spars and laughter - She fast and faster sped. - - A little space--a little space-- - A little nearer, then-- - The Haven sank from the sunset sea, - And the sea was a waste again. - - -III - - As the quivering stag at the bullet’s sting, - Who knew not harm was nigh, - So shook the Ship by seam and seam - In the death that may not die. - - And though it sailed o’er every wave, - By reef and barrier bar, - ’Neath the glare of the South Seas’ scorching sun - And the gleam of the lone North Star. - - Though it lifted the lights o’ the Ports-o’-Call, - By green and crimson beam, - It never lifted the Light again-- - The Light that fled as a dream. - - Over a blue-black endless sea-- - Over a timeless void-- - Callous and careless plunged the Ship - That never a storm destroyed. - - Skimming the foaming coral reef-- - Daring the mid-deep wind-- - Clipping the roar of the white lee shore - Where the Gods of Chance run blind. - - Full belly sail before the gale-- - With scuppers churning green-- - And eyes set dead in a figure-head - That dipped in the troughs between: - - That rose and fell and cut the swell-- - Or knew the day or night; - That rose and fell to the soundless bell - Of the Port o’ Lost Delight. - - - - -WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT - - - O’er the rock of all eternal-- - Over sacred soil ye’ve trod; - Whither king and priest and people - Make their mockery of God. - - Like the rolling of an organ - Down the mighty nave of Time, - In the hush of Things Supernal - Ye have sung of Things Sublime. - - Living lilt beyond the starlight-- - Living light beyond the spheres-- - With a calm majestic cadence - Came the call of all the years. - - As a pause across the storm-path-- - As the swaying starlit sea-- - As the faith of little children-- - Ye have writ _ETERNITY_. - - - - -KING BAMBOO - -A BALLAD OF THE EAST INDIES - - - I build them boats and houses-- - I check their mountain roads-- - I bear their double burdens-- - The squeaking, creaking loads. - Adown the broken hill sides - My long, high pipings run, - To bring their water to them - Adripping ’neath the sun. - - And when from spring and river - The weary climbers strain, - ’Tis I who hold the nectar - To bring them life again. - I am the quivering bridges - That span the deep ravine-- - I am the matted fences - That twist and wind between. - - _When ye sing of the lace Tjemara tree--_ - _When ye speak of the swaying Palm--_ - _When ye talk of the ferned Pitcairnia,_ - _And the monkey’s wild alarm:_ - _When ye tell of the blazing sunsets--_ - _When ye know ye are nearly through--_ - _Bend ye a knee to a Sovereign Lord--_ - _As my flat-nosed children do._ - - - - -MARK TWAIN - -Died, April 21st, 1910 - - - Fresh as the break o’ the dawning-- - Clear as the sunlit pool; - Ye came on a World of weariness-- - Lord of a kingly school. - - Shuttle and lathe and hammer-- - Mill and mine and mart-- - They paused awhile to linger and smile-- - Children again in heart. - - And a World of work and trouble - Bent to their tasks anew, - With strength reborn of the joyous morn - Made manifest by you. - - * * * * * - - Again the marts are silenced-- - There’s a hush o’er land and sea-- - With only the sobs of a Nation, - That loved and honored thee. - - - - -THE SUMMIT - - - Out of the murky valleys - By the sweat of brow and brain; - Out of the dank morasses-- - On to the spreading plain: - Climbing the broken ranges-- - Falling and driving through, - While the toil and tears of the countless years - Bid ye back to the task anew. - - Glory and fame and honor - Perched on the distant peak-- - Beckoning over land and sea - To the gaze of the men who seek. - Lifting the faltering footstep-- - Bathing the tired brow, - Till out of the lanes of the sunken plains - Ye come to the golden Now. - - Far spread the gleaming foot hills, - And the deep, green vales between; - Fair lift the distant coast-lines - And the water’s shifting sheen-- - And weary, ye pause on the Summit - For the first victorious breath, - When a hand at your elbow beckons-- - And ye know that the hand is Death. - - - - -THE LITTLE BRONZE CROSS - -THE VICTORIA CROSS IN THE CROWN JEWELS ROOM OF THE TOWER OF LONDON - - - Glittering--glaring--glistening-- - In pompous, proud array; - Maces and crowns and sceptres-- - Orders and ribbons gay: - Bright in the white electric light; - Caged and guarded there; - Symbol and sign that the luck of line - A king or a cad might wear. - - Blinking--blinding--blazing-- - The crown-topped hillock shone, - And the gaping crowd in voices loud - Coveted gilt and stone. - Coveted idle gilt and stone, - Though never stopped to stare - At a little cross on the other side, - Half hid in the alcove there. - - But slowly into the Tower - Through the narrow windows crept, - The Winds of the Outer Marches-- - The Winds that had seen and wept - At Ladysmith--Trafalgar-- - Sebastopol--Lahore; - Khartoum--Seringapatam-- - Kabul and Gwalior. - - The breath of the red Sirocco - That sweeps from the white Soudan: - The winds that beat through the Kyber Pass - Where the blood of England ran: - The winds that lift o’er the Great South Drift-- - O’er the veldt and the frozen plain-- - They stooped and kissed the little bronze cross, - And went on their way again. - - And the blaze of crowns and sceptres-- - The power and pomp of kings; - And the glare of the glittering Orders-- - The tinsel of Little Things, - Paled in the ancient Tower-- - Faded and died alone, - And only a cross--For Valour-- - With mystic brightness shone. - - - - -KEATS - - - Who, in a spirit of supersensitive self-abnegation, had placed upon - his tombstone that here lay “one whose name is writ in water.” - - - If your name is writ in water, - As your humble tombstone saith, - Then it forms a crystal fountain - Born to mock at mortal death. - - If your name is writ in water, - ’Tis the water of the stream - Where the wise of all the nations - Stoop to drink and stay to dream. - - If your name is writ in water, - It has flowed into the sea - Of the ages past and present-- - And of Immortality. - - - - -CHRISTMAS - - - Childish prattle and merry laugh - And the joy of Christmas-tide, - And the old are young as the gay bells fling - Their messages far and wide. - - Steaming pudding and lighted tree - And the litter of scattered toys, - We’re all of us children again to-day - Along o’ the girls and boys. - - (_Back behind the happy faces - Lifts another looking through? - Drop your merry mask and tell me - What does Christmas mean to you?_) - - Laughter long of the joyous throng, - Festival, fun and feast, - And there’s never a care in the echoing air - In the joy of a year released. - - There’s never a care in the echoing air-- - There’s never a break in the song-- - And we rise with the rest when the children are blessed - And the hours have galloped along. - - - - -TUCK AWAY--LITTLE DREAMS - - - His nose was pressed to the grindstone-- - His shoulders bent to the wheel, - One of the numbered millions - That bore no right to feel. - Child of a callous calling-- - Waif of a wilful day; - I heard him murmur beneath his breath-- - “Tuck away--little dreams--tuck away.” - - The loom and lathe and ledger-- - Pencil and square and drill-- - They saw his pain and they laughed again - As hardened headsmen will. - While ’neath their chains and chiding, - Through the gloom of the endless day, - I heard him murmur beneath his breath-- - “Tuck away--little dreams--tuck away.” - - I saw him going down the hill-- - I saw him pause, and start, - And bend again to the grinding grain-- - Lord of a broken heart. - The sunset shadows lengthened-- - The earth was turning gray, - As I caught the breath of the living death-- - “Tuck away--little dreams--tuck away.” - - - - -BLOODY ANGLE - -July 3, 1863; July 3, 1913 - -THE SPIRIT OF BLOODY ANGLE SPEAKS. - - - I saw them charge across the field - The Stars and Bars above them, - I saw them fall in hundreds-- - I heard the rebel yell. - Behind me, ’neath the Stars and Stripes, - I watched the blue coats pouring - Into the men of Pickett - The flaming vials of Hell. - - _I thought of Yorktown--Bunker Hill-- - Of Valley Forge and Monmouth. - Again the Elders signed our birth-- - The great Bell tolled anew. - And I closed my eyes and shuddered-- - And I looked to the Lord of Battle-- - And I prayed, “Forgive them Father, - For they know not what they do.”_ - - I saw them striding o’er the field-- - A gray-clad, aged remnant; - I heard again across the plain - The piercing rebel call. - Behind me, ’neath a peaceful sky, - I saw the blue coats standing-- - I saw the columns meet--clasped hands-- - Above my battered wall. - - _I knew my blood-stained conscience--_ - _My reeking rowels were whitened._ - _I saw the line of Sections_ - _Fade dim and die away._ - _And Phœnix-like, from fire and hate,_ - _A reunited nation_ - _Rose up to bless her children,_ - _Forever and for aye._ - - - - -THE MICROBE - - - The Microbe said--“There is no Man-- - I know there may not be: - I cannot hear his voice that sings-- - I cannot see his arm that swings-- - I cannot feel his mind that flings - My earth-born destiny.” - - The Man-Child said--“There is no God-- - I know there may not be: - I cannot pause and meet His eye-- - I cannot see His form on high-- - I only know an empty sky - Stares mocking back at me.” - - - - -THE SEAS - - - _Purple seas and garnet seas, emerald seas and blue, - Foaming seas and frothing seas spraying rainbow dew: - Laughing seas and chaffing seas, gay in the morning light, - Endless seas and bendless seas ayawn in the starless night._ - - Seas that reach o’er the long white beach - Where the clean-washed pebbles roll, - And the nodding groves and the coral coves - And the deep-toned voices toll. - - Seas that lift the broken drift - And crash through the crag-lined fjord-- - Seas that cut the channel’s rut - With the thrust of a mighty sword. - - Seas that brood in silent mood - When the midnight stars are set-- - Seas that roar as a charging boar - Till the rails of the bridge run wet. - - Seas that foam where the porpoise roam - And the spouting whale rolls high-- - Seas that use in the sunset hues - Till all is a blended sky. - - Seas that reek with the golden streak - And the flash of phosphor fire-- - Seas that glance in a moonlit dance - With feet that never tire. - - Seas that melt in the mist-hung belt - When sky and waters close-- - Seas that meet the day’s retreat, - Amber and gold and rose. - - _Purple seas and garnet seas, emerald seas and blue, - Foaming seas and frothing seas spraying rainbow dew: - Laughing seas and chaffing seas, gay in the morning light, - Endless seas and bendless seas ayawn in the starless night._ - - - - -GOD’S ACRE - - - I’m drivin’ backward to the farm-- - The harvest day is done, - And I’m passing by God’s Acre - At the setting o’ the Sun: - And I slow the homing horses-- - For I must soliloquize - On that white crop standin’ silent - Against the crimson skies. - - I guess there’s tares aplenty-- - And I guess there’s lots o’ chaff, - And I guess there’s many stories that - Ed make a feller laugh. - And I guess there’s mebbe stories - Ed make a feller weep, - And the Angels kind o’ whisper - As around the stones they creep. - - Well, the Lord He up and planted-- - And the Harvest’s come to head; - (And He shore is most particular - When all is done and said). - But I reckon when it’s sifted, - And the Crop is in the bin, - It’ll be a durned hard sinner - As the Lord ain’t gathered in. - - - - -GOLD - - - From the green Cycadeæn ages, - From the gloom of the Cambrian fen, - From the days of the mighty mammoth - And the years of the dog-toothed men, - I’ve lifted ye clear to the summits-- - A toy of the upper air-- - I’ve dashed ye down to the pits again - To laugh at your despair. - - I beckoned across the chasm - To watch ye stumble in, - And never a light to left or right - On the crags of shame and sin. - I called ye over mountains-- - I called ye over seas-- - And ye came in hosts from all the coasts - To taste of the tainted breeze. - - Honor and King and Country-- - Sire and Seed and God-- - Ye have given all to the Siren’s call - When I but chose to nod. - Ye have given all to the Siren’s call-- - To the mock of the Siren’s strain-- - Ye have made a choice and never a voice - May bid ye back again. - - - - -THE LEGION - -UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA REUNION ODE - - - Across the hill I saw them come-- - A deep-ranked serried legion. - Across the hill I saw them come-- - The faithful cohorts there. - Bank, bar and bench--mine, mart and trench-- - From every clime and region, - In manly might and majesty-- - And I knew the sight was fair. - - I saw them halt against the hill - In loyal lines unbroken; - I heard them answer to the Roll, - Nor ever missed a name; - For they foregathered past recall - Were there by every token, - As, ’cross the valley to a man - The thundering echoes came. - - I saw them passing o’er the hill - In serried ranks unbroken; - ’Twas stirrup touching stirrup - In the sunshine and the rain. - And good the pride to see them ride - With strength renewed and spoken, - Till love of Pennsylvania - Should call them home again. - - - - -THE ALTAR - -UPON THE APENNINE HILL OF ROME - - - ’Neath the gardens of the Emperors - Unnoticed you may pass - A little altar nestling - In the poppies and the grass. - No gorgeous columns flank it, - Where priest or Vestal trod-- - Only the carven words that sing-- - “To the Unknown God.” - - The haughty praetor scanned it - With humble, thoughtful air-- - The base-born slave espied it - With sullen, frightened stare: - The Roman matron touched it, - And went upon her way-- - The gladiator saw it, - And paused awhile to pray. - Even the passing Cæsar - Bowed the imperial head, - With faltering eyes that swept the skies - In reverent fear and dread. - - The arching heavens domed it - With royal lapis blue-- - The soft Campania’s whisper - Brought the sunshine and the dew: - The candles of the firmament - Bent down their brightest rays, - Where, midst their Pagan Pantheon - A People paused to gaze. - - - - -THE SONG OF THE AEROPLANE - - - I scan your mighty fortresses-- - I scorn your splendid fleets-- - I chart your chosen cities-- - Trenches and lanes and streets. - - No secret ’neath the heavens, - No tale of land or sea, - But bares the breast at my behest - To stand revealed to me. - - I pierce the rainbow’s bending, - Uncovering fold on fold, - Till I come to the arch’s ending - Where lies the pot of gold. - - I romp in the crimson sunset-- - I mount the wings o’ the dawn-- - I glide o’er the brakes and marshes - To laugh at the startled fawn. - - Never a mark may scorn me, - From the noise of the rising quail - To the topmost peak where the eagles seek - Their home in the driving gale. - - Where lies the last least wilderness - Man may not dare to know-- - Where stands the unscaled mountain, - Fair crowned with virgin snow: - - Where hide the hidden ages-- - Where flow the golden streams-- - Where lurks the land of Crœsus - Or the Lotus-land o dreams: - - Up through the rushing firmament, - With never halt or toll, - I bear ye far till ye come where are - The gates of the cherished goal. - - * * * * * - - On the wonderful things I show you - Lucullus-like ye dine-- - For the wonderful thoughts I bring you - Ye love and are wholly mine. - - - - -PACK YOUR TRUNK AND GO - - - If you meet a little fräulein - As pretty as a rosebud, - And eyes that make your silly heart-strings - Thump and bump and glow-- - Don’t stand and linger dawdlin’ - When you _know_ you’re getting maudlin, - But call yourself a bally fool - And pack your trunk and go. - - If the mocking, hollow laughter, - Like the creaking of a rafter, - Greets you--standing watching after - At the Chance you didn’t know: - Sneering in its craven power - Comes to seek you by the hour, - Try the palm-grove, veldt or paddy-- - Pack your trunk and go. - - If the skies are rent asunder - O’er some hasty little blunder, - And you start to really wonder - How _wise_ some people grow: - Let the empty carp-heads haggle-- - Let the teacup headwear waggle-- - Just tell ’em all to run along-- - And pack your trunk and go. - - If the silent blades are dipping - And the green canoes are slipping - By the birches white and dripping - In the crimson after-glow: - And the harvest-moon is rising - With a fullness most surprising-- - It’s summer on the northern lakes - So pack your trunk and go. - - If the Faith your Fathers taught you - And the Land your Fathers wrought you, - (The Land their blood has bought you), - Shall hear the bugles blow-- - Don’t watch in doubt and waiting, - Don’t stand procrastinating, - But say good-bye with laughing eye - And pack your trunk and go. - - _Where the coral turns to cactus, - And the cactus turns to harvest, - And the harvest turns to hemlock, - And the hemlock turns to snow: - By the phosphor-bordered beaches-- - By the endless, bendless reaches-- - You will find him where the Whisper bade him - Pack his trunk and go._ - - - - -WOMAN - -A REPLY TO RUDYARD KIPLING - - - “A woman is only a woman”-- - These are the words you spoke. - And you deemed they were bright and caustic-- - And you thought you had made us a joke. - Well, we who have been in the Tropics, - Who’ve noted the Eastern “way,” - ’May be we should half forgive you - For some of the things you say. - - When the Cave-man spat on his neighbor - And smote him hip and thigh-- - When the Bronze-man slivered the boulders - Where the tin and the copper lie-- - When the Iron-man reared him bridges - And engines of steam and steel-- - What was the Light that lifted them, - And bade them to live and to feel? - - When the sunshine turns to shadow-- - And the shadow turns to night; - When faith and fair intention - Have fought them a failing fight; - When Hell has drawn nearest-- - And God is very far-- - Mayhap ye then can tell us who - The Ministering Angels are? - - A rose is only a flower-- - Can ye bring us the bud more rare? - “A woman is only a woman”-- - Can ye show us the work more fair? - Harrie ye all Creation-- - Look ye without surcease, - And when ye are weary and broken, kneel-- - To your Master’s masterpiece. - - - - -NIPPON - - - _Trust ye the Nations of the Earth - From sea to farthest sea-- - But trust ye not, Oh trust ye not - The wily Japanee._ - - Truth? A jest o’ the High and Low-- - A juggler’s tossing toy-- - A two-faced guile and a child-like smile-- - (Oh Innocence _sans_ alloy!) - - Honor? An empty mockery - Beneath the Sunrise Sky; - A hollow, vain, fanatic strain - That lifts with the loud “Banzai!” - - Virtue? Not even a figurehead, - So scarce indeed thou art. - Rank to the core a shameless sore - In a yet more shameless heart. - - Faith? A faithless phantom - That knows no law or creed. - To flare and wane for the moment’s gain, - And serve the moment’s need. - - _Trust ye the Nations of the Earth_ - _From sea to farthest sea--_ - _But trust ye not, Oh trust ye not_ - _The wily Japanee._ - - - - -THE NEW BARD - - - They had sung the song how very long - Of Love and Faith and Truth: - And they polished fine till it ran as wine, - With never a spot uncouth. - - Mellow it spread with softened tread - To the beat of the perfect time-- - Chastened and blest and colorless - In stilted, vapid rhyme. - - Songs of love that the angels above - Laughed as they bended near-- - Songs of fight that the men of might - Sneered as they stopped to hear-- - - Till a stronger people rising-- - They cast the cant aside, - And they lifted free for the open sea - Where the plunging porpoise ride. - - For there lifted free from the open sea - The voice of a bard who knew, - And he brought them tales from the spouting whales - Where only the lean gulls flew. - - And he brought them tales from the coral bight - Where the lilac waters spend, - And the ceaseless sift of the phosphor drift - Where the palm-lined beaches bend. - - But better than all through the endless pall - His clear-shot wordings ran, - And the tale he bore by peace and war - Was the heart of his fellow-man. - - Under the ragged raiment-- - Under the silken sheen-- - They caught the worth of the spinning Earth, - And the black and the gold between. - - For ’neath a coat of roughest hide, - And ’neath the rugged brink, - He covered whole the yearning Soul-- - The Soul of the Men Who Think. - - The Little Things with mystic wings - That flitting merrily, - Bind West and East and best and least, - From sea to outer sea. - - The Little Things with mystic wings, - Hidden the eons through-- - From his Children’s gaze he swept the haze, - And his Children seeing--knew - - Each throbbing lane of pulse and brain-- - The far-flung Brotherhood: - The thoughts untold and the hopes unrolled-- - And they answered him where they stood: - - “In measures strong we’ve heard your song, - And the warm blood mounts again; - And we scorn the beat of the stifled street - And strike for the open main. - - “Far back--far back--we leave the plains - To the little hurrying hosts, - And over the seas in the scud-wet breeze - We lift for the Land o’ Ghosts. - - “For the Land o’ Ghosts and the laughing coasts - And the goal we hope to win-- - Though ne’er we reach the beckoning beach, - Ye have let us look within. - - * * * * * - - “Though ne’er we reach the beckoning beach-- - Though it fades ere we leap to land, - Ye have made us rife with the strength of life-- - Ye have spoke ... and we understand.” - - - - -FATHER TIME - - - When your doctors fail to render-- - When your lotions fail to heal-- - When the salted scar is burning-- - When aturtle turns the keel: - When the lights are lost to leeward-- - When the last least hope is gone-- - Then I call ye--Oh my children-- - As a Mother calls her spawn. - - By no magic may I do it-- - By no sudden quick surcease: - Slow, so slow, ye cannot know it - Do I bring ye your release. - As the blackened heavens soften - To the morning’s growing gray, - And the gray spreads gold and crimson - Till in splendor breaks the day: - - So by little and by little, - That ye may not know or see, - Do I soothe the salted searing-- - Do I bid the shadows flee-- - Do I weld the torn heart-cord - No surgeon art may heal, - Till ye lift the fastened latchet - And go forth in laughing weal. - - From Eastward and from Westward - I call my broken clan; - We may not meet in lane or street - Or greet us man and man: - But slowly spread my wide-leagued wings-- - And falling tenderly, - I wrap my troubled Earth-spawn - Unto the heart of me. - - - - -MY LOVES - - - _Oh do you wish to know my Loves? - Then you must come with me - To every land of all the lands - And the waves of every sea._ - - My love she nestles to my side, - Nor careth who discern, - For she’s the breeze o’ the Southern Seas - Where the egg-spume waters turn. - - My love she wraps me in her arms - With a crushing grasp and wild, - For she was born o’ the six-months morn, - A strong, tumultuous child. - - My love needs throw a kiss to me, - And the kiss is the rainbow spray, - Then laughing in glee, coquettishly, - She lightly trips away. - - My love she comes with open arms, - A dazzling beauty bold-- - Lilac and rose and amber, - Scarlet and blazing gold. - - My love she gently beckons me - And folds me nearer yet, - A blushing maid with crown of jade - Where the first pale stars are set. - - _Oh do you wish to know my Loves? - Then you must come with me - To every land of all the lands - And the waves of every sea._ - - - - -THE FORUM - - - Here strode triumphant Cæsars - Returning honored home: - Here rose the gorgeous temples - Of proud imperial Rome. - - Here burned the Vestal Fire - The endless seasons through: - Here reared the haughty Arches - The far-flung Nations knew. - - Lord of the last least horizon-- - King of the Outer Seas-- - Where beat a heart, where stood a mart, - There bended suppliant knees-- - - To Thee--Resplendent Sovereign-- - Cradled among the hills, - Who still through the countless centuries - The wondering watcher thrills. - - _Only a Tale of the Ages--_ - _Power and Pride and Death--_ - _And the afterlight of an Empire’s might--_ - _And the soft Campania’s breath._ - - _Only the crumbled marble,_ - _And Memory’s lingering wine,_ - _And the grass and the scarlet poppies_ - _And clover and dandelion._ - - - - -THE MASTERPIECE - - - “Des Sohnes letzter Gruss” (“The Son’s last Salutation”). A modern - painting by Karl Hoff in the Royal Picture Gallery, Dresden. - - - We tramped the stretching galleries-- - We gazed each priceless gem-- - Jordäens--Rubens--Raphael-- - We paused and pondered them. - - The famous, same Madonnas-- - The fatuous forms at ease-- - And the Wedding Feast with Cavaliers-- - And a drunken Hercules. - - We saw the Sistine Mother, - The farthest Nations know-- - Till room on room of light and gloom - Swept row on outer row. - - And some we knew and reverenced-- - Whose praise the wide World sings; - And some we fled with callous dread - For flat and flaccid things. - - Till at last at the gallery’s ending - In the room with the roof-let door, - We saw a young man standing-- - The Lone Son bid to War. - - Lithe and strong and supple, - Clean-limbed, clear-eyed and tall-- - And the parting gaze of the parting ways - When the battered trumpets call. - - And we saw the widowed Mother-- - And the prostrate, sobless grief; - And the pitying priest beside her, - And the gentle, vain relief. - - And the Sister--standing--watching-- - ’Twixt love, reproach and tears-- - The tender light of the summer night - Where brood the unfathomed years. - - The Maiden--standing, watching-- - Fair as the first, faint star: - A dainty symbol sent to prove - How near the angels are. - - * * * * * - - We gleaned the gallery’s gorgeous wealth-- - But lost its wondrous worth, - As we bowed a head in silence - To the Good of all the Earth. - - - - -THE HERITAGE - - - Full well they tilled the barren soil-- - Full well they sowed the seed-- - Full well they held by life and life - The seal of the title deed. - - From Bunker Hill to Yorktown - They waged a sacred fray: - Oh Sons of Iron Men give ye not - Your heritage away. - - By commerce, mart and culture - Ye’ve raised a mighty state; - But ’ware the pampered spirit, - Ere ye ’ware the worst too late. - - By commerce, mart and culture - Thrive ye forevermore, - But hold ye to the Iron Age-- - The Iron Age of War. - - With rugged heart and sinew-- - With spirit stern and high, - Keep ye the ways o’ warrior days-- - The days that may not die. - - Keep ye the ways o’ warrior days, - Maintain the armor bright, - For where ye’ve raised your fathers blazed-- - _Hold ye their honor white_. - - That through the unborn years to come-- - Unpampered, age on age-- - Shall guarded stand their promised land-- - Our Sacred Heritage. - - - - -THE ADJUSTING HOUR - - - Just the Adjusting Hour, - With nobody else around, - And you sort o’ straighten things a bit, - Beginning right down at the ground. - - Just the Adjusting Hour, - When plans have gone askew, - And you stand with your back to the fire-- - And only your God and you. - - Just the Adjusting Hour, - Pondering very slow, - And you lay the firm foundations - And you pray that they will grow-- - - Tall and strong and splendid-- - That they who run may see, - What the Adjusting Hour - Has given to you and me. - - - - -THE OUTPOSTERS - - - We’ve _tête-à-têted_ here and there - Whence all the breezes fan, - From Cuba clear to Tokio - And back to Hindustan. - - We’ve journeyed out of Agra - To see the Taj Mahal - Rise mystic white in the moonlit night - Above the Jumna wall. - - Along the plains of Java - We shook you by the hand, - And watched among Tosari’s hills - The lace Tjemaras stand: - - Or Aden’s great cathedral rocks-- - High--majestic--bare-- - Or Karnak’s columns rising sheer - Through the clear Egyptian air. - - We’ve laughed with you in Poeroek Tjahoe,[A] - In the heart of Borneo, - Ere we hit the trail to northward - Where the lesser rivers flow: - - Where the angry Moeroeng cuts the hills - And the endless jungles rise, - And the Dyak kampongs nestle ’neath - The speckless, fleckless skies. - - By the myriad ship-lights stretching through - The Roads of Singapore, - By the crooked, winding, white-walled streets - Of burning Bangalore: - - By the mighty, gilded Shwe Dagon - Aglitter above the trees, - Where the tiny ti bells tinkle - In the sough of the sunset breeze: - - From where the terrace-sculptured gates - Of the great Sri Rangam rise, - To Bangkok’s triple temple roofs, - Red-gold against the skies: - - By crowded, sewerless Canton-- - By Hong Kong’s towering lights-- - By the gorgeous Rajputana stars - That blazon the blue-black nights: - - We’ve met you, Men of the Millionth Mark-- - Outposters--far--alone-- - Beyond the glut of the cities’ rut, - And we claim you for our own. - - (Beyond the glut of the cities’ rut - And the roar of the rolling cart, - Beyond the blind of the stifled mind - And the hawking, haggling mart.) - - And some of you were “rotters”-- - And some were “18 fine”-- - But on the whole--we saw your soul-- - Oh outbound kin of mine. - - _So stand we pledged and hand in hand_ - _By every ocean, gulf and land,_ - _Stout hearts and humble knees:_ - _Oh men of the Outer Reaches--_ - _Oh men of the palm-lined beaches--_ - _Oh men where the ice-pack bleaches--_ - _Oh Brethren o’ the far-flung seas._ - - [A] Pronounced Poorook Jow. - - - - -WONDERING - - - Leaning on the midnight rail, - Looking o’er the sea, - Winking at the little stars, - While they wink at me. - Wondering how it happened - Ages long ago, - Wondering why I’m here to night-- - Wondering where I’ll go. - - Wondering how the Scorpion - Bends his mighty tail, - Wondering if the Archer’s aim - Makes Antares quail: - Wondering why Australia’s Crown - Happened to be made, - Wondering if I really ought - Not to be afraid. - - Wondering if the blackened sea - Ever has a bend, - Wondering if the Milky Way - Ever has an end, - Wondering why the Southern Cross - Has an arm askew, - Wondering lots o’ funny things, - (I wonder, wouldn’t you?) - - Wondering where He’s watching from-- - Wondering if He’d see - Anything so very small - Just as you or me? - Wondering and wondering-- - But still the echoes fail-- - And so I’m left awondering - Over the silent rail. - - - - -LINES TO AN ELDERLY FRIEND - - - Written in a presentation copy of “My Bunkie and Other Ballads” - given to A. Van Vleck, Esq., of New York City. - - - Where the sails hang limp and lifeless - In the doldrums’ deadly pause, - Where the lights above the Polar capes - Spread out in a golden gauze: - Where lilac tints are listing - O’er purple tropic seas-- - Where the Arctic winds are whistling - And the north-flung rivers freeze-- - We’ve met the men the Maker made - To dwell ’neath fir and palm-- - And, we salute thee, friend and man-- - _M’sieur--le gentilhomme_. - - - - -BATTLESHIPS - -Addressed to “little-navy” Congressmen. - - - _Fools there lived when the Nations sprang newborn from - the arms of God--_ - _Fools there’ll live when the Nations melt in the mold of - the markless sod._ - _Fools there are and fools there were and fools there’ll ever be--_ - _But none like the fools whom the ages teach, and then refuse to see._ - - With Other Peoples building them in squadrons-- - The Other Peoples laden down with debt-- - In the richest of the Nations you’ll cut appropriations, - But the Day of Reckoning--have ye counted yet? - - Oh be careful, Oh be meager, Oh My Brothers; - Weigh the cost, and gasp, and pare it down again; - Till the twelve-inch children roar and the troop-ships grate the shore - And you hear the coming tread of marching men. - - Then My Brothers, Oh my wise far-seeing Brothers, - Build a Fleet and build it swiftly overnight; - Ah truly ye who knew it all these years can surely do it, - For ye and only ye alone are right. - - Go gaze across your growing, waving acres-- - Go gaze adown the peaceful, busy street; - May the prestige of your town be your all-in-all renown, - And scorn the men who bid you, “_BUILD THE FLEET_.” - - Or whine about your irrigation ditches-- - Much they’ll help a scarred and battle-riven land. - Oh they’ll do a monstrous earning when the crops they grow are burning-- - Because you would not hear the clear command. - - With the jealous nations standing to the east-ward-- - And the Sneaking Cur that watches on the west-- - You’ll bargain, skimp and whine till the gray hulls lift the line, - And your children stand betrayèd and confessed. - - For the sake of saving five or fifty millions-- - For the sake of “politics” or local greed-- - Will you brand yourselves arch traitors to the Nation-- - You, the sons of men who served us in our need? - - Will you risk a land your Sires died to bring you-- - A land our faithful Fathers fell to save, - By the bleaching bones of Valley Forge and Monmouth - Or the crimson flood the Bloody Angle gave? - - Will you see one half the Nation raped and burning-- - Will you learn War’s callous, lurid, livid wrath - By the wailing ’long the wayside, by the ashes of the cities, - Ere your gathered army flings across their path? - - You may strut and boast our boundless might and power-- - You may call our race the Chosen of the Lord-- - But if _your_ town they raze--and if _your_ home’s ablaze - You will wake and learn the Kingdom of the Sword. - - You will wake and learn the word your Fathers taught you-- - You will wake and learn the truth--but all too late: - By the shrieking shrapnel’s crying--by the homeless, wronged and dying-- - You shall count what, you begrudged to Guard the Gate. - - - - -THE AMERICAN FLAG - - - It should be needless to note that the persons here addressed do - not comprise the whole American people but a certain distinctive - type. - - - Oh little men and sheltered-- - Oh fatted pigs of a sty, - Through the Star Spangled Banner ye calmly sit, - Nor see the wrong, nor the why, - And ye stand with your hats on your thoughtless heads, - When the Flag of the Nation goes by. - - Has the lust of the dollar gripped you - Till the fetid brain’s grown cold, - Till ye forget the days that are set - And the glorious deeds of old-- - And the Song and the Passing Colors - Are drowned in a flood of gold? - - Awake from your listless lethargy-- - Arise and understand - The battle-hymn of your fathers-- - And the Flag of your Fatherland-- - - As it rose to the hum of the feet that come - To the drum and the bugle’s call; - As it tasted the dregs of raw reverse-- - As it rushed through the breach in the wall: - - As it fell again on the gore-wet plain - Till new hands swung it high-- - As it dipped in rest to East and West - Where it watched its Children die: - - As it swept anew o’er the shotted blue, - And the great gulls reeled in fright; - As it bore the brave ’neath the whispering wave - To the Squadron’s hushed Goodnight: - - As it mounted sheer ’mid cheer on cheer, - Till, far o’er land and sea, - It gave each fold to the sunlight’s gold-- - And the name of Victory. - - Then on your feet when the first proud strain - Of the Anthem rolls on high-- - And see that ye stand uncovered - To the Colors passing by - And pray to your God for strength to guard - The Flag ye glorify. - - - - -THE GREAT DOCTORS - - - Chiefs of all the Conquerors-- - Kings above the Kings-- - Fame beyond all earthly fame - Where the censer swings. - - Brave and strong and silent-- - Patient, cautious, calm-- - E’en as the ministering angels-- - Even as Gilead’s Balm-- - - They come; the quiet god-men, - Where hope has fled apace, - And the Reaper’s scythe is swaying - Across the ashen face. - - No miracle proclaims them-- - No thundering cheer and drum-- - As creeps the light of the starlit night - God’s Emissaries come. - - A touch to the raveled life-cord - Or ever it snaps in twain; - And as the light of the starlit night - They silently pass again. - - - - -THE DREAMER AND THE DOER - - - The Dreamer saw a vision - High in th’ empyrean blue, - And slowly it passed until at last - He called to the Man he knew-- - “Look, thou Dolt of the Blinded Heart-- - Slave of Rod and Rule-- - And drink of the wine of my sight divine-- - Oh churl of a plodding school!” - - The Doer he checked and plotted - And hammered and pieced again, - But his eyes they were on the things that he saw-- - The Things of the Earth-bound Men: - And he called to the Dreamer passing-- - “Oh stop, thou fool, and see - On water and land the work of my hand, - For the service of such as thee.” - - “Dolt,” said the Dreamer, “ye stole my dream - I showed where the lightnings ran ...” - “Fool,” said the Doer, “but for my toil-- - Ye’d still be a Stone-age Man.” - - - - -SPAIN - - - Might and far-flung power - And we call the vision Rome, - Where the close-locked legions trample - And the triremes cut the foam. - Grace and regal beauty-- - And Athena’s temples rise - Above the fertile Attic plains - And blue Ægean skies. - But when, in wanton whispers - Creeps o’er the tired brain - The word Romance, there falls the trance-- - The spell of olden Spain. - - * * * * * - - The humdrum of the city - The workshop and the street, - They gently slip behind us-- - As glide our tired feet - O’er the pavements of Sevilla, - Where the Grandees pass again - To ogle in the balconies - The matchless eyes of Spain. - - Once more the somersaulting bells - In the great square tower ring-- - Once more the sword and cowl draw back-- - “The King--make way--The King!” - Sevilla--Mother of a world - Of pride and golden gain, - And greed and love and laughter - Of Periclean Spain. - - Once more o’er purple ocean - Or coral-locked lagoon, - We watch the bowsprit cutting - The pathway of the moon. - The long white beach, the swaying palms’ - Shifting silver sheen-- - And the flickering flares of the flimsy fleet - Where the spear-poised fishers lean. - - The low-hung, skimming scuppers-- - The flaunting skull and bones-- - The buccaneer on his poop-deck - Roaring in thunder tones - To a swarthy, ill-begotten crew-- - As slow the daylight dies, - And he lifts with a smile the chartless isle - Where the buried treasure lies. - - The lilt of living music - Caressing heart and brain: - Harp, guitar and mandolin - In languorous, limpid strain. - The fluttering fan--the furtive glance-- - The black mantilla’s reign-- - And the Captains bold who drop their gold - To bask in the eyes of Spain. - - The towering galleons plunging - Thrice-tiered above the foam: - The ringing round-shot roaring, - And the crash of the hit gone home: - The yard-arms staggering under, - Where, scorning the iron rain - And showing its fangs to a parting world, - Goes down the Lion of Spain. - - * * * * * - - When the clattering city cloys you - With the stress of its strident call-- - When practical, calculating Things - Are domineering all-- - When your clamped mind in its weariness - To Romance turns again, - Seek ye the Andalusian crags-- - The flare of the gold and crimson flags-- - And the scented breath where the night wind drags - Through the Isles of the Spanish Main. - - - - -C. Q. D. - -THE PRESENT-DAY “S. O. S.” - - - Cities and kings and nations - Hush at my outer breath, - As sightless I glide o’er the wind-lashed tide - In my race with the deep-sea death. - War and Trade and the Laws ye made - Halt at the Letters Three, - Bound on my errand of mercy--I-- - The ultimate C.Q.D. - - No wave may intercept me, - Though it tower a hundred feet; - No storm shall ever stay me, - Though sky and waters meet. - Piercing the howling heavens-- - Skimming the churning sea-- - Through blast and gale I bring the tale-- - I--the pitying C.Q.D. - - And when through the white-toothed combers - The helping hull looms high, - And when the small-boats leap aside - Through the glare of the red-shot sky, - Out, out across the ocean’s dawn - The final flashes flee-- - “All saved!” And the circling shores ring back-- - “Thank God--and the C.Q.D!” - - - - -THE LIGHTS - - - The fair-weather lights are gleaming - Across a tranquil main, - By beam and beam so bright they seem - A laughing, endless chain. - - The foul-weather lights are few and far-- - Nor flash nor leap nor fail-- - But slowly burn where the billows churn - In the teeth of the driving gale. - - _Oh the fair-weather lights o’er the sheltered bights - Are welcome sights to see-- - But the foul-weather lights o’ the stormy nights, - Are the Lamps of the Years to be._ - - - - -THE CHOSEN - - - And the Guiding One he pointed me - To each and each the deed, - And never a word was ever heard - Of Prophet or Saint or Creed. - - And never a word was ever heard - But the path that each had run, - Till the purple mist stooped down and kissed - And said that the work was done. - - And there stood he of the iron will - Nor gold could bend or buy: - And there stood she of the Mother Love - That never asketh why. - - And there stood he who striving lost, - But striving, gained the Crest: - And there stood she who nursed them back - With bullet-ridden breast. - - And there stood he whose right hand gave, - But the left--it never knew: - And there stood she who held him fast - When the Beckoning Whispers blew. - - And there stood he who saved a life - By fire, sea or sword: - And these were Chiefs of the Upper Hosts - And first before the Lord. - - But high o’er the great Arch-angels, - Higher than any stand, - I saw the chosen of the King - At the right of the Master’s hand. - - And I questioning gazed in the deep-lit eyes - And the silent face aglow, - Till the Guiding One It answered me - The word that I wished to know-- - - “Out of the crash of battle, - Where the shrieking bullet sings, - The roaring front lines reel and rock - As a wounded vulture swings. - - “As a wounded vulture halting swings - The quivering squadrons break, - Till the shattered herds catch up the words, - ‘Back, back for your Country’s sake!’” - - (Back, back to follow after - The light of fearless eyes, - And the sound of a voice that knows no choice - Where the love of a Nation lies.) - - And the Guiding One it paused apace, - And then I heard it say-- - “And he?--_He died in leading - The charge that won the day._” - - - - -THE FAIREST MOON - - - Oh ye who tell of the harvest moon - Above the waving grain, - Oh ye who tell of the silent moon - That glitters across the plain. - - Oh ye who tell of the mountain moon - That lifts each peak and crag, - Oh ye who tell of the ocean moon - Where the long, black shadows drag. - - Oh ye who tell of the silver moon - In wanton ecstasy, - Ye never tell of the fairest moon-- - The fairest moon to me. - - ’Tis well the tale of the crescent moon - Above the lake-side pine, - And good is your song of the circling moon - Where snowy meadows shine. - - And fair’s the lilt of the gleaming moon - Where dazzling rapids leap: - For wondrous bright is the fairy sight - Of the soul of a World asleep. - - But a waning moon, just half a moon, - With a rough and ragged rim, - And a mystic light that makes the night - All bright but doubly dim.... - - Low down, low down in a starry sky, - O’er the shift of a swinging sea - With a mellow fold o’ silver gold, - Reveals my moon to me. - - - - -THE STRIVER - - - The trumpets bore his name afar - By East and West anew, - Where, roaring through the riven tape - The sweeping Conqueror drew. - And East and West they rose and blest - With laurel wreath and cheers, - As they had done ’neath every sun - Adorn the countless years. - - The trumpets echoed far ahead-- - A faltering footfall trailed, - Till broken flesh that called on flesh - Stumbled and rocked and failed. - A well run dry--a sightless sky-- - Where mind and matter part: - A quivering frame--a nameless name-- - Wrapped in a lion’s heart. - - The nearer stars they winded him-- - The farther planets heard; - The outer spheres of all the spheres - Took up the Master’s word. - They lifted him and bouyed him - And bore him gently in - To the Goal of Lost Endeavor-- - In the Land of Might-have-been. - - - - -THE OLD MEN - - - Ye sing a song of the young men - In the pride of an early strength, - Ye sing a song of the young men - And ye give it goodly length; - _I_ sing a song of the old men-- - Of the men on a homeward tack - And a steady wheel and an even keel - That never a wind may rack. - - Ye sing a song of the strong men - In the birth of a splendid youth, - Ye sing a song of the strong men - And ye sing mayhap in truth; - But I--I sing of the old men - Who’ve weathered the outer seas, - And lifting the bark through the growing dark, - Bear back in the sunset breeze. - - Ye sing a song of the young men - Ere they reach the second stake, - And a name to choose and a name to lose - In the scruff of the rudder’s wake; - But I--I sing of the old men - In the glow of the tempered days, - Whose chartings show the paths to go - Through the mesh of a million ways. - - Ye sing a song of the strong men - In the flush of the first fair blow, - Ye sing a song of the strong men - Or ever the end ye know; - But I--I sing of the old men-- - Time-tested--weathered brown-- - Who unafraid the port have made, - Where all brave ships go down. - - - - -THE FOUR-ROADS POST - - - They had come at the Spirit’s bidding-- - Who bore the right to seek-- - And the hungry he brake and gave them bread, - And strength he gave to the weak. - - Honor and Gold and Triumph-- - Love and Land and Fame-- - As they deserved to each he served-- - And they left and blessed his name. - - And only one was waiting - Before the Giver’s knee, - And He said, “Oh spawn of a troubled Earth-- - What may I do for thee?” - - And the suppliant cried, “Good Master - I asked nor fame nor gold-- - I only seek the bygone peak - Where I saw the lands unfold. - - “I only seek the bygone peak - Where every pathway sung, - And every sea had a ship for me, - And all the World was young. - - “Oh let me know the place once more, - The parting of the lane-- - Oh give me back the Four-Roads Post, - That I may choose again.” - - * * * * * - - The Spirit gazed across the vale - And his eyes had a tender glow, - And his voice ran mild as ye speak to a child, - Wondrous soft and low: - - “Little Waif of a Later Day, - Where the unthought hours flee, - The only treasure I have not. - Is the boon that ye ask of me. - - “I can give you balms and riches-- - I can ease you of your pain-- - But I cannot give the Four-Roads Post-- - That ye may choose again.” - - - - -THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY - - - Sing me a song of Chivalry, - The little Man-child said. - Of days of old when knights were bold - And fields of honor red. - Take me far to a maiden’s tower - And the black traducer slain; - To Honor and Truth and Faith forsooth-- - Oh carry me back again. - - So the Waif of Chance be wafted him - And set him down apace, - But never a field of tourney, - And never a knight of grace. - He set him down where the whipping flames - Leap red athwart the sky, - And the crashing wall that forms a pall - Where the fire-fighters lie. - - The Waif of Chance he wafted him - Across a broken main, - And the great ship’s roll like a foundering soul - Groaned to the depths again: - But over the breast of the ocean’s crest - The plunging life-boats neared, - And the shout that burst was “Women first,” - And the men that were left--they cheered. - - Where the staggering brethren dragged their loads - From the mouth of the stricken mine, - Where the hand at the throttle never flinched - At the sight of the open line; - By curb and forge and death-hung gorge-- - By river, sea and plain-- - The Waif of Chance the Man-child brought, - And bade him gaze again. - - Honor and Faith and Sacrifice - In the midst of the city’s roil-- - Faith and Honor and Sacrifice - Where the frontier-hewers toil: - And the Man-child slowly knelt and clasped - The Waif about the knee, - And he murmured low, “Oh now I know-- - The Days of Chivalry.” - - - - -PHANTOM-LAND - - - _Come board the boat for Phantom-land-- - Come join the merry crew; - Come board the boat for Phantom-land - That lies acalling you._ - - Oh throw away the red-shot day-- - The broken, weary night-- - And come with me across the sea - To where you lift the light - Of Phantom-land of Phantom-land, - Uprising from the blue, - With mountains green and castles - That stand acalling you. - - It doesn’t cost a single cent - To join the joyous band; - You needn’t spend a penny - To reach the sunny land; - So come away at close o’ day - Or in the morning dew, - To Phantom-land to Phantom-land - That lies acalling you. - - And they who once have been there-- - Who’ve trod the laughing hills, - They’re always going back there-- - From roil and toil and ills: - And when they come to Earth again-- - (I cross m’ heart, it’s true), - They sing the praise o’ Phantom-land - That lies acalling you. - - - - -THE ROSE - - - He plucked the Rose in anger-- - The Rose across his path; - And the thorns they cut and tore him - And scorned him in his wrath. - - He plucked the Rose in hauteur - And pride no bond could bind, - And the Rose it tossed its royal head - Nor deigned to look behind. - - He plucked the Rose in sadness-- - And the red Rose seeing, knew: - And it gave its sweetest incense, - And its petals shone with dew. - - He plucked the Rose in gladness-- - Nor sorrow’s least alloy-- - And the Rose it shook its leaves and laughed - In its tumultuous joy. - - By all the devious ways he came-- - By every mood and whim; - And as he stooped to gather-- - The Rose gave back to him. - - - - -PATRIOTISM - - - _Ends of the riven Nation - I’ve drawn near and near, - Duty and love and honor - I’ve garnered year by year; - Oh fair they tell o’ the Lasting Peace, - And the Final Brotherhood, - But I call my sons to the signal guns, - And I know that the call is good._ - - Mongol and Teuton and Slav and Czech-- - Saxon and Celt and Gaul-- - Out of the mire at my desire - They leapt to the battle-call, - The Mean and the Low and the Goodly-- - Murderer, saint and thief-- - From city and plow with lofty brow - They rode to My Belief. - - The Mean and the Low and the Goodly - O’er the fields of carnage swept, - And for those that returned, the laurel crown-- - And for those that stayed--they wept. - And the Mother showed her stripling - The place where the foeman ran, - And he pledged to the skies with yearning eyes-- - And the pledge was the pledge of a man. - - Over the field of battle - The well aimed arrows flew, - Over a sea of wreckage - The bending galleons blew; - And where the arrow found him, - Or the round-shot rent atwain, - He fell--but turned in the falling - To bless his Land again. - - _Ends of the riven Nation - I’ve drawn, near and near, - Duty and love and honor - I’ve garnered year by year; - Oh fair they tell o’ the Lasting Peace, - And the Final Brotherhood, - But I call my sons to the signal guns-- - And I know that the call is good._ - - - - -KELVIN - - - Never a mark of Mortal Man - But ye delved to a greater depth-- - Never a truth of Mortal Truths - But ye stirred it where it slept. - Never a veil but ye drew aside, - Till ye came where the Wide Ways part, - And ye bowed a head as ye lowly said, - “Oh God, how fair Thou art.” - - -THE END - - - - -NOTES - - -THE DYAK CHIEF 13. - -The Dyaks, a “brown” race, are the savage inhabitants of Central Borneo, -and are said to have come originally from the Malay Peninsula, but to -have since been gradually driven into the center of the island by the -influx of the present Malays, who now inhabit the coasts and often far -inland, especially up the rivers. - -The Dyaks, though an old, aboriginal Malay stock, differ radically from -the Malays in nearly every particular. - -They are a dark-skinned, strong, well-knit, square-shouldered and -beautifully muscled type of men, neither tall nor short, fat nor lean, -but comparable to the typical American cavalryman or football halfback -or trained middle-weight boxer or wrestler. - -They have small, dark, heady, snake-like eyes, high cheek bones and -straight black hair, often “bobbed” at the neck and frequently with a -band around it, giving them much the appearance of North American -Indians, were it not that their eyes and noses are smaller. They affect -a breech-cloth only, excepting for the sake of warmth, when they don a -light cloth jacket or a fibre coat, the latter being a simple affair, -hanging straight, with a slit at the top through which the head is -placed, after the manner of a present-day American Army “poncho.” - -A chief is distinguished by having pheasant feathers falling down the -back of one of these coats, and in the town or “kampong” of Olong Liko I -was the recipient of the unusual privilege of having a friendly Dyak -chief take off his cloak-like garment that I had been examining, put it -on over my head, and insist on my keeping it--which it is needless to -say I was only too glad to do--and which I still have preserved as the -most valued treasure of all the many that I brought back from my -travels. - -The women are of the typical heavy-waisted savage category, frequently -wearing something above the waist, but whose usual costume consists -merely of a long cloth, resembling a skirt, wrapped around their legs. - -Truth compels me to ungallantly state the ladies are not prepossessing. - -The chief occupations of the Dyaks are hunting, fishing and tending -their little truck-gardens, which mode of life probably accounts for -their average splendid physique. - -_Moeroeng_ 13. - -The Moeroeng (River) is a long stream in Central Borneo that unites with -the Djoeloi to form the Barito, the latter being one of the great rivers -of Borneo, flowing from its center in a general southerly direction, and -emptying into the Java Sea a short distance to the west of the -southeastern extremity of the island. Pronunciation: Moeroeng=Mooroong: -Djoeloi=Jooloi. - -_kampong_ 13. - -Kampong is a native Dyak village, and consists of from one to three or -four long houses, and sometimes small detached ones. The long house, the -characteristic building, is anywhere from fifty to two or three hundred -feet in length, elevated, on poles, from eight to twenty feet in the -air. The sides of the houses are of rough boards or of bark and the -roofs usually of bark shingles. The age of the dwellings can be told by -the height they stand above the ground, those on the highest poles being -the oldest ones, because of the former greater savagery of, and more -frequent warfare between, the natives. Here literally we have a case of -the home being the fortress. - -Within, the long house is of one of two arrangements; either it consists -of a huge hall, often decorated with the skull and horns of the chase, -running practically the entire length, and with family rooms opening -into it and bake-rooms or kitchens at both ends, or the house consists -merely of one very long room without partitions, the different families, -with their crude cooking hearths, “squatting” around the sides of the -room at intervals of ten or fifteen feet. Occasionally some of the -families will hang up cloth divisions. Here, truly, we have the communal -scheme of living carried to its ultimate extreme. - -_headless waist_ 13. - -The Dyaks are the famous “head-hunters” of Borneo, and although their -inhuman proclivities of procuring heads for their belts, in order to -give them certain distinctions, among them, the prerogative of marrying, -have, at the present time been largely suppressed by the Dutch -authorities, nevertheless a traveler’s trip through Central Borneo is -dangerous owing to the fact that some actual head-hunting bands are -still roaming the dense jungles through which he is passing. - -Due to pure luck my path was not crossed by any of these outlaw nomad -troops, which is possibly why I am writing this to-day, as one white -man, even though armed with a long 38 Army Colt revolver could probably -make little headway against a whole band of these savages. My three -Malay coolies were highly trustworthy and efficient, but I am not -positive as to exactly what extent I could have counted on them in the -eventuality of an actual attack. - -_lianes_ 14. - -Long, bare, tropical, vine-like growths that sometimes wrap themselves -around the trunk of it tree, and sometimes hang from the branches -straight to the ground. - -_leeches_ 15. - -Little gray leeches, up to half an inch in length that, as a barefooted -person walks through the jungle, attach themselves to his feet and -ankles and suck the blood, until removed or until, having gotten their -fill and swollen to many times their former size, fall back to the -ground satiated. - -In the case of a white man, they will burrow through the seam at the -back of his sock to get the blood they crave. - -_proa_ 16. - -Pronounced prow, and is any small crude Dyak or Malay Bornese boat, -propelled by paddling. - -_blow-spear_ 17. - -A spear with a hollow shaft through which the Dyaks blow a light, wooden -dart or arrow. I have seen these in Java and the Philippines also. - -_mandauw_ (_or parang_) 17. - -Pronounced mandow, and is the typical Dyak sword with a straight blade -broadening gradually until near the end, then abruptly narrowing again -to a point. It is sharpened on one edge only. - -_chief poles_ 17. - -High wooden flag-like poles, carved near the base, and with long tassels -falling from the top. Erected in front of the long house in memory of -dead kampong (village) chiefs. - -_Moeroeng rapids_ 21. - -The Moeroeng River has magnificent rapids, which I and my three Malay -coolies shot on my return by river from Olong Liko to Poeroek Tjahoe. - -_tom-toms_ 24. - -Round, drum-like, metal musical instruments, beaten with a stick having -a large knob. - -(_You know how far it comes_) 28. - -Refers to the fact that salt is precious to the Dyaks, and must be -gotten from the distant coasts, through traders. - -_Sick-man’s Drums_ 28. - -The heating of the tom-toms, with the playing of other “musical” -instruments, when a Dyak is sick. The nearer death, the louder the -beating. Supposed to be very efficacious. In this particular case the -“Sick-man’s Drums” were, of course, beaten ironically. - -_greasy cakes_ 29. - -Thick, round, half-cooked, greasy, Dyak cakes, utterly indigestible and -unprepossessing. - - -ON THE WATER-WAGON 33. - -Slang for “not drinking.” - -“_the mill_,” 33. - -The guard-house or soldier prison. - - -ARMY OF PACIFICATION 35. - -_Islands_ 36. - -The Philippine Islands. - - -SOLITARY 38. - -“Solitary confinement” is punishment meted out to particularly -obstreperous prisoners or to those under very severe sentence. - -_calaboose_ 38. - -Guard-house or soldier prison. - -_jug_ 38. - -Guard-house or soldier prison. - -_Ten and a Bob_ 39. - -A prisoner’s sentence of ten years and a dishonorable discharge from the -Army. - -_The Isle_ 39. - -Refers to Angel Island in San Francisco Bay, used as a discharge station -for time-expired soldiers returning from the Philippines after the -Insurrection of 1899-1902. On Angel Island there was also a military -convict station for serious offenders, who had to break stone. - -_“the makings”_ 39. - -The paper and tobacco for cigarettes - - -THE SULTAN COMES TO TOWN 40. - -_Major Sour_ 41. - -The Major’s name was Sour--if we speak in antithesis. - - -SHAH JEHAN 55. - -One of the Great Moguls of India, who at Agra built the lovely, white -marble Taj Mahal as a mausoleum for his favorite wife, who died in 1629. - -Near the city of Aurangabad, in the northwestern part of the state of -Hyderabad, is the so-called “Little Taj,” the Mausoleum of Rabi’a -Durrani, the wife of a later Great Mogul, Auraugzeb. Though built only -of stucco, and not kept in the same immaculate condition as the Taj -Mahal, the “Little Taj,” with its inset, pointed arches, viewed at an -advantageous distance of several hundred feet, from just within the -ground’s entrance, is to me really more beautiful than the splendid Taj -Mahal itself, because the height of the “Little Taj,” and, inclusively, -of its arches, is greater in proportion to its base than is that of its -famous predecessor. The result is a more delicate, lofty and inspiring -effect--which effect appears, obviously, to be the most apropos and -essential one to obtain in erecting mausoleums of this nature. - -Close, detailed inspection of the two tombs would present a -diametrically opposite analysis, but in work such as this, it would seem -that the most crucial aspect is the ensemble and not the minutiæ or -finis. - -_Rajputana stars_ 57. - -When in Rajputana, a great state of northwestern India, I was impressed -by the brilliancy of the stars on a clear night. It may have been due to -atmospheric or other conditions, but whatever the cause, in no other -part of the World have I seen such magnificent stars. - -_tulwar_ 57. - -The large, splendid, curved sword of India. - -_Flaming Trees_ 57. - -The trees that spread out like great umbrellas, covered on top with -masses of blood-orange colored blossoms, and called “Flame of the -Forest,” though in the Philippines we usually nicknamed them “Fire -Trees.” - - -NIPPON 105. - -Let us be charitable, and hope that through contact with outside nations -the Japanese will eventually be able to eradicate their traits of -character, though the probability, much less the possibility, that the -leopard can really change its spots, is remote indeed. Among the poorer -classes and in the rural interior of Japan, you will, however, sometimes -find at least two mitigating attributes, simplicity and kindliness. - - -MY LOVES 112. - -The loves here referred to are picked at random from among the many of -the World Wanderer. The second stanza refers to the breeze of the South -Seas; the third stanza, to the North Wind; the fourth stanza, to the -Sea; the fifth stanza, to the Sunrise; the sixth stanza, to the Sunset. - - -C. Q. D. 138. - -The old “C. Q. D.,” or present-day “S. O. S.,” the wireless telegraphic -signal of ships in distress. - - -KELVIN 159. - -The great British scientist. Born in Belfast, Ireland in 1824. Died near -Largs, Scotland in 1907. His name is among those the British Government -has honored by carving into the floor of Westminster Abbey. - - * * * * * - - MY BUNKIE - and Other Ballads - - By ERWIN CLARKSON GARRETT - - -=Army and Navy Register:= - -“The poems show a keen appreciation of the romantic and picturesque side -of the soldier’s life with touches of humor and pathos that make up the -comedy and tragedy of the calling. Mr. Garrett’s verses are truly -sympathetic and appeal to worthy sentiment. They are among the best of -anything which has been written in any form concerning the Army and they -deserve appreciation. If the Army has a poet who has shown himself by -his verses capable of expressing in this form service traditions and -military life, it must be this former soldier. Mr. Garrett has preserved -the varying conditions of the soldier’s life and the soldier’s sentiment -in verses that are really worth while.***” - -=The Philadelphia Record:= - -“He has a happy knack of making vivid word-pictures; when he describes -something of a battle it all seems clear before our vision; when he -tells of camp life, the tented fields are there, and the men, and their -tasks. When he draws portraits such as those of ‘The Old Sergeant,’ ‘The -ex-Soldier’ and ‘The Rookie’ these men stand strong and life-like before -us.***” - -=Chicago Inter-Ocean:= - -“***‘My Bunkie and Other Ballads,’ by Erwin Clarkson Garrett, are poems -straight from the heart of a private soldier, full of freshness and -color, swing and melody.***” - -“Mr. Garrett’s songs are racy of the soil and of the life they -celebrate. They have an appeal for all Americans, but particularly for -the thousands of American young men who in war times saw the Philippines -over the sights of a Krag-Jorgensen.” - -=Philadelphia Press:= - -“The American soldier has found his Kipling in Erwin Clarkson -Garrett.***” - -=The New York Evening Post:= - -“***They are the poems of a man who has marched and fought and slept -with the Army, and they have the right ring.***” - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Dyak Chief, and other verses, by -Erwin Clarkson Garrett - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DYAK CHIEF, AND OTHER VERSES *** - -***** This file should be named 53149-0.txt or 53149-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/1/4/53149/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS, Bryan Ness and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - -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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