Transcriber’s Notes:

  Underscores “_” before and after a word or phrase indicate _italics_
    in the original text.
  Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals.
  Illustrations have been moved so they do not break up paragraphs.
  Old or antiquated spellings have been preserved.
  Typographical and punctuation errors have been silently corrected.




[Illustration: THE AUTHOR IN HIS RETREAT.

Note the string connecting with the camera outside, which captures the
birds and little animals on their well-filled table.

(See pages 22 and 23.)]




                          NEAR NATURE’S HEART

                           A VOLUME OF VERSE

                                  BY
                           CRAWFORD JACKSON

                             ATLANTA, GA.
                                  and
                            GUILFORD, N. C.


               FOOTE & DAVIES COMPANY, PRINTERS, ATLANTA
             GULBENK ENGRAVING COMPANY, ENGRAVERS, ATLANTA

                            COPYRIGHT 1923
                                  BY
                           CRAWFORD JACKSON
                         (ALL RIGHTS RESERVED)

                               DEDICATED
                                  TO
                              EVERY CHILD

                “Philosophy, to an attentive ear,
             Clearly points out, not in one part alone,
             How Imitative Nature takes her course
             From the celestial mind, and from its art;
             And when her laws the Stagirite[1] unfolds,
             Not many leaves scann’d o’er, observing well
             Thou shalt discover, that thy art on her
             Obsequious follows, as the learner treads
             In his instructor’s steps; so that your art
             Deserves the name of second in descent
             From God.”
                                                  DANTE ALIGHIERI.

[1] _Aristotle’s Physics._




FOREWORD


The great artist is one whose whole body becomes a living soul;
whose eye gets glimpses into the heart of Nature, with visions of
the Supernatural; whose ear hears their inner music, and whose hand
produces ecstatic expression of their central force in some revelation
of Beauty. And to make his art more real, more nearly perfect, Beauty
more beautiful, such artist by contrast often depicts or suggests the
deadly but doomed discords of life.

Any inspiring touch I have with Nature makes me less than half content
with the best I can say of her. Beyond my increasing love for the rich,
old Mother—yet eternally young and myriad formed—I am deeply indebted
to F. Schuyler Mathews and his charming “Field Book of Wild Birds and
Their Music,” especially in suggestions and some illustrations for the
“Birds’ Orchestra.” Other acknowledgements are made elsewhere in this
little volume of verse, which chances to be my first, and therefore
subject to the severer criticism.

    C. J.




CONTENTS.


                                                     PAGE
    The Birds’ Orchestra                               7
    My Prayer To Truth                                14
    A Scene in Washington, N. C.                      16
    Little Naples by the Sea                          17
    The Family of My Friend Jones                     17
    The King’s Marriage                               19
    The Hermit Thrush                                 19
    My Retreat                                        23
    The Mocking-Bird                                  24
    The Jay and I—A Dialogue                          26
    Nature’s Heart                                    27
    A Nigger and a Mule                               28
    Virginia’s Natural Bridge                         30
    The Might of Matutinal Music                      30
    A Perpetual King                                  31
    The Cotton Gin                                    32
    The Cotton Mill                                   32
    My Own Little Girl                                32
    My Butterfly                                      33
    Was That Somebody I?                              34
    My Sabbath Sermon                                 35
    Pilot Mountain                                    36
    Her Prison Life                                   37
    Aurelius Augustinus                               38
    O, That Income Tax!                               40
    In Florida                                        41
    Two Little Orphans                                42
    Trouble and Play                                  43
    Some Small Surprises                              43
    The Rhythm Universal                              44
    The Stone Crosses and the Fairies                 45
    The Sun Flower                                    46
    Colonel Diamond and Grand-daughter                47
    The Wild Wood                                     48
    The Beginning of Things                           49
    The End of Things                                 49
    When the Junco Comes                              50
    James Bradley Jackson                             51
    A Story of Colonial Times                         53
    “Come on wid yer Money fur Me”                    55
    Good Out of Evil                                  56
    Christmas                                         57
    Mrs. Josephine F. Hamill                          58
    A Chick’s Cry                                     59
    The Kid and the Cop                               59
    The Over Favored and The Chanceless Child         61
    The Slanderer                                     61
    The World’s Greatest Egotist                      62
    Little River Royal                                63
    Give Me Both                                      64
    Manifold Beauty and the Man                       64
    Chimney Rock                                      66
    The Elephant Dance                                67
    Least Yet Greatest                                67
    Old Ship Church                                   67
    A Little Toast to the Men of the Press            68
    Mother Indeed                                     68
    Nathan O’Berry                                    68
    The Bishop’s Garden                               69
    My Triolet                                        70
    Ye Bonny Boys                                     71
    A Ballade to the Girls                            71
    A Mountain Top View                               72
    One Aged John Smith and His Youthful Confessions  73
    Ode on Woodrow Wilson and the League of Nations   74
    Another Birthday                                  77
    Oh, Baby Mine                                     77
    The Snake That’s King                             78
    The Heart of France                               79
    The Red Maple                                     81
    A Sonnet to Mrs. O. C. Bullock                    81
    The Strikers                                      81
    November Gloom                                    82
    James Mitchell Rogers                             83
    Erwin Holt                                        83
    Just an Introduction                              83
    Judge Franklin Chase Hoyt                         84
    A Little Index of the Coming Day                  85
    Winged Tourists                                   86
    How My Easter Dawned                              86
    Helen Keller                                      88
    The Dancing Tassel                                89
    Walter Malone                                     91
    The Dutiful Flower                                92
    My Holiday                                        92
    The Aeolian Harp                                  92
    The God-Man and Myself                            93
    Death’s Doom                                      94
    The Dying Year                                    96




ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                      PAGE
    The Author in his Retreat                _Frontispiece_
    Bob-White in Colors                                 6
    Cat Bird                                            7
    Young Screech Owl                                   8
    Humming Bird                                        8
    White Throated Sparrows                             9
    Blue-Bird and Family                               10
    Young Male Cardinal                                11
    Thrasher’s Admiration                              12
    Cardinal in Colors                                 12
    A Scene in Washington, N. C.                       16
    Baby Ambitious to Rise                             18
    Veery Celebrating the King’s Marriage              19
    Hermit Thrush in Colors                            21
    Dove and Bluebirds, Swan, Zebra and Colt, Macaw,
          Chipmunk, Young Pet Thrasher                 22
    The Author’s Retreat in the Wild Wood              23
    Young Green Heron                                  23
    The Mocking-Bird in Colors                         25
    The Jay Bird and I                                 26
    A Nigger and a Mule                                29
    Virginia’s Natural Bridge                          30
    A Perpetual King, Cotton Gin, A Cotton Mill        31
    My Own Little Girl                                 33
    My Butterfly                                       33
    A Babe, Later an Imprisoned Boy                    34
    Feeding Young Mocking-Bird                         35
    Big Pinnacle on Pilot Mountain                     36
    Aurelius Augustinus                                38
    Two Little Orphans                                 42
    Trouble and Play                                   43
    Nature’s Fairy Crosses                             46
    Col. Diamond and Grand-daughter                    47
    The Wild Wood                                      48
    A Pre-Revolutionary Stone Mansion,
          7 Years Being Built                          53
    “Rock Ribbed Pen” in which Miss Martin
          was placed by the Tories                     54
    Blind Negro                                        56
    Mistletoe                                          57
    The Kid and the Cop                             59-60
    New River, Fort Lauderdale, Fla.                   63
    Water Fall Near Tories’ Den, and Beach Scene       64
    Chimney Rock in North Carolina                     66
    The Elephant Dance and Old Ship Church             67
    The Bishop’s Garden                                69
    My Triolet                                         70
    Lookout Mountain                                   72
    Woodrow Wilson                                     75
    O Baby Mine                                        77
    The Snake That’s King                              78
    Notre Dame                                         79
    Miss Cameron and Billy                             83
    Judge Franklin Chase Hoyt                          84
    Ann Gray and Pet Macaw                             85
    The Tots That Turned the Tide                      87
    Walter Malone                                      90

[Illustration: BOB-WHITE.

By F. Schuyler Matthews.]




_The Birds’ Orchestra_


THE DAWN

        “Start-right, you-hob-bright!” ’Twas fluted so clear,
        It wakened the songsters and startled my ear,

        As the King of the morning repelled the dark night,
        And the reveille sounded, “All-right! Bob-Bob-White!”

        The Mocking-bird earliest answered the call,
        And gladly his echoes were welcomed by all,

        As each took his place in the Nature-trained choir,
        And bird after bird began tuning his lyre.

        The songsters had started a sweet roundelay,
        When suddenly up bounced a meddlesome Jay.

                  He wanted to sing,
                  This feathered thing;
                  Or brilliant colors to impress,
                  With spontaneous wantonness;
                  With spirit too to over-rule,
                  Like the self-important fashion fool.

        In soft monotone crooned the Black-billed Cuckoo,
        “Tho not much at singing, I’ll surely beat you.”

[Illustration: Cat Bird. Photo by the Author.]

    And Flicker to Jay proclaimed,
      “_No-cheer_ from me, _no-cheer_!”
    While the Hooded Warbler, “You-have-no-business-here”!

        “I’m a blooming Jay,
        I’ll have my way,
        Dj-a-y! dj-a-y! dj-a-y!”

    Then spoke that brave bird, the yellow-breast Chat:
    “Cop! Cop! Shut-him-in-prison-and-send-for-the-cat.”

    And King bird commanded with spirit irate,
    “Away with you, Blue Jay—or I’ll pounce on your pate.”

              And the Jay slipped away,
              With a sure word of peace,
              For such glad release:
                  “Ge-rul-lup!
                  Jig’s-all-up!”

[Illustration: YOUNG SCREECH OWL. Photo by Rev. Wallace Rogers.]

    Then Wisdom’s proud bird, that old mystical fake,
    While breakfasting late on a daring young snake,

    Cried “Boo to y-o-u, hoot for y-o-u! Who-whoo—are-y-o-u?”
    Till down in my heart I felt humbled anew.

    But hope was revived by an echo of Night—
    For Night has her echoes and pledges of Light—

    “You can, if you will, a high mission fulfill.”
    Insistently whistled the lone Whip-poor-will.

            Then all grew still
            O’er vale and hill
            And the echo came back:
            “You can, if you will.”

        The sun poured forth his flood of pure gold
        On Nature’s great chorister birdlings of old,

        When wide circling throngs made the welkin resound
        With the liveliest chatter, “Let joy go round.”

        Then flashed through the air a ruby tinged light,
        Like an arrow of glory soon lost to my sight.

    When lo! it returned—a bird that ne’er sings,
    Though his music is borne in the hum of his wings:

          “I fly, yet rest,
          In swiftest quest,
          Of flowers best,
      With their sweetest, nectared off’rings.”

[Illustration: HUMMING BIRD. By F. Schuyler Matthews.]

    And my heart sang out with a jubilant cry,
    “O for poise and feasting in tension so high.”

        While the Humming bird sipped his choicest wine,
        The musicians came to a sudden pause;
        Each singer’s eye was a-gaze like mine—
        And the wonder of bird-land received their applause.

        The fun-makers followed, the gay Bobolinks,
        With comical solo and musical kinks!

                  “You’d better think,
                  Flippant Chewink,
                  ’Tis the finest of sport,”
                  Sang Bobolink.

          And said Bob, “Be true to me, be true to me;
          Kick your slipper, kick your slipper;[2]
          Be true to me—old Nick’s the whipper!”

    And over the pond, on bending cat-tails,
    The red-shouldered Black-birds were piping their gales,

    As they swung to and fro with a blithe “Con-quer-ee,”
    And their mates made reply—“O’er-the-lea, come-to-me!”

    From the Meadow-lark’s throat came a livelier strain,
    “All hail to the bridegroom and those in his train;

    “And greet the fair bride in her gay-feathered veil,
    She’ll build a snug nest for the babies—all hail!”

    From Oriole there, like a glad whistling boy,
    Came fragments of melody thrilling with joy:

                  “I sing as I work—
                  This vantage men shirk—
                  And music I blend
            With care of the children and house that I tend.”

    Then on came the Finches in rollicking glee,
    With Grosbeak and Chippy and plaintive Pewee;

    And every one’s note rang as clear as a bell,
    With the swing of love’s passion and deep growing spell.

                  “Per-chick-o-ree!
                  Now, don’t you see
                  The song in me
                  Is ecstasy?”

    Thus jingled the Goldfinch in musical run,
    As he dipped up and down in the waves of the sun;

    Like golden-robed, sable winged fairy he flew
    Across his wide world of cerulean blue.

[Illustration: WHITE THROATED SPARROWS. Photo by the Author.]

[2] As heard by John Burroughs.

    The White throated Sparrow, a provident bird,
    Revealed deepest wisdom in simplest word;

    “Sow wheat and sow plenty—oh yes, sow a plenty,
    Though Peverly’s small he has hunger of twenty.”

    “When the granary’s full, and reapers go feastin’,
    I’ll cheer you ag’in, with my fiddle-in’, fiddle-in’,
    The long hours through, a-fiddle-in’, fiddle-in’.”[3]

    A versatile singer, an artist o’er shy,
    Now uplifted his voice to his Maker on high.

    No pause in the rhythm of the Song Sparrow’s lay;
    And I pondered and wondered as on flew the day:
                  “Is this high Art’s way?”

    While still rolled his “swee-e-t, swee-e-t, bitter”—[4]
    The philosophy of life, from a plain, little flitter.

    Pond’ring I lingered and forgot me to eat,
    A captive held fast in fair Nature’s retreat.

[Illustration: BLUEBIRD AND FAMILY. Photo by the Author.]

[3] This repeated paraphrase is from F. Schuyler Mathews, ornithologist
and musician.

[4] The words suggested to John Burroughs by the variations of the Song
Sparrow.

    The Oven-bird graceful, misnamed “the preacher,”
    Proudly sang out, “I’m-a-teacher, a TEACHER;”

    And Maryland Yellow-throat piped, “What a pity,
    You can’t sing a sweet, old-fashioned ditty!
                  What a pity!”

    From the wayside just then came a mocking “meow;”
    “If the rest of you follow, I’ll join in the row;

                  “And why not now?
                  A fuss somehow—
                  Meow, meow!”

    But lo! the voice softened and turned to a tune,
    Repeating the bird’s notes that glad day in June.

    With soft-flowing accent the good Chickadee
    Said “dear me,” and added a sweet “amity.”

[Illustration: YOUNG MALE CARDINAL TRYING TO LIGHT ON BOUQUET OF
FLOWERS. Snapped by the Author.]

    And Blue-Bird’s grave “purity,” Robin’s gay “cheer”
    Were songs as delightful as lovers may hear;

    While Red-headed Woodpecker, ever after his rum,
    Kept beating and beating his sweet tree drum.

    The Cardinal came with his bright crimson crest,
    And sang for his bride as she fashioned her nest;

    But Toxaway’s[5] rival gave forth the echo,
          “Kid-dów, Kid-dów, Kid-dów!”

    Now list to the out-flow from the topmost tree,
    Coming down from the Thrasher in perfect frenzy;

    The birds and I marvelled as he swept on alone,
    Now high, and now low, now a thrilled overtone.

[Illustration: THRASHER’S ADMIRATION. Photo by Author.]

                  And lo! just then,
                  A voice—a Wren,
                  From a fern-lit glen,

    Burst forth like a rippling fountain of life,
    Rebuking old Mars with his death-dealing strife;

    And it seemed that I caught for the sons of men,
    The lost chord of an angel in the song of the Wren.

    Discord now from birds as black as night:
                  “Caw! Caw! Caw!”
                  Screamed a full score,
                  Or even more,

    Till stones by me hurled put them all to flight.

    Again was felt a pause, a silence deep,
    When four of the feathered friends who copy song,
    Were planning fain their secret, potent word,
    Worthy of the wisest of mankind;
    The proud quartette then took the airy stage:

[5] Toxaway, the Indian’s name for the Cardinal.

[Illustration: CARDINAL

By courtesy of G. P. Putnam Sons, Publishers, and P. Schuyler Matthews,
Author of “Book of Birds For Young People.”]

    “They call us imitators evermore,
    And this forever be our life and joy,
    For master angels whispered unto us,
    ‘Follow song and God, and rise to life,
    Aye, ever, ever more.’”


HIGH NOON

    The sun had climbed high and as birdlings should feast,
    My morsel I finished and fell fast asleep;
    And dreamed a sweet dream, so rich and so deep,
    Till arches of gold reached the rose-portaled east,
    Aye! West wedded East and their glories increased—

                  A dream so sweet,
                  And marvelous meet;
                  My soul took wings,
                  Though captive my feet,
                  And uplifted high midst eternal springs,
                  My heart again heard an old, new word:
                  “Prophetic and incomplete
                      All earthly things.”

    In bright, celestial realm they sweeter sang,
    The happy birds that blessed my spell-bound soul,
    Upraised to that high world, without a pang.
    I saw a shining One with mystic scroll,
    The which He, smiling, waved, in full control
    Of birds and beings, translated from the earth,
    From every land to a great, inviting Goal.
    Enthralled by the mighty throng in sacred mirth—
    Ah now, me-thought, has come with joy my highest birth!

    Angels were rising, many and swift and sheen;
    While others, likewise moving with rhythmic grace,
    Descending in sweetest song, were heard and seen—
    All clothed in the beauteous light of the Father’s face.
    Those downward-going bore, in charming case,
    The melodies which men and birds might make.
    The rising throng made perfect the chords apace
    Produced below, ecstatic in their wide wake;
    I longed to tarry ever there, without a break.


TWILIGHT

    But ho! Presto-“Bob-White! Bob, Bob-White!”
    “I announced the morn and now the night.”

    Bestirred in the gloaming by Bob-White’s last call,
    I awakened to music the sweetest of all.

    The flutelike peals of the Thrush of the wood
    Still bound me to the world of angelhood.

    But the depths of my soul had the holiest hush,
    As the organ note rose of the Hermit Thrush.

    He climbed to the heights where I too would arise,
    But no one may soar with that pride of the skies.

    I then asked my heart, “Pray, what is all this?
    Why experience birds such wonderful bliss?”

                  My soul was on fire,
                From Nature’s great choir,
                As the glad mounting symphony
                  Climbed higher and higher.

    “Is it all of this world, or is it of Heaven?
    To birds and to me is this paradise given?”

                  I longed to understand,
                  If ’twas place or state,
              For all so harmonious and elate;
            When responded a three-fold, wondrous band:

                The birds replied,
    “Life, Life be our earth-celestial theme;”
                The angels cried,
    “Love and Beauty make any place a-gleam;”
                The great who’d died,
    “In every state, our song and service to redeem.”

    Lo, the shining One waved high his mystic scroll,
    And many joined in a sweet but thunderous whole:
    “Music flows from a vaster, purer Stream—
                  Know now, O longing soul,
                  The vital, eternal scheme
                  Of Heaven and earth,
                  From their far off birth,
    Is to reach on after the deeper, perfect Goal.”

    And, like the voice of ten thousand trumpeters,
                  “Alleluia to Him Supreme,
        The all-embracing, all-out giving Soul!”
    To this from creatures numberless rang out a great “Amen”
        And again from every heart that sings
            In creation’s vast domain:
    “On, forever on, in Heaven’s aureole,
        Let praise and power roll—
                  Alleluia, Amen!”


MY PRAYER TO TRUTH

    Take thou my soul, O Truth, and make me whole,
      And gently lead me on eternally.
    My eager fancy flies from pole to pole,
      To singing star and the ever surging sea—
              O stay thou me!

    Thru ages past the search has been for thee;
      The sage and prophet, vacillating King
    And statesmen call aloud for liberty
      And light and all beneath thy gracious wing;
                To thee the poets sing.

    Yet of inquirers many, whoso finds?
      Where hidest thou? Point me thy high abode.
    Art thou in books? Ah, no! In these there winds
      The dusty road of men. Sing me thy ode,
                Thy perfect code.

    Thou art I know; and sweet and pure thy balm,
      Which solaced oft my sorrow-burdened soul;
    But leavest not the biding, crowning palm,
      Nor faultless portion, pointing to thy goal;
                While troubles roll.

    Why, when a-thirst and hungry, should I wander,
      Some while in want; anon, a feast most fine?
    Yet never full; some pressing, ravenous pander
      Prepared to steal from me earth’s passing wine;
                Pray give me thine.

    Some secrets sweet are mine, but oh how few,
      Compared to richest bounty which must be
    In thy pure heart and home—why not my due?
      Will I some day find hid thy mystic key?
                Lead on thou me.

    My youthful joys and heights of yester-year,
      Were bright and buoyant, satisfying then;
    But they have gone for aye. More calls I hear;
      They charm me onward to some larger ken;
                But, O Truth, when?

    If all I may not know, then serve will I,
      Submissive to each load and yoke thou givest,
    Like the plaintless, faithful ox, without a sigh;
      But soon I plead: “I poorly live; thou richly livest,
                And oft receivest

    “Me for some higher service still—but where?
      For whom? Why serve and not be satisfied?
    Why toil on land and sea, and burdens bear,
      Without thy joy? O be my willing bride!”
                My poor heart cried.

    And lo, I saw encaged a joy-filled bird,
      And one a-wing in song, as blithe as free;
    A cooing babe I caught, in love preferred—
      Knowledge, service, song, O Truth, found me;
                And I found Thee.


A SCENE IN WASHINGTON, N. C.

[Illustration]

    A modern coach and four,
    A kitchen and a store,
    With wieners evermore,
    In Washington.

    The billies have no speed,
    But much of grit and greed,
    And goats show grace indeed,
    In Washington.

    They pull and butt for Jim,
    And else they do for him,
    From heart to outer rim,
    Of Washington.

    The goats have feet and horns,
    And Jim no painful corns;
    ’Tis peace and no forlorns,
    In Washington.

    No man can get Jim’s “goat,”
    For bonds he’ll buy and float—
    A scheme not far remote,
    In Washington.


LITTLE NAPLES BY THE SEA

    In little Naples by the sea
      The birds join in their jubilee,
    Where long-leaved pine and royal palm
      Exhale the breath of their fragrant balm,
    In little Naples by the sea.

    The sea responds by day and night,
      With a stately choral of life and might;
    And when his storms arise and rage,
      He spares the hamlet of winsome age,
    The modest Naples by the sea.

    And many an eve the sun will make
      His matchless glories till men awake
    To find the sea, the land, the sky
      Reset with gems for the artist’s eye;
    In lovely Naples by the sea.

    And so there come to this favored spot
      The young and old to cast their lot,
    Near Nature’s healing heart, and rest,
      Like a child on his loving mother’s breast—
    In quiet Naples by the sea.

    Here roamed the happy Seminole,
      And peacefully here possessed his soul,
    Till thrust away by men of skill,
      The conquering whites, with greedy will—
    In unborn Naples by the sea.

    E’er Indian came, the troglodyte
      Reigned in his cave by a primal right;
    And ages and ages remoter still,
      Flew monsters of hideous claw and bill
    O’er charming Naples yet to be.

    A long ascent from warring snakes,
      From reptilian waters and slimy lakes,
    To singing birds and mirthful men,
      To smiling mothers and sportive children,
    In balmy Naples by the sea.

    But higher still to the coming man,
      To great sons of Art in her perfect plan;
    To the glorious day when hulking clods,
      Transmuted to men, are ranked with gods,
    In little Naples by the sea!


THE FAMILY OF MY FRIEND JONES

    The seven[6] children of my friend Jones,
    Have each of them a lot of bones,
    To grow and strengthen, or else to break
    Beneath life’s burdens or sudden quake,
    Mid the wide and varied warring zones,
    Of the seven children of my friend Jones.

    But seven, you know, is the perfect plan;
    It stands for all that’s the best in man—
    In his youthful days and ripest years,
    In his joys and sorrows, high hopes and fears;
    ’Tis God’s own number—away with groans!
    For seven times blessed is my friend Jones.

    In logical order the eighth arrived,
    And, take it from me, they all revived;
    With one accord and high hearted aim,
    They gave to the eighth the greatest name;
    They all prepared with love’s sweet loans,
    To make him the most famous of my friend Jones.

    But youth is still his, and his good wife’s too,
    His only sweetheart forever true;
    And the Father’ll be pleased their quiver to fill,
    For a heritage large is his manifest will,
    If here and hereafter no dullards and drones,
    But all active and cheerful like my friend Jones.

[Illustration: ONE OF THE NINE AMBITIONS TO RISE.]

    On the fifteenth month, and one August morn
    The ninth leaps to life, another boy is born.
    What the Lord commanded, my friend hath willed,
    “Increase” is the law, and the law’s fulfilled;
    Yet not ceaseless order, with nine vying tones
    In the growing family of my friend Jones.

    Such a happy man, for to all a friend;
    Not a Hottentot would Jones offend;
    And chiming in church or turning the sod,
    My friend is ever the friend of God.
    May the buoyant family all mount thrones—
    Then eternally blessed, my friend Jones.

    My mind sweeps on to a Kingdom vast,
    To numberless children who’ll come at last,
    As sons of the Highest on a shining shore,
    There to play and sing forever more—
    In the temple of God great living stones,
    And some from the family of my friend Jones.

[6] There were only seven children in this family when the first two
stanzas were written three years ago.—C. J.

[Illustration: Veery celebrating the King’s Marriage.

The original, with male and female Veery, furnished by courtesy
National Association Audubon Societies, with changes by the Author’s
Artist.]


THE KING’S MARRIAGE

                Look, look, look!
                    My soul,
            At that high favored Sun;
                With smiling face,
                And matchless grace,
            The King hath Beauty won.

                Look, look, look!
                My longing soul,
            My hungry, ravished heart—
                Most gorgeous role
                In Nature’s whole,
            Surpassing man’s high art!

                Look, look, look!
            Every open eye and mind,
            Every yearning soul of mortal—
            The Master’s acme for mankind;
            Ye stars, look down and glory find.
                    Look!
            Beauty glides toward the portal.

                With parting day,
        I watch the twain as they go;
            I watched and sighed,
        As heaven and sorrowing earth below,
        And hosts of both were heard to say,
        “O why may Beauty not abide?
    The King and Queen made one at eventide,
        And then in secret chambers hide!”

                “Stay, stay, stay!”
                My soul out-cries,
            “For Beauty fleeth fast,
                Nor nuptials last,
            And darkening skies”—
        And lo, the royal pair had passed;
        But left their image in my eyes,
            And in my living soul.


THE HERMIT THRUSH[7]

(Published in the Methodist Review, July, 1919).

    O little artist, of rarest modesty,
      Why hide thyself and sing?
    Thy music fills my soul with ecstasy,
      And makes the woodland ring.

    Draw near, draw near, thou shy, yet happy one;
      I plead with thee—draw near;
    I’d share thy rapture; ’twould be heaven begun;
      O Hermit sweet, appear.

    Still thou wilt not, and while I long and dream
      Of all that’s best for us—
    The King, His primal ministers—what gleam
      Of highest genius?

    Sing on, elusive bird, in thy retreat,
      Songs to my waiting soul;
    Some day inviting rounds will be complete,
      Some day, the promised goal.

    And then some disappearing portion high,
      Some joy just out of reach;
    The more immortals yield to devotion’s tie,
      The more must they beseech.

    Sing on, blest bird, beyond my poor purview,
      But near my home and heart:
    “I love, I _love_, I LOVE; yes I love YOU!”[8]
      This, thy crescendo art.

    I find myself quite charmed, yet almost lost,
      At the modern opera grand;
    What stirs my soul so deep, what I love most,
      Thy song—and I understand.

    But O that I could see thy beaming eye—
      Mine eye on thee, all song!
    Why so secretive, yet seductive—why?
      My suit, renewed, so strong.

    That tree, those leaves around thee—if they knew
      Their day and honored hour,
    Each leaf and branch would homage pay, thy due,
      Aflame with joy that bower.

    Such rich and rounded notes proceed from thee,
      Enchanting naiveté:
    From sleep thou wakest me with highborn glee,
      When comes the King of day.

    At eventide thou callest me to prayer,
      More clear than churchly chime,
    In wood and sky, in pure, perfumed air—
      His temple, thine and mine.

    No passing wonder, sing Nightingales
      In Russ or Tuscan clime;
    No hope have they in these Columbic vales
      To match thy tones and time.

[7] If anyone thinks the author has overdrawn the artistic merits of
the bird, he is referred to the expert opinion of F. Schuyler Mathews
in his “Field Book of Wild Birds and Their Music,” pages 234-246,
wherein this musician and lover of birds convincingly compares and
contrasts, by musical scales and other data, the powers of the Hermit
and Nightingale in favor of the former.—C. J.

[8] With slight change the interpretation by Mathews of the song of the
Olive Back Thrush.

[Illustration: THE HERMIT THRUSH.]

    Like cooling streams in a parched, desert land,
      To thirsting souls and worn;
    Like evening’s changing charms, no artist’s hand
      Can set in painted bourn;

    Like sweetest dreams to troubled hearts in slumbers,
      Uplift to heaven’s heights—
    Just so thy symphonies, heard in rolling numbers,
      Thy high and holy flights.

    O anchoret, near Nature’s heart, again
      I pray, come forth and sing.
    Ah, there—O joy! I glimpsed thee, Hermit fain—
      Now gone on gentle wing.

    My eye too piercing, and my quest too keen,
      Unfathomable bird.
    Once more contented I—remain unseen,
      And yet thy harmony heard.

    This I have found, as fast thou holdeth me:
      Thou startest full, and risest;
    And all doth thrill—sweet, moving melody,
      Climbing to the highest.

    No pipe, no flute, organ or organist,
      Can reach thine allegro,
    And thy cadenza, thou transcendentalist—
      ’Tis music with naught of woe.

    Whence come from singers proud their hard-won notes?
      In truth from the music master,
    By repetition oft and untrained throats—
      To hearers, near disaster.

    The master’s whence, the singing pioneer,
      Great Haydn or Beethoven?
    Sing on, my thrilling thrush, but wilt thou hear?
      From thee, and thou from Heaven!

    Long hours I’ve listened lone, in deep delight,
      To thy glad musicals;
    And when I breathe my last, O anchorite,
      Sing soft angelicals.

[Illustration: Turtle Dove and Bluebirds.]

[Illustration: Chipmunk—Note his pockets well-filled with grain to be
carried to his granary.]

[Illustration: “Brownie,” a young pet Thrasher, raised by Artena.]

[Illustration: At Lunch—Snapped at the Memphis Zoo.]

[Illustration: Pet Macaw. See p. 84.]

[Illustration: His Majesty, The Swan.]

Photos by the Author.

[Illustration]


MY RETREAT

[Illustration: Young Green Heron.

Photos by the author.]

    To my retreat now come with me,
    And love the place that’s wild and free,
    Where Chipmunks play and Wood Thrush sings;
    Where a lucid lake invites and brings
    The proud offspring of Liberty.

    The Wren is there, the Chickadee,
    And many more that come in glee,
    On nimble feet or shining wings,
    To my retreat—

    The birds of sky and fish of the sea,
    The cunning things that charming be;
    And there the Cardinal often rings
    His notes of joy to songster-lings—
    All these and I have bidden thee
    To my retreat.


THE MOCKING-BIRD

    Hilarious bird, hast thou a soul,
        Now here, now there
        In tree and air,
        So free and fair?
    Thy tones rush forth a rounded whole,
    Inviting the heart to some sweet goal,
        Like poet rare,
        Beyond compare.

    Hast thou a mind, a musical mind?
        Who answers “nay”?
        Or night or day,
        Thy tuneful lay
    Brings joy and grief; myself I find
    In my inmost soul left far behind;
        Yet I essay
        The wondrous way.

    “Borrowed notes” they dub thy variation;
        Nor is that all
        In thy charmed call;
        I rise, though small,
        To laud thy rhythmic re-creation,
        Thy prompt and hearty liberation
    Of life notes new which me enthrall,
    Without man’s pride, and fall.

    I hear thee sing as Lark and Nightingale,[9]
        Thy kindred sweet;
        Palm Warbler meet
        Thou dost repeat,
    And modest, tawny Veery of the vale;
    Thy music upward leads, and I inhale
        Incense replete,
        In thy retreat.

    As in a dream I hear all tones combine
        In Love’s embrace;
        And there I see thy topmost place,
        O Psyche of thy race!

[9] After the author had written this line he was glad to learn that
the late John Burroughs in his “Birds and Poets,” page 17, spoke of the
Mocking-bird as “both Lark and Nightingale in one.”

[Illustration: MOCKING-BIRD

By courtesy of G. P. Putnam Sons, Publishers, and F. Schuyler Matthews,
Author of “Book of Birds For Young People.” Sketched originally for
this volume.]

    Ah, let me turn to life all notes so fine;
    For this my soul must alway pine,
        With upturned face,
        For lyric grace.

    Quintessence of event is thine and life;
        What soul hath more
        On sea or shore,
        Now or afore?
    Thy keen eye beams; thy self art rife
    With music, as no magic flute or fife—
        Tis varied lore,
        Forever more.

    Thou toilest not to sing like plodding man,
        Brave bird and bright;
        Harmonic flight
        Is thy delight.
    Whenever was it thou did’st plan
    Sonatas sweet? Who may so sing or can?
        Without foresight
        Thy runic rite.

    Could I exchange with thee one blissful hour,
        Produce thy chart,
        Feel thrills of heart
        Of thine, nor part
    With ecstasy, a-wing from tree to bower,
    Returning quick, possessing all thy power,
        With no life mart
        But music art;

    Ah then, would I thy lithesome measures ken,
        And glad bestow
        Rich magic flow
        On all below.
    Vain wish! What hope for a poor earth denizen?
    But daring flight, until the poet pen
        With thee shall glow
        Like a sun-lit bow.

    More sweetly still: thy soul, all song divine,
        As thou dost give,
        As I love and live,
    Is mine; thy nature is forever thine,
    But by mutation mystic, yet benign,
        As I with joy receive
        Thy varied amative,
        Is also mine,
        In God’s own shrine.


THE JAY AND I—A DIALOGUE

    “What’s that you say, you funny Jay?
    I like your beauty, but not your way,
    Though fond of all the winged tribe.
            Is it hoo-ray,
            Or some hey-day?”
    Then Jay began his varied gibe:

            “I’m a Blue Jay;
            That’s what I say;
            Dja-ay! dja-ay! dja-ay!”
         (How will he myself describe,
    With naught from me that he’ll imbibe?)

            “I’ve more display,
            More in my yea,
            More in my nay,
            Than you convey;
            Dja-ay! dja-ay!”
    “’Tis true, Blue Jay, but too much pride;
    You shout and rouse the country side;

            Nor can I see
            The fun or glee,
            For birds or me
            In your vanity.
    Whoever is it such can bide?
    You dashing Jay, you want my hide?”

            “Never a day;
            I’m a Blue-ming Jay
            With top-knot gay,
            And mine to stay—
            Dja-ay! dja-ay!”

[Illustration]

    “More pomp you have than all your fellows;
          All who see you,
          All who hear you—
          ‘I’m _the_ Jay Blue
          With a top-knot too—’
    All wonder why you strain your bellows.”

    “Hoo-ray! hoo-ray!—back to the wall!
    When I’m stirred up, I always squall,
          Retreat, I say,
          You bunch of clay,
          Away; away!
    I’m King Blue Jay,
    A monarch here and lord of all;
    Dja-ay! dja-ay! dja-ay!”

    “But listen, Jay, just stop a spell—
    On Friday, luckless day, they tell,
    That you will dare to visit hell;
            ’Tis only Friday,
            But always Friday—
            If there you stray.
            Then why I pray?”

    “It’s not your business, know you well,
    Why I on Friday go to hell.[10]
            Dja-ay! dja-ay!”

    “My final word you may forestall;
    But I tell you plainly pride must fall;
    Old Pride is evil, born of the devil.”

            While flouncing so free
            In a white oak tree,
            Quite noisily,
            He answered me,
    With piercing eye, and look of evil:

            “Hoo-ray! hoo-ray!
            I’m a blooming Jay—
            The devil, you say?
            It’s all my way—
            Dja-ay! dja-ay! dja-ay!”

[10] A tradition with some says that the Jay goes to the lower regions
every Friday, and carries a grain of sand.


NATURE’S HEART

    I search for Nature’s heart beneath her dome,
    All free from jarring sounds;
    Out there my hungry spirit seeks a home,
    Out there, my feasting grounds.

    I love the giant oak, the poplar and the pine,
    Aye, balmful to my soul;
    I greet my feathered friends, and they combine
    To make me captive whole.

    I find no ghoul-like demon of the wood,
    Nor siren from the sea;
    A spirit high begets my ardent mood,
    But yields not me the key.

    And dreaming in the vale, or on a mountain height,
    Awed by the great abyss,
    My soul doth plead an everlasting right,
    “_The secret of all this?_”

    Both wild and winning are Mother Nature’s ways,
    Many, varied, one;
    In all she sings my soul her mystic lays,
    From flower to rolling sun.

    But oh to understand the purpose of her heart,
    Her princely, hidden life;
    Just what or who unfolds the vital part,
    Despite dark death and strife.

    O Faunus tell—return to earth and speak
    The word that satisfies;
    Or haughty mountain give, or valley meek,
    The answer to my cries.

    The gods are silent all! But drink may I
    Of Nature’s founts o’er flowing;
    I feel her throbs of heart in earth and sky,
    And loving leads to knowing.

    Henceforth, of all the wines of gods and men,
    To me give Nature’s nectar;
    Of all the feeble songs of tongue and pen
    From every dull director—

    Oh give me Nature’s rich and ripest lore,
    Her palaces and poses;
    Her peaceful ways and rest, her fullest store
    Of pure Pierian roses.

    Ah, this I know—’tis all I need to know—
    The great Mother has her plan;
    With God she labors long, at last to show
    Her perfect child and man.


A NIGGER AND A MULE

    I’ve lived in the city, I’ve sailed the wide sea;
    I’ve studied in many and many a school;
    I’ve sat at the feet of the bond and free,
    And a lot has come to a fellow like me,
    Since a new ground I plowed with a balky mule,
    But I’ve lived to see balky and a nigger fool.

    No deep-seated scorn of the African fool—
    There’s plenty like him from the hills to the sea;
    ’Tis the union of nigger and a stubborn mule,
    That surpasses the sport of an all-round school,
    If not for professor for fun-loving me,
    And as long as I’m playful, my play shall be free.

    Aye friend, ’tis a wonderful thing to be free,
    Though many a free man I’d call a fool,
    And no doubt some of them would thus entitle me,
    Though tutored in the city, the college and the sea
    Yet the nigger and hybrid, I’d take for a school;
    For ’tis hard to beat a pure nigger and a mule.

    But a “coon” in new ground, with a kicking mule!
    Just so I am far from his heels and am free
    To look, and to listen like a pupil in school;
    Though frankly I admit, I at times played the fool,
    Till the lessons of life had widened my sea,
    And harder experience had deepened me.

    Ye fates, do not bring the worst unto me,
    That of trying to handle a nondescript mule,
    In a rooty new ground—O the depths of the sea
    I’d choose, in the hope with the fish to be free;
    However, such choosing would prove me a fool—
    No applicant I for a sea-bottom school.

    Since I’ve come to think, ’twas a German-tried school;
    And a submarine ship was never for me;
    And the proudest old Hun thus out-reached the fool.
    But behold, you elect, a nigger and a mule,
    In new ground in August—thank God I am free!
    I’m only a witness on a smoother sea.

    God bless his wide sea, and the nigger in school;
    And all men make free—’twould be heaven for me—
    And God bless the poor mule, and the mule-headed fool.

[Illustration: By L. Gregg]


VIRGINIA’S NATURAL BRIDGE

[Illustration: Photo by The Author.]

    How pleasing the wonders of Nature—how varied and how vast,
    And the mystery of all the unknown doth hold me firm and fast;
    For so the Creator ordained that men should seek and know;
    That the heart of man may ever rise and forever flow,
    From pebble small in singing brook to yonder neighboring star;
    From star to a wider system and on to worlds afar.

    ’Tis only infinite mind can bridge the space between,
    Our planet and greater sun and constellations seen,
    Beyond which are stars yet farther, the living and the dead,
    And they tell us there are millions larger in the boundless spread.
    Imagination wearies of so vast an evolution,
    But glories in the love of Him who planned such contribution.

    The spider doth weave and swing his tiny, fragile bridge,
    And man in his nobler work doth span from ridge to ridge;
    But when men become as gods, and angels as such men,
    With dominion of Jehovah and his transcendent ken,
    Ah many a mansion shall we visit in our Father’s home,
    As we fly beneath his banner, with ages and ages to roam.

    ’Tis a fathomless universe, but the plan eternal is one,
    On which good men and angels may forever run,
    O’er many a threatening torrent here, chasm, wide and great;
    And ever man and gods shall their new links create—
    Some for service and for song, and some for wonder and delight;
    And some time, somewhere the Bridge—to everlasting light.


THE MIGHT OF MATUTINAL MUSIC

    When awaking from dreams completely refresht,
    My body reclining still;
    With a soul alive and a heart at rest,
    And master too of my will—

    When the sun doth cast ambitious rays,
    Foretelling afar his race;
    And my heart is clothed with the garment of praise
    By an all pervading grace—

    When I hear the psalm of the gifted Thrush,
    With a song of a mountain stream,
    And a child’s sweet laugh, while the morn’s a-flush,
    When Nature is all a-gleam—

    Ah, then my soul is thrilled with delight
    And my mind sweeps every sea,
    ’Tis then I possess my musical might,
    And the angels visit me.

[Illustration: Photos by the Author.]


A PERPETUAL KING

    In a King on a throne and a King there to stay,
    You’ve a friendly old monarch who’s ever upright.
    There are blessings for you and the men far away,
    In a King on a throne and a King there to stay.
    His robe is pure white, but the proud make it gay;
    Ah, what mercy, what power and amazing foresight
    In a King on a throne and a King there to stay—
    You’ve a friendly old monarch who’s ever upright!


THE COTTON GIN

    At a cotton gin the King’s made thin,
    Yet never shows the least chagrin,
    In his sunny home in Dixie’s land,
    That rich and poor may live and win.

    He’s trifled with, but will not sin
    Amongst his subjects, nor his kin,
    Although he feels the iron band
    At a cotton gin.

    More just the King than a mandarin,
    And I often think the cherubin
    Would like themselves to understand
    His long, rich round, and then command
    At a cotton gin.


THE COTTON MILL

    In Southern climes and the monarch’s mill
    Weave many a spindle and loom;
    And lake and lawn, with art’s own skill,
    In Southern climes and the monarch’s mill;
    Yes, church and school and much to fill
    The mind with hope and buoyant bloom—
    In Southern climes and the monarch’s mill,
    Weave many a spindle and loom.


MY OWN LITTLE GIRL

    I’ve covered many and many a mile;
      I’ve seen the setting of many a sun;
    I have oft been charmed by the infant’s smile,
      Pondering gladly life’s journey begun.

    I’ve met with the great and small not a few;
      I’ve sat at the feet of the learned knight,
    I’ve stood on the stage with Gentile and Jew,
      Addressing the throng by day and by night.

    I’ve witnessed the way of the meek and wise,
      Ah, the vanishing joy of the greedy;
    And more has come under my eager eyes,
      Seeing the re-filled cup of the needy.

    But never a joy I’ve felt was my own—
      Which bachelor old and maiden know not—
    Is equal to that when I return home,
      My humble home, yet delectable spot,

    And take to my heart my own little girl,
      All laughter and love—the joy of my life.
    Right here let me rest, far away the mad whirl,
      And feast on pure love, free from all strife.

[Illustration]

    My own little girl,
    My priceless pearl,
    With dance of delight,
    A musical sprite—
        My Artena.

    With hair of pure gold,
    With heart never cold,
    Who learns with a zest,
    And strives for the best—
        My Artena.

    Ten years old today—
    And never to decay—
    May she aye be sweet,
    And at length complete,
        My Artena.


MY BUTTERFLY[11]

[Illustration]

    My Butterfly, my wondrous Butterfly,
    Forsaking temple great, thou choosest me,
    When form and burnished wings arrive—I see
    With joy, as ne’er before, thy glory nigh.
    We journey through the city, thou and I,
    In store and street with joined hearts and free,
    While men admire thy trust and amity,
    But wonder not in thee, nor question why.

    At length thy wings bedecked with Heaven’s art,
    Begin to wave, as Nature planned, and east
    Thou farest forth with grace, but to my heart
    Thou ever clingest still. Fly on and feast
    On nectar such as men have never wrought;
    In thee is trust and love and, why not, thought?

[11] This particular butterfly was first seen clinging, about three
feet above the pavement, to the large masonic temple in Charlotte, N.
C., and was gently enticed by the author into his hand, later crawling
up his arm and remaining with his new companion for over an hour.

[Illustration]


Was That Somebody I?

    O child of hope, why left to go astray,
      And rend this heart of mine?
    Some one knew not, nor cared what ruthless way
      You wend—once babe benign—
        Was that somebody I?

    If God, with perfect heart, loved you, my child,
      And to Jesus likened thee—
    Why so favored first, now sad and wild?
      Who failed to love? Ah me!
        Was that somebody I?

    One said he loved the Christ and all of his;
      He read the Word and prayed;
    Believed that one the cruel creed, “What is,
      Is best?” And so you strayed—
        Was that somebody I?

    At home neglected, nowhere a faithful friend,
      You listless wandered on;
    Till fool or knave declared: “You’re bad, your end
      Looms dark—a criminal born!”
        Was that somebody I?

    Despised yet more—the Christ and thee—then crime!
      You bore with shame the chains!
    Your training and your arts,   in Hell’s own clime,
      Went on with damning drains—
        Great Heaven! was it I?

    Did I neglect you, child, my   Father’s child,
      I judge, and send you down?
    Myself at ease, while you were curst, reviled—
      No aid gave I, no crown?
        Then Christ must pass me by!

[Illustration]


MY SABBATH SERMON

    A growing mocker in a maple tree,
    Poured forth first notes with youthful glee;
    Like an untried poet born to sing,
    He’s proving gifts which fame will bring.

    And musing on that Sabbath morn,
    With body weary, heart forlorn,
    The music of the blithesome bird
    Inspired my mind itself to gird

[Illustration]

    With faith and courage, hope and love,
    Beguiling my heart to leap above.
    ’Tis ever thus, some primal song
    Doth make us gentle, brave and strong;

    And trustful too, till we can see
    With eyes of Him of Galilee—
    Sweet Sabbath notes from the amateur,
    Which filled my soul with a speedy cure.

    The bird will better sing, and I
    Shall carol sweetly by and by;
    After earth’s songs on vernal sod,
    Then high above in the choir of God.

    What wondrous choir—how vast, how bright,
    With suns and stars, and yet greater Light.
    They also sing, as ever they shine,
    With a strength of love that is divine.

    Yon rolling plain and mountain peak,
    Or surging sea and bounding creek;
    Or budding rose and lustrous star—
    All bid us rise to an avatar,

    Above rich valley, and hill’s proud crest,
    Above things seen to heaven’s best—
    To perfect ones, with the angel throng,
    O’er topless hills in endless song!


PILOT MOUNTAIN

    O Jomeokee, thou everlasting guide,
    Lifting high thyself, a tower strong
    For passing men, and deathless hills around;
    For Yadkin and on-flowing Ararat,
    Bathing thy feet in humblest gratitude;
    Thy lofty head, embraced by cooling clouds,
    Gives something forth that’s rich, and unto all—
    O Pilot old, thy secret bare to me.

    Tell me when thy origin and where;
    What hidden womb ambitious gave thee birth;
    Bear witness thou to all both seen and heard
    By thee from first to last; from primal man,
    To Renfro Indian tribe, who spake thy praise
    In by-gone years, and poet last who sang
    Thy glory—O eternal Pilot speak!

    As mute thou art as mighty and sublime,
    Like unto all that’s great and strong and good—
    Forever still midst Surrey’s joyful hills;
    Yet to men thou bringest a message deep;
    To Indian, symbol of the Spirit Great;
    To me, the varied, potent word of God.

[Illustration: A View of “Big Pinnacle” on Pilot Mountain, in Surrey
County, N. C. Picture by the Author.]

    Majestic lord of all, to thee on high,
    The struggling towns appear as vying dwarfs;
    The rivers like to circling, creeping snakes;
    Valleys, rich and broad, thy gardens are
    Imperial—and all thine honors sing.

    Sons of chiefs long vanquished played and danced
    Before thy face; again the fathers prayed,
    Their plea ascending, swift as thought, to Him
    Who guided Abram ’mongst Judean hills.

    What heart-breaks knowest thou of sire and son?
    Of lover and beloved, of hate and hope?
    Deepest depths and uplift to the heights?
    I hear the music of thy hidden heart,
    Sorrow’s song, in-wrought with joy that’s pure,
    The process endless of the urging Cross—
    A lofty peak of virtue and of peace
    Art thou, O Jomeokee!


HER PRISON LIFE[12]

    Her prison life was long and lone
    Her kindred buried or unknown;
    Of naught had she kept any score,
    In truth her mind deprived of lore,
    But knew her grief to be her own.

    Another heart had better grown,
    Confessing murder had he sown;
    “I did the deed, and I deplore
    Her prison life.”

    But hope and heart and health had flown;
    Why cares she now what winds are blown?
    “I guess I’ll stay here as before,
    My all is gone and evermore”—
    Her living death, one long-drawn moan,
    Her prison life.

[12] Based on a newspaper story of “Aunt” Sarah Wycoff in the North
Carolina Penitentiary.

[Illustration: Photograph of a rare old painting by the Spanish artist,
Herrera, and owned by Dr. Andrew Anderson of St. Augustine, Fla.]


AURELIUS AUGUSTINUS

    O thou, immortal father,
    Permit my spirit poor to rise with thine.
    Thou didst ascend, high Heaven’s hero,
    From thy soft bed of prayer at Hippo,
    Centuries agone,
    Very Vandals storming thy gates the while.

    Victor art thou still, and higher,
    More mighty, honored more.
    Amongst men thou didst eat
    Of the tree of knowledge, good and evil—
    How human as boy and man!
    Yet thou didst name thy first born,
    In youth begotten of thine unlawful union,
    Adeodatus, “a gift from God.”
    Again and again thou didst strike
    For freedom from thy fetters and thy foes,
    Till thou hadst conquered,
    Later painting thy life of lust
    In color like unto darkest night.

    With hungry heart and spirit high,
    Thou oft didst delve into Cicero’s Hortentius,
    And give thy faith to Manichaeus,
    Seeking to know evil and its source—
    The ever pressing problem, eternally inscrutable.

    After God all things good had made,
    Yea very good,
    A fearless fool hath said,
    “He turned Himself into the tempting serpent—”
    Shocking diabolism!

    Creators two?
    Incredible, impossible.
    Then it follows,
    One evil became.
    But when and where; by whom and why?
    With all this thou didst wrestle,
    And more bitterly with thyself.

    Yet thou didst give to God
    And all the ages
    Thy “Confession,” thine and mine;
    Thy “De Natura et Gratia”—
    The everlasting conflict;
    Books fifteen on a single theme,
    At once the highest and holiest,
    The redeeming Trinity.
    Many a tractate and treatise
    Thou didst leave to men.
    We bless thee for all this,
    Thy holy heritage, O Augustine,
    More brilliant than Ambrose,
    Of truth more jealous than Jerome,
    More profound than Gregory the Great;
    The super-man of thy day and many,
    Thou enthroned son of the Highest.

    Beholding now thy form and face—
    Master work of Herera’s hands,
    Done a millennium after thy ascent,
    A worshipful face toward the Holy Father’s,
    With quill in thy skillful hand,
    “The City of God”[13] before thee,
    My soul astir doth soar
    Toward thine and His.
    Oft have I gazed and gloried,
    Imaging thy topless, hallowed heights,
    From deepest, darkest depths—
    I too may rise; I will, O God, I will!

[13] The title of one of his works.


O THAT INCOME TAX!

    I struggled with mine till the midnight hour;
      My head was that of a fool;
    My losses and gains, they’re beyond my power,
      And never the like was, in school.

    That minus sign was ever my foe
      From earliest years until now;
    My modest income, and varied out-go—
      O they must be figured somehow!

    I’ll tell you the truth, in the fear of the Lord,
      I worried and went “sick abed;”
    Six pages of puzzles and all a sworn word—
      “O where,” I sighed, “is my head?”

    “If married,” or “single”—I failed to know:
      Nor dependent children could tell;
    For never my mind received such a blow,
      From such unexpected hell.

    I always have cherished my Uncle Sam,
      And thought he was oftenest right;
    But flooded I was, nor a single dam
      To check my downward flight.

    Exhausted I slept, nor just or unjust,
      Resolving the next day to seek aid;
    For when I awoke ’twas still, “you must
      Or penalty dire be paid.”

    To the revenue clerk I took me straight,
      And behold, as I looked, I heard
    A lot of fond fools at Uncle Sam’s gate,
      Despairing like a caged bird.

    The officer smiled, and I smiled out loud,
      For misery loves company;
    And the smiles were like beams that broke the cloud
      Of impending, rank perjury.

    The blanks I filled in from A to O,
      But omitted the “profits from sale”—
    I once grew rich with a plow and hoe,
      When a whistling boy and hale.

    In those olden days no kind of a tax
      For City or State revenue
    Was imposed on boys except a few whacks,
      But now they forever are due.

    I swore and I signed and in full I paid
      That puzzling tax return;
    Once more I laughed, and again I said,
      “’Tis always do, and you learn.”

    And now it is done, and thoroughly done,
      Halleluia, I’ll get there yet;
    But by all that’s good and true ’neath the sun,
      I swear that folly to forget.


IN FLORIDA

    They come from everywhere,
    By land, by sea and air,
    The old, the young and fair—
    And all without a care,
    In Florida.

    Just pause, my friend, and see
    The multitudes that be
    O’er lovely shore and lea;
    They reach from sea to sea,
    In Florida.

    Look at the aged one,
    Who shines like a little sun,
    And feels himself undone,
    If he played not golf and won,
    In Florida.

    His gouty feet must dance,
    His eye will look askance,
    And his mind make glad advance,
    To reach five score, perchance,
    In Florida.

    Yes, let him have his wish
    To feel the line’s quick swish,
    And catch his finest fish
    For his epicurean dish,
    In Florida.

    ’Tis here he makes the stride;
    There’s nothing he can’t ride,
    With a maiden by his side—
    Yet a few things must he hide,
    In Florida.

    The birds and trees here sing;
    The prigs and plants upspring,
    And each gets in the swing,
    With Nature all a-wing,
    In Florida.

    Behold, my friend, the youth,
    The forward, the uncouth;
    The gentle and their ruth,
    The beauty and the truth,
    In Florida.

    It’s like a moving stage,
    The folk of every age;
    No place nor cause for rage—
    Even workless have their wage—
    In Florida.

    Then see the females all;
    Alack! you rise or fall,
    Or else your heart forestall,
    In this moving, magic ball,
    In Florida.

    One great kaleidoscope,
    From silk to dirt and dope,
    From puppet to a pope,
    This passing throng of hope,
    In Florida.


TWO LITTLE ORPHANS

    Two orphans in the world are left,
    A brother and sister sighing;
    Two Vireos aggrieved, bereft,
    Two little orphans crying.

[Illustration: By the Author.]

    Close clinging to their cheerless nest,
    Two little birds are trying
    To call back joys of mother’s breast,
    A mother, lifeless lying.

    God’s two-fold plan for making song—
    Some fiend the while defying—
    And man’s two friends their whole life long;
    Two little orphans crying.

    No answer comes, save from the King,
    A King who’s aye supplying
    The needs of the great and smallest thing—
    His little orphans crying.

[Illustration: By Courtesy of Briscoe and Arnold.]


TROUBLE AND PLAY

    It’s trouble and gladness from first to the last,
    Ere joy is quite vanquished some sorrow comes fast;
    Yet while old Calamity’s having his way,
    For one that’s in trouble, there are others at play.

    What is play to the pup is grief to the child;
    What is fun for the boy makes mother go wild;
    Some deeds of the mother cause angels to weep;
    While God smiles over all, and all He doth keep.


SOME SMALL SURPRISES

    We never foreknow, but our hearts were a-glow,
    The hearts of Artena and I,
    As we walked to and fro by the waters a-flow,
    The waters in “the land of the sky.”

    The children see true—they generally do—
    The charming things all around;
    I followed her view, and I presently knew
    A Tanager’s nest was found.

    The boys advanced, as soon as they glanced,
    And down came the limb of a tree;
    Thus fortune chanced, while little hearts danced,
    With four wee fledglings to see.

    With noisy protest, and tumult and zest,
    The camera captured all four.
    ’Twas the parents’ sure test—they forsook the nest,
    Though birdlings a-weeping sore!

    I began to weep, in my heart quite deep,
    When the babes kept up their cry;
    I ran up the steep like a deer in a leap,
    For the best bird food supply.

    They reached and they tried; they ate and they cried,
    Till the four had eaten their fill;
    The mother aside still motherhood belied,
    And the heart in me struggled still.

    I learned in my youth, an old, new truth;
    ’Mongst men and beasts and birds,
    Some grow uncouth, nor ever show ruth;
    And for fools waste not your words.

    Filled oft to the beak, as the days made a week,
    The fledglings and I were friends,
    And over the creek the folk came to speak
    Of their beauty, their cuteness and ends.

    And all the hearts right grew more tender and bright,
    As the Tanagers grew apace;
    And those of insight, said, “The birds have a right
    To partake of our friendly grace.”


THE RHYTHM UNIVERSAL

    Give me thy music, O most musical One,
    The rhythm that rolls from yonder cycling sun;
    Yea more, as heart and soul of all that’s good,
    Thy nature gave in vaster plenitude;
    Nor time will ever be when thy glad stars
    Will cease to sing as one in rhythmic bars;
    Nor conscious sons of God go shouting joy;
    Nor woodland birds of song their loved employ.

          It’s in the very heart of things;
          It’s in our bounds and sweeps and swings;
          It’s in the tree and rose that springs—
          All Nature sings—— and—— sings.

    The heart of man, his coursing blood through veins;
    The very breath of life, his thoughts and reins;
    His dreams, devotions, deeds, his all, O soul,
    Or great or small beneath divine control.

    The gracious seasons roll in mighty numbers;
    The snow, the sleet but falls, that He who slumbers
    Not may again awake the earth to life
    And stay, for man and all, the winter’s strife.

    The raging storm, the great earthquake and war
    Are music bound, if we but see afar;
    From heart of heav’n to heart of hell—ah yes;
    The prince of darkness is beset, not less—
    ’Tis bars and feet, far-reaching leaps and falls,
    Through light not seen in His momentous calls.

    Consider Job—upright but proud—at last,
    By grinding fate, by every woe held fast,
    He turned to highest hills and King of all;
    And never more asked he, “_why such a fall?_”
    It was the rhythm of God through stops of sin;
    ’Twas His own anthems deep, without, within.

    Our Pilgrim fathers, banished by the fates,
    Brought out of many ills the United States;
    And through each crisis great of all known time,
    ’Tis God in love; ’tis music full sublime.

    At last the Lamb and Lion in song shall join;
    The Child and Wolf eternal riches coin;
    The Night shall sing to Day, and Day to Him,
    Who receives the plaudits of the seraphim.


THE STONE CROSSES AND THE FAIRIES

    (In Patrick County, Virginia, little stone crosses
        have been found and are yet obtainable. Jewelers
        of Roanoke and Martinsville, Va., assure inquirers
        that the Virginia “Fairy” or “Lucky” stones,
        discovered nowhere else in the world, have been a
        puzzle to scientists, and are being worn by some of
        the crowned heads of Europe. A bulletin of the
        U. S. Geological Survey speaks of them as “the most
        curious mineral found in the United States,” and
        calls them Staurolite or Fairy Stones.)

    In Virginia’s historic hills around a hallowed spot,
    There was born a mystic legend which ne’er shall be forgot;
    A story true to Nature and to One without a blot—
    The divinest story of old!

    For glory bright is round it, which has softened many a heart,
    A tale of wise and saintly ones, in universal art;
    A story mightiest with men now and ever mighty part
    It played in the races of old.

    We yet believe that angels must have wept and good men sighed,
    When Gallilee’s great Son with hateful spite was crucified;
    But who would ever dream the fairy spirits were allied
    In Heaven’s great scheme of old?

    Yet when these blithesome fays were dancing by a mountain spring,
    Ere the days of Pocahontas and Powhattan, the fearless King,
    In union with the naiads, an elfin, swift of wing,
    Came weeping from the East, of old.

    The story sad he told of Christ, the Saviour, and His Cross;
    Then joy and laughter sudden ceased, and grieving for their loss,
    They shed their tears upon the pebbles and on the velvet moss—
    A heaven moved grief of old.

    And lo, when they had flown from the enchanted spring and ground,
    Just where the tears had fallen on the pebbles lying round,
    The Fairy stony crosses by the thousand there were found,
    Sweet Nature’s crosses of old.

[Illustration: Note the crosses in this clod of earth.

Photographed in Patrick County, Va.]


THE SUN FLOWER

    ’Tis the flower that looms and turns to pure gold,
    Yes, the flower that loves, and is loved the best;
    For it plans from the first—this is love’s true test—
    To give forth its riches to young and to old.

    It o’er reaches men high with its shining crest,
    Yet never in climbing unduly bold—
    ’Tis the flower that looms and turns to pure gold,
    Yes, the flower that loves, and is loved, the best.

    The Gold Finches arrive as its petals unfold,
    And the Cardinal’s joy is manifest,
    As groom gives to bride the jolly behest
    To feast on its wealth and in her heart to hold
    The flower that looms and turns to pure gold,
    Yes, the flower that loves, and is loved, the best.


COLONEL DIAMOND AND GRAND-DAUGHTER

    I would like to attain to my four score and two,
    With a joy in my heart and with naught to efface,
    Could I dance, or could sing with an energy true,
    Could I lighten the load of the populace.
    I’d run out in the open for Nature’s embrace,
    With a mind ever high, yet my feet on the sod;
    While my soul would be set to the music of grace,
    With the heart of a child and the gifts of a god.

[Illustration: Photograph taken when he was 82 years of age.]

    My pursuit would be learning the old and the new;
    And whenever I could I would Psyche’s wings chase!
    I would speak of high art with my privileged few,
    And persuade men below to the nobler race;
    In the faith I’d rejoice that the world grows apace.
    I would skip on the mountain, or valley’s dull clod,
    Having plenty and power, or only an ace,
    With the heart of a child and the gifts of a god.

    I would rather, like Diamond, all the way through,
    Either poor, or unknown, or with glorious mace,
    Make somebody happy—ah, many and you!
    And the love of a child with my love interlace;
    Yes, content with my lot, and the righteous ukase.
    I would work and I’d play, but never more plod;
    A glad song in my heart, and a smile on my face,
    With the heart of a child and the gifts of a god.

                         Envoy

    Here’s to Diamond’s health, to the grand-daughter’s grace;
    They are under love’s sway, which surpasses the rod;
    So united and happy in every place,
    With the heart of a child and the gifts of a god.


THE WILD WOOD

    How wonderful the wild wood,
    The fresh sweet wood with its hush.
    Silent, my soul! Take thou the mood
    Of Veery and of Thrush,
    ’Way out in the wild wood.

    Give ear to hymn of oak and pine;
    Drink, my soul, drink deep;
    The master Muse would make it thine,
    But who can fully know the sweep
    Of music of the wild wood?

    Each tree sings low an old, new song,
    Softest lay of life and love;
    Unmarred by the daring, prattling throng
    Of rushing men—like a dove
    My soul in the wild wood.

    The honeysuckle and wild rose—
    Purity and balm a-bloom—
    Refresh my heart and they transpose
    My hungry mind to richer room
    And food in the wild wood.

    The violets with their upward look,
    The stones beneath my feet,
    Make one and all an open book;
    Ah, the meditations meet,
    With God in the wild wood.

    At length the sun puts on pure gold;
    The birds and breezes softer sing,
    List! all, within this shrine of old,
    Chime symphonies to the King—
    High mass in the wild wood!

[Illustration]


THE BEGINNING OF THINGS

    The beginning of things, the first of all men—
    It fascinates me, and I’ve wondered when
    And what and how the beginning of things.

    Jehovah the first, and Jehovah the last,
    But the wisest must think very deep and fast,
    To fix in his mind the first of all things.

    All creatures began in the heavens and earth;
    The sun and the moon and star had a birth;
    But when and where the beginning of things?

    Not yet is the answer, but I hope somewhere,
    With Christ and his saints and seraphim fair,
    To know more about the advent of things;

    To get better acquainted with Adam the first,
    To learn the true source of his deepest thirst,
    The wonderful truth of the beginning of things—

    The beginning of thought, and the primals of love;
    How a reptile became the soft cooing dove,
    And whence the beginning of all present things;

    The ape-grunt to a word, and that word a vast tongue,
    And whence the sweet music of mankind has sprung;
    Who struck the first note in the beginning of things?

    ’Tis an evolution great, and a marvel to me,
    But never have I prayed to our father up a tree;
    Aye, no man yet since the origin of things.

    The Alpha, Omega, the First, Last and Whole,
    Who, from the small first, had foreseen the vast goal,
    He only knows now the beginning of things.

    But will He not somewhere permit me to know,
    If I go on with Him in the eternal flow,
    The satisfying truth of the first of all things?


THE END OF THINGS

    The aim of the heavens, the end of the earth—
    What a measureless sweep, what a mighty girth,
    From the far off first to the end of all things!

    The end of the rose, which fades in a day,
    The purpose of the plant an age on the way—
    I dream of Beauty in the end of things.

    The end of all men, and the end of myself,
    From the artist great to the smallest elf,
    Our thoughts and our deeds in the end of things.

    The fate of the infants who die without ken,
    Of their growth and knowledge, God’s super-men—
    What developments vast in the end of things!

    The issue of thousands and millions of slain,
    The end of all wars, and the victor’s sure gain—
    There’s a league worth while, toward the end of things;

    A league of the nations, the long coming star
    The prophets of old fore-glimpsed from afar,
    A brotherhood true toward the close of things.

    The last of the martyr, who passed with a prayer,
    The last for the felon, who died in despair—
    All good and all ill in the end of things?

    We know but in part, yet co-workers are we
    In a scheme as complete as eternity—
    In the far off final, and fulfillment of things.

    It delights one to think, we’re only in school,
    That our joys and our woes do not mean mis-rule,
    In God’s plan for the race to the end of things.

    In this purpose of His the rose will uncover;
    In its family great we’ll at length discover
    The sweet Rose of Sharon, the completion of things;

    In the plants by the waters, that quicken and die,
    But give out their riches unstinted, nor sigh,
    The Lily of the Valley, the Goal of all things.

    The song of the Thrush and of plaintive Nightingale
    Will merge with the Master’s glorious “all hail,”
    In harmony perfect in the end of things.

    St. John, the inspired, saw horses in heaven,
    And I love to believe even they will be given
    Some happier part in the end of all things.

    The best of our words and our ways here forgot
    Will be gathered and treasured in a hallowed lot,
    Exalted in place at the end of things—

    God’s men as the angels and angels as men,
    Ah, the little child too shall be received then,
    In love of the Highest, in the end of all things.


WHEN THE JUNCO COMES

    The Junco comes when warblers go,
    When leaves lay dead by a dauntless foe;
    Ay, winter plans with all his might
    To put in a grave the heart’s delight,
    And cover all with a shroud of snow.

    But seasons have a rhythmic flow,
    With good in each, and this I know,
    Through storm and sleet, in cheerful flight,
    The Junco comes.

    This bonny bird has faith to show
    To faithless mortals, fearing woe,
    How the changeless One, with a changing light
    Fore-plans for bird and man aright;
    With autumn gone and winter here—lo,
    The Junco comes!


JAMES BRADLEY JACKSON

    (Written beside his grave in Lake City, Fla., where he
        was buried after a tragic death, February 8, 1868,
        by railroad accident.

    Dr. Lovick Pierce, when in his prime, once facetiously
        remarked to several opposing preachers: “My
        brethren, you had better let brother Jackson alone.
        He has the most metaphysical mind of any man in
        Georgia, myself only excepted.”

    Rev. W. J. Scott, D. D., in “Biographic Etchings” says
        of contemporary ministers: “Not one of them was his
        equal as a theologian or logician.”

    The late Dr. W. J. Cotter, of Newnan, Ga., wrote: “Your
        father was a great and good man.”)

    Father, O my father!
    Attend unto the cry
    Of this, thy son,
    And, though long silent and invisible,
    Speak thou to me.

    I stand with uncovered head,
    ’Neath giant water oaks,
    Thy sleepless body-guard,
    Supporting emblems of eternal mourning,
    The clinging mosses at half mast,
    Nature’s weepers;
    Now still, now softly chanting, now waving,
    While sympathetic zephyrs flow,
    And give them kiss of comfort as they pass—
    Calling all, like my hungry heart,
    For thee!

    Victimized thy body,
    Thy very bones were mangled,
    Long since done to dust,
    Exalted dust, once indwelt by Deity,
    Assuring foretaste of higher life.

    In towering oak a mocking-bird doth sing,
    Not doleful dirge,
    Nor requiem for the hopeless dead,
    But sonatas pure sings he of life and love,
    This receiving and out-giving Psyche of every wandering note,
    The Sidney Lanier ’mongst birds of the sunny South,
    His own “trim Shakespeare on a tree”—
    The oak, the moss, the bird and I,
    Above all Jehovah, the life of all,
    Proclaim thee ever-living,
    And glorified.

    I cry unto thee, ascended sire;
    Hearest thou me?
    Conscious of thy child’s communion?
    Meetest thou me as son or spirit?
    Yea; closer now than as tender offspring of thy loins,
    I sat upon thy knee, inquirer and receiver,
    In the long ago.

    Yet fettered I by frailties of the flesh,
    With poor and halting language of mortal men,
    Miserable makeshift, the spirit’s aphasia,
    This spoken or written word—
    I will fight through fetters all and fly!
    Mine is the inarticulate cry of love,
    Plea of a son’s aspiring heart.
    Made more and more apt and musical
    By what thou wast and art,
    During all thy crowning years.

    Again I see thy imaged face, O master man;
    Thy penetrating eye, that reads from soul to soul—
    Stern, inflexible;
    Yet merciful thou, and gentle with men.
    I wonder what thou hast become;
    What thoughts, what plans, achievements now?
    But three short months in a fourth-rate school,
    At twenty spelling and struggling on
    Through the Book Divine,
    Making marvelous mistakes and ludicrous—[14]
    What man or angel climbed from less to more?
    What god?

    Once teacher, tender, patient, firm;
    A preacher powerful of the Gospel everlasting;
    College president; thinker, deep and rare,
    Holding and molding many from thy conquered heights!

    Whose soul ever sang oratorios
    Sweeter, richer in the hierarchy of
    Being and becoming?
    Who ever possessed more wondrous will,
    Power uppermost in God and man?

    Thou didst express God-begotten longing
    To return and be guide to some lone, weary one—
    It is I—prayer proven.
    Oft and again thy fond fatherhood,
    One with the eternal Father,
    Who sends forth His spirits as ministers,
    Has converted my weakness into strength,
    My loneliness to fellowship free,
    My doubt and darkness to lovely light,
    My cup of bitterness to blessing—
    What father still, and guardian angel thou!

    Thy spirit ineluctable
    Lives, and reigns, and rises ever;
    Delving deeper, more divinely
    Into glories of love and service;
    High above the maddening marts of men,
    Of dire machines, for murder built,
    That sow and reap the woes of war.

    O immortal man, high grown saint and prophet,
    Beloved father, I come—ere long, I come!
    Even now and here, earth-bound as I am, I rise
    To meet and greet thee,
    In God’s pure heights,
    And thine!

[14] Struggling with that simple passage—“This is the heir; come, let
us kill him”—he rendered it, “This is the hair-comb, let us kill him;”
and hence reached his logical interpretation, which is left to the
imagination of the reader.

[Illustration: This old mansion in Stokes County, N. C., was seven
years in being built by its owner, Col. John Martin, who was the
great-grandfather of Judge W. P. Bynum of Greensboro, N. C. Photo by
the Author.]


A STORY OF COLONIAL TIMES

(With a historical basis never before published.)

    Ride back, my children, in the chariot of Time,
    A hundred and sixty-five years;
    And we’ll join a fond father, a hero sublime—
    A maiden is pleading in tears!

    She was seized by the Tories at a bold mountain spring,
    Soon after refusing her heart,
    To one who belonged to the enemy’s ring,
    A foreign and haughty up-start.

    Away thru the mountains they carried the maid
    To their secret and darksome den;
    And there the pure daughter of Martin was laid,
    The captive of merciless men.

[Illustration: The “rock ribbed pen” in which Miss Martin was placed by
the Tories. Photograph by author.]

    She’s pleading with them, but her cries are in vain;
    They’ve bound her secure and fast;
    And vowed she should never see Martin again—
    And the lover, “You’re mine at last.”

    Her sleep has departed, her food is refused,
    But unto the Father she prayed;
    While the body of thieves are greatly amused,
    Near a glowing fire they’ve made.

    A brave of the friendly Saura tribe
    Soon heard of the stolen girl;
    To Martin he went without thought of a bribe,
    With plans that proved him no churl.

    To the top of his mansion the father flew,
    A mansion of solid gray stone;
    It’s standing yet—and ’twas years that it grew—
    A tower defiant, though lone.

    The two anxious men looked near and afar,
    And at length a glimmer was seen,
    A gleam far away, like a dim fallen star,
    A token of promising sheen.

    A compass was set, that infallible guide;
    At sunrise it pointed the way,
    When the father and friend, alert by his side,
    Made a silent, complete survey.

    While they searched through the wood some fragments were found,
    Torn threads of a girl’s scarlet shawl,
    Lying hither and yon on the virgin ground—
    Faint hope of success was all.

    Now at length a full score of Tories is spied,
    At the mouth of their cave with guns—
    “Down, still!” said Martin, “a moment we’ll hide,
    Then away for our friends and our sons.”

    Two score are secured and each man is well armed;
    They approach the Tories’ dark cave;
    But the thieves are alert as well as alarmed,
    Before men so mighty and brave.

    Quick shots are exchanged—the maiden still prays;
    All the Tories but three take flight,
    And these are bound fast, and in Heaven’s own ways,
    There’s rapture and holy delight.

    Ah, ne’er such a kiss and ne’er such embrace,
    ’Twixt Martin and only daughter;
    For the gold of the hills, and the wealth of the race,
    Could not, for all, have bought her.

    The Tories still flee, the seven and ten,
    Pursued thru the Sauratown hills,
    ’Till the last is destroyed or safe in a pen,
    And the lovers had a feast that fills.


CUM ON WID YER MONEY FUR ME

    I’m pore an’ bline, but I shore kin sing;
    And I lubs to hear dat silver ring,
    So cum on wid yer money fur me.

    Yer knows, white folks, a nigger’s pore chance;
    An’ de best I kin do is ter sing an’ dance;
    Now cum on wid yer money fur me.

    Fill up dat cup an’ run hit ober,
    An’ I’ll be full like a sheep in de clober;
    So cum on wid yer money fur me.

    Dar neber wuz er pull like de money pull,
    An’ meny’s bin de day since mer cup wuz full—
    O cum on wid yer money fur me!

    While mer song do er about like ole Jim Crow,
    Yer hearts will be happy an’ oberflow,
    Ef yer cum on wid yer money fur me.

    So cum er-long, cum er long an stan’ er round;
    Let smiles on ebery face be found,
    An’ cum on wid yer money fur me.

    While I’se jes a nigger, pore an’ bline,
    Dis shore am de song of yore race an’ mine;
    _O cum on wid yer money fur me!_

[Illustration: Snapped by the Author in Tampa, Fla.]


GOOD OUT OF EVIL

    O God of power great and endless love,
    While dwelling in immensity above.
    On highest throne of all, of life and light;
    Yet comest down thou gently in thy might,
    To succor of the low and heavy laden,
    And on thou leadest to a peaceful haven.

    ’Tis ever thine to bring forth love from hate,
    O Christ, eternal Wisdom, incarnate;
    All good from evil, health from all our pain;
    From darkness light—so be it always plain
    To men and devils: _Thou alone art king_;
    And highest in all worlds thy praises ring!

    Afar Thou dost foresee the certain end.
    And cause the strife of nations mad to bend
    Their worst, their artful plan and utmost deed,
    To bless thine own and be thy servant’s meed;
    Rich peace from war; high Heaven from utter hell;
    O what a God is ours—let angels tell!


CHRISTMAS

    Ho, children, ho!
      Ring loud the bells,
    In town and dells;
      And gladly go,
    Thru ice and snow,
      For mistletoe,
    With merry bells!

    Come, welcome Santy,
      In his reindeer sleigh,
    On the King’s highway—
      He’s never scanty—
    So children, ho!
      For mistletoe,
    With jingling bells!

    Of Christ we’ll sing,
      With glad acclaim,
    And steadfast aim,
      His praises ring—
    O children, go,
      For mistletoe,
    With joyful bells!

    Come young, come old!
      Those only live
    Who love to give,
      With hearts of gold,
    All people, ho!
      For mistletoe,
    With dancing bells!

[Illustration: MISTLETOE. Photo by the Author.]


MRS. JOSEPHINE F. HAMILL[15]

    When I see her face to face,
    At home a-front the rolling sea,
    A buoyant tide of life flows over me,
    With quickened, joyful pace.

    A breath from perfumed hills I inbreathe
    That is purer than the breeze
          From sun-lit seas;
    And I perceive a beauty incarnate,
    Not far below the gifted gods,
          Who for others mediate,
          And to men bequeathe
    The best from Him immaculate.

          She is a symphony,
    A living, moving harmony,
    Where doomed discord would rampant be;
    Face to be studied like Art’s masterpiece, and more,
    For somehow it charms one beyond self and toil and the beaten shore.

          If I cannot tell,
          Nor explain the spell,
          In my own heart’s depths
              I know why
    She has eyes that image, please and edify.

    In smiles which come and go and quick return,
    I feel the ebb and flow of a fuller Fount and vaster,
          The symbols visible of unseen verities,
              For which I yearn,
    And those high born, universal sympathies,
    Pouring ever forth from the highest Master.

    Her altruistic thoughts and every word,
    Like the spontaneous out-burst of a joy-filled bird,
      Looking near and far to lighten human needs—
      More fruitful than Pomona are her deeds—
    All these point to heights where one’s transferred,
        Softly, safely, faster.

    Her life is one of many links and spans,
        Unbroken and unbreakable—
    For joyless mortals joy unspeakable—
    Forged links, not made with human hands,
    In mystery joining together heaven and earth,
    Till the day of fullness and our greatest birth,
                Day of fulfillment,
                And at-one-ment.
                    And then?
                    _Ah Then!_

[15] This beautiful character and other proven friends described in
these pages measure up to the standard now, as the author sees it and
them—yet the coveted ideal rises ever higher as we press on toward the
Highest. C. J.


A CHICK’S CRY

    At lone midnight, with only the light
      Of stars across my bed,
      And on my wakeful head,
    I prayed for sight, or note though slight,
      Of moving melody.

    ’Twas then I heard the call of a bird,
      A soft, pathetic cry;
      It seemed to ask: “Oh, why,
    My pleading word is not yet heard,
      And I forsaken be?”

    A motherless chick, and my heart grew quick;
      My youngest, sleeping, dreaming girl,
      With tender heart and eye like pearl,
    Had played love’s trick, when hale or sick,
      A devoted mother she.

    With night’s last wane, I heard life’s strain—
      A woodland warbler’s song.
      The child arose ere long
    With love so fain; I caught again
      Rich rhythm of amity.

    The chick’s cry ceased—’twas now a feast,
      And note of joy it spoke
      To the motherly master-stroke—
    Glory in the east for the very least,
      And smiled the Deity.

    On man’s wide sea there come to me
      Still deeper wails; oh, hark!
      The children cry—’tis dark!
    Ah, when shall we on earth decree
            Divinest ecstasy?


THE KID AND THE COP[16]

[Illustration: The illustrations courtesy of Kodakery.]

    He came to a stop, from the hailing cop,
      The Kid ’neath the apple tree;
    And then the cop went “over the top,”
      Pronouncing his decree.

    “Oh yes, ha, ha, a thief you are!
      Come tell me quick your name;
    Your fun I’ll mar without a scar,
      And scribble it down—for fame.”

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

    The Kiddie smiled, like a guileless child;
      “Have one, it’s awfully nice.”
    Thus reconciled, the cop grew mild,
      Beholding the Kid’s device.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

    He seized with joy the fruit and boy,
      With both of them enraptured;
    “You human toy, you’re some decoy,
      For now you have me captured.”

[16] The illustrations by courtesy of Kodakery.


THE OVER-FAVORED AND THE CHANCELESS CHILD

    The favored child was loved indeed
      By father, mother, city and state—
    All glad to give the highest meed,
      The child they’ve blest both soon and late.
      Another child did men berate,
    And now and then they brought to shame;
      They saw and caused a cruel Fate
    To damn this child with a felon’s name.

    The happy child of Fortune’s breed
      For mind and body had fullest plate;
    Of noble flesh, an elect seed,
      The child they’ve blest both soon and late.
      The chanceless child they chose to hate,
    To hinder hands that would reclaim—
      Ah, even moved some magistrate
    To damn this child with a felon’s name.

    The well-led boy should take the lead,
      Have free and ever a high estate—
    ’Twas rank injustice to impede
      The child they’ve blest both soon and late.
      The wayward child could ne’er be great,
    And so ’twas meet his mind to flame,
      And just his doom to accelerate,
    To damn this child with a felon’s name.

                     Envoy

    They all sped him to Heaven’s gate,
    The child they’ve blest both soon and late.
    And the godless waif? ’Twas Hell’s deep aim,
    To damn this child with a felon’s name.


THE SLANDERER

    Of all things vile beneath the sky,
    By night or day that creep or fly;
    The spider, bedbug, hated louse;
    Or close-coiled rattler, gnawing mouse;

    The buzzard, skunk, or murderous mink,
    Hyena mean, whose eye doth blink—
    Wherever one may rest or wander,
    The vilest he who breedeth slander.

    The rattler warns you—jump or run,
    Or give him battle with stick or gun!
    The skunk offends you—let him go;
    He takes his choice ’twixt friend and foe.

    The blackest buzzards often use
    Some others’ victim or refuse.
    Bedbugs—Bah! Such creeping things
    Do basely vex; still we are kings.

    Hyenas are caged or far away;
    The mice entrapped by night and day.
    But Slanderer’s base and slimy word
    Is fouler far than beast or bird.

    Infectious doubt injects he first,
    And defamation’s not his worst;
    His victim says: “I’m stript of fame;
    If felon then, I’ll play the game.”

    Thus some decide; and who may tell
    The dirty depths of this fiend of hell?
    And there he’ll go, upwept, unsung—
    The vilest monster yet unhung!


THE WORLD’S GREATEST EGOTIST

    He made his earth, and scaled his lofty sky;
      He spread abroad his universal sea;
    He climbed his visioned mountains, towering high,
      The cause and course of Wisdom he’d decree.

    ’Gainst man’s accurst and weary, ill-formed world,
      All rent apart by fools and their divisions,
    His burning anathemas he ever hurled,
      His direst doom, and his divine decisions.

    No other man, through years and cycles run,
      Was bold enough to say: “God is dead”;
    Of all great men, philosopher but one,
      Thyself, alone, and madness seized thy head!

    O thou, most blatant babbler, Friedrich Nietzsche,
    How thou didst snuffle—how thou didst sneeze thee!


LITTLE RIVER ROYAL

[Illustration: NEW RIVER, FORT LAUDERDALE, FLA.

Snap Shot by the Author.]

    Close nestling on thy bosom, all dreamy and serene,
    Thy charms I feel in all their flood, and never ending scheme;
    Thy gifts so manifold are of fullest life and love;
    Contented guests within three live as in the air above.

    I hear thy praises chorused in the king-fisher’s rattle,
    In giant alligator sigh, who prefers his peace to battle;
    He sinks beneath thy bosom in perfect ease and calm,
    And there within thy shielding heart he sings his grateful psalm

    The mullet and the tarpon, the swift and tremulous trout,
    Dash eagerly to mount thy wave, and lithely splash about,
    To manifest their joy in thee and their abounding life,
    So glad bestowed on them by thee, so free from doubtful strife.

    The mocking-bird and robin both join their sweetest song
    With the lowly rune of river flow, alluring, deep and long;
    The eagle-hawk doth watch thee with close, unblinking eye,
    And for his profit plunges swift, then soars up toward the sky.

    The trim blue heron in thy waves doth lave his weary feet;
    From thy cooling water takes his food and feels himself complete
    And thou art ever ready to let the mallard ride,
    And comfort, too, the mourning dove, who slumbers by thy side.

    That charming bird, the cardinal, in his imperial red,
    Himself in thee doth contemplate, and unto thee is wed.
    And legion are thy lovers—a noble stream thou art!
    And all the more thou givest free the richer is thy part.

    The palm and the palmetto, the lily, dainty sweet,
    Their homage humbly before thee bring, and lay it at thy feet;
    The water oak that thirsteth, towering long-leaf pine
    Drink gratefully thy water pure and sing a praise that’s thine.

    Ah, way-worn mortals turn to thee to worship and abide;
    The white winged boats are drawn to thee on every swelling tide;
    For thru thy whole long journey it’s always give and give—
    What a multitude of creatures thou dost make to live!

    At last thyself thou givest wholly to out-spreading bay;
    It beareth thee to shining sea—how wonderful thy way!
    With parting kiss to earth, thou risest to thirsty sun,
    Who praiseth thee and hasteth thee—another race to run.


GIVE ME BOTH

[Illustration: The nearest water supply to the Tories’ Den.

(See pages 53-55). Photo by Author.]

    The glad wild hills,
      With rushing rills,
    Are clothed with glory—
      The old, old story,
          Yet new,
    In the everlasting hills.

    In mountain majesties,
      And highborn ecstasies,
    Fresh strength may be,
      And balm for me
          And you,
    In the glad, wild hills.

    Then in surf and sea,
      With youthful glee—
    While waves are dashing,
      And swimmers splashing
          Around
    In the ever-changing sea;

    With wavelets dancing,
      The tide advancing;
      Breezes kissing—
      Ah, no one missing
          Life’s bound,
    In the wild waves of the sea.


MANIFOLD BEAUTY AND THE MAN

[Illustration]

    It is beautiful to be young,
      When youth grows wise at length;
    It is beautiful to be strong,
      With gentleness in strength.

    It is beautiful to grow old,
      When the heart remaineth young;
    It is beautiful to be brave,
      When mercy’s note is sung.

    It is beautiful to be good,
      If filled with knowledge true;
    And service is beautiful,
      When service maketh new.

    There is beauty in men’s laugh,
      When laugh the pure in heart;
    It is beautiful to be bright,
      With wit for noblest art.

    ’Tis beautiful to see the sun,
    And Nature in her courses run;
    The wild and healing mountains,
      And overflowing fountains;
      Her blue unbounded sky,
      Which oceans glorify—

    Her silver spray of waterfall;
    Eternal rocks, both large and small;
      The heavenly hue
      Of diamond dew,
      On sun-kissed flower,
      In morn’s high hour.

    Beauteous to see the sunset’s glory;
    God’s secret read in the deep-laid story;
      The sleep of butterfly,
      From death to life and why;
      Jehovah’s predilection,
      In every resurrection.

    How beauteous in music of the stars to lave,
    With song of the sea from ever rolling wave,
      And note of woodland thrush,
      Which gives the heart its hush;
      Pipe of oriole—
      O Beauty of the whole!

    In sweet, divine content,
    May mortals ever sing,
    The anthems of the soul,
    The beauties of the King.

    Ah, Beauty is for all,
    If Truth but disenthrall—,
    O, yes, ’tis Heaven’s plan,
    For Beauty in the man.


CHIMNEY ROCK[17]

    Mysterious offspring, rugged son of Fire,
    Born from the depths before the birth of years,
    When burdened mothers would not grieve nor tire,
    And fathers all forbade the cringing fears;
    But listened there some one with painful ears,
    And the mighty throes foredoomed some heart to pine.
    But seen, thy solid form and brow so fine—
    Ah, then, who dares to feebly pine or mock?
    Men drink, for forthwith flows a mystic wine,
    When they thy glory see, eternal Chimney Rock.

[Illustration: Photo by the Author.]

    Of mountains round about thee some rise higher,
    Yet none of them, both near and far, thy peers;
    And none of them are led to hate and ire;
    I rather think they greet thee with good cheers;
    Thy plaudits ring from a multitude of seers,
    For thou dost serve for all as Nature’s shrine.
    What cynic looks, and yields his pent-up whine?
    At once he joins the throng which round thee flock;
    No mountain, man or god could thee decline,
    When they thy glory see, eternal Chimney Rock.

    I trust I know and love thy primal Sire,
    But purer love and lore when twilight clears,
    When men and I shall climb a nobler spire,
    And all of hate and horror disappears,
    With wail and woe of war and cruel spears;
    When wolf and lamb shall side by side recline—
    O, be it mine to stand secure, yes mine,
    Without the thought of harm or deadly shock,
    In that glad day and time, as ever thine,
    When they thy glory see, eternal Chimney Rock.

                       Envoy

    How humble the stream-fed valleys round thee twine;
    How praiseful, too, as deep they interline
    Thy mates so high, more constant than a clock—
    On thee the very gods come down to dine,
    When they thy glory see, eternal Chimney Rock!

[17] In the mountains of North Carolina.


THE ELEPHANT DANCE

[Illustration]

    While reaching for sixty I played a child’s game,
    But I leaped to the front in the elephant dance.
    From earliest years overlooked by Fame,
    While reaching for sixty I played a child’s game.
    Old dignified friends, who are more or less lame,
    Think me monstrous and strange, in search of mischance—
    While reaching for sixty I played a child’s game,
    But I leaped to the front in the elephant dance.


LEAST YET GREATEST

    We long for thy kingdom, O little child,
    Thy kingdom of trust with a reign so mild;
    No soaring eagle e’er mounted such crest,
    As thou, high enthroned on thy fond mother’s breast;
    And, like the sweet song of some innocent bird
    Thy cooing is Love reaching after a word.


OLD SHIP CHURCH

[Illustration: Old Ship Church, (First Parish), Hingham, Mass., built
in 1681, said to be the oldest church in the United States, where
continuous services have been held.]

    Be mine thy throb of pulsing heart, Old Ship,
    When sermon, song and prayer were wont to hold
    And guide the fathers, pioneers of old;
    The men who held the truth with steadfast grip—

    Thine own appeal to God from heart and lip,
    Inspired by earnest men, who ne’er cajoled,
    Who sang their hymns within that saintly fold,
    With all their worship free from vulgar slip.

    Old Ship, the Church, that made the ship of State,
    Who trained aright thy maidens and thy lads,
    And lived thy simple life, all free from fads,
    Thou madest America beloved and great.
    Sail on, Old Ship, and sweep the farthest sea,
    And save the souls of men eternally.


TO THE MEN OF THE PRESS

    Here’s to the fellows who scribble with pen,
    A busy and buoyant bunch of expert men;
    They tell what’s what, and what the thing is for,
    From a woman’s hair pin to a world-wide war.


MOTHER INDEED

    What word among the sons of men
      So uppermost as mother?
    What soothing carol ever sung
      So musical as mother?
    What poem ever came from pen,
      So comforting as mother?
    What acme of our human tongue
      So eloquent as mother?

    Answer, deed of fondest lover,
      Answer, men of boasted creed;
    Who or what may rise above her—
      If she be a mother indeed?


NATHAN O’BERRY

    Give me the man that’s trustful and bright,
    The man with a soul and a heart that’s right,
    Who laughs at trouble and is always cheery;
    And one such man is Nathan O’Berry.

    When friends come around, or gloomy or sad,
    And another along both worried and mad,
    Just watch those fellows, as all grow merry,
    In company with brave Nathan O’Berry.

    When the stream gets high and a man must cross,
    Yet he knows not how, without serious loss,
    There’s one to be found with his good old ferry
    To carry him over, ’tis Nathan O’Berry.

    He’s a man who gives for the love of giving;
    ’Tis Heaven’s sweet way—high loving and living—
    The man whose wife in her heart calls “deary”—
    Ah, bless the Lord for Nathan O’Berry!

[Illustration: Photo by T. P. Robinson, Orlando, Fla.]


THE BISHOP’S GARDEN

(Based on what was seen around the home of Bishop Cameron Mann,
Orlando, Fla.)

    “Come into my garden,” said the Bishop unto me;
    ’Tis the greatest little garden that ever you may see.
    Behold a sturdy phalanx of the giant bamboo,
    Which defends the garden’s side in valiant line and true,
    And yonder bunch of bamboo is the prouder Japanese,
    The equal in beauty of the trimmest of the trees.

    “My delight is in the palm, the pride of sunny tropics,
    The tree in all Nature for the poet’s varied topics;
    I here have them all but the gorgeous royal palm—
    King Frost is oft unfriendly to his majesty’s balm.

    “And consider, if you please, that rare Australian Oak,
    Standing there so lonely, like the greatest of the folk;
    And the other generous fellow, the noble camphor tree,
    Gives peace and health and hope to many a bird and me.

    “I am sure you must admire my good Banhania plant,
    With all the grace and beauty which she doth ever grant;
    She’s not unlike a mother who must protect her own;
    Her buds she close infolds when dangers are fore-known.

    “My lovely Jacaranda changes Nature’s plan,
    As the unlike woman, or like the wilful man,
    The blossoms coming first, its verdant foliage last,
    But its loveliness in May time will hold you firm and fast.

    “And see the running roses, hugging close my home;
    They clasp my heart so sweetly that it never more may roam.
    Burbank has none that’s better than my purest Cherokee,
    With its dainty white so spotless, and his naive simplicity.

    “And here is the Phevitia, and there the Bottle Brush,
    The Myrtle bloom so solemn, and now I can but blush—
    The Holy Spirit’s plant, my very humblest flower,
    That worships the gracious Father from his lowly bower.

    “Now take your fill of orange, of grape-fruit and of lime;
    Your choice, sir, of the kumquat, or the loquart in its prime.”
    “Oh, my good sir,” cried I, with gladdest heart and head,
    “’Tis Heaven’s own ante-chamber, this brightest Bishop-stead.”


MY TRIOLET

    Because you like a triolet,
    And joy of youth and love and life,
    Ah sure, the child you’ll not forget
    Because you like a triolet.
    Then soon, ah soon, your wits you’ll whet,
    And do your best to get a wife,
    Because you like a triolet,
    And joy of youth and love and life.

[Illustration: Photo by the Author.]


YE BONNY BOYS

    Ye bonny boys, and fellows brave,
      Who ever shun grim Death’s decoys,
      And all the habits that enslave
          Ye bonny boys.

    So play with duties as with toys,
    The higher heights sincerely crave,
    Conscious of being the King’s envoys.

    Yes, rise on care as cork on wave,
    And climb and climb to nobler joys;
    Yet richest heritage, what ye gave,
          Ye bonny boys.


A BALLADE TO THE GIRLS

    Away with frowns—away with groans!
    And give me the girls who are glad and free;
    For the wails of woman, they weaken my bones,
    And make of a man a quick refugee;
    Or else he retorts with a sharp repartee.
    And give me the smiles of joy and beauty,
    The fellowship joined in a long jubilee—
    Yes, the girls who live for love and duty.

    It costs but a little to make such loans,
    And dunce is the man who dares disagree.
    They’re better than riches and glittering thrones;
    They’re better for all and better for thee.
    Then scatter the smiles from sea to sea,
    Less fleeting than fame and more than booty.
    O give me the ones in perpetual glee,
    Yes, the girls who live for love and duty.

    The wise man his frowns ever gladly postpones,
    And gives of his strength to you and to me;
    His sorrow and woe he forever disowns—
    The mortal like him treads a Heaven-lit lea,
    And the out-lying goal is pleasant to see.
    The fellow that frowns is ugly and sooty;
    Ah, save me from him, for the good guarantee,
    Yes, the girls who live for love and duty.

                     Envoy

    All praise to the girls who are busy as a bee,
    But fie to the man who’s stoney and rooty;
    And the fellow as well who’s too fond of his fee—
    Yes, the girls who live for love and duty.


A MOUNTAIN TOP VIEW

    Escaping the town with its dust and din,
    A wayfarer was asked to come within
    A lovely home on a mountain height,
    To rest awhile and be sated with sight
    Of the beauties within and glories without,
    That ever encircle far-famed Lookout.

    From city to summit the walk was far,
    But gliding along in the trolley car,
    Forsaking the valley and climbing the side,
    The city was distanced in a two-fold stride;
    Its smoke rolled beneath, its din died away,
    With toilers’ tramp at the closing day.

[Illustration: Part of Chattanooga and Lookout Mountain.]

    This home was “La Brisa;” for pure mountain air
    Played around its sides and its frontage fair,
    Uplifting yet higher the travel-worn guest,
    As he feasted to the full, and enjoyed sweet rest;
    While music came forth and fellowship flowed—
    With lofty delights the company glowed.

    The low-lying city became all ablaze
    With myriad lights and their countless rays,
    The moon and the stars were reigning above,
    While far-twinkling lights threw kisses of love
    To wayfarer and friends, caught up between
    The city of light and the heavens serene.

    Ah, ’tis mountain top views that enrich the dull earth,
    Where high hopes and deeds have divinest birth;
    Where Abram and Moses and prophets of old
    The evil and good, yea the best foretold.
    And men even now must mount the high hills
    To inspire them beneath with conquering wills.

    Here the church up-rose and “the old ship of State,”
    Here angels meet men that listen and wait;
    The King from his throne will deign to come down
    To acclaim his own, and with glory crown
    The soul sincere, who cries from his heart
    For some new song—some high born art.

    At last the dust and the din of earth’s way
    Will shine in rapture of our toiling day;
    The narrow path trod, the rugged way too,
    Will glow with a beauty we never knew,
    In the coming new Morn on the Mountain fair,
    Translated with Christ in his glorified air.


ONE AGED JOHN SMITH AND HIS YOUTHFUL CONFESSIONS

    Your smiles and love you freely lend—
    How old are you, my jolly friend?
    “Just seventy-three; but pray don’t tell;
    A widower I, out for a spell.
    The pretty girls, I love them all;
    They bounce my heart like a rubber ball;
    One moment I rise and the next I fall—
    I cannot help it.”

    “I loved my wife who’s dead and gone,
    In the distant days my paragon—
    She used to say, ‘O quit your looking,’
    But in spite of her, my neck kept crooking
    Around to feast upon the lovely face,
    The perfect figure full of grace—
    It never seemed to me so base—
    I told my wife, sir;
    I couldn’t help it.”

    “If God himself told me to quit it,
    I’d say, O slay me! or else permit it.
    The smiling face, the enchanting eye,
    The rosy cheek of the maiden shy—
    They grip me, sir, with hooks of steel;
    My eyes run fast; my brain will reel,
    And my heart will feel—
    Frankly, sir, I cannot help it.”

    “’Tis true, my teeth went long ago;
    Now painless ones I have, you know.
    Yet I visit oft in my tar-heel town
    A store and a girl in a showy gown,
    To buy her gum and soothing smile;
    You scarce believe me, it’s many a mile
    I thus have trod with loving guile—
    And one day laughing my teeth fell down,
    In her presence, sir,
    I could not help it.”

    “That winsome girl who serves our table—
    I vow that I am quite unable
    To keep my eyes from following her,
    As tail doth horse, ’neath whip and spur;
    I’m honest sir;
    I cannot help it.

    “My little dog—he’s just a fice—
    Returns my love, his paradise.
    I brought him down to Florida;
    But the finest dog in all America
    Can’t take the place of a girl so sweet—
    From crown to sole of her dainty feet,
    My love’s complete—
    And, it’s all the truth, sir,
    I cannot help it.”

    “Just seventy-three—
    ’Tis plenty for me,
    I wish it were less,
    But nevertheless this girl of eighteen
    Could rule me as queen;
    And have all I possess,
    For her sweetest caress—
    Sir, by the Lord and His goodness,
    I cannot help it!”


AN ODE ON WOODROW WILSON AND THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS

I.

    In all the cycles past the good and wise
      Have dreamed of Wisdom’s way;
          The prophets’ eyes
        Could see, and they foretold the day,
      The glory of the coming paradise;
    And higher far than lofty prophets bold,
          In every stage
          Of human rage,
    The God of hosts hath willed his vast, united fold.

[Illustration:

    Congressman Upshaw, after a personal appeal to Mr.
    Wilson on February 17, 1923, wired the author:
    “Hard to overcome fixed rule of former President,”
    in refusing his photograph and autograph for
    publication; but we have the pleasure of presenting
    both to his friends.
]

II.

    And poets great have felt the need,
      As plain they saw the greed
    Of men and nations waging war,
      They knew not why, yet brothers all.
    Their voice is heard from heights afar;
    They tell us why the peoples rise and fall;
      They sang and on the hill tops wrought,
      While dupe and knave went down;
    They knew the last of Folly’s battles would be fought.

III.

    Obstructionists abide, alas in State,
      The demagogue and fool,
      The dullard in his school,
    Who far behind the generation plods,
    Yet at God’s leader casts rough stones and clods—
      Wise men foresee their fate.
    Without insight they still refuse to follow
    The men inspired, high Heaven’s men;
    Preferring far their narrow ken,
    To vaunt themselves, though cause of fearful sorrow.
      The while the great move on
      In God’s high road,
      With heavy load;
    Becoming weary and living lone,
    Oft forced to suffer and to moan—
      At last to die!
    But Heaven clears away the cloud from the martyr’s sky.

IV.

    The race of men is a long and wondrous evolution;
    The patient soul who kens, and God’s great goal,
      Is benefactor best, the man of resolution
      To mark and void each shoal,
      Like pilots good of worthy ships,
    Whose eyes are used far more than lips.
      He counter vessels must prevent,
      And every vexing accident,
      By night and day upon the deep.
    Men’s revolutions, small or great, and why,
      The leader must discern and know,
    And records old, aye currents vital passing by,
    To make them rightly flow.
    And never was the pregnant day, nor hour,
    When one of such transcendent power
      Was needed by the race,
      With more than human grace.
    Let men in church and state be confident,
    He was the man of men pre-eminent.

V.

    The future holds for him the fullest meed,
    For best of deeds before he fell a prey,
    The patient man, still prophet of the perfect day,
        When none shall be a slave;
        And none in need.
            American,
        And cosmopolitan,
    He made and mounted the on-sweeping wave.
    No ruler with so good and vast a scheme;
    In labors so engrossed for noblest creed—
    A wide and warring world to win and save,
    Fulfillment of the greatest dream,
    To give the nations peace and prosperity supreme.


ANOTHER BIRTHDAY

    One birthday more has rolled around,
    But still my heart is in its youth;
    Though sixty fleeting years I’ve found,
    One birthday more has rolled around;
    Yet not my body underground.
    The song is best when sung in truth:
    One birthday more has rolled around,
    But still my heart is in its youth.


OH BABY MINE

    My baby, Oh my laughing, baby child,
    What God-like joy you give!
    Since I received you, how He has smil’d
    And made me love and live,
    Oh baby mine!

[Illustration: Snap shot by the Author.]

    Some sorrow I have had, some deep delight,
    And much the even way;
    Some views attract of vale and mountain height,
    But naught like you, each day,
    Oh baby mine!

    Oh baby mine, O sweetest baby mine,
    What angel makes you laugh?
    What silent tempter makes you cry and whine?
    But more of wheat than chaff,
    Oh baby mine!

    Your coming days are all unknown to me,
    Your pitfall, or your pest;
    But God is good; I trust and pray that He
    May hold you to His breast,
    Oh baby mine!


THE SNAKE THAT’S KING

    The snake that’s king deserves his crown,
    Above his kind in wood and town;
    For man was ne’er bit by the king,
    Though snake-fond ones to him will cling;
    But I prefer no such renown.

    With boys I frolic up and down,
    The playful kids who never frown;
    And small respect at times I fling
    The snake—that’s king.

    O Muse, tell me the oldest clown;
    Why fickle Eve preferred no gown;
    And why she ceased at once to sing,
    And deigned within her heart to bring
    _The Snake that’s king_?

[Illustration: Picture of a King Snake nearly five feet long,
swallowing a somewhat shorter Rattler, after a struggle which lasted
for two hours.

Photograph by Mr. Alfred Austell near Atlanta, Ga.]


THE HEART OF FRANCE

    O France, beloved; fickle, fearless France!
    What heights are thine and what unfathomed depths,
    From Roman old and Jupiter the great,
    To Notre Dame and her eternal day.
    Thy famous little “Ile de la cité,”
    Birth place of Paris and a state renowned,
    And buoyant bosom of thy ceaseless Seine
    Were wronged by Vandal and the vicious Gaul,
    Coveted long by kings, and last by cunning Kaiser.
    Within, around thy growing heart, now gay,
    Now sad, now brave and true, now sick and vile,
    Epitome of man and race of men,
    Foretaste of Heaven and prelude to Hell—
    Thy lovers, far and near, have felt and fought,
    O France, for thee, and for thy perfect day.

[Illustration: NOTRE DAME.]

    Thy Notre Dame of yore and now—behold
    What records writ, and deeds unwritten more!
    Begun as shrine to gods unknown, but feared,
    Again the seat of power of the saints;
    Both natal place and tomb of King and priest;
    Dream attained of artist pioneer;
    And pomp and rites as varied as striking grand,
    Which brought the fathers from Jerusalem,
    The Romish pope to altars, solemn, high;
    When prayer, and priestly pride through chapels rang
    With song of marching choir, from narthex bold,
    And transept, double bay and nave and vault,
    To over-topping spire, ambitious, firm—
    What wondrous song from such exalted throng!

    And laughing devils, perched on airy stage;
    Stryge, with arms on parapet for ease;
    Grim face upheld by hands of demon long,
    Tongue out, and worn with everlasting sneer;
    And leering ape, and nameless creatures; beasts
    Obscene; and unclean birds of prey around,
    Above thy true yet hybrid art; a cow,
    Half woman, arms of her in comfort crossed,
    With evil eye beholds the temples ’neath
    St. Etienne, St. Jacque, and St. Denis,
    The “Hotel Dieu,” Justice Palace, Law!
    See hungry ghouls, and vampires, never sated,
    Fiends eyeing Paris, gibing, mocking all;
    And cat alive and wild, like devil dead
    Revived, hath climbed on precipice of stone,
    Creeping, howling, groaning, pained much;
    Then plunging far, as if pursued by ghost.
    And stories of the garden, curdling blood,
    Of lunatic and felon’s leap to death—
    The whole a hell around fair Notre Dame,
    Her place and portion, part of thine, O France!

    Alas, our boys—let angels weep—our sons
    Who went to aid of thee, pure as the Virgin
    Mary some, our soldier sons in air,
    On earth, and underneath were tempted, caught
    By countess cunning, rich but fallen far;
    Entrapped, diseased by women, living hells,
    That move and search and laugh and win and damn!
    Indecencies of men—God save the race,
    That human virtue may not die at last!

    O France, all this is not thy nobler heart,
    What love and honor thou hast ever shown;
    What triumph for thyself, for us and all!
    Thy virtue dieth not, nor truth, nor those
    Inspired of Heaven through the ages past,
    The now and evermore; these lofty hosts
    And we, who love aright, will see thy soul,
    All torn by vice and mocking devils, whole;
    Triumphant over foes without, within.

    Thy Notre Dame, thy little hells, O France;
    The good and evil, working both—but God!


THE RED MAPLE

    A master artist in the sun-kissed leaves
    Of a scarlet maple loved by me for years,
    First paints a verdant robe until appears
    The autumn time, then marvel great conceives.
    Through darkest night, high noon, and splendent eves
    His wondrous work goes on, unknown to fears,
    Although my maple has her unshed tears,
    Until her greatest glory he achieves.

    Then yields she all her riches quite content;
    For man and bird and beast her life is spent;
    In turn to every tree hath prophesied,
    To mortal man hath plainly said, “The best
    Waits him who gives his all, then goes to rest;
    Thus life and even death are glorified.”


A SONNET TO MRS. O. C. BULLOCK

    Again rare riches thou hast gently shown,
    And I drink sweetness from thy royal heart.
    Again I rise and claim the nobler part,
    And bless the friendship in thee made known.
    Full forty years, in public or alone,
    I’ve studied men, high heaven’s sovereign art
    And thee—thy virtue’s smiles, and whence they start,
    Adoring Truth’s sweet balm, which is thine own.

    Let turmoils come and go; let fools foment
    Disaster dire, till many shall lament
    Their natal hour, their present lot and all.
    Thy friendship true, which grows from bud to bloom
    And fruit eternal, dissipates all gloom—
    Again I’ve entered love’s pure banquet hall.


THE STRIKERS

    The strikers call for more and more;
    For they sail a sea without a shore;
    Ah, yes, they’ll strike forever more!

    Let merit go, it were a sin
    For any plan but a strike to win;
    And hence they strike forever more!

    No brother they to the monied man;
    The law of love—“Oh damn the plan!
    We’ll vote to strike forever more!”
    The public is pleased; ’tis a joy each day
    To the folks at home, without a way;
    So why not strike forever more?

    For coal and food, let a nation suffer;
    Let good and bad be made a buffer—
    Yes, plan to strike forever more.

    Our hard-fought war with the hot-headed-Hun
    Was children’s play compared to the fun
    That strikes produce forever more.

    Their wives and children mustn’t whine
    Without their part, ’tis ever so fine,
    The strikers’ way forever more.

    Alas, the blind, who makes the broom
    Has threatened quits till crack of doom—
    Unless he gets a plenty and more.

    And teacher too who trains the child
    Is asked to join the force that’s wild,
    And close the school forever more!

    Let wisdom go—’tis a by-gone game;
    The striker’s god must win his fame—
    Ah, strike and strike forever more.

       *       *       *       *       *

    “Come now,” says God, “and let us reason,
    In every way, in every season,
    _Bar strikes of force forever more_.”


NOVEMBER’S GLOOM

    With chill November mist in darkened air,
    With hearts of men imbued with doubt and gloom;
    And in the wide, wide world no couch, no room;
    No rest for weary feet; with friends unfair,
    Or cannot understand, nor yet can bear
    To bring one bud of friendship’s failing bloom;
    Affection gone that once hailed bride and groom—
    Ah then, ’tis triumph true, or death’s despair.

    And yet November’s night of gloom and grief
    Hath unseen power to bring sweet trust,
    If men but turn their minds of unbelief
    To One whose name is Love, whose ways are just;
    Then be the battle sharp and long, or brief,
    The soul is safe, that sings, “_I can and must_.”


JAMES MITCHEL ROGERS

    While face to face with him I plainly feel
    A something in my heart and open mind
    That prompts an eager search, perchance to find
    The unknown source of such a strong appeal.
    A rip’ning fruit, I ask, of earth’s ideal?
    Or full blown rose, to all its beauty blind?
    Or tree of life within the mad mart’s grind—
    Oh what o’er me in power doth sweetly steal?

    In truth his inmost soul is full of light,
    A shining constant from afar, yet bright,
    An humble, potent life not his nor man’s,
    Increasing gently through his crowning years,
    And freeing him from all the sinner’s fears—
    Ah yes, he’s one of God’s unthwarted plans.


ERWIN HOLT

    In life’s highway I meet all sorts of men,
      The loud-mouthed man or human thunderbolt;
    Then smiles on me a man of head and heart,
      A gentle, noble soul like Erwin Holt.

    Another man is ever in a rut,
      To self and all a weary, lifeless dolt;
    Like showers then to thirsty famished earth
      Are spirit life and deeds of Erwin Holt.

    Still other men are working hard for pelf,
      And passing give your peaceful heart a jolt;
    What joy to turn away from men like these,
      And feel the healing balm of Erwin Holt.

    Oh for more men who’re full of highest life,
      Who ’gainst all vileness join in strong revolt,
    With mind to think and hand to ever bless
      Their fellowmen like happy Erwin Holt.


JUST AN INTRODUCTION

    Allow me please, to present to you
    A queenly girl and a cockatoo—
    Sweet Agnes she, and her name means “chase,”
    And the bird, in truth, has native grace.

    When captured by their mystic spell,
    Which charms me most I cannot tell;
    For beauty and goodness at heart are one—
    All hail to “Billy” and Miss Cameron!

[Illustration: Photo by the Author.]

[Illustration: JUDGE FRANKLIN CHASE HOYT, Presiding Over the Children’s
Court, New York City.]


JUDGE FRANKLIN CHASE HOYT

    In cause and city great, a jurist great,
    For every mother’s child a kindly heart;
    Stern Justice he would join to Mercy’s art,
    For sire and son, a vision high create;
    For all the hopeless ones the path elate.
    Ah, future generations will he start,
    Through children now, to choose the better part,
    And trustful follow Him immaculate.

    Hark ye, to Christ’s own playful lambs astray,
    Who reach the desert place and jungle deep;
    From city slum, and far off mountain steep,
    They call and plead for everlasting day—
    Not bitter night, but some untrodden way,
    No matter how they play, nor wide their sweep.


A LITTLE INDEX OF THE COMING DAY

    The loveliest sight on the coast I saw,
    Was little Ann Gray with her pet macaw,
    A trustful bird in the hands of Ann,
    But woe to the stranger, or hostile man.

    Though upside down, ’twas the very thing,
    When under the rule of his lover’s wing;
    Some stunts to do, that he’d never tried,
    But that’s all right, when his friend is guide.

[Illustration: Snapped by the Author at the Home of Paul R. Gray on
Belle Isle, Miami, Fla., March 17, 1920.]

    So every creature, bird and beast,
    From animal great to the very least,
    Will some day see with different eyes,
    When men grow kind and good and wise.

    The lion fierce shall fondle the lamb,
    When men shall follow the great I Am,
    And wolf shall play with the sportive kid,
    When earth of hate and murder is rid—
    When the great and small shall learn to be mild,
    In the kingdom of Christ and a little child.


THE WINGED TOURISTS

        It is time to be revived,
        And the tourists have arrived,
    The Robins from the land of snow and ice,
        By the score and by the hundred;
        So many that I’ve wondered
    Where plenteous food could be, and paradise.

        But listen to their cheering,
        For there’s no profiteering,
    In mulberry and stately cabbage palm;
        Instead the trees would say:
        “We’re ready for this day,
    And welcome birds and people to our balm.

        “We’ve endured the blazing sun,
        Through the summer for the fun
    Of freest song and abundant feasting fine;
        While you yourselves employ,
        In song and sumptuous joy,
    Remember we are drinking Heaven’s wine.

        “’Tis better far to live,
        That we may freely give—
    Far better and more God-like in us all.
        See Black-birds fly around,
        Alighting on the ground,
    While the Mocking-birds’ hosannahs loudly call.

        “And yonder in the waters free,
        Blue Herons and white Egrets see;
    Thus far have they escaped the tyrant, Pride.
        The Ducks are diving for their food,
        And, hit or miss, they still are good—
    In all no groom unfriendly to his bride!

        “The Cardinal and Wren,
        From farthest hill and glen,
    Have joined the busy Downy in a tree;
        While other birds delight
        In song from morn till night—
    Come, sing aloud and join our jubilee!”


HOW MY EASTER DAWNED

    In a pullman smoker the tourists sat,
    All reading the news of the day,
    When suddenly started a lively chat
    On the League and the Wilson way.

    The travellers argued with their _pro_ and _con_;
    And loudly and fiercely they swore;
    While some of them tired, and others looked wan,
    And I was silent and sore.

    For the Easter season was drawing nigh,
    And I was perusing “Life;”
    My soul was nursing an inward cry;
    And I hated the oaths and strife—

    The war of words on the blessing of peace,
    And taking God’s name in vain;
    From the turmoil I craved a quick release,
    From the hellish noise on the train;

    When suddenly came two lovely tots,
    With the father a-near their side;
    Then lo, there ceased the fiery shots;
    The children had turned the tide.

    Like a sun-burst bright on a stormy morn,
    Like flowers in the valley of death,
    The children advanced, and joy was born,
    With the sweetness of Heaven’s breath.

    They turned and climbed to the lower berth,
    Just over the passage from mine;
    And there my ears caught the wisdom of earth,
    And the faith from Jehovah’s shrine:

        “_Now I lay me down to sleep;_
         _I pray the Lord my soul to keep._”

[Illustration: The Tots that Turned the Tide. Photo by the Author.]

    My mind went back to my earliest days,
    At the side of my mother’s knee;
    My hungry soul sang a fervent praise,
    And my heart was happy and free.

    I dreamed of the damnable wars of men,
    Of the havoc that Death has made;
    Of a Prince who died and arose again,
    With power each grave to invade.

    And dreaming I caught a holier note,
    No melody born of the sod;
    And I blest the old saint who heard and wrote,
    “Of such is the kingdom of God.”

    And children I heard, around the throne,
    Formed a vast and caroling throng,
    With the glorious Prince still leading his own,
    All singing their Easter song.


HELEN KELLER

    In darkness deep by day and night,
    A fettered child without a ray—
    No word of speech, no sound, no sight
    To lift a soul to Heaven’s day.
    But Patience came in Love’s sweet way,
    And smiled and wept and wept and smiled,
    With failure oft, yet would essay
    To lighten the mind of a captive child.

    What mortal e’er in such a plight?
    What twain beset with such dismay,
    As guide and child in the long drawn fight
    To lift a soul to Heaven’s day?
    No victor great, no ruler’s sway,
    Reveals such triumph, pure and mild;
    No leader nobler zeal portray,
    To lighten the mind of a captive child.

    And darkness gross and many a blight
    Leave other children far astray;
    And they call loud for some brave knight
    To lift a soul to Heaven’s day.
    Then who the priceless pearl will pay,
    To lift a soul so dark and wild,
    From the deepest pit, as a piece of clay—
    To lighten the mind of a captive child?

                   Envoy

    ’Tis faith and work, with hope’s delay,
    To lift a soul to Heaven’s day,
    From Night’s dim depths, by love beguiled,
    To lighten the mind of a captive child.


MARY GRAY

    Here’s to each Mary from first to last;
    To Virgin holy, heaven’s primal queen,
    And deepest penitent, the Magdalene;
    Hail Marys many through the long, long past,
    From proudest princess down to poor outcast.
    A myriad of them I’ve heard and seen,
    Some strong, some weak and few of sober mien;
    How varied they, and fervent hopes how vast!

    At length the Mary comes, delighting me best;
    Her head’s safe-guarded by the purest heart,
    Enriching childhood’s state with princely zest;
    To work devoted, and would ever display
    Rule over Mammon for the noblest art—
    All honor and long life to Mary Gray!


THE DANCING TASSEL

    The female preacher both smiled and exhorted,
    While around her fair cheek and back to her ear,
    Her long, gay tassel danced and cavorted,
    And the more men looked the less they could hear,
          For lo, the dancing tassel.

    And the wonderful thing, ’twas a Quaker tassel,
    On a Quaker hat, on a _Friend’s_ high head,
    Who in pulpit reigned like a queen in a castle,
    While the souls of men just longed to be fed—
          But there, that dancing tassel.

    As her nose went up the tassel went down;
    While ever it flirted, and ever it played
    Its prominent part as one with a crown—
    In the audience many who might have prayed;
          But ho! that dancing tassel.

    Her kid-gloved-hand was constant in motion,
    And busy my mind to follow all three,
    The tassel, the glove, and the word of devotion;
    But most active of all in this trinity,
          That ever-dancing tassel.

    I suppose I should be so pious and good,
    As to shut my eyes fast to any dancing thing,
    And be anywhere in a heavenly mood,
    But somehow my soul kept up the swing
          Of that flouncing, dancing tassel.


WALTER MALONE

[Illustration: WALTER MALONE. Poet, Jurist and Philosopher.]

    The dreaming lad saw life as intricate,
    And learned to solve and sing in buoyant youth;
    For fallen ones, was filled with tender ruth,
    For all he pondered deeply, soon and late;
    A gentle friend and wise, fraternal mate,
    Who darkness saw where light should be and truth,
    Despite the ways of thief, and heartless sleuth—
    A prophet bold to plan and then create.

    Immortal bard, far seeing, earnest man,
    Who knew the height and depth of Heaven’s plan,
    To turn our feeble wail to sweetest tone—
    Thy “Opportunity”[18] thou didst employ
    To animate and lead with rhythmic joy,
    Thy friends and fellows up to Heaven’s throne.

[18] The title of his most famous poem.


THE DUTIFUL FLOWER

            Bright morning glory,
            In brief you tell,
            With magic spell,
        A wondrous, mystic story
            Of life and beauty.
        May I please God so well,
    Inspiring in the sons of men delight and duty.


MY HOLIDAY

    (Inscribed to C. L. Anderson, H. C. Bagley, S. R. Belk,
             J. N. McEachern and A. R. Holderby.)

    The month of May for a holiday—
    Now what do you think of that?
    With Nature to stay for her matinee—
    Up high I’ll throw my hat.

    “Quite sick,” they say, in the month of May;
    And the doctors all stood pat;
    Yes, truly astray, unfit for the fray;
    Indeed I had fallen flat,

    Till the month of May, my holiday,
    Near Nature’s heart whereat
    I’ll doff decay, with all dismay,
    And with her grow strong and fat.

    The month of May for peace and play,
    When the birds so fondly chat;
    When the old and gray must Life obey,
    Like a full fledged bouncing brat.

    All hail to May and to friends for aye!
    The friends who in council sat,
    And said, “We pray, take the month of May,
    And live in a beautiful plat.”

    Hooray, hooray, for my holiday!
    I’ll be a master at the bat;
    Without delay I’ll mount my way,
    As high as Ararat.


THE AEOLIAN HARP

    What mysterious music is that?
    Whence these softest melodies, soothing my inmost soul?
    What symphony orchestra over the hills
    Sends me its sweetest strains,
    These chords of subdued sorrow mingled with joy of gentleness?
    Or what angel deigns to float down to me
    Such mild, musical waves,
    Which captivate yet elude?
    What or who and where?
    The richest radio this, and the first, of the ascending years?
    I ask myself, being alone, and I seek to answer.
    I listen still.
    My awakened soul is rising;
    I look around, all around.
    I continue to think, and very gently Truth appears.
    What?
    Yes, the winds, the winged winds, have joyfully yielded
    To the goddess Harmony,
    And together they are producing this matchless marvel.
    My soul is at peace, yet longs for more,
    More of such wooing of the eternally tender goddess,
    Brought to me, with approval of Aeolius.


THE GOD-MAN AND MYSELF

    I answered truly with both heart and head,
        “Not guilty” of the things _they_ said,
    My plotting foes, with envy’s cruel rod;
    Yet frailties mine oppressively controlled,
        And perilous waves o’er me were rolled,
    When lo! a symbol of the meek but mighty God.
    Again I saw and loved the sinner’s Friend,
    From first missteps to abysmal depths of his darkest end—
        A friend to even me, a crushed clod.

            But how, O Jesus, how
        Can a stainless one, the such as thou,
        Again receive a sinner like myself?
    With weakened faith in thee, with pride and pelf
                I went my way,
                And leaned for stay
                On feigned things that fell;
                And down I dropped to hell,
                A bitter burning hell,
            A hell of fire, consuming fire within,
                In a mind and heart of sin—
                A fire which broke out all around,
                Because the flame in me was found—
    For in the human heart doth heaven and hell begin.

            But I willed, not in such a state to dwell,
                If, O Christ, I may return,
                And once more learn
                The power of thy love and grace.
        While I may not behold the glory of thy face,
            I only ask to see and to adore,
            As many a penitent and I afore,
    The prints of spear and nail which with utmost woe were driven,
    Till thy life and all thy matchless wealth were given
    For captive and vexed sinners like to me,
            To set them free,
        In hope of peace and heaven.

    Since that awful day the changing seasons have faster flown,
        And what must I to men make known?
        After the passing of two thousand years
    Of man’s bravest fights, greatest victories and fears,
      With ofttimes self-imposed torment and tears,
    Thy transcendent heights for me are more increased—
        Thou savest me, the very least.

    Thou ancient and invisible I Am
    Art one with Heaven’s youthful, adorable Lamb,
    For looking by faith behind the veil I see
    The cross still piercing through thy very heart,
        Thy great salvation to impart;
        And herein I’ll glory eternally.
    Accept my life and this my final, whole-hearted word,
    O ever living, ever loving, most glorious Lord.


DEATH’S DOOM

            Thou hast no sting,
            Terror none,
            O doomed Death;
            My whole duty done,
            I shall welcome thee.

            To the vigilant and victorious,
            Thou bringest the better,
            Quite unwittingly,
            The higher, and yet
            The highest.

            Thou art the open gate
            To Life,
            Thou rapacious mocker,
            Thy dark, grim visage
            Is transformed into a beacon of light,
            Balmy, buoyant, beautiful.

            A new glory has the sun
            At his setting,
    Giving yet greater beauty to his resplendent light,
    For myriads of admiring men,
    For sated beasts and singing birds at eventide.
    Life-kisses are cast upward
    To receiving and ever grateful stars and starlets,
    Beneficiaries afar,
    In their cosmic course.
    All these and more perpetually pass on,
    In holy and soft-toned harmonies,
    The life-filled fruitage of conquered Death.

    Angels, beyond thy touch,
    Sing and dance,
    On their winged way,
    As ministers of Jehovah,
    Bringing to the so-called dead
    A chalice of new life.

    And perfected souls and saints,
    Giving forth with joy their divinest ministrations,
    Are co-workers with the Highest,
    For the varied glory and ever increasing fullness
    Of eternal life.

    Thou art a misnomer,
    O arch Deceiver!
    The last lie thou art,
    To be bravely faced, denied, disproved.
    The serene,
    The trustful,
    The Christ ones,
    Planting their feet
    Upon thy bosom,
    All shadowy and unreal,
    Will proclaim
    The paeans of life,
    Their holiest halleluiahs.
    Hence—my duty done—
    O darkest Death,
    Come thou for me.

    Oft have I banished thee,
    Having come unawares;
    Thou didst flee,
    Thou cunning coward,
    To come again,
    Noiselessly by night;
    For somber Night is thy craven consort,
    As unreal as thyself,
    As non-existent—
    Driven easily away,
    By thy King’s coming.

    The foulest negation thou,
    Of all the ages,
    Yet universal.
    Life’s cessation?
    Life’s full possession!

    Both false and elusive,
    Thou art unknown,
    To shallow souls,
    And unknowable;
    Dreadful, powerful
    Till met and vanquished whole;
    When lo!
    Life, the Prince of Life,
    Holds me fast for aye,
    And Death is no more—
    For me, no more.




THE DYING YEAR

    (Written the last of 1922, a dark day with continuous
        rain, and published in the Atlanta Constitution,
        January 1st, a day of sunshine and life.)

    “My time is up,” bemoaned the dying year,
    And Nature wept and freely spread her gloom;
    “My record past, and I must now make room
    For buoyant youth, another still more dear.
    Some comfort mine that weep my friends sincere,
    Thus easier I may pass into my tomb;
    But joyful more to speak a nobler boon
    For those who hope and trust and persevere.”

    And all shall heed the inevitable call,
    From fragrant rose to chieftain strong shall fall;
    The greater they the more widespread the grief
    Of living men, the people great and small,
    But list, ye weeping ones—O sweet relief—
    It’s Heaven’s plan, through death to Life for all!

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