I loved no woman, hardly knew More of the sex that strong men woo Than cloistered monk within his cell; But now the dream is lost, and hell

Holds me her captive tight and fast Who prays and struggles for the past. No living maid has charmed my eyes, But now, my soul is wonder-wise.

For I have dreamed of her and seen Her red-brown tresses' ruddy sheen, Have known her sweetness, lip to lip, The joy of her companionship.

When days were bleak and winds were rude, She shared my smiling solitude, And all the bare hills walked with me To hearken winter's melody.

And when the spring came o'er the land We fared together hand in hand Beneath the linden's leafy screen That waved above us faintly green.

In summer, by the river-side, Our souls were kindred with the tide That floated onward to the sea As we swept toward Eternity.

The bird's call and the water's drone Were all for us and us alone. The water-fall that sang all night Was her companion, my delight,

And e'en the squirrel, as he sped Along the branches overhead, Half kindly and half envious, Would chatter at the joy of us.

'Twas but a dream, her face, her hair, The spring-time sweet, the winter bare, The summer when the woods we ranged,— 'Twas but a dream, but all is changed.

Yes, all is changed and all has fled, The dream is broken, shattered, dead. And yet, sometimes, I pray to know How just a dream could hold me so.

A SONG

Thou art the soul of a summer's day, Thou art the breath of the rose. But the summer is fled And the rose is dead Where are they gone, who knows, who knows?

Thou art the blood of my heart o' hearts, Thou art my soul's repose, But my heart grows numb And my soul is dumb Where art thou, love, who knows, who knows?

Thou art the hope of my after years— Sun for my winter snows But the years go by 'Neath a clouded sky. Where shall we meet, who knows, Who knows?



MISCELLANEOUS

THE CAPTURE

Duck come switchin' 'cross de lot Hi, oh, Miss Lady! Hurry up an' hide de pot Hi, oh, Miss Lady! Duck's a mighty 'spicious fowl, Slick as snake an' wise as owl; Hol' dat dog, don't let him yowl! Hi, oh, Miss Lady!

Th'ow dat co'n out kind o' slow Hi, oh, Miss Lady! Keep yo'se'f behin' de do' Hi, oh, Miss Lady! Lots o' food'll kill his feah, Co'n is cheap but fowls is deah— "Come, good ducky, come on heah." Hi, oh, Miss Lady!

Ain't he fat and ain't he fine, Hi, oh, Miss Lady! Des can't wait to make him mine. Hi, oh, Miss Lady! See him waddle when he walk, 'Sh! keep still and don't you talk! Got you! Don't you daih to squawk! Hi, oh, Miss Lady!

WHEN WINTER DARKENING ALL AROUND

When winter covering all the ground Hides every sign of Spring, sir. However you may look around, Pray what will then you sing, sir?

The Spring was here last year I know, And many bards did flute, sir; I shall not fear a little snow Forbid me from my lute, sir.

If words grow dull and rhymes grow rare, I'll sing of Spring's farewell, sir. For every season steals an air, Which has a Springtime smell, sir.

But if upon the other side, With passionate longing burning, Will seek the half unjeweled tide, And sing of Spring's returning.

FROM THE PORCH AT RUNNYMEDE

I stand above the city's rush and din, And gaze far down with calm and undimmed eyes, To where the misty smoke wreath grey and dim Above the myriad roofs and spires rise;

Still is my heart and vacant is my breath— This lovely view is breath and life to me, Why I could charm the icy soul of death With such a sight as this I stand and see.

I hear no sound of labor's din or stir, I feel no weight of worldly cares or fears, Sweet song of birds, of wings the soothing whirr, These sounds alone assail my listening ears.

Unwhipt of conscience here I stand alone, The breezes humbly kiss my garment's hem; I am a king—the whole world is my throne, The blue grey sky my royal diadem.

EQUIPMENT

With what thou gavest me, O Master, I have wrought. Such chances, such abilities, To see the end was not for my poor eyes, Thine was the impulse, thine the forming thought.

Ah, I have wrought, And these sad hands have right to tell their story, It was no hard up striving after glory, Catching and losing, gaining and failing, Raging me back at the world's raucous railing. Simply and humbly from stone and from wood, Wrought I the things that to thee might seem good.

If they are little, ah God! but the cost, Who but thou knowest the all that is lost! If they are few, is the workmanship true? Try them and weigh me, whate'er be my due!

EVENING

The moon begins her stately ride Across the summer sky; The happy wavelets lash the shore,— The tide is rising high.

Beneath some friendly blade of grass The lazy beetle cowers; The coffers of the air are filled With offerings from the flowers.

And slowly buzzing o'er my head A swallow wings her flight; I hear the weary plowman sing As falls the restful night.

TO PFRIMMER

(Lines on reading "Driftwood.")

Driftwood gathered here and there Along the beach of time; Now and then a chip of truth 'Mid boards and boughs of rhyme; Driftwood gathered day by day,— The cypress and the oak,— Twigs that in some former time From sturdy home trees broke. Did this wood come floating thick All along down "Injin Crik?" Or did kind tides bring it thee From the past's receding sea Down the stream of memory?

TO THE MIAMI

Kiss me, Miami, thou most constant one! I love thee more for that thou changest not. When Winter comes with frigid blast, Or when the blithesome Spring is past And Summer's here with sunshine hot, Or in sere Autumn, thou has still the pow'r To charm alike, whate'er the hour.

Kiss me, Miami, with thy dewy lips; Throbs fast my heart e'en as thine own breast beats. My soul doth rise as rise thy waves, As each on each the dark shore laves And breaks in ripples and retreats. There is a poem in thine every phase; Thou still has sung through all thy days.

Tell me, Miami, how it was with thee When years ago Tecumseh in his prime His birch boat o'er thy waters sent, And pitched upon thy banks his tent. In that long-gone, poetic time, Did some bronze bard thy flowing stream sit by And sing thy praises, e'en as I?

Did some bronze lover 'neath this dark old tree Whisper of love unto his Indian maid? And didst thou list his murmurs deep, And in thy bosom safely keep The many raging vows they said? Or didst thou tell to fish and frog and bird The raptured scenes that there occurred?

But, O dear stream, what volumes thou couldst tell To all who know thy language as I do, Of life and love and jealous hate! But now to tattle were too late,— Thou who hast ever been so true. Tell not to every passing idler here All those sweet tales that reached thine ear.

But, silent stream, speak out and tell me this: I say that men and things are still the same; Were men as bold to do and dare? Were women then as true and fair? Did poets seek celestial flame, The hero die to gain a laureled brow, And women suffer, then as now?

CHRISTMAS CAROL

Ring out, ye bells! All Nature swells With gladness at the wondrous story,— The world was lorn, But Christ is born To change our sadness into glory.

Sing, earthlings, sing! To-night a King Hath come from heaven's high throne to bless us. The outstretched hand O'er all the land Is raised in pity to caress us.

Come at his call; Be joyful all; Away with mourning and with sadness! The heavenly choir With holy fire Their voices raise in songs of gladness.

The darkness breaks And Dawn awakes, Her cheeks suffused with youthful blushes. The rocks and stones In holy tones Are singing sweeter than the thrushes.

Then why should we In silence be, When Nature lends her voice to praises; When heaven and earth Proclaim the truth Of Him for whom that lone star blazes?

No, be not still, But with a will Strike all your harps and set them ringing; On hill and heath Let every breath Throw all its power into singing!

A SUMMER PASTORAL

It's hot to-day. The bees is buzzin' Kinder don't-keer-like aroun' An' fur off the warm air dances O'er the parchin' roofs in town. In the brook the cows is standin'; Childern hidin' in the hay; Can't keep none of 'em a workin', 'Cause it's hot to-day.

It's hot to-day. The sun is blazin' Like a great big ball o' fire; Seems as ef instead o' settin' It keeps mountin' higher an' higher. I'm as triflin' as the children, Though I blame them lots an' scold; I keep slippin' to the spring-house, Where the milk is rich an' cold.

The very air within its shadder Smells o' cool an' restful things, An' a roguish little robin Sits above the place an' sings. I don't mean to be a shirkin', But I linger by the way Longer, mebbe, than is needful, 'Cause it's hot to-day.

It's hot to-day. The horses stumble Half asleep across the fiel's; An' a host o' teasin' fancies O'er my burnin' senses steals,— Dreams o' cool rooms, curtains lowered, An' a sofy's temptin' look; Patter o' composin' raindrops Or the ripple of a brook.

I strike a stump! That wakes me sudden; Dreams all vanish into air. Lordy! how I chew my whiskers; 'Twouldn't do fur me to swear. But I have to be so keerful 'Bout my thoughts an' what I say; Somethin' might slip out unheeded, 'Cause it's hot to-day.

Git up, there, Suke! you, Sal, git over! Sakes alive! how I do sweat. Every stitch that I've got on me, Bet a cent, is wringin' wet. If this keeps up, I'll lose my temper. Gee there, Sal, you lazy brute! Wonder who on airth this weather Could 'a' be'n got up to suit?

You, Sam, go bring a tin o' water; Dash it all, don't be so slow! 'Pears as ef you tuk an hour 'Tween each step to stop an' blow. Think I want to stand a meltin' Out here in this b'ilin' sun, While you stop to think about it? Lift them feet o' your'n an' run.

It ain't no use; I'm plumb fetaggled. Come an' put this team away. I won't plow another furrer; It's too mortal hot to-day. I ain't weak, nor I ain't lazy, But I'll stand this half day's loss 'Fore I let the devil make me Lose my patience an' git cross.

IN SUMMER TIME

When summer time has come, and all The world is in the magic thrall Of perfumed airs that lull each sense To fits of drowsy indolence; When skies are deepest blue above, And flow'rs aflush,—then most I love To start, while early dews are damp, And wend my way in woodland tramp Where forests rustle, tree on tree, And sing their silent songs to me; Where pathways meet and path ways part,— To walk with Nature heart by heart, Till wearied out at last I lie Where some sweet stream steals singing by A mossy bank; where violets vie In color with the summer sky,— Or take my rod and line and hook, And wander to some darkling brook, Where all day long the willows dream, And idly droop to kiss the stream, And there to loll from morn till night— Unheeding nibble, run, or bite— Just for the joy of being there And drinking in the summer air, The summer sounds, and summer sights, That set a restless mind to rights When grief and pain and raging doubt Of men and creeds have worn it out; The birds' song and the water's drone, The humming bees' low monotone, The murmur of the passing breeze, And all the sounds akin to these, That make a man in summer time Feel only fit for rest and rhyme. Joy springs all radiant in my breast; Though pauper poor, than king more blest, The tide beats in my soul so strong That happiness breaks forth in song, And rings aloud the welkin blue With all the songs I ever knew. O time of rapture! time of song! How swiftly glide thy days along Adown the current of the years, Above the rocks of grief and tears! 'Tis wealth enough of joy for me In summer time to simply be.

A THANKSGIVING POEM

The sun hath shed its kindly light, Our harvesting is gladly o'er Our fields have felt no killing blight, Our bins are filled with goodly store.

From pestilence, fire, flood, and sword We have been spared by thy decree, And now with humble hearts, O Lord, We come to pay our thanks to thee.

We feel that had our merits been The measure of thy gifts to us, We erring children, born of sin, Might not now be rejoicing thus.

No deed of ours hath brought us grace; When thou were nigh our sight was dull, We hid in trembling from thy face, But thou, O God, wert merciful.

Thy mighty hand o'er all the land Hath still been open to bestow Those blessings which our wants demand From heaven, whence all blessings flow.

Thou hast, with ever watchful eye, Looked down on us with holy care, And from thy storehouse in the sky Hast scattered plenty everywhere.

Then lift we up our songs of praise To thee, O Father, good and kind; To thee we consecrate our days; Be thine the temple of each mind.

With incense sweet our thanks ascend; Before thy works our powers pall; Though we should strive years without end, We could not thank thee for them all.

NUTTING SONG

The November sun invites me, And although the chill wind smites me, I will wander to the woodland Where the laden trees await; And with loud and joyful singing I will set the forest ringing, As if I were king of Autumn, And Dame Nature were my mate,—

While the squirrel in his gambols Fearless round about me ambles, As if he were bent on showing In my kingdom he'd a share; While my warm blood leaps and dashes, And my eye with freedom flashes, As my soul drinks deep and deeper Of the magic in the air.

There's a pleasure found in nutting, All life's cares and griefs outshutting, That is fuller far and better Than what prouder sports impart. Who could help a carol trilling As he sees the baskets filling? Why, the flow of song keeps running O'er the high walls of the heart.

So when I am home returning, When the sun is lowly burning, I will once more wake the echoes With a happy song of praise,— For the golden sunlight blessing, And the breezes' soft caressing, And the precious boon of living In the sweet November days.

LOVE'S PICTURES

Like the blush upon the rose When the wooing south wind speaks, Kissing soft its petals, Are thy cheeks.

Tender, soft, beseeching, true, Like the stars that deck the skies Through the ether sparkling, Are thine eyes.

Like the song of happy birds, When the woods with spring rejoice, In their blithe awak'ning, Is thy voice.

Like soft threads of clustered silk O'er thy face so pure and fair, Sweet in its profusion, Is thy hair.

Like a fair but fragile vase, Triumph of the carver's art, Graceful formed and slender,— Thus thou art.

Ah, thy cheek, thine eyes, thy voice, And thy hair's delightful wave Make me, I'll confess it, Thy poor slave!

THE OLD HOMESTEAD

'Tis an old deserted homestead On the outskirts of the town, Where the roof is all moss-covered, And the walls are tumbling down; But around that little cottage Do my brightest mem'ries cling, For 'twas there I spent the moments Of my youth,—life's happy spring.

I remember how I used to Swing upon the old front gate, While the robin in the tree tops Sung a night song to his mate; And how later in the evening, As the beaux were wont to do, Mr. Perkins, in the parlor, Sat and sparked my sister Sue.

There my mother—heaven bless her!— Kissed or spanked as was our need, And by smile or stroke implanted In our hearts fair virtue's seed; While my father, man of wisdom, Lawyer keen, and farmer stout, Argued long with neighbor Dobbins How the corn crops would turn out.

Then the quiltings and the dances— How my feet were wont to fly, While the moon peeped through the barn chinks From her stately place on high. Oh, those days, so sweet, so happy, Ever backward o'er me roll; Still the music of that farm life Rings an echo in my soul.

Now the old place is deserted, And the walls are falling down; All who made the home life cheerful, Now have died or moved to town. But about that dear old cottage Shall my mem'ries ever cling, For 'twas there I spent the moments Of my, youth,—life's happy spring.

ON THE DEATH OF W. C.

Thou arrant robber, Death! Couldst thou not find Some lesser one than he To rob of breath,— Some poorer mind Thy prey to be?

His mind was like the sky,— As pure and free; His heart was broad and open As the sea. His soul shone purely through his face, And Love made him her dwelling place.

Not less the scholar than the friend, Not less a friend than man; The manly life did shorter end Because so broad it ran.

Weep not for him, unhappy Muse! His merits found a grander use Some other-where. God wisely sees The place that needs his qualities. Weep not for him, for when Death lowers O'er youth's ambrosia-scented bowers He only plucks the choicest flowers.

AN OLD MEMORY

How sweet the music sounded That summer long ago, When you were by my side, love, To list its gentle flow.

I saw your eyes a-shining, I felt your rippling hair, I kissed your pearly cheek, love, And had no thought of care.

And gay or sad the music, With subtle charm replete; I found in after years, love 'Twas you that made it sweet.

For standing where we heard it, I hear again the strain; It wakes my heart, but thrills it With sad, mysterious pain.

It pulses not so joyous As when you stood with me, And hand in hand we listened To that low melody.

Oh, could the years turn back, love! Oh, could events be changed To what they were that time, love, Before we were estranged;

Wert thou once more a maiden Whose smile was gold to me; Were I once more the lover Whose word was life to thee,—

O God! could all be altered, The pain, the grief, the strife, And wert thou—as thou shouldst be— My true and loyal wife!

But all my tears are idle, And all my wishes vain. What once you were to me, love, You may not be again.

For I, alas! like others, Have missed my dearest aim. I asked for love. Oh, mockery! Fate comes to me with fame!

A CAREER

"Break me my bounds, and let me fly To regions vast of boundless sky; Nor I, like piteous Daphne, be Root-bound. Ah, no! I would be free As yon same bird that in its flight Outstrips the range of mortal sight; Free as the mountain streams that gush From bubbling springs, and downward rush Across the serrate mountain's side,— The rocks o'erwhelmed, their banks defied,— And like the passions in the soul, Swell into torrents as they roll. Oh, circumscribe me not by rules That serve to lead the minds of fools! But give me pow'r to work my will, And at my deeds the world shall thrill. My words shall rouse the slumb'ring zest That hardly stirs in manhood's breast; And as the sun feeds lesser lights, As planets have their satellites, So round about me will I bind The men who prize a master mind!"

He lived a silent life alone, And laid him down when it was done; And at his head was placed a stone On which was carved a name unknown!

ON THE RIVER

The sun is low, The waters flow, My boat is dancing to and fro. The eve is still, Yet from the hill The killdeer echoes loud and shrill.

The paddles plash, The wavelets dash, We see the summer lightning flash; While now and then, In marsh and fen Too muddy for the feet of men,

Where neither bird Nor beast has stirred, The spotted bullfrog's croak is heard. The wind is high, The grasses sigh, The sluggish stream goes sobbing by.

And far away The dying day Has cast its last effulgent ray; While on the land The shadows stand Proclaiming that the eve's at hand.

POOR WITHERED ROSE

A Song

Poor withered rose, she gave it me, Half in revenge and half in glee; Its petals not so pink by half As are her lips when curled to laugh, As are her cheeks when dimples gay In merry mischief o'er them play.

Chorus

Forgive, forgive, it seems unkind To cast thy petals to the wind; But it is right, and lest I err So scatter I all thought of her.

Poor withered rose, so like my heart, That wilts at sorrow's cruel dart. Who hath not felt the winter's blight When every hope seemed warm and bright? Who doth not know love unreturned, E'en when the heart most wildly burned?

Poor withered rose, thou liest dead; Too soon thy beauty's bloom hath fled. 'Tis not without a tearful ruth I watch decay thy blushing youth; And though thy life goes out in dole, Thy perfume lingers in my soul.

WORN OUT

You bid me hold my peace And dry my fruitless tears, Forgetting that I bear A pain beyond my years.

You say that I should smile And drive the gloom away; I would, but sun and smiles Have left my life's dark day.

All time seems cold and void, And naught but tears remain; Life's music beats for me A melancholy strain.

I used at first to hope, But hope is past and, gone; And now without a ray My cheerless life drags on.

Like to an ash-stained hearth When all its fires are spent; Like to an autumn wood By storm winds rudely shent,—

So sadly goes my heart, Unclothed of hope and peace; It asks not joy again, But only seeks release.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

(From a Westerner's Point of View.)

No matter what you call it, Whether genius, or art, He sings the simple songs that come The closest to your heart. Fur trim an' skillful phrases, I do not keer a jot; 'Tain't the words alone, but feelin's, That tech the tender spot. An' that's jest why I love him,— Why, he's got sech human feelin', An' in ev'ry song he gives us, You kin see it creepin', stealin', Through the core the tears go tricklin', But the edge is bright an' smiley; I never saw a poet Like that poet Whitcomb Riley.

His heart keeps beatin' time with our'n In measures fast or slow; He tells us jest the same ol' things Our souls have learned to know. He paints our joys an' sorrers In a way so stric'ly true, That a body can't help knowin' That he has felt them too. If there's a lesson to be taught, He never fears to teach it, An' he puts the food so good an' low That the humblest one kin reach it. Now in our time, when poets rhyme For money, fun, or fashion, 'Tis good to hear one voice so clear That thrills with honest passion. So let the others build their songs, An' strive to polish highly,— There's none of them kin tech the heart Like our own Whitcomb Riley.

A MADRIGAL

Dream days of fond delight and hours As rosy-hued as dawn, are mine. Love's drowsy wine, Brewed from the heart of Passion flowers, Flows softly o'er my lips And save thee, all the world is in eclipse.

There were no light if thou wert not; The sun would be too sad to shine, And all the line Of hours from dawn would be a blot; And Night would haunt the skies, An unlaid ghost with staring dark-ringed eyes.

Oh, love, if thou wert not my love, And I perchance not thine—what then? Could gift of men Or favor of the God above, Plant aught in this bare heart Or teach this tongue the singer's soulful art?

Ah, no! 'Tis love, and love alone That spurs my soul so surely on; Turns night to dawn, And thorns to roses fairest blown; And winter drear to spring— Oh, were it not for love I could not sing!

A STARRY NIGHT

A cloud fell down from the heavens, And broke on the mountain's brow; It scattered the dusky fragments All over the vale below.

The moon and the stars were anxious To know what its fate might be; So they rushed to the azure op'ning, And all peered down to see.

A LYRIC

My lady love lives far away, And oh my heart is sad by day, And ah my tears fall fast by night, What may I do in such a plight.

Why, miles grow few when love is fleet, And love, you know, hath flying feet; Break off thy sighs and witness this, How poor a thing mere distance is.

My love knows not I love her so, And would she scorn me, did she know? How may the tale I would impart Attract her ear and storm her heart?

Calm thou the tempest in my breast, Who loves in silence loves the best, But bide thy time, she will awake, No night so dark but morn will break.

But though my heart so strongly yearn, My lady loves me not in turn, How may I win the blest reply That my void heart shall satisfy.

Love breedeth love, be thou but true, And soon thy love shall love thee, too; If Fate hath meant you heart for heart, There's naught may keep you twain apart.

HOW SHALL I WOO THEE

How shall I woo thee to win thee, mine own? Say in what tongue shall I tell of my love. I who was fearless so timid have grown, All that was eagle has turned into dove. The path from the meadow that leads to the bars Is more to me now than the path of the stars.

How shall I woo thee to win thee, mine own, Thou who art fair and as far as the moon? Had I the strength of the torrent's wild tone, Had I the sweetness of warblers in June; The strength and the sweetness might charm and persuade, But neither have I my petition to aid.

How shall I woo thee to win thee, mine own? How shall I traverse the distance between My humble cot and your glorious throne? How shall a clown gain the ear of a queen? Oh teach me the tongue that shall please thee the best, For till I have won thee my heart may not rest.



TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Many contractions which would normally be printed together in their shortened form are left spaced, as printed. Sometimes this is done due to the meter of the poem. Other times it is just the older way that printers handled these words. The original was not always consistent about how these were handled, and may have been contracted to save space.

2. Since this book has a significant amount of dialect, no attempt was made to change any odd spellings. Some of these words are not easy to translate, but usually the context will be sufficient. For instance, the word stuhs means stirs, as, 'dat melody stuhs me up'.

THE END