TSARPI: [Monotonously.] Black is the blood of the victim, Rimmon is unfavourable, Asratu is unfavourable; They will not war against Asshur, They will make a league with the God of Nineveh. Evil is in store for Damascus, A strong enemy will lay waste the land. Therefore make peace with the Bull; Hearken to the voice of Rimmon.

[She turns again to the altar, and the priests close in around her. REZON lifts his rod toward the tower of the temple. A flash of lightning followed by thunder; smoke rises from the altar; all except NAAMAN and RUAHMAH cover their faces. The circle of priests opens again, and TSARPI comes forward slowly, chanting.]

CHANT:

Hear the words of Rimmon! Thus your Maker speaketh: I, the god of thunder, riding on the whirlwind, I, the god of lightning leaping from the storm-cloud, I will smite with vengeance him who dares defy me! He who leads Damascus into war with Asshur, Conquering or conquered, bears my curse upon him. Surely shall my arrow strike his heart in secret, Burn his flesh with fever, turn his blood to poison. Brand him with corruption, drive him into darkness; He shall surely perish by the doom of Rimmon.

[All are terrified and look toward NAAMAN, shuddering. RUAHMAH alone seems not to heed the curse, but stands with her eyes fixed on NAAMAN.]

RUAHMAH: Be not afraid! There is a greater God Shall cover thee with His almighty wings: Beneath his shield and buckler shalt thou trust.

BENHADAD: Repent, my son, thou must not brave this curse.

NAAMAN: My King, there is no curse as terrible As that which lights a bosom-fire for him Who gives away his honour, to prolong A craven life whose every breath is shame! If I betray the men who follow me, The city that has put her trust in me, What king can shield me from my own deep scorn What god release me from that self-made hell? The tender mercies of Assyria I know; and they are cruel as creeping tigers. Give up Damascus, and her streets will run Rivers of innocent blood; the city's heart, That mighty, labouring heart, wounded and crushed Beneath the brutal hooves of the wild Bull, Will cry against her captain, sitting safe Among the nobles, in some pleasant place. I shall be safe,—safe from the threatened wrath Of unknown gods, but damned forever by The men I know,—that is the curse I fear.

BENHADAD: Speak not so high, my son. Must we not bow Our heads before the sovereignties of heaven? The unseen rulers are Divine.

NAAMAN: O King, I am unlearned in the lore of priests; Yet well I know that there are hidden powers About us, working mortal weal and woe Beyond the force of mortals to control. And if these powers appear in love and truth, I think they must be gods, and worship them. But if their secret will is manifest In blind decrees of sheer omnipotence, That punish where no fault is found, and smite The poor with undeserved calamity, And pierce the undefended in the dark With arrows of injustice, and foredoom The innocent to burn in endless pain, I will not call this fierce almightiness Divine. Though I must bear, with every man, The burden of my life ordained, I'll keep My soul unterrified, and tread the path Of truth and honour with a steady heart! Have ye not heard, my lords? The oracle Proclaims to me, to me alone, the doom Of vengeance if I lead the army out. "Conquered or conquering!" I grip that chance! Damascus free, her foes all beaten back, The people saved from slavery, the King Upheld in honour on his ancient throne,— O what's the cost of this? I'll gladly pay Whatever gods there be, whatever price They ask for this one victory. Give me This gilded sign of shame to carry back; I'll shake it in the face of Asshur's king, And break it on his teeth.

BENHADAD: [Rising.] Then go, my never-beaten captain, go! And may the powers that hear thy solemn vow Forgive thy rashness for Damascus' sake, Prosper thy fighting, and remit thy pledge.

REZON: [Standing beside the altar.] The pledge, O King, this man must seal his pledge At Rimmon's altar. He must take the cup Of soldier-sacrament, and bind himself By thrice-performed libation to abide The fate he has invoked.

NAAMAN: [Slowly.] And so I will.

[He comes down the steps, toward the altar, where REZON is filling the cup which TSARPI holds. RUAHMAH throws herself before NAAMAN, clasping his knees.]

RUAHMAH: [Passionately and wildly.] My lord, I do beseech you, stay! There's death Within that cup. It is an offering To devils. See, the wine blazes like fire, It flows like blood, it is a cursed cup, Fulfilled of treachery and hate. Dear master, noble master, touch it not!

NAAMAN: Poor maid, thy brain is still distraught. Fear not, But let me go! Here, treat her tenderly!

[Gives her into the hands of SABALLIDIN.]

Can harm befall me from the wife who bears My name? I take the cup of fate from her. I greet the unknown powers; [Pours libation.] I will perform my vow; [Again.] I will abide my fate; [Again.] I pledge my life to keep Damascus free.

[He drains the cup, and lets it fall.]

CURTAIN.



ACT II

TIME: A week later

The fore-court of the House of Rimmon. At the back the broad steps and double doors of the shrine; above them the tower of the god, its summit invisible. Enter various groups of citizens, talking, laughing, shouting: RAKHAZ, HAZAEL, SHUMAKIM and others.

FIRST CITIZEN: Great news, glorious news, the Assyrians are beaten!

SECOND CITIZEN: Naaman is returning, crowned with victory. Glory to our noble captain!

THIRD CITIZEN: No, he is killed. I had it from one of the camp-followers who saw him fall at the head of the battle. They are bringing his body to bury it with honour. O sorrowful victory!

RAKHAZ: Peace, my good fellows, you are ignorant, you have not been rightly informed, I will misinform you. The accounts of Naaman's death are overdrawn. He was killed, but his life has been preserved. One of his wounds was mortal, but the other three were curable, and by these the physicians have saved him.

SHUMAKIM: [Balancing himself before RAKHAZ in pretended admiration.] O wonderful! Most admirable logic! One mortal, and three curable, therefore he must recover as it were, by three to one. Rakhaz, do you know that you are a marvelous man?

RAKHAZ: Yes, I know it, but I make no boast of my knowledge.

SHUMAKIM: Too modest, for in knowing this you know more than any other in Damascus!

[Enter, from the right, SABALLIDIN in armour: from the left, TSARPI with her attendants, among whom is RUAHMAH.]

HAZAEL: Here is Saballidin, we'll question him; He was enflamed by Naaman's wild words, And rode with him to battle. Give us news, Of your great captain! Is he safe and well? When will he come? Or will he come at all?

[All gather around him listening eagerly.]

SABALLIDIN: He comes but now, returning from the field Where he hath gained a crown of deathless fame! Three times he led the charge; three times he fell Wounded, and the Assyrians beat us back. Yet every wound was but a spur to urge His valour onward. In the last attack He rode before us as the crested wave That leads the flood; and lo, our enemies Were broken like a dam of river-reeds. The flying King encircled by his guard Was lodged like driftwood on a little hill. Then Naaman, who led our foremost band Of whirlwind riders, hammered through the hedge Of spearmen, brandishing the golden yoke. "Take back this gift," he cried; and shattered it On Shalmaneser's helmet. So the fight Dissolved in universal rout; the King, His chariots and his horsemen fled away; Our captain stood the master of the field, And saviour of Damascus! Now he brings, First to the King, report of this great triumph.

[Shouts of joy and applause.]

RUAHMAH: [Coming close to SABALLIDIN.] But what of him who won it? Fares he well? My mistress would receive some word of him.

SABALLIDIN: Hath she not heard?

RUAHMAH: But one brief message came: A letter saying, "We have fought and conquered," No word of his own person. Fares he well?

SABALLIDIN: Alas, most ill! For he is like a man Consumed by some strange sickness: wasted, wan,— His eyes are dimmed so that he scarce can see; His ears are dulled; his fearless face is pale As one who walks to meet a certain doom Yet will not flinch. It is most pitiful,— But you shall see.

RUAHMAH: Yea, we shall see a man Who dared to face the wrath of evil powers Unknown, and hazard all to save his country.

[Enter BENHADAD with courtiers.]

BENHADAD: Where is my faithful servant Naaman, The captain of my host?

SABALLIDIN: My lord, he comes.

[Trumpet sounds. Enter company of soldiers in armour. Then four soldiers bearing captured standards of Asshur. NAAMAN follows, very pale, armour dinted and stained; he is blind, and guides himself by cords from the standards on each side, but walks firmly. The doors of the temple open slightly, and REZON appears at the top of the steps. NAAMAN lets the cords fall, and gropes his way for a few paces.]

NAAMAN: [Kneeling.] Where is my King? Master, the bearer of thy sword returns. The golden yoke thou gavest me I broke On him who sent it. Asshur's Bull hath fled Dehorned. The standards of his host are thine! Damascus is all thine, at peace, and free!

BENHADAD: [Holding out his arms.] Thou art a mighty man of valour! Come, And let me fold thy courage to my heart.

REZON: [Lifting his rod.] Forbear, O King! Stand back from him, all men! By the great name of Rimmon I proclaim This man a leper! See, upon his brow, This little mark, the death-white seal of doom! That tiny spot will spread, eating his flesh, Gnawing his fingers bone from bone, until The impious heart that dared defy the gods Dissolves in the slow death which now begins. Unclean! unclean! Henceforward he is dead: No human hand shall touch him, and no home Of men shall give him shelter. He shall walk Only with corpses of the selfsame death Down the long path to a forgotten tomb. Avoid, depart, I do adjure you all, Leave him to god,—the leper Naaman!

[All shrink back horrified. REZON retires into the temple; the crowd melts away, wailing; TSARPI is among the first to go, followed by her attendants, except RUAHMAH, who crouches, with her face covered, not far from NAAMAN.]

BENHADAD: [Lingering and turning back.] Alas, my son! O Naaman, my son! Why did I let thee go? I must obey. Who can resist the gods? Yet none shall take Thy glorious title, captain of my host! I will provide for thee, and thou shalt dwell With guards of honour in a house of mine Always. Damascus never shall forget What thou hast done! O miserable words Of crowned impotence! O mockery of power Given to kings who cannot even defend Their dearest from the secret wrath of heaven! O Naaman, my son, my son! [Exit.]

NAAMAN: [Slowly passing his hand over his eyes, and looking up.] Am I alone With thee, inexorable one, whose pride Offended takes this horrible revenge? I must submit my mortal flesh to thee, Almighty, but I will not call thee god! Yet thou hast found the way to wound my soul Most deeply through the flesh; and I must find The way to let my wounded soul escape!

[Drawing his sword.]

Come, my last friend, thou art more merciful Than Rimmon. Why should I endure the doom He sends me? Irretrievably cut off From all dear intercourse of human love, From all the tender touch of human hands, From all brave comradeship with brother-men, With eyes that see no faces through this dark, With ears that hear all voices far away, Why should I cling to misery, and grope My long, long way from pain to pain, alone?

RUAHMAH: [At his feet.] Nay, not alone, dear lord, for I am here; And I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee!

NAAMAN: What voice is that? The silence of my tomb Is broken by a ray of music,—whose?

RUAHMAH: [Rising.] The one who loves thee best in all the world.

NAAMAN: Why that should be,—O dare I dream it true? Tsarpi, my wife? Have I misjudged thy heart As cold and proud? How nobly thou forgivest! Thou com'st to hold me from the last disgrace,— The coward's flight into the dark. Go back Unstained, my sword! Life is endurable While there is one alive on earth who loves us.

RUAHMAH: My lord,—my lord,—O listen! You have erred,— You do mistake me now,—this dream—

NAAMAN: Ah, wake me not! For I can conquer death Dreaming this dream. Let me at last believe, Though gods are cruel, a woman can be kind. Grant me but this! For see,—I ask so little,— Only to know that thou art faithful, That thou art near me, though I touch thee not,— O this will hold me up, though it be given From pity more than love.

RUAHMAH: [Trembling, and speaking slowly.] Not so, my lord! My pity is a stream; my pride of thee Is like the sea that doth engulf the stream; My love for thee is like the sovereign moon That rules the sea. The tides that fill my soul Flow unto thee and follow after thee; And where thou goest I will go; and where Thou diest I will die,—in the same hour.

[She lays her hand on his arm. He draws back.]

NAAMAN: O touch me not! Thou shalt not share my doom.

RUAHMAH: Entreat me not to go. I will obey In all but this; but rob me not of this,— The only boon that makes life worth the living,— To walk beside thee day by day, and keep Thy foot from stumbling; to prepare thy food When thou art hungry, music for thy rest, And cheerful words to comfort thy black hour; And so to lead thee ever on, and on, Through darkness, till we find the door of hope.

NAAMAN: What word is that? The leper has no hope.

RUAHMAH: Dear lord, the mark upon thy brow is yet No broader than my little finger-nail. Thy force is not abated, and thy step Is firm. Wilt thou surrender to the enemy Before thy strength is touched? Why, let me put A drop of courage from my breast in thine! There is a hope for thee. The captive maid Of Israel who dwelt within thy house Knew of a god very compassionate, Long-suffering, slow to anger, one who heals The sick, hath pity on the fatherless, And saves the poor and him who has no helper. His prophet dwells nigh to Samaria; And I have heard that he hath brought the dead To life again. We'll go to him. The King, If I beseech him, will appoint a guard Of thine own soldiers and Saballidin, Thy friend, to convoy us upon our journey. He'll give us royal letters to the King Of Israel to make our welcome sure; And we will take the open road, beneath The open sky, to-morrow, and go on Together till we find the door of hope. Come, come with me!

[She grasps his hand.]

NAAMAN: [Drawing back.] Thou must not touch me!

RUAHMAH: [Unclasping her girdle and putting the end in his hand.] Take my girdle, then!

NAAMAN: [Kissing the clasp of the girdle.] I do begin to think there is a God, Since love on earth can work such miracles:

CURTAIN.



ACT III

TIME: A month later: dawn

SCENE I

NAAMAN'S tent, on high ground among the mountains near Samaria: the city below. In the distance, a wide and splendid landscape. SABALLIDIN and soldiers on guard below the tent. Enter RUAHMAH in hunter's dress, with a lute slung from her shoulder.

RUAHMAH: Peace and good health to you, Saballidin. Good morrow to you all. How fares my lord?

SABALLIDIN: The curtains of his tent are folded still: They have not moved since we returned, last night, And told him what befell us in the city.

RUAHMAH: Told him! Why did you make report to him And not to me? Am I not captain here, Intrusted by the King's command with care Of Naaman until he is restored? 'Tis mine to know the first of good or ill In this adventure: mine to shield his heart From every arrow of adversity. What have you told him? Speak!

SABALLIDIN: Lady, we feared To bring our news to you. For when the King Of Israel had read our monarch's letter, He rent his clothes, and cried, "Am I a god, To kill and make alive, that I should heal A leper? Ye have come with false pretence, Damascus seeks a quarrel with me. Go!" But when we told our lord, he closed his tent, And there remains enfolded in his grief. I trust he sleeps; 'twere kind to let him sleep! For now he doth forget his misery, And all the burden of his hopeless woe Is lifted from him by the gentle hand Of slumber. Oh, to those bereft of hope Sleep is the only blessing left,—the last Asylum of the weary, the one sign Of pity from impenetrable heaven. Waking is strife; sleep is the truce of God! Ah, lady, wake him not. The day will be Full long for him to suffer, and for us To turn our disappointed faces home On the long road by which we must return.

RUAHMAH: Return! Who gave you that command? Not I! The King made me the leader of this quest, And bound you all to follow me, because He knew I never would return without The thing for which he sent us. I'll go on Day after day, unto the uttermost parts Of earth, if need be, and beyond the gates Of morning, till I find that which I seek,— New life for Naaman. Are ye ashamed To have a woman lead you? Then go back And tell the King, "This huntress went too far For us to follow: she pursues the trail Of hope alone, refusing to forsake The quarry: we grew weary of the chase; And so we left her and retraced our steps, Like faithless hounds, to sleep beside the fire." Did Naaman forsake his soldiers thus When you went forth to hunt the Assyrian Bull? Your manly courage is less durable Than woman's love, it seems. Go, if you will,— Who bids me now farewell?

SOLDIERS: Not I, not I!

SABALLIDIN: Lady, lead on, we'll follow you forever!

RUAHMAH: Why, now you speak like men! Brought you no word Out of Samaria, except that cry Of impotence and fear from Israel's King?

SABALLIDIN: I do remember while he spoke with us A rustic messenger came in, and cried "Elisha saith, bring Naaman to me At Dothan, he shall surely know there is A God in Israel."

RUAHMAH: What said the King?

SABALLIDIN: He only shouted "Go!" more wildly yet, And rent his clothes again, as if he were Half-maddened by a coward's fear, and thought Only of how he might be rid of us. What comfort could there be for him, what hope For us, in the rude prophet's misty word?

RUAHMAH: It is the very word for which I prayed! My trust was not in princes; for the crown, The sceptre, and the purple robe are not Significant of vital power. The man Who saves his brother-men is he who lives His life with Nature, takes deep hold on truth, And trusts in God. A prophet's word is more Than all the kings on earth can speak. How far Is Dothan?

SOLDIER: Lady, 'tis but three hours' ride Along the valley southward.

RUAHMAH: Near! so near? I had not thought to end my task so soon! Prepare yourselves with speed to take the road. I will awake my lord.

[Exeunt all but SABALLIDIN and RUAHMAH. She goes toward the tent.]

SABALLIDIN: Ruahmah, stay! [She turns back.] I've been your servant in this doubtful quest, Obedient, faithful, loyal to your will,— What have I earned by this?

RUAHMAH: The gratitude Of him we both desire to serve: your friend,— My master and my lord.

SABALLIDIN: No more than this?

RUAHMAH: Yes, if you will, take all the thanks my hands Can hold, my lips can speak.

SABALLIDIN: I would have more.

RUAHMAH: My friend, there's nothing more to give to you. My service to my lord is absolute. There's not a drop of blood within my veins But quickens at the very thought of him; And not a dream of mine but he doth stand Within its heart and make it bright. No man To me is other than his friend or foe. You are his friend, and I believe you true!

SABALLIDIN: I have been true to him,—now, I am true To you.

RUAHMAH: Why, then, be doubly true to him. O let us match our loyalties, and strive Between us who shall win the higher crown! Men boast them of a friendship stronger far Than love of woman. Prove it! I'll not boast, But I'll contend with you on equal terms In this brave race: and if you win the prize I'll hold you next to him: and if I win He'll hold you next to me; and either way We'll not be far apart. Do you accept My challenge?

SABALLIDIN: Yes! For you enforce my heart By honour to resign its great desire, And love itself to offer sacrifice Of all disloyal dreams on its own altar. Yet love remains; therefore I pray you, think How surely you must lose in our contention. For I am known to Naaman: but you He blindly takes for Tsarpi. 'Tis to her He gives his gratitude: the praise you win Endears her name.

RUAHMAH: Her name? Why, what is that? A name is but an empty shell, a mask That does not change the features of the face Beneath it. Can a name rejoice, or weep, Or hope? Can it be moved by tenderness To daily services of love, or feel the warmth Of dear companionship? How many things We call by names that have no meaning! Kings That cannot rule; and gods that are not good; And wives that do not love! It matters not What syllables he utters when he calls, 'Tis I who come,—'tis I who minister Unto my lord, and mine the living heart That feels the comfort of his confidence, The thrill of gladness when he speaks to me,— I do not hear the name!

SABALLIDIN: And yet, be sure There's danger in this error,—and no gain!

RUAHMAH: I seek no gain: I only tread the path Marked for me daily by the hand of love. And if his blindness spared my lord one pang Of sorrow in his black, forsaken hour,— And if this error makes his burdened heart More quiet, and his shadowed way less dark, Whom do I rob? Not her who chose to stay At ease in Rimmon's House! Surely not him! Only myself! And that enriches me. Why trouble we the master? Let it go,— To-morrow he must know the truth,—and then He shall dispose of me e'en as he will!

SABALLIDIN: To-morrow?

RUAHMAH: Yes, for I will tarry here, While you conduct him to Elisha's house To find the promised healing. I forebode A sudden danger from the craven King Of Israel, or else a secret ambush From those who hate us in Damascus. Go, But leave me twenty men: this mountain-pass Protects the road behind you. Make my lord Obey the prophet's word, whatever he commands, And come again in peace. Farewell!

[Exit SABALLIDIN. RUAHMAH goes toward the tent, then pauses and turns back. She takes her lute and sings.]

SONG

Above the edge of dark appear the lances of the sun; Along the mountain-ridges clear his rosy heralds run; The vapours down the valley go Like broken armies, dark and low. Look up, my heart, from every hill In folds of rose and daffodil The sunrise banners flow.

O fly away on silent wing, ye boding owls of night! O welcome little birds that sing the coming-in of light! For new, and new, and ever-new, The golden bud within the blue; And every morning seems to say: "There's something happy on the way, And God sends love to you!"

NAAMAN: [Appearing at the entrance of his tent.] O let me ever wake to music! For the soul Returns most gently then, and finds its way By the soft, winding clue of melody, Out of the dusky labyrinth of sleep, Into the light. My body feels the sun Though I behold naught that his rays reveal. Come, thou who art my daydawn and my sight, Sweet eyes, come close, and make the sunrise mine!

RUAHMAH: [Coming near.] A fairer day, dear lord, was never born In Paradise! The sapphire cup of heaven Is filled with golden wine: the earth, adorned With jewel-drops of dew, unveils her face A joyful bride, in welcome to her king. And look! He leaps upon the Eastern hills All ruddy fire, and claims her with a kiss. Yonder the snowy peaks of Hermon float Unmoving as a wind-dropt cloud. The gulf Of Jordan, filled with violet haze, conceals The river's winding trail with wreaths of mist. Below us, marble-crowned Samaria thrones Upon her emerald hill amid the Vale Of Barley, while the plains to northward change Their colour like the shimmering necks of doves. The lark springs up, with morning on her wings, To climb her singing stairway in the blue, And all the fields are sprinkled with her joy!

NAAMAN: Thy voice is magical: thy words are visions! I must content myself with them, for now My only hope is lost: Samaria's King Rejects our monarch's message,—hast thou heard? "Am I a god that I should cure a leper?" He sends me home unhealed, with angry words, Back to Damascus and the lingering death.

RUAHMAH: What matter where he sends? No god is he To slay or make alive. Elisha bids You come to him at Dothan, there to learn There is a God in Israel.

NAAMAN: I fear That I am grown mistrustful of all gods; Their secret counsels are implacable.

RUAHMAH: Fear not! There's One who rules in righteousness High over all.

NAAMAN: What knowest thou of Him?

RUAHMAH: Oh, I have heard,—the maid of Israel,— Rememberest thou? She often said her God Was merciful and kind, and slow to wrath, And plenteous in forgiveness, pitying us Like as a father pitieth his children.

NAAMAN: If there were such a God, I'd worship Him Forever!

RUAHMAH: Then make haste to hear the word His prophet promises to speak to thee! Obey it, my dear lord, and thou shalt find Healing and peace. The light shall fill thine eyes. Thou wilt not need my leading any more,— Nor me,—for thou wilt see me, all unveiled,— I tremble at the thought.

NAAMAN: Why, what is this? Why shouldst thou tremble? Art thou not mine own?

RUAHMAH: [Turning to him and speaking in broken words.] I am,—thy handmaid,—all and only thine,— The very pulses of my heart are thine! Feel how they throb to comfort thee to-day— To-day! Because it is thy time of trouble.

[She takes his hand and puts it to her forehead and her lips, but before she can lay it upon her heart, he draws away from her.]

NAAMAN: Thou art too dear to injure with a kiss,— How should I take a gift may bankrupt thee, Or drain the fragrant chalice of thy love With lips that may be fatal? Tempt me not To sweet dishonour; strengthen me to wait Until thy prophecy is all fulfilled, And I can claim thee with a joyful heart.

RUAHMAH: [Turning away.] Thou wilt not need me then,—and I shall be No more than the faint echo of a song Heard half asleep. We shall go back to where We stood before this journey.

NAAMAN: Never again! For thou art changed by some deep miracle. The flower of womanhood hath bloomed in thee,— Art thou not changed?

RUAHMAH: Yea, I am changed,—and changed Again,—bewildered,—till there's nothing clear To me but this: I am the instrument In an Almighty hand to rescue thee From death. This will I do,—and afterward—

[A trumpet is blown without.]

Hearken, the trumpet sounds, the chariot waits. Away, dear lord, follow the road to light!

SCENE II [3]

The house of Elisha, upon a terraced hillside. A low stone cottage with vine-trellises and flowers; a flight of steps, at the foot of which is NAAMAN'S chariot. He is standing in it; SABALLIDIN beside it. Two soldiers come down the steps.

FIRST SOLDIER: We have delivered my lord's greeting and his message.

SECOND SOLDIER: Yes, and near lost our noses in the doing of it! For the servant slammed the door in our faces. A most unmannerly reception!

FIRST SOLDIER: But I take that as a good omen. It is a mark of holy men to keep ill-conditioned servants. Look, the door opens, the prophet is coming.

SECOND SOLDIER: No, by my head, it is that notable mark of his master's holiness, that same lantern-jawed lout of a servant.

[GEHAZI loiters down the steps and comes to NAAMAN with a slight obeisance.]

GEHAZI: My master, the prophet of Israel, sends word to Naaman the Syrian,—are you he?—-"Go wash in Jordan seven times and be healed."

[GEHAZI turns and goes slowly up the steps.]

NAAMAN: What insolence is this? Am I a man To be put off with surly messengers? Has not Damascus rivers more renowned Than this rude muddy Jordan? Crystal streams, Abana! Pharpar! flowing smoothly through A paradise of roses? Might I not Have bathed in them and been restored at ease? Come up, Saballidin, and guide me home!

SABALLIDIN: Bethink thee, master, shall we lose our quest Because a servant is uncouth? The road That seeks the mountain leads us through the vale. The prophet's word is friendly after all; For had it been some mighty task he set, Thou wouldst perform it. How much rather then This easy one? Hast thou not promised her Who waits for thy return? Wilt thou go back To her unhealed?

NAAMAN: No! not for all my pride! I'll make myself most humble for her sake, And stoop to anything that gives me hope Of having her. Make haste, Saballidin, Bring me to Jordan. I will cast myself Into that river's turbulent embrace A hundred times, until I save my life Or lose it!

[Exeunt. The light fades: musical interlude. The light increases again with ruddy sunset shining on the door of ELISHA'S house. The prophet appears and looks off, shading his eyes with his hand as he descends the steps. Trumpet blows,—NAAMAN'S call;—sound of horses galloping and men shouting. NAAMAN enters joyously, followed by SABALLIDIN and soldiers, with gifts.]

NAAMAN: Behold a man delivered from the grave By thee! I rose from Jordan's waves restored To youth and vigour, as the eagle mounts Upon the sunbeam and renews his strength! O mighty prophet deign to take from me These gifts too poor to speak my gratitude; Silver and gold and jewels, damask robes,—

ELISHA: [Interrupting.] As thy soul liveth I will not receive A gift from thee, my son! Give all to Him Whose mercy hath redeemed thee from thy plague.

NAAMAN: He is the only God! I worship Him! Grant me a portion of the blessed soil Of this most favoured land where I have found His mercy; in Damascus will I build An altar to His name, and praise Him there Morning and night. There is no other God In all the world.

ELISHA: Thou needst not This load of earth to build a shrine for Him; Yet take it if thou wilt. But be assured God's altar is in every loyal heart, And every flame of love that kindles there Ascends to Him and brightens with His praise. There is no other God! But evil Powers Make war against Him in the darkened world; And many temples have been built to them.

NAAMAN: I know them well! Yet when my master goes To worship in the House of Rimmon, I Must enter with him; for he trusts me, leans Upon my hand; and when he bows himself I cannot help but make obeisance too,— But not to Rimmon! To my country's King I'll bow in love and honour. Will the Lord Pardon thy servant in this thing?

ELISHA: My son, Peace has been granted thee. 'Tis thine to find The only way to keep it. Go in peace.

NAAMAN: Thou hast not answered me,—may I bow down?

ELISHA: The answer must be thine. The heart that knows The perfect peace of gratitude and love, Walks in the light and needs no other rule. When next thou comest into Rimmon's House, Thy heart will tell thee how to go in peace.

CURTAIN.

[3] Note that this scene is not intended to be put upon the stage, the effect of the action upon the drama being given at the beginning of Act IV.



ACT IV

SCENE I

The interior of NAAMAN'S tent, at night. RUAHMAH alone, sleeping on the ground. A vision appears to her through the curtains of the tent: ELISHA standing on the hillside at Dothan: NAAMAN, restored to sight, comes in and kneels before him. ELISHA blesses him, and he goes out rejoicing. The vision of the prophet turns to RUAHMAH and lifts his hand in warning.

ELISHA: Daughter of Israel, what dost thou here? Thy prayer is granted. Naaman is healed: Mar not true service with a selfish thought. Nothing remains for thee to do, except Give thanks, and go whither the Lord commands. Obey,—obey! Ere Naaman returns Thou must depart to thine own house in Shechem.

[The vision vanishes.]

RUAHMAH: [Waking and rising slowly.] A dream, a dream, a messenger of God! O dear and dreadful vision, art thou true? Then am I glad with all my broken heart. Nothing remains,—nothing remains but this,— Give thanks, obey, depart,—and so I do. Farewell, my master's sword! Farewell to you, My amulet! I lay you on the hilt His hand shall clasp again: bid him farewell For me, since I must look upon his face No more for ever!—Hark, what sound was that?

[Enter soldier hurriedly.]

SOLDIER: Mistress, an armed troop, footmen and horse, Mounting the hill!

RUAHMAH: My lord returns in triumph.

SOLDIER: Not so, for these are enemies; they march In haste and silence, answering not our cries.

RUAHMAH: Our enemies? Then hold your ground,—on guard! Fight! fight! Defend the pass, and drive them down.

[Exit soldier. RUAHMAH draws NAAMAN'S sword from the scabbard and hurries out of the tent. Confused noise of fighting outside. Three or four soldiers are driven in by a troop of men in disguise. RUAHMAH follows: she is beaten to her knees, and her sword is broken.]

REZON: [Throwing aside the cloth which covers his face.] Hold her! So, tiger-maid, we've found your lair And trapped you. Where is Naaman, Your master?

RUAHMAH: [Rising, her arms held by two of REZON'S followers.] He is far beyond your reach.

REZON: Brave captain! He has saved himself, the leper, And left you here?

RUAHMAH: The leper is no more.

REZON: What mean you?

RUAHMAH: He has gone to meet his God.

REZON: Dead? Dead? Behold how Rimmon's wrath is swift! Damascus shall be mine; I'll terrify The King with this, and make my terms. But no! False maid, you sweet-faced harlot, you have lied To save him,—speak.

RUAHMAH: I am not what you say, Nor have I lied, nor will I ever speak A word to you, vile servant of a traitor-god.

REZON: Break off this little flute of blasphemy, This ivory neck,—twist it, I say! Give her a swift despatch after her leper! But stay,—if he still lives he'll follow her, And so we may ensnare him. Harm her not! Bind her! Away with her to Rimmon's House! Is all this carrion dead? There's one that moves,— A spear,—fasten him down! All quiet now? Then back to our Damascus! Rimmon's face Shall be made bright with sacrifice.

[Exeunt, forcing RUAHMAH with them. Musical interlude. A wounded soldier crawls from a dark corner of the tent and finds the chain with NAAMAN'S seal, which has fallen to the ground in the struggle.]

WOUNDED SOLDIER: The signet of my lord, her amulet! Lost, lost! Ah, noble lady,—let me die With this upon my breast.

[The tent is dark. Enter NAAMAN and his company in haste, with torches.]

NAAMAN: What bloody work Is here? God, let me live to punish him Who wrought this horror! Treacherously slain At night, by unknown hands, my brave companions: Tsarpi, my best beloved, light of my soul, Put out in darkness! O my broken lamp Of life, where art thou? Nay, I cannot find her.

WOUNDED SOLDIER: [Raising himself on his arm.] Master!

NAAMAN: [Kneels beside him.] One living? Quick, a torch this way! Lift up his head,—so,—carefully! Courage, my friend, your captain is beside you. Call back your soul and make report to him.

WOUNDED SOLDIER: Hail, captain! O my captain,—here!

NAAMAN: Be patient,—rest in peace,—the fight is done. Nothing remains but render your account.

WOUNDED SOLDIER: They fell upon us suddenly,—we fought Our fiercest,—every man,—our lady fought Fiercer than all. They beat us down,—she's gone. Rezon has carried her away a captive. See,— Her amulet,—I die for you, my captain.

NAAMAN: [He gently lays the dead soldier on the ground, and rises.] Farewell. This last report was brave; but strange Beyond my thought! How came the High Priest here? And what is this? my chain, my seal! But this Has never been in Tsarpi's hand. I gave This signet to a captive maid one night,— A maid of Israel. How long ago? Ruahmah was her name,—almost forgotten! So long ago,—how comes this token here? What is this mystery, Saballidin?

SABALLIDIN: Ruahmah is her name who brought you hither.

NAAMAN: Where then is Tsarpi?

SABALLIDIN: In Damascus. She left you when the curse of Rimmon fell,— Took refuge in his House,—and there she waits Her lord's return,—Rezon's return.

NAAMAN: 'Tis false!

SABALLIDIN: The falsehood is in her. She hath been friend With Rezon in his priestly plot to win Assyria's favour,—friend to his design To sell his country to enrich his temple,— And friend to him in more,—I will not name it.

NAAMAN: Nor will I credit it. Impossible!

SABALLIDIN: Did she not plead with you against the war, Counsel surrender, seek to break your will?

NAAMAN: She did not love my work, a soldier's task. She never seemed to be at one with me Until I was a leper.

SABALLIDIN: From whose hand Did you receive the sacred cup?

NAAMAN: From hers.

SABALLIDIN: And from that hour the curse began to work.

NAAMAN: But did she not have pity when she saw Me smitten? Did she not beseech the King For letters and a guard to make this journey? Has she not been the fountain of my hope, My comforter and my most faithful guide In this adventure of the dark? All this Is proof of perfect love that would have shared A leper's doom rather than give me up. Can I doubt her who dared to love like this?

SABALLIDIN: O master, doubt her not,—but know her name; Ruahmah! It was she alone who wrought This wondrous work of love. She won the King To furnish forth this company. She led Our march, kept us in heart, fought off despair, Watched over you as if you were her child, Prepared your food, your cup, with her own hands, Sang you asleep at night, awake at dawn,—

NAAMAN: [Interrupting.] Enough! I do remember every hour Of that sweet comradeship! And now her voice Wakens the echoes in my lonely breast. Shall I not see her, thank her, speak her name? Ruahmah! Let me live till I have looked Into her eyes and called her my Ruahmah!

[To his soldiers.]

Away! away! I burn to take the road That leads me back to Rimmon's House,— But not to bow,—by God, never to bow!

SCENE II

TIME: Three days later

Inner court of the House of Rimmon; a temple with huge pillars at each side. In the right foreground the seat of the King; at the left, of equal height, the seat of the High Priest. In the background a broad flight of steps, rising to a curtain of cloudy gray, embroidered with two gigantic hands holding thunderbolts. The temple is in half darkness at first. Enter KHAMMA and NUBTA, robed as Kharimati, or religious dancers, in gowns of black gauze with yellow embroideries and mantles.

KHAMMA: All is ready for the rites of worship; our lady will play a great part in them. She has put on her Tyrian robes, and all her ornaments.

NUBTA: That is a sure sign of a religious purpose. She is most devout, our lady Tsarpi!

KHAMMA: A favourite of Rimmon, too! The High Priest has assured her of it. He is a great man,—next to the King, now that Naaman is gone.

NUBTA: But if Naaman should come back, healed of the leprosy?

KHAMMA: How can he come back? The Hebrew slave that went away with him, when they caught her, said that he was dead. The High Priest has shut her up in the prison of the temple, accusing her of her master's death.

NUBTA: Yet I think he does not believe it, for I heard him telling our mistress what to do if Naaman should return.

KHAMMA: What, then?

NUBTA: She will claim him as her husband. Was she not wedded to him before the god? That is a sacred bond. Only the High Priest can loose it. She will keep her hold on Naaman for the sake of the House of Rimmon. A wife knows her husband's secrets, she can tell—

[Enter SHUMAKIM, with his flagon, walking unsteadily.]

KHAMMA: Hush! here comes the fool Shumakim. He is never sober.

SHUMAKIM: [Laughing.] Are there two of you? I see two, but that is no proof. I think there is only one, but beautiful enough for two. What were you talking to yourself about, fairest one!

KHAMMA: About the lady Tsarpi, fool, and what she would do if her husband returned.

SHUMAKIM: Fie! fie! That is no talk for an innocent fool to hear. Has she a husband?

NUBTA: You know very well that she is the wife of Lord Naaman.

SHUMAKIM: I remember that she used to wear his name and his jewels. But I thought he had exchanged her,—for a leprosy.

KHAMMA: You must have heard that he went away to Samaria to look for healing. Some say that he died on the journey; but others say he has been cured, and is on his way home to his wife.

SHUMAKIM: It may be, for this is a mad world, and men never know when they are well off,—except us fools. But he must come soon if he would find his wife as he parted from her,—or the city where he left it. The Assyrians have returned with a greater army, and this time they will make an end of us. There is no Naaman now, and the Bull will devour Damascus like a bunch of leeks, flowers and all,—flowers and all, my double-budded fair one! Are you not afraid?

NUBTA: We belong to the House of Rimmon. He will protect us.

SHUMAKIM: What? The mighty one who hides behind the curtain there, and tells his secrets to Rezon? No doubt he will take care of you, and of himself. Whatever game is played, the gods never lose. But for the protection of the common people and the rest of us fools, I would rather have Naaman at the head of an army than all the sacred images between here and Babylon.

KHAMMA: You are a wicked old man. You mock the god. He will punish you.

SHUMAKIM: [Bitterly.] How can he punish me? Has he not already made me a fool? Hark, here comes my brother the High Priest, and my brother the King. Rimmon made us all; but nobody knows who made Rimmon, except the High Priest; and he will never tell.

[Gongs and cymbals sound. Enter REZON with priests, and the King with courtiers. They take their seats. A throng of Khali and Kharimati come in, TSARPI presiding; a sacred dance is performed with torches, burning incense, and chanting, in which TSARPI leads.]

CHANT

Hail, mighty Rimmon, ruler of the whirl-storm, Hail, shaker of mountains, breaker-down of forests, Hail, thou who roarest terribly in the darkness, Hail, thou whose arrows flame across the heavens! Hail, great destroyer, lord of flood and tempest, In thine anger almighty, in thy wrath eternal, Thou who delightest in ruin, maker of desolations, Immeru, Addu, Berku, Rimmon! See we tremble before thee, low we bow at thine altar, Have mercy upon us, be favourable unto us, Save us from our enemy, accept our sacrifice, Barku, Immeru, Addu, Rimmon!

[Silence follows, all bowing down.]

REZON: O King, last night the counsel from above Was given in answer to our divination. Ambassadors must go forthwith to crave Assyria's pardon, and a second offer Of the same terms of peace we did reject Not long ago.

BENHADAD: Dishonour! Yet I see No other way! Assyria will refuse, Or make still harder terms. Disaster, shame For this gray head, and ruin for Damascus!

REZON: Yet may we trust Rimmon will favour us, If we adhere devoutly to his worship. He will incline his brother-god, the Bull, To spare us, if we supplicate him now With costly gifts. Therefore I have prepared A sacrifice: Rimmon shall be well pleased With the red blood that bathes his knees to-night!

BENHADAD: My mind is dark with doubt,—I do forebode Some horror! Let me go,—I am an old man,— If Naaman my captain were alive! But he is dead,—the glory is departed!

[He rises, trembling, to leave the throne. Trumpet sounds,—NAAMAN'S call;—enter NAAMAN, followed by soldiers; he kneels at the foot of the throne.]

BENHADAD: [Half-whispering.] Art thou a ghost escaped from Allatu? How didst thou pass the seven doors of death? O noble ghost I am afraid of thee, And yet I love thee,—let me hear thy voice!

NAAMAN: No ghost, my King, but one who lives to serve Thee and Damascus with his heart and sword As in the former days. The only God Has healed my leprosy: my life is clean To offer to my country and my King.

BENHADAD: [Starting toward him.] O welcome to thy King! Thrice welcome!

REZON: [Leaving his seat and coming toward NAAMAN.] Stay! The leper must appear before the priest, The only one who can pronounce him clean.

[NAAMAN turns; they stand looking each other in the face.]

Yea,—thou art cleansed: Rimmon hath pardoned thee,— In answer to the daily prayers of her Whom he restores to thine embrace,—thy wife.

[TSARPI comes slowly toward NAAMAN.]

NAAMAN: From him who rules this House will I receive Nothing! I seek no pardon from his priest, No wife of mine among his votaries!

TSARPI: [Holding out her hands.] Am I not yours? Will you renounce our vows?

NAAMAN: The vows were empty,—never made you mine In aught but name. A wife is one who shares Her husband's thought, incorporates his heart With hers by love, and crowns him with her trust. She is God's remedy for loneliness, And God's reward for all the toil of life. This you have never been to me,—and so I give you back again to Rimmon's House Where you belong. Claim what you will of mine,— Not me! I do renounce you,—or release you,— According to the law. If you demand A further cause than what I have declared, I will unfold it fully to the King.

REZON: [Interposing hurriedly.] No need of that! This duteous lady yields To your caprice as she has ever done: She stands a monument of loyalty And woman's meekness.

NAAMAN: Let her stand for that! Adorn your temple with her piety! But you in turn restore to me the treasure You stole at midnight from my tent.

REZON: What treasure! I have stolen none from you.

NAAMAN: The very jewel of my soul,—Ruahmah! My King, the captive maid of Israel, To whom thou didst commit my broken life With letters to Samaria,—my light, My guide, my saviour in this pilgrimage,— Dost thou remember?

BENHADAD: I recall the maid,— But dimly,—for my mind is old and weary, She was a fearless maid, I trusted her And gave thee to her charge. Where is she now?

NAAMAN: This robber fell upon my camp by night,— While I was with Elisha at the Jordan,— Slaughtered my soldiers, carried off the maid, And holds her somewhere in imprisonment. O give this jewel back to me, my King, And I will serve thee with a grateful heart For ever. I will fight for thee, and lead Thine armies on to glorious victory Over all foes! Thou shalt no longer fear The host of Asshur, for thy throne shall stand Encompassed with a wall of dauntless hearts, And founded on a mighty people's love, And guarded by the God of righteousness.

BENHADAD: I feel the flame of courage at thy breath Leap up among the ashes of despair. Thou hast returned to save us! Thou shalt have The maid; and thou shalt lead my host again! Priest, I command you give her back to him.

REZON: O master, I obey thy word as thou Hast ever been obedient to the voice Of Rimmon. Let thy fiery captain wait Until the sacrifice has been performed, And he shall have the jewel that he claims. Must we not first placate the city's god With due allegiance, keep the ancient faith, And pay our homage to the Lord of Wrath?

BENHADAD: [Sinking back upon his throne in fear.] I am the faithful son of Rimmon's House,— And lo, these many years I worship him! My thoughts are troubled,—I am very old, But still a King! O Naaman, be patient! Priest, let the sacrifice be offered.

[The High Priest lifts his rod. Gongs and cymbals sound. The curtain is rolled back, disclosing the image of Rimmon; a gigantic and hideous idol, with a cruel human face, four horns, the mane of a lion, and huge paws stretched in front of him enclosing a low altar of black stone. RUAHMAH stands on the altar, chained, her arms are bare and folded on her breast. The people prostrate themselves in silence, with signs of astonishment and horror.]

REZON: Behold the sacrifice! Bow down, bow down!

NAAMAN: [Stabbing him.] Bow thou, black priest! Down,—down to hell! Ruahmah! do not die! I come to thee.

[NAAMAN rushes toward her, attacked by the priests, crying "Sacrilege! Kill him!" But the soldiers stand on the steps and beat them back. He springs upon the altar and clasps her by the hand. Tumult and confusion. The King rises and speaks with a loud voice, silence follows.]

BENHADAD: Peace, peace! The King commands all weapons down! O Naaman, what wouldst thou do? Beware Lest thou provoke the anger of a god.

NAAMAN: There is no God but one, the Merciful, Who gave this perfect woman to my soul That I might learn through her to worship Him, And know the meaning of immortal Love.

BENHADAD: [Agitated.] Yet she is consecrated, bound, and doomed To sacrificial death; but thou art sworn To live and lead my host,—Hast thou not sworn?

NAAMAN: Only if thou wilt keep thy word to me! Break with this idol of iniquity Whose shadow makes a darkness in the land; Give her to me who gave me back to thee; And I will lead thine army to renown And plant thy banners on the hill of triumph. But if she dies, I die with her, defying Rimmon.

[Cries of "Spare them! Release her! Give us back our Captain!" and "Sacrilege! Let them die!" Then silence, all turning toward the King.]

BENHADAD: Is this the choice? Must we destroy the bond Of ancient faith, or slay the city's living hope! I am an old, old man,—and yet the King! Must I decide?—O let me ponder it!

[His head sinks upon his breast. All stand eagerly looking at him.]

NAAMAN: Ruahmah, my Ruahmah! I have come To thee at last! And art thou satisfied?

RUAHMAH: [Looking into his face.] Beloved, my beloved, I am glad Of all, and glad for ever, come what may. Nothing can harm me,—since my lord is come!



APPENDIX

CARMINA FESTIVA



THE LITTLE-NECK CLAM

A modern verse-sequence, showing how a native American subject, strictly realistic, may be treated in various manners adapted to the requirements of different magazines, thus combining Art-for-Art's-Sake with Writing-for-the-Market. Read at the First Dinner of the American Periodical Publishers' Association, in Washington, April, 1904.

I

THE ANTI-TRUST CLAM

For McClure's Magazine

The clam that once, on Jersey's banks, Was like the man who dug it, free, Now slave-like thro' the market clanks In chains of corporate tyranny.

The Standard Fish-Trust of New York Holds every clam-bank in control; And like base Beef and menial Pork, The free-born Clam has lost its soul.

No more the bivalve treads the sands In freedom's rapture, free from guilt: It follows now the harsh commands Of Morgiman and Rockabilt.

Rise, freemen, rise! Your wrath is just! Call on the Sherman Act to dam The floods of this devouring Trust, And liberate the fettered Clam.

II

THE WHITMANIAC CLAM

For the Bookman

Not Dante when he wandered by the river Arno, Not Burns who plowed the banks and braes of bonnie Ayr, Not even Shakspere on the shores of Avon,—ah, no! Not one of those great bards did taste true Poet's Fare.

But Whitman, loafing in Long Island and New Jersey, Found there the sustenance of mighty ode and psalm, And while his rude emotions swam around in verse, he Fed chiefly on the wild, impassioned, sea-born clam.

Thus in his work we feel the waves' bewildering motion, And winds from mighty mud-flats, weird and wild: His clam-filled bosom answered to the voice of ocean, And rose and fell responsively with every tide.

III

IL MERCATORE ITALIANO DELLA CLAMMA

For the Century Magazine

"Clam O! Fres' Clam!" How strange it sounds and sweet, The Dago's cry along the New York street! "Dago" we call him, like the thoughtless crowd; And yet this humble man may well be proud To hail from Petrarch's land, Boccaccio's home,— Firenze, Gubbio, Venezia, Rome,— From fair Italia, whose enchanted soil Transforms the lowly cotton-seed to olive-oil.

To me his chant, with alien accent sung, Brings back an echo of great Virgil's tongue: It seems to cry against the city's woe, In liquid Latin syllables,—Clamo! As thro' the crowded street his cart he jams And cries aloud, ah, think of more than clams! Receive his secret plaint with pity warm, And grant Italia's plea for Tenement-House Reform!

IV

THE SOCIAL CLAM

For the Smart Set

Fair Phyllis is another's bride: Therefore I like to sit beside Her at a very smart set dinner, And whisper love, and try to win her.

The little-necks,—in number six,— That from their pearly shells she picks And swallows whole,—ah, is it selfish To wish my heart among those shell-fish?

"But Phyllis is another's wife; And if she should absorb thy life 'Twould leave thy bosom vacant."—Well, I'd keep at least the empty shell!

V

THE RECREANT CLAM

For the Outlook

Low dost thou lie amid the languid ooze, Because thy slothful spirit doth refuse The bliss of battle and the strain of strife. Rise, craven clam, and lead the strenuous life!



A FAIRY TALE

For the Mark Twain Dinner, December 5, 1905

Some three-score years and ten ago A prince was born at Florida, Mo.; And though he came incognito, With just the usual yells of woe, The watchful fairies seemed to know Precisely what the row meant; For when he was but five days old, (December fifth as I've been told,) They pattered through the midnight cold, And came around his crib, to hold A "Council of Endowment."

"I give him Wit," the eldest said, And stooped above the little bed, To touch his forehead round and red. "Within this bald, unfurnished head, Where wild luxuriant locks shall spread And wave in years hereafter, I kindle now the lively spark, That still shall flash by day and dark, And everywhere he goes shall mark His way with light and laughter."

The fairies laughed to think of it That such a rosy, wrinkled bit Of flesh should be endowed with Wit! But something serious seemed to hit The mind of one, as if a fit Of fear had come upon her. "I give him Truth," she quickly cried, "That laughter may not lead aside To paths where scorn and falsehood hide,— I give him Truth and Honour!"

"I give him Love," exclaimed the third; And as she breathed the mystic word, I know not if the baby heard, But softly in his dream he stirred, And twittered like a little bird, And stretched his hands above him. The fairy's gift was sealed and signed With kisses twain the deed to bind: "A heart of love to human-kind, And human-kind to love him!"

"Now stay your giving!" cried the Queen. "These gifts are passing rich I ween; And if reporters should be mean Enough to spy upon this scene, 'Twould make all other babies green With envy at the rumour. Yet since I love this child, forsooth, I'll mix your gifts, Wit, Love and Truth, With spirits of Immortal Youth, And call the mixture Humour!"

The fairies vanished with their glittering train; But here's the Prince with all their gifts,—Mark Twain.



THE BALLAD OF THE SOLEMN ASS

Recited at the Century Club, New York: Twelfth Night. 1906

Come all ye good Centurions and wise men of the times, You've made a Poet Laureate, now you must hear his rhymes. Extend your ears and I'll respond by shortening up my tale:— Man cannot live by verse alone, he must have cakes and ale.

So while you wait for better things and muse on schnapps and salad, I'll try my Pegasus his wings and sing a little ballad: A legend of your ancestors, the Wise Men of the East, Who brought among their baggage train a quaint and curious beast.

Their horses were both swift and strong, and we should think it lucky If we could buy, by telephone, such horses from Kentucky; Their dromedaries paced along, magnificent and large, Their camels were as stately as if painted by La Farge.

But this amazing little ass was never satisfied, He made more trouble every day than all the rest beside: His ears were long, his legs were short, his eyes were bleared and dim, But nothing in the wide, wide world was good enough for him.

He did not like the way they went, but lifted up his voice And said that any other way would be a better choice. He braced his feet and stood his ground, and made the wise men wait, While with his heels at all around he did recalcitrate.

It mattered not how fair the land through which the road might run, He found new causes for complaint with every Morning Sun: And when the shades of twilight fell and all the world grew nappy, They tied him to his Evening Post, but still he was not happy.

He thought his load was far too large, he thought his food was bad, He thought the Star a poor affair, he thought the Wise Men mad: He did not like to hear them laugh,—'twas childish to be jolly; And if perchance they sang a hymn,—'twas sentimental folly!

So day by day this little beast performed his level best To make their life, in work and play, a burden to the rest: And when they laid them down at night, he would not let them sleep, But criticized the Universe with hee-haws loud and deep.

One evening, as the Wise Men sat before their fire-lit tent, And ate and drank and talked and sang, in grateful merriment, The solemn donkey butted in, in his most solemn way, And broke the happy meeting up with a portentous bray.

"Now by my head," Balthazar said (his real name was Choate), "We've had about enough of this! I'll put it to the vote. I move the donkey be dismissed; let's turn him out to grass, And travel on our cheerful way, without the solemn ass."

The vote was aye! and with a whack the Wise Men drove him out; But still he wanders up and down, and all the world about; You'll know him by his long, sad face and supercilious ways, And likewise by his morning kicks and by his evening brays.

But while we sit at Eagle Roost and make our Twelfth Night cheer, Full well we know the solemn ass will not disturb us here: For pleasure rules the roost to-night, by order of the King, And every one must play his part, and laugh, and likewise sing.

The road of life is long, we know, and often hard to find, And yet there's many a pleasant turn for men of cheerful mind: We've done our day's work honestly, we've earned the right to rest, We'll take a cup of friendship now and spice it with a jest.

A silent health to absent friends, their memories are bright! A hearty health to all who keep the feast with us to-night! A health to dear Centuria, oh, may she long abide! A health, a health to all the world,—and the solemn ass, outside!



A BALLAD OF SANTA CLAUS

For the St. Nicholas Society of New York

Among the earliest saints of old, before the first Hegira, I find the one whose name we hold, St. Nicholas of Myra: The best-beloved name, I guess, in sacred nomenclature,— The patron-saint of helpfulness, and friendship, and good-nature.

A bishop and a preacher too, a famous theologian, He stood against the Arian crew and fought them like a Trojan: But when a poor man told his need and begged an alms in trouble, He never asked about his creed, but quickly gave him double.

Three pretty maidens, so they say, were longing to be married; But they were paupers, lack-a-day, and so the suitors tarried. St. Nicholas gave each maid a purse of golden ducats chinking, And then, for better or for worse, they wedded quick as winking.

Once, as he sailed, a storm arose; wild waves the ship surrounded; The sailors wept and tore their clothes, and shrieked "We'll all be drownded!" St. Nicholas never turned a hair; serenely shone his halo; He simply said a little prayer, and all the billows lay low.

The wicked keeper of an inn had three small urchins taken, And cut them up in a pickle-bin, and salted them for bacon. St. Nicholas came and picked them out, and put their limbs together,— They lived, they leaped, they gave a shout, "St. Nicholas forever!"

And thus it came to pass, you know, that maids without a nickel, And sailor-lads when tempest blow, and children in a pickle, And every man that's fatherly, and every kindly matron, In choosing saints would all agree to call St. Nicholas patron.

He comes again at Christmas-time and stirs us up to giving; He rings the merry bells that chime good-will to all the living; He blesses every friendly deed and every free donation; He sows the secret, golden seed of love through all creation.

Our fathers drank to Santa Claus, the sixth of each December, And still we keep his feast because his virtues we remember. Among the saintly ranks he stood, with smiling human features, And said, "Be good! But not too good to love your fellow-creatures!"

December 6, 1907.



ARS AGRICOLARIS

An Ode for the "Farmer's Dinner," University Club, New York, January 23, 1913

All hail, ye famous Farmers! Ye vegetable-charmers, Who know the art of making barren earth Smile with prolific mirth And bring forth twins or triplets at a birth! Ye scientific fertilizers of the soil, And horny-handed sons of toil! To-night from all your arduous cares released, With manly brows no longer sweat-impearled, Ye hold your annual feast, And like the Concord farmers long ago, Ye meet above the "Bridge" below, And draw the cork heard round the world!

What memories are yours! What tales Of triumph have your tongues rehearsed, Telling how ye have won your first Potatoes from the stubborn mead, (Almost as many as ye sowed for seed!) And how the luscious cabbages and kails Have bloomed before you in their bed At seven dollars a head! And how your onions took a prize For bringing tears into the eyes Of a hard-hearted cook! And how ye slew The Dragon Cut-worm at a stroke! And how ye broke, Routed, and put to flight the horrid crew Of vile potato-bugs and Hessian flies! And how ye did not quail Before th' invading armies of San Jose Scale, But met them bravely with your little pail Of poison, which ye put upon each tail O' the dreadful beasts and made their courage fail! And how ye did acquit yourselves like men In fields of agricultural strife, and then, Like generous warriors, sat you down at ease And gently to your gardener said, "Let us have Pease!"

But were there Pease? Ah, no, dear Farmers, no! The course of Nature is not ordered so. For when we want a vegetable most, She holds it back; And when we boast To our week-endly friends Of what we'll give them on our farm, alack, Those things the old dam, Nature, never sends.

O Pease in bottles, Sparrow-grass in jars, How often have ye saved from scars Of shame, and deep embarrassment, The disingenuous farmer-gent, To whom some wondering guest has cried, "How do you raise such Pease and Sparrow-grass?" Whereat the farmer-gent has not denied The compliment, but smiling has replied, "To raise such things you must have lots of glass."

From wiles like these, true Farmers, hold aloof; Accept no praise unless you have the proof. If niggard Nature should withhold the green And sugary Pea, welcome the humble Bean. Even the easy Radish, and the Beet, If grown by your own toil are extra sweet. Let malefactors of great wealth and banker-felons Rejoice in foreign artichokes, imported melons; But you, my Farmers, at your frugal board Spread forth the fare your Sabine Farms afford. Say to Maecenas, when he is your guest, "No peaches! try this turnip, 'tis my best." Thus shall ye learn from labors in the field What honesty a farmer's life may yield, And like G. Washington in early youth, Though cherries fail, produce a crop of truth.

But think me not too strict, O followers of the plough; Some place for fiction in your lives I would allow. In January when the world is drear, And bills come in, and no results appear, And snow-storms veil the skies, And ice the streamlet clogs, Then may you warm your heart with pleasant lies And revel in the seedsmen's catalogues! What visions and what dreams are these Of cauliflower obese,— Of giant celery, taller than a mast,— Of strawberries Like red pincushions, round and vast,— Of succulent and spicy gumbo,— Of cantaloupes, as big as Jumbo,— Of high-strung beans without the strings,— And of a host of other wild, romantic things!

Why, then, should Doctor Starr declare That modern habits mental force impair? And why should H. Marquand complain That jokes as good as his will never come again? And why should Bridges wear a gloomy mien About the lack of fiction for his Magazine? The seedsman's catalogue is all we need To stir our dull imaginations To new creations, And lead us, by the hand Of Hope, into a fairy-land.

So dream, my friendly Farmers, as you will; And let your fancy all your garners fill With wondrous crops; but always recollect That Nature gives us less than we expect. Scorn not the city where you earn the wealth That, spent upon your farms, renews your health; And tell your wife, whene'er the bills have shocked her, "A country-place is cheaper than a doctor." May roses bloom for you, and may you find Your richest harvest in a tranquil mind.

[Transcriber's note: "fertilizers" above was "fetilizers" in the original.]



ANGLER'S FIRESIDE SONG

Oh, the angler's path is a very merry way, And his road through the world is bright; For he lives with the laughing stream all day, And he lies by the fire at night.

Sing hey nonny, ho nonny And likewise well-a-day! The angler's life is a very jolly life And that's what the anglers say!

Oh, the angler plays for the pleasure of the game, And his creel may be full or light, But the tale that he tells will be just the same When he lies by the fire at night.

Sing hey nonny, ho nonny And likewise well-a-day! We love the fire and the music of the lyre, And that's what the anglers say!

To the San Francisco Fly-Casting Club, April, 1913.



HOW SPRING COMES TO SHASTA JIM

I never seen no "red gods"; I dunno wot's a "lure"; But if it's sumpin' takin', then Spring has got it sure; An' it doesn't need no Kiplins, ner yet no London Jacks, To make up guff about it, w'ile settin' in their shacks.

It's sumpin' very simple 'at happens in the Spring, But it changes all the lookin's of every blessed thing; The buddin' woods look bigger, the mounting twice as high, But the house looks kindo smaller, tho I couldn't tell ye why.

It's cur'ous wot a show-down the month of April makes, Between the reely livin', an' the things 'at's only fakes! Machines an' barns an' buildin's, they never give no sign; But the livin' things look lively w'en Spring is on the line.

She doesn't come too suddin, ner she doesn't come too slow; Her gaits is some cayprishus, an' the next ye never know,— A single-foot o' sunshine, a buck o' snow er hail,— But don't be disapp'inted, fer Spring ain't goin' ter fail.

She's loopin' down the hillside,—the driffs is fadin' out. She's runnin' down the river,—d'ye see them risin' trout? She's loafin' down the canyon,—the squaw-bed's growin' blue, An' the teeny Johnny-jump-ups is jest a-peekin' thru.

A thousan' miles o' pine-trees, with Douglas firs between, Is waitin' fer her fingers to freshen up their green; With little tips o' brightness the firs 'ill sparkle thick, An' every yaller pine-tree, a giant candle-stick!

The underbrush is risin' an' spreadin' all around, Jest like a mist o' greenness 'at hangs above the ground; A million manzanitas 'ill soon be full o' pink; So saddle up, my sonny,—it's time to ride, I think!

We'll ford er swim the river, becos there ain't no bridge; We'll foot the gulches careful, an' lope along the ridge; We'll take the trail to Nowhere, an' travel till we tire, An' camp beneath a pine-tree, an' sleep beside the fire.

We'll see the blue-quail chickens, an' hear 'em pipin' clear; An' p'raps we'll sight a brown-bear, er else a bunch o' deer; But nary a heathen goddess or god 'ill meet our eyes; For why? There isn't any! They're jest a pack o' lies!

Oh, wot's the use o' "red gods," an' "Pan," an' all that stuff? The natcheral facts o' Springtime is wonderful enuff! An' if there's Someone made 'em, I guess He understood, To be alive in Springtime would make a man feel good.

California, 1913.



A BUNCH OF TROUT-FLIES

For Archie Rutledge

Here's a half-a-dozen flies, Just about the proper size For the trout of Dickey's Run,— Luck go with them every one!

Dainty little feathered beauties, Listen now, and learn your duties: Not to tangle in the box; Not to catch on logs or rocks, Boughs that wave or weeds that float, Nor in the angler's "pants" or coat! Not to lure the glutton frog From his banquet in the bog; Nor the lazy chub to fool, Splashing idly round the pool; Nor the sullen horned pout From the mud to hustle out!

None of this vulgarian crew, Dainty flies, is game for you. Darting swiftly through the air Guided by the angler's care, Light upon the flowing stream Like a winged fairy dream; Float upon the water dancing, Through the lights and shadows glancing, Till the rippling current brings you, And with quiet motion swings you, Where a speckled beauty lies Watching you with hungry eyes.

Here's your game and here's your prize! Hover near him, lure him, tease him, Do your very best to please him, Dancing on the water foamy, Like the frail and fair Salome, Till the monarch yields at last; Rises, and you have him fast! Then remember well your duty,— Do not lose, but land, your booty; For the finest fish of all is Salvelinus Fontinalis.

So, you plumed illusions, go, Let my comrade Archie know Every day he goes a-fishing I'll be with him in well-wishing. Most of all when lunch is laid In the dappled orchard shade, With Will, Corinne, and Dixie too, Sitting as we used to do Round the white cloth on the grass While the lazy hours pass, And the brook's contented tune Lulls the sleepy afternoon,— Then's the time my heart will be With that pleasant company!

June 17, 1913.



INDEX OF FIRST LINES

A deeper crimson in the rose, A fir-tree standeth lonely A flawless cup: how delicate and fine A little fir grew in the midst of the wood A mocking question! Britain's answer came A silent world,—yet full of vital joy A silken curtain veils the skies, A tear that trembles for a little while Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land, Afterthought of summer's bloom! Ah, who will tell me, in these leaden days, All along the Brazos River, All day long in the city's canyon-street, All hail, ye famous Farmers! All night long, by a distant bell All the trees are sleeping, all the winds are still, Among the earliest saints of old, before the first Hegira At dawn in silence moves the mighty stream, At sunset, when the rosy light was dying

Children of the elemental mother, "Clam O! Fres' Clam!" How strange it sounds and sweet, Come all ye good Centurions and wise men of the times, Come, give me back my life again, you heavy-handed Death! Come home, my love, come home! Could every time-worn heart but see Thee once again, Count not the cost of honour to the dead!

Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that wild night Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow days Dear to my heart are the ancestral dwellings of America, Deeds not Words: I say so too! Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing; "Do you give thanks for this?—or that?" No, God be thanked Do you remember, father,— Does the snow fall at sea?

Ere thou sleepest gently lay

Fair Phyllis is another's bride: Fair Roslin Chapel, how divine Far richer than a thornless rose Flowers rejoice when night is done, For that thy face is fair I love thee not: Four things a man must learn to do From the misty shores of midnight, touched with splendours of the moon, Furl your sail, my little boatie:

Give us a name to fill the mind Glory of architect, glory of painter, and sculptor, and bard, God said, "I am tired of kings,"— Great Nature had a million words,

Hear a word that Jesus spake Heart of France for a hundred years, Her eyes are like the evening air, Here's a half-a-dozen flies, Here the great heart of France, Home, for my heart still calls me: Honour the brave who sleep Hours fly, How blind the toil that burrows like the mole, "How can I tell," Sir Edmund said, How long is the night, brother, How long the echoes love to play

I count that friendship little worth I envy every flower that blows I have no joy in strife, I love thine inland seas, I never seen no "red gods"; I dunno wot's a "lure"; I never thought again to hear I put my heart to school I read within a poet's book I think of thee when golden sunbeams glimmer I would not even ask my heart to say If all the skies were sunshine, If I have erred in showing all my heart, If Might made Right, life were a wild-beasts' cage: If on the closed curtain of my sight In a great land, a new land, a land full of labour and riches and confusion, In mirth he mocks the other birds at noon, In robes of Tynan blue the King was drest, In the blue heaven the clouds will come and go, In the pleasant time of Pentecost, Into the dust of the making of man, In warlike pomp, with banners flowing, It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise His name!) It's little I can tell It was my lot of late to travel far

"Joy is a Duty,"—so with golden lore Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, Just to give up, and trust

Knight-Errant of the Never-ending Quest,

Let me but do my work from day to day, Let me but feel thy look's embrace, "Lights out" along the land, Like a long arrow through the dark the train is darting, Limber-limbed, lazy god, stretched on the rock, Lord Jesus, Thou hast known Long ago Apollo called to Aristaeus, youngest of the shepherds, Long had I loved this "Attic shape," the brede Long, long ago I heard a little song, Long, long, long the trail Lover of beauty, walking on the height Low dost thou lie amid the languid ooze,

March on, my soul, nor like a laggard stay! Mother of all the high-strung poets and singers departed,

Not Dante when he wandered by the river Arno, Not to the swift, the race: Now in the oak the sap of life is welling,

O dark the night and dim the day O garden isle, beloved by Sun and Sea, O Lord our God, Thy mighty hand O mighty river! strong, eternal Will, O Mother mountains! billowing far to the snow-lands, O Music hast thou only heard O who will walk a mile with me O wonderful! How liquid clear O youngest of the giant brood Oh, gallantly they fared forth in khaki and in blue, Oh, quick to feel the lightest touch Oh, the angler's path is a very merry way, Oh, was I born too soon, my dear, or were you born too late, Oh, what do you know of the song, my dear, Oh, why are you shining so bright, big Sun, Once, only once, I saw it clear,— One sail in sight upon the lonely sea, Only a little shrivelled seed,

Peace without Justice is a low estate,—

Read here, O friend unknown, Remember, when the timid light

Saints are God's flowers, fragrant souls Self is the only prison that can ever bind the soul: Ship after ship, and every one with a high-resounding name, Sign of the Love Divine Some three-score years and ten ago Soul of a soldier in a poet's frame, Stand back, ye messengers of mercy! Stand Stand fast, Great Britain!

The British bard who looked on Eton's walls, The clam that once, on Jersey's banks, The cornerstone in Truth is laid, The cradle I have made for thee The day returns by which we date our years: The fire of love was burning, yet so low The gabled roofs of old Malines The glory of ships is an old, old song, The grief that is but feigning, The heavenly hills of Holland,— The laggard winter ebbed so slow The land was broken in despair, The melancholy gift Aurora gained The moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring, The mountains that inclose the vale The nymphs a shepherd took The other night I had a dream, most clear The record of a faith sublime, The river of dreams runs quietly down The roar of the city is low, The rough expanse of democratic sea The shadow by my finger cast The tide, flows in to the harbour,— The time will come when I no more can play The winds of war-news change and veer: The worlds in which we live at heart are one, There are many kinds of anger, as many kinds of fire: There are many kinds of love, as many kinds of light, There are songs for the morning and songs for the night, There is a bird I know so well, They tell me thou art rich, my country: gold This is the soldier brave enough to tell This is the window's message, Thou warden of the western gate, above Manhattan Bay, Thou who hast made thy dwelling fair "Through many a land your journey ran, 'Tis fine to see the Old World, and travel up and down To thee, plain hero of a rugged race, Two dwellings, Peace, are thine Two hundred years of blessing I record "Two things," the wise man said, "fill me with awe: 'Twas far away and long ago,

Under the cloud of world-wide war,

Waking from tender sleep, We men that go down for a livin' in ships to the sea,— We met on Nature's stage, What hast thou done, O womanhood of France, What is Fortune, what is Fame? What makes the lingering Night so cling to thee? What shall I give for thee, What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night, When down the stair at morning When May bedecks the naked trees When Staevoren town was in its prime When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark When tulips bloom in Union Square, When to the garden of untroubled thought Where's your kingdom, little king? Who knows how many thousand years ago Who seeks for heaven alone to save his soul, Who watched the worn-out Winter die? Winter on Mount Shasta, With eager heart and will on fire, With memories old and wishes new With two bright eyes, my star, my love Wordsworth, thy music like a river rolls

Ye gods of battle, lords of fear, Yes, it was like you to forget, You dare to say with perjured lips, You only promised me a single hour: Yours is a garden of old-fashioned flowers;

THE END