And having made his note of us,
He pondered and was reconciled.
Was ever master yet so mild
As he, and so untamable?
We doubted, even when he smiled,
Not knowing what he knew so well.
He knew that undeceiving fate
Would shame us whom he served unsought;
He knew that he must wince and wait-
The jest of those for whom he fought;
He knew devoutly what he thought
Of us and of our ridicule;
He knew that we must all be taught
Like little children in a school.
We gave a glamor to the task
That he encountered and saw through,
But little of us did he ask,
And little did we ever do.
And what appears if we review
The season when we railed and chaffed?
It is the face of one who knew
That we were learning while we laughed.
The face that in our vision feels
Again the venom that we flung,
Transfigured to the world reveals
The vigilance to which we clung.
Shrewd, hallowed, harassed, and among
The mysteries that are untold,
The face we see was never young
Nor could it ever have been old.
For he, to whom we had applied
Our shopman's test of age and worth,
Was elemental when he died,
As he was ancient at his birth:
The saddest among kings of earth,
Bowed with a galling crown, this man
Met rancor with a cryptic mirth,
Laconic-and Olympian.
The love, the grandeur, and the fame,
Are bounded by the world alone;
The calm, the smoldering, and the flame
Of awful patience were his own:
With him they are forever flown
Past all our fond self-shadowings,
Wherewith we cumber the Unknown
As with inept, Icarian wings.
For we were not as other men:
'Twas ours to soar and his to see.
But we are coming down again,
And we shall come down pleasantly;
Nor shall we longer disagree
On what it is to be sublime,
But flourish in our perigee
And have one Titan at a time.
[From "The Town Down the River"; copyright, 1910, by Charles Scribner's Sons. By permission of the publishers.]
GEORGE STERLING (1869–)
The Black Vulture
Aloof upon the day's immeasured dome,
He holds unshared the silence of the sky.
Far down his bleak, relentless eyes descry
The eagle's empire and the falcon's home-
Far down, the galleons of sunset roam;
His hazards on the sea of morning lie;
Serene, he hears the broken tempest sigh
Where cold sierras gleam like scattered foam.
And least of all he holds the human swarm-
Unwitting now that envious men prepare
To make their dream and its fulfillment one
When, poised above the caldrons of the storm,
Their hearts, contemptuous of death, shall dare
His roads between the thunder and the sun.
A Legend of the Dove
Soft from the linden's bough,
Unmoved against the tranquil afternoon,
Eve's dove laments her now:
"Ah, gone! long gone! Shall I not find thee soon?"
That yearning in his voice
Told not to Paradise a sorrow's tale:
As other birds rejoice
He sang, a brother to the nightingale.
By twilight on her breast
He saw the flower asleep, the star awake,
And calling her from rest,
Made all the dawn melodious for her sake.
And then the Tempter's breath,
The sword of exile and the mortal chain
That gave her heart to dust, his own to pain. . .
The seraph heard his lonely music swoon,
"Ah, gone! long gone! Shall I not find thee soon?"
Omnia Exeunt in Mysterium
The stranger in the gates-lo! that am I,
And what my land of birth, I do not know,
Nor yet the hidden land to which I go.
One may be lord of many, ere he die,
But know himself he shall not, nor his woe,
Nor to what sea the tears of wisdom flow,
Nor why one star is taken from the sky.
An urging is upon him evermore,
And though he bide, his soul is wanderer, Scanning the shadows with a sense of hasteWhere fade the tracks of all who went before: A dim and solitary traveller
On ways that end in evening and in waste.
STEPHEN CRANE (1870-1900)
Behold, the grave of a wicked man,
And near it, a stern spirit.
There came a drooping maid with violets,
But the spirit grasped her arm.
"No flowers for him," he said.
The maid wept:
"Ah, I loved him."
But the spirit, grim and frowning:
"No flowers for him."
Now, this is it
If the spirit was just,
Why did the maid weep?
A youth in apparel that glittered
Went to walk in a grim forest.
There he met an assassin
Attired all in garb of old days;
He, scowling through the thickets,
And dagger poised quivering,
Rushed upon the youth.
"Sir," said this latter,
"I am enchanted, believe me.
To die thus,
In this mediæval fashion,
According to the best legends;
Ah, what joy!"
Then took he the wound, smiling,
And died, content.
Once I saw mountains angry,
And ranged in battle-front.
Against them stood a little man;
Ay, he was no bigger than my finger.
I laughed, and spoke to one near me,
"Will he prevail?"
"Surely," replied this other;
"His grandfathers beat them many times.” Then did I see much virtue in grandfathers,— At least, for the little man
Who stood against the mountains.
T. A. DALY (1871—)
Mia Carlotta
Giuseppe, da barber, ees greata for "mash,"
He gotta da bigga, da blacka mustache,
Good clo'es an' good styla an' playnta good cash.
W'enevra Giuseppe ees walk on da street,
Da peopla dey talka, "How nobby! how neat!
How softa da handa, how smalla da feet."
He raisa hees hat an' he shaka hees curls,
An' smila weeth teetha so shiny like pearls ;
O many da heart of da seelly young girls
He gotta.
Yes, playnta he gotta
Giuseppe, da barber, he maka da eye,
An' lika de steam engine puffa an' sigh,
For catcha Carlotta w'en she ees go by.
Carlotta she walka weeth nose in da air,
An' look through Giuseppe weeth far-away stare,
As eef she no see dere ees som'body dere.
Giuseppe, da barber, he gotta da cash,
He gotta da clo'es an' da bigga mustache,
He gotta da seelly young girls for da "mash,"
But notta-
You bat my life, notta-
Carlotta.
She was so frail, my little one,
She had not yet begun to stir
Her tiny limbs; from sun to sun,
This breast, these arms maternal were
The bounded universe for her.
But now far spaces feel her might,
And sad, sweet thoughts of her arise
With every sun; she stirs the night
With sighing winds, and from the skies
She looks at me with starry eyes.
Come sell your pony, cowboy-
Sell your pony to me;
Braided bridle and your puncher saddle,
And spend your money free.
"If I should sell my pony,
And ride the range no more,
Nail up my hat and my silver spurs
Above my shanty door;
"And let my door stand open wide
To the snow and the rain and sun;
And bury me under the green sweetgrass
Where you hear the river run.'
As I came down the sweetgrass range
And by the cabin door,
I heard a singing in the early dusk
Along the river shore;
I heard a singing to the early stars,
And the tune of a pony's feet.
The joy of the riding singer
I never shall forget.
|