THE DYAK CHIEF
{1}
AND OTHER VERSES
The Dyak Chief
and Other Verses
BY
ERWIN CLARKSON GARRETT
Author of
“My Bunkie and Other Ballads”
![[Image of the colophon unavailable.]](images/colophon.jpg)
NEW YORK
BARSE & HOPKINS
PUBLISHERS
{4}
Copyright, 1914
By BARSE & HOPKINS
To My Mother
And some Ye bid to learn;
And some Ye bid to triumph—
And some to yearn and yearn:
And some Ye bid to conquer
In blood by land and sea;
And some Ye bid to tarry here—
To prove the love of Thee.
PREFACE
Neither desiring to plagiarize Cæsar nor to compare my book to Gaul, I wish to mention briefly that this volume as a whole is divided into three parts, of which one is occupied by the single poem, “The Dyak Chief,” the verses that give title to the book; another, the second, is occupied by American army ballads, and yet another, the third, is occupied by various verses on miscellaneous subjects.
However, if recollections of my personal campaigns against Cæsar—armed only with a Latin vocabulary and grammar—serve me rightly, the old Roman was not merely a worthy foe, but one who might well be held up as a worthy example; who dealt with his chronicles as he dealt with his enemies on the field, in a simple, direct, forcible manner, bare of circumlocution, tautology or ambiguity—that he who runs may read—and reading, know his Gaul and Gallic chieftains, his Cæsar and his Cæsar’s legionaries, even as Cæsar knew them.
The initial poem, “The Dyak Chief,” forming Part One, is a romance of Central Borneo, that I visited in July, 1908, during a little trip around the World.{8}
Coming over from Java, which I had just finished touring, I arrived at Bandjermasin, in southeastern Borneo, near the coast, and from whence I took a small steamer up the Barito River to Poeroek Tjahoe, pronounced “Poorook Jow,” deep in the interior of the island.
Poeroek Tjahoe was the last white (Dutch) settlement, and from there I went with three Malay coolies five days tramp on foot through the jungle, northwest, penetrating the very heart of Borneo, sleeping the first three nights in the houses of the Dyaks, some nomadic tribes of whom still roam the jungle as head-hunters, and the last two nights upon improvised platforms out in the open, till I reached Batoe Paoe, a town or kampong in the geographical center of the island.
I also visited a nearby village, Olong Liko, afterwards returning by the Moeroeng and Barito Rivers to Poeroek Tjahoe, and from thence back to Bandjermasin on the little river-steamer and then by boat to Singapore, which was the radiating headquarters for my trips to Sumatra, Java, Borneo and Siam.
Having thus reached the very center of Borneo on foot, I had an excellent opportunity to study the country, the people and the general conditions, so that the reader of “The Dyak Chief” need feel no hesitancy in accepting as accurate and authentic, all descriptions, details and touches of{9} “local color” or “atmosphere” contained in the poem.
Full notes on “The Dyak Chief” will be found at the end of the volume.
Part Two contains a number of new American army ballads, gathered mostly as a result of my personal observations and experiences when serving as a private in Companies “L” and “G,” 23rd U. S. Infantry (Regulars) and Troop “I,” 5th U. S. Cavalry (Regulars), during the Philippine Insurrection of 1899-1902.
As I have just mentioned, the army verses are all new ones, and consequently not to be found among those contained in my previous volume, “My Bunkie and Other Ballads.”
Part Three consists of individual poems on various subjects without any interrelation.
It is sincerely hoped that the reader will make full use of the notes appended at the end of the book, which addenda I have endeavored to treat with as much brevity as may be compatible with succinctness.
E. C. G.
Philadelphia, February 1st, 1914.
CONTENTS
PART ONE
THE DYAK CHIEF
THE DYAK CHIEF
Where the Moeroeng leaps in wild cascades,
And the endless green of the jungle fades,
And night shuts down on the fern-choked glades
Where the kampong hearth-fires glow.
The words of a Dyak chief,
Till ye learn the weight of the Dyak hate
And the depth of the Dyak grief.
I loved a kampong maid,
And very old was the tale I told
’Neath the lace of the jungle shade.
Though born year by year;
Till I thought of the headless waist I bore—
And I drew the maiden near:{14}
Where the rippling shadows flee,
“None but the skull of a kampong chief
Shall hang at my belt for thee.”
II
First broke the golden day,
The taintless breeze in the highest trees
Laughed as I swung away.
Or skirted the river’s bank,
And the great lianes sung to me
As on my knees I drank.
And twisted in snake-like guise,
Till I lost their sight in the leafy height
Where peeped the purple skies.
I leapt from clod to clod,
O’er fallen trunk and lifted root
And the ooze of the sunken sod—
{15}
Where the tiny trees stand tall and straight,
A mass of mossy green,
And lighting all like a fairy hall
The sunlight sifts between.
I pressed my marches through;
Day by day through strain and stress
The weary hours flew.
As swept my hurrying tread,
The little waiting leeches rose
And caught me as I sped.
But I let them clinging stay,
And they swelled to seven times their size
And glutted and fell away.
And so they sucked their fill,
As I splashed through the knee-deep rivers
And clambered the jungle hill.
And the stars in their proud parade,
They bade me look to the fray before,
And back to the kampong maid.
III
That showed a fertile glade,
Where the bending trees of the river brink
Leaned out o’er a wild cascade.
The towering giants rose high,
And tossed their heads in hauteur,
Full-plumed across the sky.
A hundred feet in air,
And shook their clinging vine-leaves
As a Dyak maid her hair.
The river rock rose sheer,
And out of the cracks the tasseled palms
Like mighty plumes hung clear.
Where the little ripples gleam,
A fisher sat in his sunken proa
In the midst of the gliding stream.{17}
Told where a hunter sped,
And I caught the glint of the morning sun
On the blow-spear’s glittering head.
Felling the little trees,
And the murmuring call of a water-fall
That echoed the jungle breeze.
The fisher and stream and hill—
Was the kampong deep in the hollow,
Nestling dark and still.
A single house and strong;
Perched on piles two warriors high
And a hundred paces long.
The mighty chief poles rose,
And seemed to shake their tasseled tops
In warning to their foes—
Once did, when in their might—
With shining steel and sinews—
Full-armed they sprang to fight.{18}
The water women go
Back and forth to the river bank,
Chattering to and fro.
Till—straight as the windless flame—
With spear and shield and mandauw,
The kampong chieftain came.
Where hung each shriveled head.
Full well I saw the eyes of awe
That followed in his tread.
The quick obedience fanned—
And I felt the trance of the royal glance
Of the Lord of the Jungle-land.
As he strode the upland grade,
And softly I drew my mandauw
And fingered the sharpened blade.
To the hills in the golden morn?
But little I cared as the heavens stared
On the day that my hope was born.{19}
As I slunk from tree to tree—
“None but the head of a kampong chief
Shall hang at my belt for thee.”
For you my belt shall grace,
Taken by right in fairest fight—
Full-fronted—face to face.)
That lay across his path,
And I stood to wait his coming—
The chieftain in his wrath.
That breaks across the night,
Were the rhythmic, muffled foot falls
Of the war-lord come to fight.
The branches pushed away—
And the Scourge of the Moeroeng Valley
Sprang straight to the waiting fray.
They told of his fearful fame,
As through my shield a hand’s-length
His hurtling spearhead came.{20}
To the shock of the blinding blow,
But I rose again at the stinging pain
And the wet of the warm blood’s flow.
And I swept my mandauw high—
But ere my stroke descended
He smote me athwart the thigh.
As the stricken game in the dell—
As a bird on the wing at the blow-spear’s sting,
To the reddened earth I fell.
He knelt and held me fast;
And I looked on high at the fleecy sky—
And I thought the look was the last.
I wrenched my right hand free,
And I drove my mandauw’s gleaming point
A hand’s-breadth in his knee.
And a moment bared his breast,
And like the dash of the lightning flash
My weapon sought its rest.{21}
The mighty chieftain rolled,
And I pinned him fast for the head-stroke,
In the reek of the blood-stained mold.
But the glare of the dying eyes
Gleamed forth to show the worthy foe
And the heart that never dies.
. . . . . . . . . .
A moment toward a kampong,
And toward a kampong maid,
I looked ... and a head rolled helpless
To the crash of a falling blade.
IV
I bound my arm and thigh,
And I headed back o’er the leafy track
With hope and spirits high.
All Nature seemed to sing;
And my legs ran red where trickling bled
The head of the Jungle King.{22}
The fleecy clouds rolled by—
And the forest green was a sun-shot sheen,
And the sky was a laughing sky.
And the stars in their proud parade,
They bade me look to the path before
That led to the kampong maid.
At last I reached the hill,
Whence each hearth-light in the falling night
Was a welcome bright and still.
Cut clear through the growing gloam—
Of all brave things the best that brings
The weary Wanderer home.
And met me as I ran;
And they saw the head of the chieftain,
And they hailed me man and man.
I felt the anxious gaze,
And over my brain like a pall was lain
The weight of the Doubter’s craze.{23}
For I quailed at the story stayed—
And I asked them if aught had happened
To the head of the kampong maid.
Where the stars lit one by one,
They told me the tale at my homing—
And I felt the passions run—
Shame as the burning bar—
Grief as the poisoned arrow—
Revenge as the salted scar:
Rising and ebbing low;
Till overhead the skies burst red,
And I tottered beneath the blow.
And the weapon that carries far;
And his love for the Maid—but over it laid
The hush of the falling star.
Weakness and love and fear—
Oh very old was the tale they told,
Though born year by year.{24}
But they sprang and held me fast:
And they promised me there by the dead chief’s hair,
My hate should be filled to the last.
To the base of a splintered tree,
Stripped to the sun and spat upon
And taunted—awaiting me.
But ... I might not know her, then—
A sneer for the kampong women—
And a jest for the kampong men.
. . . . . . . . . .
And thus in the days of my strength and pride,
From over the distant sea,
The White Man came in his open shame
And stole my love from me.
V
The tom-toms roared their fill,
And echoed like rolling thunder
From hill to farthest hill.{25}
And lifted and soared away,
And we dragged the fettered prisoner forth
To blink at the blinding day.
We staked him foot and hand,
And we laughed in glee as we watched to see
The pest of the jungle-land.
The little leeches swing,
End on end till they reached the flesh
Of the prostrate, struggling Thing.
They covered the White Man o’er—
Body and legs and arms and face,
Till the whole was a bleeding sore.
And crimsoned the leafy ground,
And the scent of gore but brought the more
As the smell of game to the hound.
Slowly day by day,
Hour by hour I watched the flesh
Sinking and turning gray:{26}
To the skies and the White Man’s God—
But only the gluttons came again
And reddened the reeking sod.
Paled to an ashen dun—
And the clotted blood turned black as mud
And stunk in the midday sun.
A shining, yellow sheen—
And the flies that helped the leeches work
In the stagnant pools between.)
. . . . . . . . . .
Till the fourth day broke in a blaze of gold—
And I knew the end was nigh—
And I called the tribes from near and far,
To watch the White Man die.
Where the broad Barito winds—
From every kampong of the east
The murmuring hill-wind finds—
Where the Djoeloi falls and leaps—
From every kampong of the north
Where the great Mohakkam sweeps—{27}
The mighty warriors came,
To prove the weight of the Dyak hate
And the shame of the naked shame.
They scanned the victim there,
Except that when an Elder spake
To mock at his despair.
Where loosened footboards creaked—
A woman leaned in frenzy
And tore her hair and shrieked.
The answering echoes came,
Till all our far-flung wilderness
Stooped down to curse his name.
They watched the streamlets flow:
In savage, sullen silence—
The war-lords—row on row—
Oh goodly was the sight,
Square shouldered—spare—with muscles bare
Coiled in their knotted might—{28}
In glittering, primal hate,
Like adders, that beneath the leaves
The coming foot falls wait.
Stared with senseless grin,
As though in voiceless mummery
They mocked him in his sin.
To make his entry good
To th’ lost and leering legion
Of the martyred brotherhood.
. . . . . . . . . .
We rubbed his lips with costly salt—
(You know how far it comes)—
And when he called for drink—we laughed—
And rolled the Sick-man’s Drums.
. . . . . . . . . .
They beckoned me unto his side—
The blood-stench filled the dell—
They asked me—“Ye are satisfied?”
And I answered—“It is well.”
The weary struggles ceased—
And on his breath was the moan of death
That prayed for life released.{29}
With a knob of rotten vine,
And the leeches entered greedily
As white men to their wine.
They gushed in rivers gay—
And gasping—his own blood choked him—
And his Spirit passed away.
When the western gold-belt dies,
And the jungle trees in the evening breeze
Tower against the skies,
And the good-wife bakes the greasy cakes
Where the kampong hearth-fires rise.
PART TWO
AMERICAN ARMY BALLADS
ON THE WATER-WAGON
I’ve had my monthly row—
And they put me in “the mill” and they told me, “Peace be still,”
And—I am on the Water-wagon now.
And I’m thirsty as I can be;
And I’m nursing of an eye that I got for being fly,
And I’m bunking back o’ bars exclusively.
If they jugged you ’cause you got a little tight,
And a zig-zag course you laid when doing Dress Parade,
And you really thought Guide Right was Column Right.
And I’m dryer than the Arizona dust,{34}
And my throat is full o’ hay and I’m choppin’ wood all day
‘Cause the Sergeant of the Guard, he says I must.
Looking over at the barracks where I hear the mess-tins clang:
And the fool I am comes o’er me, as I chant the same old story,
The Ballad of the Guard-house—until I go and hang:—
I am glued and tied and fastened to the seat ...”
And I hear the fellers snicker where the two lone candles flicker,
And I shut-up like a soldier—with the Ballad incomplete.
ARMY OF PACIFICATION
Cuba 1907
And the vine-choked jungles yawn,
I’ve doubled-out on a dirty scout
Two hours before the dawn,
I’ve done my drill when the palms hung still
And the rations nearly gone.
In ’Frisco and Aparri—
I’ve lifted their lights through the tropic nights
O’er the breast of a golden sea,
But this is surely the craziest puzzle
That ever has puzzled me.
Where the royal palms swing high,
And the White Man’s plantations of all o’ the Nations
Are scattered ahither and nigh
And the native galoot who must revolute
Though no one can tell you just why.{36}
Or a practice-march happens my way,
Each planter I meet is lovely and sweet
And setteth them up right away,
“And won’t I come in and how’ve I been?”
And—“How long do I think the troops stay?”
When I soldier’d over home,
Nor clasped me in glee when I came from the sea
Where the Seal Rock breakers comb,
Or stamped on a strike and scattered them wide
Like the scud of the back-set foam.
They cursed me for being rough:
(They wouldn’t dare to have soldier’d there
But they called me brutal and tough.
I had done their work and the land was theirs,
Which I reckon was nearly enough).
Anywhere else I’ve been.
They never go wild and bless the child
And say “Oh Willie come in.”{37}
Though on my soul, I’m damned if I see
Just where is the Cardinal Sin.
As stupid as I can be,
So this is the craziest puzzle
That ever has puzzled me.
(I’m perfectly dry but I must bat an eye,
For you think that I cannot see.)
SOLITARY
Backward and forward we go,
By the Solitary’s cell, which assuredly is hell—
It’s five foot square you know.
When pay-day came around;
And the non-com he hated was thereupon slated
To measure 5-10 on the ground.
We’ve done our turn in the jug;
’Cause the fellow we lick must go raise a kick—
The dirty, cowardly mug.
But it’s fearful what drink will do:
And the corporal he hit with the butt of a gun
And nigh put the corporal through.
They’d jug me myself—what’s more—
But I must slip the beggar a chew and a smoke
Just under the jamb of the door.{39}
Abreaking stone on the Isle,
So they fastened ’im fair in a five foot square
Till the day that they give ’im a trial.
My duty is written plain,
But the Solitary there in his cramped and lonely lair,
It’s enough to drive a man insane.
And the temper that cursed him too,
When he’s breaking rock all day by the shores o’ ’Frisco Bay
Where he sees the happy homeward-bounds come through.
THE SULTAN COMES TO TOWN
A Philippine Reminiscence of 1900
Do tell!
The Sultan of Jolo has come to town—
The Sultan of Jolo of great renown—
And he’s dressed like a general and walks like a clown
As well.
My word!
The Sultan of Jolo’s a mighty chief—
(Don’t call ’im a grafter or chicken-thief,
For you’ll surely come to your grief,
If heard).
And style!
The Sultan of Jolo’s such a stride,
And his skin’s the color of rhino hide,
And he cheweth betel-nut beside:
(Oh vile!){41}
You bet.
The Sultan of Jolo’s a swell galoot,
So we line the scorching streets and salute,
(“Presenting Arms” to the royal boot),
And sweat.
I say
The Sultan of Jolo’s a full-fledged king
As down the regiment’s front they swing,
He and his Escort—wing and wing:
Hurray!
In truth.
The Sultan of Jolo feels his weight
As he marches by in regal state
With Major Sour and all The Great,
Forsooth.
With “cuz.”
The Sultan proudly treads the earth
O’ershadowed by the Major’s girth,
But he knows just what the Major’s worth:
He does.{42}
(Don’t quiz).
The Sultan of Jolo’s a haughty bun—
An honest, virtuous gentleman—
And he’s rated high in Washington—
He is.
Whoopee!
The Sultan of Jolo’s a splendid bird,
But we in our ignorance pledge our word
His asinine plumage is absurd
To see.
Such chums:
The Sultan and Major Sour are
So wrapped in love exceeding par,
That war shall never war-time mar—
—what comes.
Yo ho!
The Sultan of Jolo guesseth right,
As sure as daytime follows night,
That Major Sour wouldn’t fight:
Lord—no!){43}
(And weeds).
The Sultan of Jolo is pretty wise,
In spite of innocent, bovine eyes,
And the soothing tongue o’ the Eastern skies
And creeds.
Oh Lor’!
The Sultan of Jolo passeth by,
But we in the ranks can’t wink an eye,
Though we think we know the Reasons Why,
And more.
(Have a care!)
The Sultan of Jolo walketh flat,
But Nature’s surely the cause of that;
And he’s salaried high—and sleek and fat—
So there!
Why not?
The Sultan of Jolo laughs in glee
As his wages come across the sea
From those who hate polygamy—
God wot!{44}
He is.
Oh the Sultan of Jolo’s gold and gilt,
His chest and his sleeves and his good sword hilt,
And he knows the lines on which are built—
His biz.
PHILIPPINE RANKERS
The varying voices rise—
The shrill New England teacher’s—
(The wisest of the wise)—
And the Cowboy cleaning cartridges
And telling fearful lies.
Performing Bunk-fatigue,
The Kid who simply can’t keep still
Is pounding through a jig,
And a plain darn fool just sits and sings
And sneaks another swig.
Dilates to Private Brown,
The lordly top-notch swell he is
When he is back in town,
And the scion of an ancient name
Just yawns and hides a frown.
T’ his Y. M. C. A. band,
And mine Professor’s turning Keats
With hard and grimy hand,{46}
And Johnny’s reading football news
When baseball fills the land.
And some won’t gee at all—
And some are looking for a fight
And riding for a fall—
And some, they ran from prison bars;
And some, just heard The Call.
And some the Country’s best:
And some are from the cultured East—
And some the sculptured West:
And some they never heard of Burke—
And some they sport a crest.
“The Chosen of the Lord”—
The Faithful of the Fathers—
The Wielders of the Sword—
The hired of the helpless—
The bruisers and the bored.)
Are aye foregathered here;
The best sides of the cities
Are come from far and near,{47}
To mix their books and Bibles
With oaths and rotten beer.
. . . . . . . . . .
Clear down the mud-browed, blood-plowed ranks
The thin, tanned faces lift;
The long, lean line that hears the whine
Of the bamboo’s silken sift,
And the sudden rush and the chug and the hush
Where the careless bullets drift.
And cursing like a fool;
The Bowery Boy is bleeding fast
In a red and ragged pool;
And mine Professor gags the wound—
(Which he didn’t learn in school).
. . . . . . . . . .
Nor creed nor sign nor order—
Nor clan nor clique nor class:
Never a mark to brand him
As he chokes in the paddy grass:
Only the tide of Bunker Hill,
That ebbs, but may not pass.
DOBIE ITCH
And all y’ tropic ills,
Tell about the cholera camp
Over ’mong the hills;
Tell about the small-pox
Where the bamboos switch,
But close y’ face and let me tell
About the Dobie Itch.
It isn’t nettle-rash;
It isn’t got from eating pork,
Or drinking native trash.
You smear your toes with ointment,
And think you’re getting well,
And then the damn thing comes again
And simply raises hell.
Through hills and paddy mire,
Abaft the slippery googoos
Who shoot—and then retire:{49}
And now you’ve taken off your shoes
And settled for a rest,
When suddenly your feet they start
To itch like all possessed.
And then see how it goes....
“Ouch! m’ bloody stockin’s
Stickin’ to m’ toes.”)
Burning scab and sore,
(“Stop, you fool, you’ll poison ’em!”
Hear your bunkie roar).
Never mind the poison—
Ease the maddening pain,
Till your poor old tired feet
Start to bleed again.
And all y’ tropic ills,
Tell about the cholera camp
Over ’mong the hills;
Tell about the small-pox
Where the bamboos switch,
But close y’ face and let me tell
About the Dobie Itch.
THE SERVICE ARMS
And frozen Valley Forge,
To the Luzon trenches
And the fern-choked gorge:
All the Service—all the Arms—
Horse and Foot and Guns—
East and West who gave your best—
Stand and pledge your Sons!
The Infantry:
Ringing red with reeking tolls,
Crushing out its Hindu souls
In Vishnu’s name:
As the unrelenting tide
Sweeps the weary wreckage wide,
Bidding all men stand aside
Or rue the game:
The Artillery:
And the neighboring foot hills shake,
As in shotted flame they break
Athwart the sky:
As the swollen streams of Spring
Meet their river wing and wing,
Till it sweeps a monstrous thing
Where cities die:
At a range of half a mile,
I—I lop them off in style
By six and eights:
As they come—their Country’s best—
Like a roaring, seething crest,
And I knock them Galley West
Where Glory Waits.
The Cavalry:
Batters down the great flood gate
Where the huddled children wait
Behind the doors:
As the eagle in its flight
Sweeps the plain to left and right,
Strewing carnage, wreck and blight
And homeward soars:
’Neath a white and callous moon,
Lifts the listless low lagoon
Into the sea:
In my tyranny and power
I have swept them where they cower,
I have turned the battle-hour
To the cry of Victory!
PART THREE
OTHER VERSES
SHAH JEHAN
BUILDER OF THE TAJ MAHAL.
Up over the river high,
That a Great Mogul may have his wish
Ere he lay him down to die.
Ere the last least shadows flee,
To gaze at the end o’er the river’s bend
On the shrine that I raised for thee.
And I watched it slowly rise,
A vision of snow forever aglow
In the blue of the northern skies.
That all the World might see
The depth of thy matchless beauty
And the light that ye were to me.{56}
The day is growing dark,
And only the peacock’s calling
Comes over the rose-rimmed park.
Will glow as the amethyst,
And moonlit skies shall make thee rise
A vision of pearly mist.
For the hordes in the covered wains,
From the snow-peaked north where the tides burst forth
To the Ghauts and the Rajput plains.
Whence crystal rivers rise,
To the jungles where the tiger’s lair
Lies bare to the Deccan skies.
And the Afghan lords shall see
The tender gleam of thy living dream,
Through all Eternity.
Ah wife—the day-star nears—
And I see you come with calling arms
As ye came in the yester-years.{57}
By Palace and Peacock Throne—
By marble and gold where the World grows cold
In the seed that It has sown.
Thine eyes shone out to me—
More gay thy laugh than the rainbow chaff
That lifts from the Southern Sea.
In Delhi’s proud bazaars—
More true thy heart than the tulwar’s start—
Blood-wet in a hundred wars.
That brighten the Punjab plains—
More soft thy tread than the winds that spread
The last of the summer rains.
No rose by the garden wall,
May ever seek to match thy cheek—
Oh fairest rose of all.
The midday sun is gone,{58}
But the glow of thy tomb dispels the gloom
Where doubting shadows yawn.
Through the march of the marching years,
Where, builded and bound from the dome to the ground
It was wrought of a monarch’s tears.
Like a moonlit summer sea,
But bank and bower and town and tower
Have bidden farewell to me:
And the matchless dome shine through—
The silver Jumna broadens and—
It bears me—love—to you.
THE OMNIPOTENT
He had made so fair and green,
Fertile valleys and snow-capped hills
And the oceans that lie between.
Through the birth of the crystal air:
And the Lord leaned back in His well-earned rest—
And He knew that the sight was fair.
And His children multiplied,
And ever they lived in simple faith,
And in simple faith they died.
They wept to the midnight star—
And they stood in awe where the tides off-shore
Rose leaping across the bar.{60}
But passed all time and tide,
They blessed their Lord-Creator—
Nor knew Him mystified.
The men of a primal breed—
And the Lord He gathered them as they lived,
Each in his simple creed.
Ere the Earth had time to cool
And the horde of Cain had clouted the brain
’Neath the lash of a monstrous school.
II
He had made so fair and green—
Fertile valleys and snow-capped hills
And the oceans that lie between.
And ever anew they came—
Torture and farce and infamy
Committed in His name.{61}
Councils of hate and greed—
Prophet on prophet warring,
Each to his separate need.
And ostentatious prayer,
And the hollow mock of the chanceled dark
Flung back through the raftered air.
. . . . . . . . . .
And the Lord He gazèd wistfully
Through the track of a falling star;
And He turned His sight from the homes of men,
Where the ranting cabals are.
THE OUTBOUND TRAIL
We hear it calling still:
Coralline bight where the waves churn white—
Ocean and plain and hill:
Jungle and palm—where the starlit calm
The Wanderer’s loves fulfil.
Across the crumpled floe,
And the Living Light makes white the night
Above the boundless snow,
And the sentinel penguins watch the waste
Where the whale and the walrus go:
Along the bellowing bow,
And the soft salt breeze of the Southern Seas
Is sifting across the prow,
And the glittering Cross in the blue-black sky,
The Watcher of Then and Now:
Where the deep-cut rivers run—{63}
And the pallid peaks as the eagle seeks
His crag when the day is done:
And the rose-red glaciers glance and gleam
In the glow of the setting sun.
We’ll track the outbound trail;
Harbor and hill where the World stands still—
Where the strange-rigged fishers sail—
And only the tune of the tasseled fronds,
Like the moan of a distant gale.
Where ferned Pitcairnias rise,
And the softly fanned Tjemaras stand
Green lace against the skies,
And the last red ray of the tropic day
Flickers and flares and dies.
There comes a beck’ing gleam,
Strong as the iron hand of Fate—
Sweet as a lover’s dream.
What can bind us—what can keep us—
Who shall tell us nay?
When the Outbound Trail is calling us—
Is calling us away.
THE FOOL
A Paleolithic man
Observed an irate mammoth—
Observed how his neighbors ran:
And he sat on a naked boulder
Where the plains stretched out to the sun,
And jowl in hand he frowned and planned
As none before had done.
And still he sat and thought,
And the next day and the next day,
But never a deed was wrought.
Till the fifth sun saw him flaking
Some flint where the rocks fall free—
And the sixth sun saw him shaping
A shaft from a fallen tree.
And their children and kith and kin,
They paused where they watched him working,
And they smiled and they raised the chin,{65}
And they tapped their foreheads knowingly—
As you and I have done—
But he—he had never a moment
To mark their mocking fun.
His brother the mammoth slew.
And Oonak, to stay his starving,
With his fingers grubbed anew.
And Anak, he thought of his tender spouse
An ichthyosaurus ate—
Because in seeking the nearest tree
She had reached it a trifle late.
. . . . . . . . . .
Around the Council fire,
More beast and ape than man,
The hairy hosts assembled,
And their talk to the crazed one ran.
And they said, “It is best that we kill him
Ere he strangle us in the night,
Or brings on our head the curse of the dead
When the thundering heavens light.
Of neighbors such as these—
It is best—” but the Council shuddered
At the rustle of parting leaves.{66}
Out of the primal forest
Straight to their midst he strode—
Weathered and gaunt—but they gave no taunt—
As he flung to the ground his load.
The long smooth shafts and lean:
They felt of the thong-bound flint barbs—
They saw that the work was clean.
Like children with a plaything,
When first it is understood,
They leapt to their feet and hurled them—
And they knew that the act was good.
As the hurtling spear shafts sank,
They pictured the unsuspecting game
Down by the river’s bank;
They pictured their safe-defended homes—
They pictured the fallen foe....
And the Fool they led to the highest seat,
Where the Council fires glow.
THE SHIPS
The masts are shot with gold—
And I know by the shining canvas
The cargo in the hold.
Where I impatient wait—
To find a hollow mockery,
Or a rank and rotted freight.
. . . . . . . . . .
The Black Ship shows against the storm—
Her hull is low and lean—
And a flag of gore at the stern and fore,
And the skull and bones between.
And her desperate crew make fast,
But manifold from the darkest hold
Come forth my dreams at last.
They loom across the sea—
But I may not know until they dock—
The wares they bring to me.
THE FIRST POET
There came from a Northern Land,
A man with tales of the spouting whales
And the Lights that the ice-winds fanned.
And they clicked their spears to the time,
And they lingered each on the golden speech
Of the man with the words that rhyme.
Of the tread of the rhythmic sea,
And silent they listened with eyes that glistened
In savage ecstasy.
The hand of the primal heart,
Till slowly there rose through the rock-bound close
The first faint glimmering Start.
O’er the virgin forests swept
From the star-staked sea the Symbols Three—
And the cave-men softly wept.{69}
To the depth of the savage brain,
Honor, forsooth, and Faith and Truth—
And they rose from the rock-rimmed plain—
They whispered as children do:
And the Great World sprang from the Bard that sang,
And the First of the Men that Knew.
THE TEST
His good, well-meaning children,
And He murmured as He saw them
Where they came and paused and passed;
“I will drag them I will drive them
Through the fourfold Hells of Torture,
And—I will test the product
That comes back to me at last.”
His children slowly passed Him—
And for the sweat upon the brow
And scar upon the cheek,
He heaped the burdens higher—
He cut and smote and lashed them—
And as they swayed and tottered
He hurled them spent and weak.
Above to where they sought Him—
But blank the empty skies gave back,
And blank the heavens stared.{71}
And even they with riven heart,
Who strove to hide the hiding,
He drove the scalpel deeper,
That the inmost core lay bared.
And the Acids of the Ages,
And he lit the Mighty Forges
With the Fires of the Years,
And He turned and smote and hammered,
And He poured and paused and pondered,
Till a clear precipitate formed ’neath
A residue of tears.
THE PORT O’ LOST DELIGHT
Some call it Love or Power—
Whence running rails and bellied sails
The four-banked galleons tower.
To each the separate vision—
To each the guiding light—
Where, ’bove the dim horizon lifts
The Port o’ Lost Delight.
They swung the good Ship free,
And with laughter brave she took the wave
Of the wonderful, whispering sea.
Over the strong, young days—
Over the lift of the chaff-churned drift
And the mist of the moonlit haze—
Where the beckoning beacons shine;
But she passed them by with callous eye,
Nor saw the luring sign.{73}
As slow the seas unfold;
Scudding again across the plain
Of rippling, sunset gold.
Where the phosphor bow-wave slips,
And the Wraiths of the Deep their secrets keep
Of the tale o’ the passing ships.
II
Across the swinging main,
As ne’er before had lifted—
Nor e’er might lift again.
Mystic, white and far,
Castle and tree above the sea
Where the lilac combers are.
As a Siren’s soft refrain—
Nor ever a helm to guide her,
The Good Ship turned again.{74}
She plunged against the wind,
And never a look to left or right,
And never a thought behind:
With all her canvas spread,
And bending spars and laughter
She fast and faster sped.
A little nearer, then—
The Haven sank from the sunset sea,
And the sea was a waste again.
III
Who knew not harm was nigh,
So shook the Ship by seam and seam
In the death that may not die.
By reef and barrier bar,
’Neath the glare of the South Seas’ scorching sun
And the gleam of the lone North Star.{75}
By green and crimson beam,
It never lifted the Light again—
The Light that fled as a dream.
Over a timeless void—
Callous and careless plunged the Ship
That never a storm destroyed.
Daring the mid-deep wind—
Clipping the roar of the white lee shore
Where the Gods of Chance run blind.
With scuppers churning green—
And eyes set dead in a figure-head
That dipped in the troughs between:
Or knew the day or night;
That rose and fell to the soundless bell
Of the Port o’ Lost Delight.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
Over sacred soil ye’ve trod;
Whither king and priest and people
Make their mockery of God.
Down the mighty nave of Time,
In the hush of Things Supernal
Ye have sung of Things Sublime.
Living light beyond the spheres—
With a calm majestic cadence
Came the call of all the years.
As the swaying starlit sea—
As the faith of little children—
Ye have writ ETERNITY.
KING BAMBOO
A BALLAD OF THE EAST INDIES
I check their mountain roads—
I bear their double burdens—
The squeaking, creaking loads.
Adown the broken hill sides
My long, high pipings run,
To bring their water to them
Adripping ’neath the sun.
The weary climbers strain,
’Tis I who hold the nectar
To bring them life again.
I am the quivering bridges
That span the deep ravine—
I am the matted fences
That twist and wind between.
MARK TWAIN
Died, April 21st, 1910
Clear as the sunlit pool;
Ye came on a World of weariness—
Lord of a kingly school.
Mill and mine and mart—
They paused awhile to linger and smile—
Children again in heart.
Bent to their tasks anew,
With strength reborn of the joyous morn
Made manifest by you.
. . . . . . . . . .
Again the marts are silenced—
There’s a hush o’er land and sea—
With only the sobs of a Nation,
That loved and honored thee.
THE SUMMIT
By the sweat of brow and brain;
Out of the dank morasses—
On to the spreading plain:
Climbing the broken ranges—
Falling and driving through,
While the toil and tears of the countless years
Bid ye back to the task anew.
Perched on the distant peak—
Beckoning over land and sea
To the gaze of the men who seek.
Lifting the faltering footstep—
Bathing the tired brow,
Till out of the lanes of the sunken plains
Ye come to the golden Now.
And the deep, green vales between;
Fair lift the distant coast-lines
And the water’s shifting sheen—
And weary, ye pause on the Summit
For the first victorious breath,
When a hand at your elbow beckons—
And ye know that the hand is Death.
THE LITTLE BRONZE CROSS
THE VICTORIA CROSS IN THE CROWN JEWELS ROOM OF THE TOWER OF LONDON
In pompous, proud array;
Maces and crowns and sceptres—
Orders and ribbons gay:
Bright in the white electric light;
Caged and guarded there;
Symbol and sign that the luck of line
A king or a cad might wear.
The crown-topped hillock shone,
And the gaping crowd in voices loud
Coveted gilt and stone.
Coveted idle gilt and stone,
Though never stopped to stare
At a little cross on the other side,
Half hid in the alcove there.
Through the narrow windows crept,
The Winds of the Outer Marches—
The Winds that had seen and wept{82}
At Ladysmith—Trafalgar—
Sebastopol—Lahore;
Khartoum—Seringapatam—
Kabul and Gwalior.
That sweeps from the white Soudan:
The winds that beat through the Kyber Pass
Where the blood of England ran:
The winds that lift o’er the Great South Drift—
O’er the veldt and the frozen plain—
They stooped and kissed the little bronze cross,
And went on their way again.
The power and pomp of kings;
And the glare of the glittering Orders—
The tinsel of Little Things,
Paled in the ancient Tower—
Faded and died alone,
And only a cross—For Valour—
With mystic brightness shone.
KEATS
Who, in a spirit of supersensitive self-abnegation, had placed upon his tombstone that here lay “one whose name is writ in water.”
As your humble tombstone saith,
Then it forms a crystal fountain
Born to mock at mortal death.
’Tis the water of the stream
Where the wise of all the nations
Stoop to drink and stay to dream.
It has flowed into the sea
Of the ages past and present—
And of Immortality.
CHRISTMAS
And the joy of Christmas-tide,
And the old are young as the gay bells fling
Their messages far and wide.
And the litter of scattered toys,
We’re all of us children again to-day
Along o’ the girls and boys.
Lifts another looking through?
Drop your merry mask and tell me
What does Christmas mean to you?)
Festival, fun and feast,
And there’s never a care in the echoing air
In the joy of a year released.
There’s never a break in the song—
And we rise with the rest when the children are blessed
And the hours have galloped along.
TUCK AWAY—LITTLE DREAMS
His shoulders bent to the wheel,
One of the numbered millions
That bore no right to feel.
Child of a callous calling—
Waif of a wilful day;
I heard him murmur beneath his breath—
“Tuck away—little dreams—tuck away.”
Pencil and square and drill—
They saw his pain and they laughed again
As hardened headsmen will.
While ’neath their chains and chiding,
Through the gloom of the endless day,
I heard him murmur beneath his breath—
“Tuck away—little dreams—tuck away.”
BLOODY ANGLE
July 3, 1863; July 3, 1913
THE SPIRIT OF BLOODY ANGLE SPEAKS.
The Stars and Bars above them,
I saw them fall in hundreds—
I heard the rebel yell.
Behind me, ’neath the Stars and Stripes,
I watched the blue coats pouring
Into the men of Pickett
The flaming vials of Hell.
Of Valley Forge and Monmouth.
Again the Elders signed our birth—
The great Bell tolled anew.
And I closed my eyes and shuddered—
And I looked to the Lord of Battle—
And I prayed, “Forgive them Father,
For they know not what they do.”
A gray-clad, aged remnant;
I heard again across the plain
The piercing rebel call.{88}
Behind me, ’neath a peaceful sky,
I saw the blue coats standing—
I saw the columns meet—clasped hands—
Above my battered wall.
My reeking rowels were whitened.
I saw the line of Sections
Fade dim and die away.
And Phœnix-like, from fire and hate,
A reunited nation
Rose up to bless her children,
Forever and for aye.
THE MICROBE
I know there may not be:
I cannot hear his voice that sings—
I cannot see his arm that swings—
I cannot feel his mind that flings
My earth-born destiny.”
THE SEAS
Foaming seas and frothing seas spraying rainbow dew:
Laughing seas and chaffing seas, gay in the morning light,
Endless seas and bendless seas ayawn in the starless night.
Where the clean-washed pebbles roll,
And the nodding groves and the coral coves
And the deep-toned voices toll.
And crash through the crag-lined fjord—
Seas that cut the channel’s rut
With the thrust of a mighty sword.
When the midnight stars are set—
Seas that roar as a charging boar
Till the rails of the bridge run wet.{91}
And the spouting whale rolls high—
Seas that use in the sunset hues
Till all is a blended sky.
And the flash of phosphor fire—
Seas that glance in a moonlit dance
With feet that never tire.
When sky and waters close—
Seas that meet the day’s retreat,
Amber and gold and rose.
Foaming seas and frothing seas spraying rainbow dew:
Laughing seas and chaffing seas, gay in the morning light,
Endless seas and bendless seas ayawn in the starless night.
GOD’S ACRE
The harvest day is done,
And I’m passing by God’s Acre
At the setting o’ the Sun:
And I slow the homing horses—
For I must soliloquize
On that white crop standin’ silent
Against the crimson skies.
And I guess there’s lots o’ chaff,
And I guess there’s many stories that
Ed make a feller laugh.
And I guess there’s mebbe stories
Ed make a feller weep,
And the Angels kind o’ whisper
As around the stones they creep.
GOLD
From the gloom of the Cambrian fen,
From the days of the mighty mammoth
And the years of the dog-toothed men,
I’ve lifted ye clear to the summits—
A toy of the upper air—
I’ve dashed ye down to the pits again
To laugh at your despair.
To watch ye stumble in,
And never a light to left or right
On the crags of shame and sin.
I called ye over mountains—
I called ye over seas—
And ye came in hosts from all the coasts
To taste of the tainted breeze.
Sire and Seed and God—
Ye have given all to the Siren’s call
When I but chose to nod.
Ye have given all to the Siren’s call—
To the mock of the Siren’s strain—
Ye have made a choice and never a voice
May bid ye back again.
THE LEGION
UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA REUNION ODE
A deep-ranked serried legion.
Across the hill I saw them come—
The faithful cohorts there.
Bank, bar and bench—mine, mart and trench—
From every clime and region,
In manly might and majesty—
And I knew the sight was fair.
In loyal lines unbroken;
I heard them answer to the Roll,
Nor ever missed a name;
For they foregathered past recall
Were there by every token,
As, ’cross the valley to a man
The thundering echoes came.
THE ALTAR
UPON THE APENNINE HILL OF ROME
Unnoticed you may pass
A little altar nestling
In the poppies and the grass.
No gorgeous columns flank it,
Where priest or Vestal trod—
Only the carven words that sing—
“To the Unknown God.”
With humble, thoughtful air—
The base-born slave espied it
With sullen, frightened stare:
The Roman matron touched it,
And went upon her way—
The gladiator saw it,
And paused awhile to pray.
Even the passing Cæsar
Bowed the imperial head,
With faltering eyes that swept the skies
In reverent fear and dread.{98}
With royal lapis blue—
The soft Campania’s whisper
Brought the sunshine and the dew:
The candles of the firmament
Bent down their brightest rays,
Where, midst their Pagan Pantheon
A People paused to gaze.
THE SONG OF THE AEROPLANE
I scorn your splendid fleets—
I chart your chosen cities—
Trenches and lanes and streets.
No tale of land or sea,
But bares the breast at my behest
To stand revealed to me.
Uncovering fold on fold,
Till I come to the arch’s ending
Where lies the pot of gold.
I mount the wings o’ the dawn—
I glide o’er the brakes and marshes
To laugh at the startled fawn.
From the noise of the rising quail
To the topmost peak where the eagles seek
Their home in the driving gale.{100}
Man may not dare to know—
Where stands the unscaled mountain,
Fair crowned with virgin snow:
Where flow the golden streams—
Where lurks the land of Crœsus
Or the Lotus-land o dreams:
With never halt or toll,
I bear ye far till ye come where are
The gates of the cherished goal.
. . . . . . . . . .
On the wonderful things I show you
Lucullus-like ye dine—
For the wonderful thoughts I bring you
Ye love and are wholly mine.
PACK YOUR TRUNK AND GO
As pretty as a rosebud,
And eyes that make your silly heart-strings
Thump and bump and glow—
Don’t stand and linger dawdlin’
When you know you’re getting maudlin,
But call yourself a bally fool
And pack your trunk and go.
Like the creaking of a rafter,
Greets you—standing watching after
At the Chance you didn’t know:
Sneering in its craven power
Comes to seek you by the hour,
Try the palm-grove, veldt or paddy—
Pack your trunk and go.
O’er some hasty little blunder,
And you start to really wonder
How wise some people grow:
Let the empty carp-heads haggle—
Let the teacup headwear waggle—{102}
Just tell ’em all to run along—
And pack your trunk and go.
And the green canoes are slipping
By the birches white and dripping
In the crimson after-glow:
And the harvest-moon is rising
With a fullness most surprising—
It’s summer on the northern lakes
So pack your trunk and go.
And the Land your Fathers wrought you,
(The Land their blood has bought you),
Shall hear the bugles blow—
Don’t watch in doubt and waiting,
Don’t stand procrastinating,
But say good-bye with laughing eye
And pack your trunk and go.
And the cactus turns to harvest,
And the harvest turns to hemlock,
And the hemlock turns to snow:
By the phosphor-bordered beaches—
By the endless, bendless reaches—
You will find him where the Whisper bade him
Pack his trunk and go.
WOMAN
A REPLY TO RUDYARD KIPLING
These are the words you spoke.
And you deemed they were bright and caustic—
And you thought you had made us a joke.
Well, we who have been in the Tropics,
Who’ve noted the Eastern “way,”
’May be we should half forgive you
For some of the things you say.
And smote him hip and thigh—
When the Bronze-man slivered the boulders
Where the tin and the copper lie—
When the Iron-man reared him bridges
And engines of steam and steel—
What was the Light that lifted them,
And bade them to live and to feel?
And the shadow turns to night;
When faith and fair intention
Have fought them a failing fight;{104}
When Hell has drawn nearest—
And God is very far—
Mayhap ye then can tell us who
The Ministering Angels are?
Can ye bring us the bud more rare?
“A woman is only a woman”—
Can ye show us the work more fair?
Harrie ye all Creation—
Look ye without surcease,
And when ye are weary and broken, kneel—
To your Master’s masterpiece.
NIPPON
From sea to farthest sea—
But trust ye not, Oh trust ye not
The wily Japanee.
A juggler’s tossing toy—
A two-faced guile and a child-like smile—
(Oh Innocence sans alloy!)
Beneath the Sunrise Sky;
A hollow, vain, fanatic strain
That lifts with the loud “Banzai!”
So scarce indeed thou art.
Rank to the core a shameless sore
In a yet more shameless heart.
That knows no law or creed.
To flare and wane for the moment’s gain,
And serve the moment’s need.{106}
From sea to farthest sea—
But trust ye not, Oh trust ye not
The wily Japanee.
THE NEW BARD
Of Love and Faith and Truth:
And they polished fine till it ran as wine,
With never a spot uncouth.
To the beat of the perfect time—
Chastened and blest and colorless
In stilted, vapid rhyme.
Laughed as they bended near—
Songs of fight that the men of might
Sneered as they stopped to hear—
They cast the cant aside,
And they lifted free for the open sea
Where the plunging porpoise ride.
The voice of a bard who knew,
And he brought them tales from the spouting whales
Where only the lean gulls flew.{108}
Where the lilac waters spend,
And the ceaseless sift of the phosphor drift
Where the palm-lined beaches bend.
His clear-shot wordings ran,
And the tale he bore by peace and war
Was the heart of his fellow-man.
Under the silken sheen—
They caught the worth of the spinning Earth,
And the black and the gold between.
And ’neath the rugged brink,
He covered whole the yearning Soul—
The Soul of the Men Who Think.
That flitting merrily,
Bind West and East and best and least,
From sea to outer sea.
Hidden the eons through—
From his Children’s gaze he swept the haze,
And his Children seeing—knew{109}
The far-flung Brotherhood:
The thoughts untold and the hopes unrolled—
And they answered him where they stood:
And the warm blood mounts again;
And we scorn the beat of the stifled street
And strike for the open main.
To the little hurrying hosts,
And over the seas in the scud-wet breeze
We lift for the Land o’ Ghosts.
And the goal we hope to win—
Though ne’er we reach the beckoning beach,
Ye have let us look within.
. . . . . . . . . .
“Though ne’er we reach the beckoning beach—
Though it fades ere we leap to land,
Ye have made us rife with the strength of life—
{110} Ye have spoke ... and we understand.”
FATHER TIME
When your lotions fail to heal—
When the salted scar is burning—
When aturtle turns the keel:
When the lights are lost to leeward—
When the last least hope is gone—
Then I call ye—Oh my children—
As a Mother calls her spawn.
By no sudden quick surcease:
Slow, so slow, ye cannot know it
Do I bring ye your release.
As the blackened heavens soften
To the morning’s growing gray,
And the gray spreads gold and crimson
Till in splendor breaks the day:
That ye may not know or see,
Do I soothe the salted searing—
Do I bid the shadows flee—{111}
Do I weld the torn heart-cord
No surgeon art may heal,
Till ye lift the fastened latchet
And go forth in laughing weal.
I call my broken clan;
We may not meet in lane or street
Or greet us man and man:
But slowly spread my wide-leagued wings—
And falling tenderly,
I wrap my troubled Earth-spawn
Unto the heart of me.
MY LOVES
Then you must come with me
To every land of all the lands
And the waves of every sea.
Nor careth who discern,
For she’s the breeze o’ the Southern Seas
Where the egg-spume waters turn.
With a crushing grasp and wild,
For she was born o’ the six-months morn,
A strong, tumultuous child.
And the kiss is the rainbow spray,
Then laughing in glee, coquettishly,
She lightly trips away.
A dazzling beauty bold—
Lilac and rose and amber,
Scarlet and blazing gold.{113}
And folds me nearer yet,
A blushing maid with crown of jade
Where the first pale stars are set.
Then you must come with me
To every land of all the lands
And the waves of every sea.
THE FORUM
Returning honored home:
Here rose the gorgeous temples
Of proud imperial Rome.
The endless seasons through:
Here reared the haughty Arches
The far-flung Nations knew.
King of the Outer Seas—
Where beat a heart, where stood a mart,
There bended suppliant knees—
Cradled among the hills,
Who still through the countless centuries
The wondering watcher thrills.
Power and Pride and Death—
And the afterlight of an Empire’s might—
And the soft Campania’s breath.{115}
And Memory’s lingering wine,
And the grass and the scarlet poppies
And clover and dandelion.
THE MASTERPIECE
“Des Sohnes letzter Gruss” (“The Son’s last Salutation”). A modern painting by Karl Hoff in the Royal Picture Gallery, Dresden.
We gazed each priceless gem—
Jordäens—Rubens—Raphael—
We paused and pondered them.
The fatuous forms at ease—
And the Wedding Feast with Cavaliers—
And a drunken Hercules.
The farthest Nations know—
Till room on room of light and gloom
Swept row on outer row.
Whose praise the wide World sings;
And some we fled with callous dread
For flat and flaccid things.{117}
In the room with the roof-let door,
We saw a young man standing—
The Lone Son bid to War.
Clean-limbed, clear-eyed and tall—
And the parting gaze of the parting ways
When the battered trumpets call.
And the prostrate, sobless grief;
And the pitying priest beside her,
And the gentle, vain relief.
’Twixt love, reproach and tears—
The tender light of the summer night
Where brood the unfathomed years.
Fair as the first, faint star:
A dainty symbol sent to prove
How near the angels are.
. . . . . . . . . .
We gleaned the gallery’s gorgeous wealth—
But lost its wondrous worth,
As we bowed a head in silence
To the Good of all the Earth.
THE HERITAGE
Full well they sowed the seed—
Full well they held by life and life
The seal of the title deed.
They waged a sacred fray:
Oh Sons of Iron Men give ye not
Your heritage away.
Ye’ve raised a mighty state;
But ’ware the pampered spirit,
Ere ye ’ware the worst too late.
Thrive ye forevermore,
But hold ye to the Iron Age—
The Iron Age of War.
With spirit stern and high,
Keep ye the ways o’ warrior days—
The days that may not die.{119}
Maintain the armor bright,
For where ye’ve raised your fathers blazed—
Hold ye their honor white.
Unpampered, age on age—
Shall guarded stand their promised land—
Our Sacred Heritage.
THE ADJUSTING HOUR
With nobody else around,
And you sort o’ straighten things a bit,
Beginning right down at the ground.
When plans have gone askew,
And you stand with your back to the fire—
And only your God and you.
Pondering very slow,
And you lay the firm foundations
And you pray that they will grow—
That they who run may see,
What the Adjusting Hour
Has given to you and me.
THE OUTPOSTERS
Whence all the breezes fan,
From Cuba clear to Tokio
And back to Hindustan.
To see the Taj Mahal
Rise mystic white in the moonlit night
Above the Jumna wall.
We shook you by the hand,
And watched among Tosari’s hills
The lace Tjemaras stand:
High—majestic—bare—
Or Karnak’s columns rising sheer
Through the clear Egyptian air.
In the heart of Borneo,{122}
Ere we hit the trail to northward
Where the lesser rivers flow:
And the endless jungles rise,
And the Dyak kampongs nestle ’neath
The speckless, fleckless skies.
The Roads of Singapore,
By the crooked, winding, white-walled streets
Of burning Bangalore:
Aglitter above the trees,
Where the tiny ti bells tinkle
In the sough of the sunset breeze:
Of the great Sri Rangam rise,
To Bangkok’s triple temple roofs,
Red-gold against the skies:
By Hong Kong’s towering lights—
By the gorgeous Rajputana stars
That blazon the blue-black nights:{123}
Outposters—far—alone—
Beyond the glut of the cities’ rut,
And we claim you for our own.
And the roar of the rolling cart,
Beyond the blind of the stifled mind
And the hawking, haggling mart.)
And some were “18 fine”—
But on the whole—we saw your soul—
Oh outbound kin of mine.
By every ocean, gulf and land,
Stout hearts and humble knees:
Oh men of the Outer Reaches—
Oh men of the palm-lined beaches—
Oh men where the ice-pack bleaches—
Oh Brethren o’ the far-flung seas.
[A] Pronounced Poorook Jow.
WONDERING
Looking o’er the sea,
Winking at the little stars,
While they wink at me.
Wondering how it happened
Ages long ago,
Wondering why I’m here to night—
Wondering where I’ll go.
Bends his mighty tail,
Wondering if the Archer’s aim
Makes Antares quail:
Wondering why Australia’s Crown
Happened to be made,
Wondering if I really ought
Not to be afraid.
Ever has a bend,
Wondering if the Milky Way
Ever has an end,
Wondering why the Southern Cross
Has an arm askew,{125}
Wondering lots o’ funny things,
(I wonder, wouldn’t you?)
Wondering if He’d see
Anything so very small
Just as you or me?
Wondering and wondering—
But still the echoes fail—
And so I’m left awondering
Over the silent rail.
LINES TO AN ELDERLY FRIEND
Written in a presentation copy of “My Bunkie and Other Ballads” given to A. Van Vleck, Esq., of New York City.
In the doldrums’ deadly pause,
Where the lights above the Polar capes
Spread out in a golden gauze:
Where lilac tints are listing
O’er purple tropic seas—
Where the Arctic winds are whistling
And the north-flung rivers freeze—
We’ve met the men the Maker made
To dwell ’neath fir and palm—
And, we salute thee, friend and man—
M’sieur—le gentilhomme.
BATTLESHIPS
Addressed to “little-navy” Congressmen.
Fools there’ll live when the Nations melt in the mold of the markless sod.
Fools there are and fools there were and fools there’ll ever be—
But none like the fools whom the ages teach, and then refuse to see.
The Other Peoples laden down with debt—
In the richest of the Nations you’ll cut appropriations,
But the Day of Reckoning—have ye counted yet?
Weigh the cost, and gasp, and pare it down again;
Till the twelve-inch children roar and the troop-ships grate the shore
And you hear the coming tread of marching men.{128}
Build a Fleet and build it swiftly overnight;
Ah truly ye who knew it all these years can surely do it,
For ye and only ye alone are right.
Go gaze adown the peaceful, busy street;
May the prestige of your town be your all-in-all renown,
And scorn the men who bid you, “BUILD THE FLEET.”
Much they’ll help a scarred and battle-riven land.
Oh they’ll do a monstrous earning when the crops they grow are burning—
Because you would not hear the clear command.
And the Sneaking Cur that watches on the west—
You’ll bargain, skimp and whine till the gray hulls lift the line,
And your children stand betrayèd and confessed.{129}
For the sake of “politics” or local greed—
Will you brand yourselves arch traitors to the Nation—
You, the sons of men who served us in our need?
A land our faithful Fathers fell to save,
By the bleaching bones of Valley Forge and Monmouth
Or the crimson flood the Bloody Angle gave?
Will you learn War’s callous, lurid, livid wrath
By the wailing ’long the wayside, by the ashes of the cities,
Ere your gathered army flings across their path?
You may call our race the Chosen of the Lord—
But if your town they raze—and if your home’s ablaze
You will wake and learn the Kingdom of the Sword.{130}
You will wake and learn the truth—but all too late:
By the shrieking shrapnel’s crying—by the homeless, wronged and dying—
You shall count what, you begrudged to Guard the Gate.
THE AMERICAN FLAG
It should be needless to note that the persons here addressed do not comprise the whole American people but a certain distinctive type.
Oh fatted pigs of a sty,
Through the Star Spangled Banner ye calmly sit,
Nor see the wrong, nor the why,
And ye stand with your hats on your thoughtless heads,
When the Flag of the Nation goes by.
Till the fetid brain’s grown cold,
Till ye forget the days that are set
And the glorious deeds of old—
And the Song and the Passing Colors
Are drowned in a flood of gold?
Arise and understand
The battle-hymn of your fathers—
And the Flag of your Fatherland—{132}
To the drum and the bugle’s call;
As it tasted the dregs of raw reverse—
As it rushed through the breach in the wall:
Till new hands swung it high—
As it dipped in rest to East and West
Where it watched its Children die:
And the great gulls reeled in fright;
As it bore the brave ’neath the whispering wave
To the Squadron’s hushed Goodnight:
Till, far o’er land and sea,
It gave each fold to the sunlight’s gold—
And the name of Victory.
Of the Anthem rolls on high—
And see that ye stand uncovered
To the Colors passing by
And pray to your God for strength to guard
The Flag ye glorify.
THE GREAT DOCTORS
Kings above the Kings—
Fame beyond all earthly fame
Where the censer swings.
Patient, cautious, calm—
E’en as the ministering angels—
Even as Gilead’s Balm—
Where hope has fled apace,
And the Reaper’s scythe is swaying
Across the ashen face.
No thundering cheer and drum—
As creeps the light of the starlit night
God’s Emissaries come.
Or ever it snaps in twain;
And as the light of the starlit night
They silently pass again.
THE DREAMER AND THE DOER
High in th’ empyrean blue,
And slowly it passed until at last
He called to the Man he knew—
“Look, thou Dolt of the Blinded Heart—
Slave of Rod and Rule—
And drink of the wine of my sight divine—
Oh churl of a plodding school!”
And hammered and pieced again,
But his eyes they were on the things that he saw—
The Things of the Earth-bound Men:
And he called to the Dreamer passing—
“Oh stop, thou fool, and see
On water and land the work of my hand,
For the service of such as thee.”
SPAIN
And we call the vision Rome,
Where the close-locked legions trample
And the triremes cut the foam.
Grace and regal beauty—
And Athena’s temples rise
Above the fertile Attic plains
And blue Ægean skies.
But when, in wanton whispers
Creeps o’er the tired brain
The word Romance, there falls the trance—
The spell of olden Spain.
. . . . . . . . . .
The humdrum of the city
The workshop and the street,
They gently slip behind us—
As glide our tired feet
O’er the pavements of Sevilla,
Where the Grandees pass again
To ogle in the balconies
The matchless eyes of Spain.{136}
In the great square tower ring—
Once more the sword and cowl draw back—
“The King—make way—The King!”
Sevilla—Mother of a world
Of pride and golden gain,
And greed and love and laughter
Of Periclean Spain.
Or coral-locked lagoon,
We watch the bowsprit cutting
The pathway of the moon.
The long white beach, the swaying palms’
Shifting silver sheen—
And the flickering flares of the flimsy fleet
Where the spear-poised fishers lean.
The flaunting skull and bones—
The buccaneer on his poop-deck
Roaring in thunder tones
To a swarthy, ill-begotten crew—
As slow the daylight dies,
And he lifts with a smile the chartless isle
Where the buried treasure lies.{137}
Caressing heart and brain:
Harp, guitar and mandolin
In languorous, limpid strain.
The fluttering fan—the furtive glance—
The black mantilla’s reign—
And the Captains bold who drop their gold
To bask in the eyes of Spain.
Thrice-tiered above the foam:
The ringing round-shot roaring,
And the crash of the hit gone home:
The yard-arms staggering under,
Where, scorning the iron rain
And showing its fangs to a parting world,
Goes down the Lion of Spain.
. . . . . . . . . .
When the clattering city cloys you
With the stress of its strident call—
When practical, calculating Things
Are domineering all—
When your clamped mind in its weariness
To Romance turns again,
Seek ye the Andalusian crags—
The flare of the gold and crimson flags—
And the scented breath where the night wind drags
Through the Isles of the Spanish Main.
C. Q. D.
THE PRESENT-DAY “S. O. S.”
Hush at my outer breath,
As sightless I glide o’er the wind-lashed tide
In my race with the deep-sea death.
War and Trade and the Laws ye made
Halt at the Letters Three,
Bound on my errand of mercy—I—
The ultimate C.Q.D.
Though it tower a hundred feet;
No storm shall ever stay me,
Though sky and waters meet.
Piercing the howling heavens—
Skimming the churning sea—
Through blast and gale I bring the tale—
I—the pitying C.Q.D.
THE LIGHTS
Across a tranquil main,
By beam and beam so bright they seem
A laughing, endless chain.
Nor flash nor leap nor fail—
But slowly burn where the billows churn
In the teeth of the driving gale.
Are welcome sights to see—
But the foul-weather lights o’ the stormy nights,
Are the Lamps of the Years to be.
THE CHOSEN
To each and each the deed,
And never a word was ever heard
Of Prophet or Saint or Creed.
But the path that each had run,
Till the purple mist stooped down and kissed
And said that the work was done.
Nor gold could bend or buy:
And there stood she of the Mother Love
That never asketh why.
But striving, gained the Crest:
And there stood she who nursed them back
With bullet-ridden breast.
But the left—it never knew:
And there stood she who held him fast
When the Beckoning Whispers blew.{142}
By fire, sea or sword:
And these were Chiefs of the Upper Hosts
And first before the Lord.
Higher than any stand,
I saw the chosen of the King
At the right of the Master’s hand.
And the silent face aglow,
Till the Guiding One It answered me
The word that I wished to know—
Where the shrieking bullet sings,
The roaring front lines reel and rock
As a wounded vulture swings.
The quivering squadrons break,
Till the shattered herds catch up the words,
‘Back, back for your Country’s sake!’”
THE FAIREST MOON
Above the waving grain,
Oh ye who tell of the silent moon
That glitters across the plain.
That lifts each peak and crag,
Oh ye who tell of the ocean moon
Where the long, black shadows drag.
In wanton ecstasy,
Ye never tell of the fairest moon—
The fairest moon to me.
Above the lake-side pine,
And good is your song of the circling moon
Where snowy meadows shine.
Where dazzling rapids leap:
For wondrous bright is the fairy sight
Of the soul of a World asleep.{145}
With a rough and ragged rim,
And a mystic light that makes the night
All bright but doubly dim....
O’er the shift of a swinging sea
With a mellow fold o’ silver gold,
Reveals my moon to me.
THE STRIVER
By East and West anew,
Where, roaring through the riven tape
The sweeping Conqueror drew.
And East and West they rose and blest
With laurel wreath and cheers,
As they had done ’neath every sun
Adorn the countless years.
A faltering footfall trailed,
Till broken flesh that called on flesh
Stumbled and rocked and failed.
A well run dry—a sightless sky—
Where mind and matter part:
A quivering frame—a nameless name—
Wrapped in a lion’s heart.
THE OLD MEN
In the pride of an early strength,
Ye sing a song of the young men
And ye give it goodly length;
I sing a song of the old men—
Of the men on a homeward tack
And a steady wheel and an even keel
That never a wind may rack.
In the birth of a splendid youth,
Ye sing a song of the strong men
And ye sing mayhap in truth;
But I—I sing of the old men
Who’ve weathered the outer seas,
And lifting the bark through the growing dark,
Bear back in the sunset breeze.
Ere they reach the second stake,
And a name to choose and a name to lose
In the scruff of the rudder’s wake;{149}
But I—I sing of the old men
In the glow of the tempered days,
Whose chartings show the paths to go
Through the mesh of a million ways.
In the flush of the first fair blow,
Ye sing a song of the strong men
Or ever the end ye know;
But I—I sing of the old men—
Time-tested—weathered brown—
Who unafraid the port have made,
Where all brave ships go down.
THE FOUR-ROADS POST
Who bore the right to seek—
And the hungry he brake and gave them bread,
And strength he gave to the weak.
Love and Land and Fame—
As they deserved to each he served—
And they left and blessed his name.
Before the Giver’s knee,
And He said, “Oh spawn of a troubled Earth—
What may I do for thee?”
I asked nor fame nor gold—
I only seek the bygone peak
Where I saw the lands unfold.{151}
Where every pathway sung,
And every sea had a ship for me,
And all the World was young.
The parting of the lane—
Oh give me back the Four-Roads Post,
That I may choose again.”
. . . . . . . . . .
The Spirit gazed across the vale
And his eyes had a tender glow,
And his voice ran mild as ye speak to a child,
Wondrous soft and low:
Where the unthought hours flee,
The only treasure I have not.
Is the boon that ye ask of me.
THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY
The little Man-child said.
Of days of old when knights were bold
And fields of honor red.
Take me far to a maiden’s tower
And the black traducer slain;
To Honor and Truth and Faith forsooth—
Oh carry me back again.
And set him down apace,
But never a field of tourney,
And never a knight of grace.
He set him down where the whipping flames
Leap red athwart the sky,
And the crashing wall that forms a pall
Where the fire-fighters lie.
Across a broken main,
And the great ship’s roll like a foundering soul
Groaned to the depths again:{153}
But over the breast of the ocean’s crest
The plunging life-boats neared,
And the shout that burst was “Women first,”
And the men that were left—they cheered.
From the mouth of the stricken mine,
Where the hand at the throttle never flinched
At the sight of the open line;
By curb and forge and death-hung gorge—
By river, sea and plain—
The Waif of Chance the Man-child brought,
And bade him gaze again.
PHANTOM-LAND
Come join the merry crew;
Come board the boat for Phantom-land
That lies acalling you.
The broken, weary night—
And come with me across the sea
To where you lift the light
Of Phantom-land of Phantom-land,
Uprising from the blue,
With mountains green and castles
That stand acalling you.
To join the joyous band;
You needn’t spend a penny
To reach the sunny land;
So come away at close o’ day
Or in the morning dew,
To Phantom-land to Phantom-land
That lies acalling you.{155}
Who’ve trod the laughing hills,
They’re always going back there—
From roil and toil and ills:
And when they come to Earth again—
(I cross m’ heart, it’s true),
They sing the praise o’ Phantom-land
That lies acalling you.
THE ROSE
The Rose across his path;
And the thorns they cut and tore him
And scorned him in his wrath.
And pride no bond could bind,
And the Rose it tossed its royal head
Nor deigned to look behind.
And the red Rose seeing, knew:
And it gave its sweetest incense,
And its petals shone with dew.
Nor sorrow’s least alloy—
And the Rose it shook its leaves and laughed
In its tumultuous joy.
By every mood and whim;
And as he stooped to gather—
The Rose gave back to him.
PATRIOTISM
I’ve drawn near and near,
Duty and love and honor
I’ve garnered year by year;
Oh fair they tell o’ the Lasting Peace,
And the Final Brotherhood,
But I call my sons to the signal guns,
And I know that the call is good.
Saxon and Celt and Gaul—
Out of the mire at my desire
They leapt to the battle-call,
The Mean and the Low and the Goodly—
Murderer, saint and thief—
From city and plow with lofty brow
They rode to My Belief.
O’er the fields of carnage swept,
And for those that returned, the laurel crown—
And for those that stayed—they wept.{158}
And the Mother showed her stripling
The place where the foeman ran,
And he pledged to the skies with yearning eyes—
And the pledge was the pledge of a man.
The well aimed arrows flew,
Over a sea of wreckage
The bending galleons blew;
And where the arrow found him,
Or the round-shot rent atwain,
He fell—but turned in the falling
To bless his Land again.
I’ve drawn, near and near,
Duty and love and honor
I’ve garnered year by year;
Oh fair they tell o’ the Lasting Peace,
And the Final Brotherhood,
But I call my sons to the signal guns—
And I know that the call is good.
KELVIN
But ye delved to a greater depth—
Never a truth of Mortal Truths
But ye stirred it where it slept.
Never a veil but ye drew aside,
Till ye came where the Wide Ways part,
And ye bowed a head as ye lowly said,
“Oh God, how fair Thou art.”
NOTES
| The Dyak Chief | 13 |
The Dyaks, a “brown” race, are the savage inhabitants of Central Borneo, and are said to have come originally from the Malay Peninsula, but to have since been gradually driven into the center of the island by the influx of the present Malays, who now inhabit the coasts and often far inland, especially up the rivers. | |
The Dyaks, though an old, aboriginal Malay stock, differ radically from the Malays in nearly every particular. | |
They are a dark-skinned, strong, well-knit, square-shouldered and beautifully muscled type of men, neither tall nor short, fat nor lean, but comparable to the typical American cavalryman or football halfback or trained middle-weight boxer or wrestler. | |
They have small, dark, heady, snake-like eyes, high cheek bones and straight black hair, often “bobbed” at the neck and frequently with a band around it, giving them much the appearance of North American Indians, were it not that their eyes and noses are smaller. They affect a breech-cloth only, excepting for the sake of warmth, when they don a light cloth jacket or a fibre coat, the latter being a simple affair, hanging straight, with a slit at the top through which the head is placed, after the manner of a present-day American Army “poncho.” | |
A chief is distinguished by having pheasant feathers falling down the back of one of these coats, and in the town or “kampong” of Olong Liko I was the recipient of the unusual privilege of having a friendly{161} Dyak chief take off his cloak-like garment that I had been examining, put it on over my head, and insist on my keeping it—which it is needless to say I was only too glad to do—and which I still have preserved as the most valued treasure of all the many that I brought back from my travels. | |
The women are of the typical heavy-waisted savage category, frequently wearing something above the waist, but whose usual costume consists merely of a long cloth, resembling a skirt, wrapped around their legs. | |
Truth compels me to ungallantly state the ladies are not prepossessing. | |
The chief occupations of the Dyaks are hunting, fishing and tending their little truck-gardens, which mode of life probably accounts for their average splendid physique. | |
| Moeroeng | 13 |
The Moeroeng (River) is a long stream in Central Borneo that unites with the Djoeloi to form the Barito, the latter being one of the great rivers of Borneo, flowing from its center in a general southerly direction, and emptying into the Java Sea a short distance to the west of the southeastern extremity of the island. Pronunciation: Moeroeng=Mooroong: Djoeloi=Jooloi. | |
| kampong | 13 |
Kampong is a native Dyak village, and consists of from one to three or four long houses, and sometimes small detached ones. The long house, the characteristic building, is anywhere from fifty to two or three hundred feet in length, elevated, on poles, from eight to twenty feet in the air. The sides of the houses are of rough boards or of bark and the roofs usually of bark shingles. The age of the dwellings can be told by the height they stand above the ground, those on the highest poles being the oldest ones, because of the former greater savagery of, and more frequent warfare between, the natives. Here literally we have a case of the home being the fortress.{162} | |
Within, the long house is of one of two arrangements; either it consists of a huge hall, often decorated with the skull and horns of the chase, running practically the entire length, and with family rooms opening into it and bake-rooms or kitchens at both ends, or the house consists merely of one very long room without partitions, the different families, with their crude cooking hearths, “squatting” around the sides of the room at intervals of ten or fifteen feet. Occasionally some of the families will hang up cloth divisions. Here, truly, we have the communal scheme of living carried to its ultimate extreme. | |
| headless waist | 13 |
The Dyaks are the famous “head-hunters” of Borneo, and although their inhuman proclivities of procuring heads for their belts, in order to give them certain distinctions, among them, the prerogative of marrying, have, at the present time been largely suppressed by the Dutch authorities, nevertheless a traveler’s trip through Central Borneo is dangerous owing to the fact that some actual head-hunting bands are still roaming the dense jungles through which he is passing. | |
Due to pure luck my path was not crossed by any of these outlaw nomad troops, which is possibly why I am writing this to-day, as one white man, even though armed with a long 38 Army Colt revolver could probably make little headway against a whole band of these savages. My three Malay coolies were highly trustworthy and efficient, but I am not positive as to exactly what extent I could have counted on them in the eventuality of an actual attack. | |
| lianes | 14 |
Long, bare, tropical, vine-like growths that sometimes wrap themselves around the trunk of it tree, and sometimes hang from the branches straight to the ground. | |
| leeches | 15 |
Little gray leeches, up to half an inch in length{163} that, as a barefooted person walks through the jungle, attach themselves to his feet and ankles and suck the blood, until removed or until, having gotten their fill and swollen to many times their former size, fall back to the ground satiated. | |
In the case of a white man, they will burrow through the seam at the back of his sock to get the blood they crave. | |
| proa | 16 |
Pronounced prow, and is any small crude Dyak or Malay Bornese boat, propelled by paddling. | |
| blow-spear | 17 |
A spear with a hollow shaft through which the Dyaks blow a light, wooden dart or arrow. I have seen these in Java and the Philippines also. | |
| mandauw (or parang) | 17 |
Pronounced mandow, and is the typical Dyak sword with a straight blade broadening gradually until near the end, then abruptly narrowing again to a point. It is sharpened on one edge only. | |
| chief poles | 17 |
High wooden flag-like poles, carved near the base, and with long tassels falling from the top. Erected in front of the long house in memory of dead kampong (village) chiefs. | |
| Moeroeng rapids | 21 |
The Moeroeng River has magnificent rapids, which I and my three Malay coolies shot on my return by river from Olong Liko to Poeroek Tjahoe. | |
| tom-toms | 24 |
Round, drum-like, metal musical instruments, beaten with a stick having a large knob. | |
| (You know how far it comes) | 28 |
Refers to the fact that salt is precious to the Dyaks, and must be gotten from the distant coasts, through traders.{164} | |
| Sick-man’s Drums | 28 |
The heating of the tom-toms, with the playing of other “musical” instruments, when a Dyak is sick. The nearer death, the louder the beating. Supposed to be very efficacious. In this particular case the “Sick-man’s Drums” were, of course, beaten ironically. | |
| greasy cakes | 29 |
Thick, round, half-cooked, greasy, Dyak cakes, utterly indigestible and unprepossessing. | |
| On the Water-Wagon | 33 |
Slang for “not drinking.” | |
| “the mill,” | 33 |
The guard-house or soldier prison. | |
| Army of Pacification | 35 |
| Islands | 33 |
The Philippine Islands. | |
| Solitary | 38 |
“Solitary confinement” is punishment meted out to particularly obstreperous prisoners or to those under very severe sentence. | |
| calaboose | 38 |
Guard-house or soldier prison. | |
| jug | 38 |
Guard-house or soldier prison. | |
| Ten and a Bob | 39 |
A prisoner’s sentence of ten years and a dishonorable discharge from the Army. | |
| The Isle | 39 |
Refers to Angel Island in San Francisco Bay, used as a discharge station for time-expired soldiers returning from the Philippines after the Insurrection of 1899-1902. On Angel Island there was also a military convict station for serious offenders, who had to break stone.{165} | |
“the makings” 39. | |
The paper and tobacco for cigarettes | |
| The Sultan Comes to Town | 40 |
The Major’s name was Sour—if we speak in antithesis. | |
| Shah Jehan | 55 |
One of the Great Moguls of India, who at Agra built the lovely, white marble Taj Mahal as a mausoleum for his favorite wife, who died in 1629. | |
Near the city of Aurangabad, in the northwestern part of the state of Hyderabad, is the so-called “Little Taj,” the Mausoleum of Rabi’a Durrani, the wife of a later Great Mogul, Auraugzeb. Though built only of stucco, and not kept in the same immaculate condition as the Taj Mahal, the “Little Taj,” with its inset, pointed arches, viewed at an advantageous distance of several hundred feet, from just within the ground’s entrance, is to me really more beautiful than the splendid Taj Mahal itself, because the height of the “Little Taj,” and, inclusively, of its arches, is greater in proportion to its base than is that of its famous predecessor. The result is a more delicate, lofty and inspiring effect—which effect appears, obviously, to be the most apropos and essential one to obtain in erecting mausoleums of this nature. | |
Close, detailed inspection of the two tombs would present a diametrically opposite analysis, but in work such as this, it would seem that the most crucial aspect is the ensemble and not the minutiæ or finis. | |
| Rajputana stars | 57 |
When in Rajputana, a great state of northwestern India, I was impressed by the brilliancy of the stars on a clear night. It may have been due to atmospheric or other conditions, but whatever the cause, in no other part of the World have I seen such magnificent stars.{166} | |
| tulwar | 57 |
The large, splendid, curved sword of India. | |
| Flaming Trees | 57 |
The trees that spread out like great umbrellas, covered on top with masses of blood-orange colored blossoms, and called “Flame of the Forest,” though in the Philippines we usually nicknamed them “Fire Trees.” | |
| Nippon | 105 |
Let us be charitable, and hope that through contact with outside nations the Japanese will eventually be able to eradicate their traits of character, though the probability, much less the possibility, that the leopard can really change its spots, is remote indeed. Among the poorer classes and in the rural interior of Japan, you will, however, sometimes find at least two mitigating attributes, simplicity and kindliness. | |
| My Loves | 112 |
The loves here referred to are picked at random from among the many of the World Wanderer. The second stanza refers to the breeze of the South Seas; the third stanza, to the North Wind; the fourth stanza, to the Sea; the fifth stanza, to the Sunrise; the sixth stanza, to the Sunset. | |
| C. Q. D. | 138 |
The old “C. Q. D.,” or present-day “S. O. S.,” the wireless telegraphic signal of ships in distress. | |
| Kelvin | 159 |
The great British scientist. Born in Belfast, Ireland in 1824. Died near Largs, Scotland in 1907. His name is among those the British Government has honored by carving into the floor of Westminster Abbey.{167} | |
MY BUNKIE
and Other Ballads
By ERWIN CLARKSON GARRETT
Army and Navy Register:
“The poems show a keen appreciation of the romantic and picturesque side of the soldier’s life with touches of humor and pathos that make up the comedy and tragedy of the calling. Mr. Garrett’s verses are truly sympathetic and appeal to worthy sentiment. They are among the best of anything which has been written in any form concerning the Army and they deserve appreciation. If the Army has a poet who has shown himself by his verses capable of expressing in this form service traditions and military life, it must be this former soldier. Mr. Garrett has preserved the varying conditions of the soldier’s life and the soldier’s sentiment in verses that are really worth while.***”
The Philadelphia Record:
“He has a happy knack of making vivid word-pictures; when he describes something of a battle it all seems clear before our vision; when he tells of camp life, the tented fields are there, and the men, and their tasks. When he draws portraits such as those of ‘The Old Sergeant,’ ‘The ex-Soldier’ and ‘The Rookie’ these men stand strong and life-like before us.***”
Chicago Inter-Ocean:
“***‘My Bunkie and Other Ballads,’ by Erwin Clarkson Garrett, are poems straight from the heart of a private soldier, full of freshness and color, swing and melody.***”
“Mr. Garrett’s songs are racy of the soil and of the life they celebrate. They have an appeal for all Americans, but particularly for the thousands of American young men who in war times saw the Philippines over the sights of a Krag-Jorgensen.”
Philadelphia Press:
“The American soldier has found his Kipling in Erwin Clarkson Garrett.***”
The New York Evening Post:
“***They are the poems of a man who has marched and fought and slept with the Army, and they have the right ring.***”