Selections from American poetry Part 7

Some, famine-struck, shall think how long The cold dark hours, how slow the light; And some, who flaunt amid the throng, Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.

Each, where his tasks or pleasures call, They pa.s.s, and heed each other not.

There is who heeds, who holds them all, In His large love and boundless thought.

These struggling tides of life that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end.

THE SNOW-SHOWER

Stand here by my side and turn, I pray, On the lake below thy gentle eyes; The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, And dark and silent the water lies; And out of that frozen mist the snow In wavering flakes begins to flow; Flake after flake They sink in the dark and silent lake.

See how in a living swarm they come From the chambers beyond that misty veil; Some hover awhile in air, and some Rush p.r.o.ne from the sky like summer hail.

All, dropping swiftly or settling slow, West, and are still in the depths below; Flake after flake Dissolved in the dark and silent lake.

Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, Come floating downward in airy play, Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd That whiten by night the milky way; There broader and burlier ma.s.ses fall; The sullen water buries them all-- Flake after flake-- All drowned in the dark and silent lake.

And some, as on tender wings they glide From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, Are joined in their fall, and, side by side, Come clinging along their unsteady way; As friend with friend, or husband with wife, Makes hand in hand the pa.s.sage of life; Each mated flake Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake.

Lo! While we are gazing, in swifter haste Stream down the snows, till the air is white, As, myriads by myriads madly chased, They fling themselves from their shadowy height.

The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, What speed they make, with their grave so nigh; Flake after flake To lie in the dark and silent lake!

I see in thy gentle eyes a tear; They turn to me in sorrowful thought; Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, Who were for a time, and now are not; Like those fair children and cloud and frost, That glisten for a moment and then are lost, Flake after flake All lost in the dark and silent lake.

Yet look again, for the clouds divide; A gleam of blue on the water lies; And far away, on the mountain-side, A sunbeam falls from the opening skies, But the hurrying host that flew between The cloud and the water, no more is seen; Flake after flake,

At rest in the dark and silent lake.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN

Merrily swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Hidden among the summer flowers, Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest, Wearing a bright black wedding-coat; White are his shoulders and white his crest Hear him call in his merry note: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Look, what a nice coat is mine.

Sure there was never a bird so fine.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Pa.s.sing at home a patient life, Broods in the gra.s.s while her husband sings Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here.

Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy is she; One weak chirp is her only note.

Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Never was I afraid of man; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can!

Chee, chee, chee.

Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Flecked with purple, a pretty sight!

There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Nice good wife, that never goes out, Keeping house while I frolic about.

Chee, chee, chee.

Soon as the little ones chip the sh.e.l.l, Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seeds for the hungry brood.

Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid, Half forgotten that merry air: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, n.o.body knows but my mate and I Where our nest and out nestlings lie.

Chee, chee, chee.

Summer wanes; the children are grown; Fun and frolic no more he knows; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again.

Chee, chee, chee.

THE POET

Thou, who wouldst wear the name Of poet mid thy brethren of mankind, And clothe in words of flame Thoughts that shall live within the general mind!

Deem not the framing of a deathless lay The pastime of a drowsy summer day.

But gather all thy powers, And wreak them on the verse that thou dust weave, And in thy lonely hours, At silent morning or at wakeful eve, While the warm current tingles through thy veins, Set forth the burning words in fluent strains.

No smooth array of phrase, Artfully sought and ordered though it be, Which the cold rhymer lays Upon his page with languid industry, Can wake the listless pulse to livelier speed, Or fill with sudden tears the eyes that read.

The secret wouldst thou know To touch the heart or fire the blood at will?

Let thine own eyes o'erflow; Let thy lips quiver with the pa.s.sionate thrill; Seize the great thought, ere yet its power be past, And bind, in words, the fleet emotion fast.

Then, should thy verse appear Halting and harsh, and all unaptly wrought, Touch the crude line with fear, Save in the moment of impa.s.sioned thought; Then summon back the original glow, and mend The strain with rapture that with fire was penned.

Yet let no empty gust Of pa.s.sion find an utterance in thy lay, A blast that whirls the dust Along the howling street and dies away; But feelings of calm power and mighty sweep, Like currents journeying through the windless deep.

Seek'st thou, in living lays, To limn the beauty of the earth and sky?

Before thine inner gaze Let all that beauty in clear vision lie; Look on it with exceeding love, and write The words inspired by wonder and delight.

Of tempests wouldst thou sing, Or tell of battles--make thyself a part Of the great tumult; cling To the tossed wreck with terror in thy heart; Scale, with the a.s.saulting host, the rampart's height, And strike and struggle in the thickest fight.

So shalt thou frame a lay That haply may endure from age to age, And they who read shall say "What witchery hangs upon this poet's page!

What art is his the written spells to find That sway from mood to mood the willing mind!"

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

Oh, slow to smite and swift to spare, Gentle and merciful and just!

Who, in the fear of G.o.d, didst bear The sword of power, a nation's trust!

In sorrow by thy bier we stand, Amid the awe that hushes all, And speak the anguish of a land That shook with horror at thy fall.

Thy task is done; the bond are free: We bear thee to an honored grave Whose proudest monument shall be The broken fetters of the slave.