The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 82

Oh, to see the far peak growing Whiter as it climbs to G.o.d!

Where the silver streamlet rushes I would follow--follow on Till I heard the happy thrushes Piping lyrics to the dawn.

I would hear the wild rejoicing Of the wind-blown cedar tree, Hear the st.u.r.dy hemlock voicing Ancient epics of the sea.

Forest aisles would I be winding, Out beyond the gates of Care; And, in dim cathedrals, finding Silence at the shrine of Prayer.

When the mystic night comes stealing Through my vast, green room afar, Never king had richer ceiling-- Beaded bough and yellow star!

Ah, to list the sacred preaching Of the forest's faithful fir, With his strong arms upward reaching-- Mighty, trustful worshipper!

Come and learn the joy of living!

Come and you will understand How the sun his gold is giving With a great, impartial hand!

How the patient pine is climbing, Year by year to gain the sky; How the rill makes sweetest rhyming, Where the deepest shadows lie.

I am nearer the great Giver, Where His handiwork is crude; Friend am I of peak and river, Comrade of old Solitude.

Not for me the city's riot!

Not for me the towers of Trade!

I would seek the house of Quiet, That the Master Workman made!

Herbert Bashford [1871-1928]

A DROVER

To Meath of the pastures, From wet hills by the sea, Through Leitrim and Longford, Go my cattle and me.

I hear in the darkness Their slipping and breathing-- I name them the bye-ways They're to pa.s.s without heeding;

Then, the wet, winding roads, Brown bogs with black water; And my thoughts on white ships And the King o' Spain's daughter.

O! farmer, strong farmer!

You can spend at the fair; But your face you must turn To your crops and your care.

And soldiers--red soldiers!

You've seen many lands; But you walk two by two, And by captain's commands.

O! the smell of the beasts, The wet wind in the morn; And the proud and hard earth Never broken for corn;

And the crowds at the fair, The herds loosened and blind, Loud words and dark faces And the wild blood behind.

(O! strong men; with your best I would strive breast to breast, I could quiet your herds With my words, with my words.)

I will bring you, my kine, Where there's gra.s.s to the knee; But you'll think of scant croppings Harsh with salt of the sea.

Padraic Colum [1881-

BALLAD OF LOW-LIE-DOWN

John-a-Dreams and Harum-Scarum Came a-riding into town: At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum There they met with Low-lie-down.

Brave in shoes of Romany leather, Bodice blue and gypsy gown, And a cap of fur and feather, In the inn sat Low-lie-down.

Harum-Scarum kissed her lightly; Smiled into her eyes of brown: Clasped her waist and held her tightly, Laughing, "Love me, Low-lie-down!"

Then with many an oath and swagger, As a man of great renown, On the board he clapped his dagger, Called for sack and sat him down.

So a while they laughed together; Then he rose and with a frown Sighed, "While still 'tis pheasant weather, I must leave thee, Low-lie-down."

So away rode Harum-Scarum; With a song rode out of town; At the Sign o' the Jug-and-Jorum Weeping tarried Low-lie-down.

Then this John-a-dreams, in tatters, In his pocket ne'er a crown, Touched her, saying, "Wench, what matters!

Dry your eyes and, come, sit down.

"Here's my hand: we'll roam together, Far away from thorp and town.

Here's my heart,--for any weather,-- And my dreams, too, Low-lie-down.

"Some men call me dreamer, poet: Some men call me fool and clown-- What I am but you shall know it, Only you, sweet Low-lie-down."

For a little while she pondered: Smiled: then said, "Let care go drown!"

Up and kissed him.... Forth they wandered, John-a-dreams and Low-lie-down.

Madison Cawein [1865-1914]

THE GOOD INN From "The Inn of the Silver Moon."

What care if the day Be turned to gray, What care if the night come soon!

We may choose the pace Who bow for grace At the Inn of the Silver Moon.

Ah, hurrying Sirs, Drive deep your spurs, For it's far to the steepled town-- Where the wallet's weight Shall fix your state And buy for ye smile or frown.

Through our tiles of green Do the stars between Laugh down from the skies of June, And there's naught to pay For a couch of hay At the Inn of the Silver Moon.

You laboring lout, Pull out, pull out, With a hand to the creaking tire, For it's many a mile By path and stile To the old wife crouched by the fire.

But the door is wide In the hedgerow side, And we ask not bowl nor spoon Whose draught of must Makes soft the crust At the Inn of the Silver Moon.

Then, here's to the Inn Of the empty bin, To the Host of the trackless dune!

And here's to the friend Of the journey's end At the Inn of the Silver Moon.

Herman Knickerbocker Viele [1856-1908]