The Poems of Henry Van Dyke Part 61

The little-necks,--in number six,-- That from their pearly sh.e.l.ls she picks And swallows whole,--ah, is it selfish To wish my heart among those sh.e.l.l-fish?

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

V

THE RECREANT CLAM

For the _Outlook_

Low dost thou lie amid the languid ooze, Because thy slothful spirit doth refuse The bliss of battle and the strain of strife.

Rise, craven clam, and lead the strenuous life!

A FAIRY TALE

For the Mark Twain Dinner, December 5, 1905

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

"I give him Wit," the eldest said, And stooped above the little bed, To touch his forehead round and red.

"Within this bald, unfurnished head, Where wild luxuriant locks shall spread And wave in years hereafter, I kindle now the lively spark, That still shall flash by day and dark, And everywhere he goes shall mark His way with light and laughter."

The fairies laughed to think of it That such a rosy, wrinkled bit Of flesh should be endowed with Wit!

But something serious seemed to hit The mind of one, as if a fit Of fear had come upon her.

"I give him Truth," she quickly cried, "That laughter may not lead aside To paths where scorn and falsehood hide,-- I give him Truth and Honour!"

"I give him Love," exclaimed the third; And as she breathed the mystic word, I know not if the baby heard, But softly in his dream he stirred, And twittered like a little bird, And stretched his hands above him.

The fairy's gift was sealed and signed With kisses twain the deed to bind: "A heart of love to human-kind, And human-kind to love him!"

"Now stay your giving!" cried the Queen.

"These gifts are pa.s.sing rich I ween; And if reporters should be mean Enough to spy upon this scene, 'Twould make all other babies green With envy at the rumour.

Yet since I love this child, forsooth, I'll mix your gifts, Wit, Love and Truth, With spirits of Immortal Youth, And call the mixture Humour!"

The fairies vanished with their glittering train; But here's the Prince with all their gifts,--_Mark Twain_.

THE BALLAD OF THE SOLEMN a.s.s

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

Come all ye good Centurions and wise men of the times, You've made a Poet Laureate, now you must hear his rhymes.

Extend your ears and I'll respond by shortening up my tale:-- Man cannot live by verse alone, he must have cakes and ale.

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

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

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

He did not like the way they went, but lifted up his voice And said that any other way would be a better choice.

He braced his feet and stood his ground, and made the wise men wait, While with his heels at all around he did recalcitrate.

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

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

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

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

"Now by my head," Balthazar said (his real name was Choate), "We've had about enough of this! I'll put it to the vote.

I move the donkey be dismissed; let's turn him out to gra.s.s, And travel on our cheerful way, without the solemn a.s.s."

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

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

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

A silent health to absent friends, their memories are bright!

A hearty health to all who keep the feast with us to-night!

A health to dear Centuria, oh, may she long abide!

A health, a health to all the world,--and the solemn a.s.s, _outside_!

A BALLAD OF SANTA CLAUS

For the St. Nicholas Society of New York

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

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

Three pretty maidens, so they say, were longing to be married; But they were paupers, lack-a-day, and so the suitors tarried.

St. Nicholas gave each maid a purse of golden ducats c.h.i.n.king, And then, for better or for worse, they wedded quick as winking.

Once, as he sailed, a storm arose; wild waves the ship surrounded; The sailors wept and tore their clothes, and shrieked "We'll all be drownded!"

St. Nicholas never turned a hair; serenely shone his halo; He simply said a little prayer, and all the billows lay low.

The wicked keeper of an inn had three small urchins taken, And cut them up in a pickle-bin, and salted them for bacon.

St. Nicholas came and picked them out, and put their limbs together,-- They lived, they leaped, they gave a shout, "St. Nicholas forever!"