The Second Book of Modern Verse Part 28

Bereft of her with whom his life Was harmony without a flaw, He took no other for a wife, Nor sighed for any that he saw; And if he doubted his two sons, And heirs, Alexis and Evander, He might have been as doubtful once Of Robert Burns and Alexander.

Alexis, in his early youth, Began to steal -- from old and young.

Likewise Evander, and the truth Was like a bad taste on his tongue.

Born thieves and liars, their affair Seemed only to be tarred with evil -- The most insufferable pair Of scamps that ever cheered the devil.

The world went on, their fame went on, And they went on -- from bad to worse; Till, goaded hot with nothing done, And each accoutred with a curse, The friends of Old King Cole, by twos, And fours, and sevens, and elevens, p.r.o.nounced unalterable views Of doings that were not of heaven's.

And having learned again whereby Their baleful zeal had come about, King Cole met many a wrathful eye So kindly that its wrath went out -- Or partly out. Say what they would, He seemed the more to court their candor; But never told what kind of good Was in Alexis and Evander.

And Old King Cole, with many a puff That haloed his urbanity, Would smoke till he had smoked enough, And listen most attentively.

He beamed as with an inward light That had the Lord's a.s.surance in it; And once a man was there all night, Expecting something every minute.

But whether from too little thought, Or too much fealty to the bowl, A dim reward was all he got For sitting up with Old King Cole.

"Though mine," the father mused aloud, "Are not the sons I would have chosen, Shall I, less evilly endowed, By their infirmity be frozen?

"They'll have a bad end, I'll agree, But I was never born to groan; For I can see what I can see, And I'm accordingly alone.

With open heart and open door, I love my friends, I like my neighbors; But if I try to tell you more, Your doubts will overmatch my labors.

"This pipe would never make me calm, This bowl my grief would never drown.

For grief like mine there is no balm In Gilead, or in Tilbury Town.

And if I see what I can see, I know not any way to blind it; Nor more if any way may be For you to grope or fly to find it.

"There may be room for ruin yet, And ashes for a wasted love; Or, like One whom you may forget, I may have meat you know not of.

And if I'd rather live than weep Meanwhile, do you find that surprising?

Why, bless my soul, the man's asleep!

That's good. The sun will soon be rising."

Spoon River Anthology. [Edgar Lee Masters]

Washington McNeely

Rich, honored by my fellow citizens, The father of many children, born of a n.o.ble mother, All raised there In the great mansion-house, at the edge of town.

Note the cedar tree on the lawn!

I sent all the boys to Ann Arbor, all of the girls to Rockford, The while my life went on, getting more riches and honors -- Resting under my cedar tree at evening.

The years went on.

I sent the girls to Europe; I dowered them when married.

I gave the boys money to start in business.

They were strong children, promising as apples Before the bitten places show.

But John fled the country in disgrace.

Jenny died in child-birth -- I sat under my cedar tree.

Harry killed himself after a debauch, Susan was divorced -- I sat under my cedar tree.

Paul was invalided from over study, Mary became a recluse at home for love of a man -- I sat under my cedar tree.

All were gone, or broken-winged or devoured by life -- I sat under my cedar tree.

My mate, the mother of them, was taken -- I sat under my cedar tree, Till ninety years were tolled.

O maternal Earth, which rocks the fallen leaf to sleep!

Harmon Whitney

Out of the lights and roar of cities, Drifting down like a spark in Spoon River, Burnt out with the fire of drink, and broken, The paramour of a woman I took in self-contempt, But to hide a wounded pride as well.

To be judged and loathed by a village of little minds -- I, gifted with tongues and wisdom, Sunk here to the dust of the justice court, A picker of rags in the rubbage of spites and wrongs, -- I, whom fortune smiled on! I in a village, Spouting to gaping yokels pages of verse, Out of the lore of golden years, Or raising a laugh with a flash of filthy wit When they brought the drinks to kindle my dying mind.

To be judged by you, The soul of me hidden from you, With its wound gangrened By love for a wife who made the wound, With her cold white bosom, treasonous, pure and hard, Relentless to the last, when the touch of her hand At any time, might have cured me of the typhus, Caught in the jungle of life where many are lost.

And only to think that my soul could not react, As Byron's did, in song, in something n.o.ble, But turned on itself like a tortured snake -- Judge me this way, O world!

Thomas Trevelyan

Reading in Ovid the sorrowful story of Itys, Son of the love of Tereus and Procne, slain For the guilty pa.s.sion of Tereus for Philomela, The flesh of him served to Tereus by Procne, And the wrath of Tereus, the murderess pursuing Till the G.o.ds made Philomela a nightingale, Lute of the rising moon, and Procne a swallow!

Oh livers and artists of h.e.l.las centuries gone, Sealing in little thuribles dreams and wisdom, Incense beyond all price, forever fragrant, A breath whereof makes clear the eyes of the soul!

How I inhaled its sweetness here in Spoon River!

The thurible opening when I had lived and learned How all of us kill the children of love, and all of us, Knowing not what we do, devour their flesh; And all of us change to singers, although it be But once in our lives, or change -- alas -- to swallows, To twitter amid cold winds and falling leaves!

Alexander Throckmorton

In youth my wings were strong and tireless, But I did not know the mountains.

In age I knew the mountains But my weary wings could not follow my vision -- Genius is wisdom and youth.

Rutherford McDowell

They brought me ambrotypes Of the old pioneers to enlarge.

And sometimes one sat for me -- Some one who was in being When giant hands from the womb of the world Tore the republic.

What was it in their eyes? -- For I could never fathom That mystical pathos of drooped eyelids, And the serene sorrow of their eyes.

It was like a pool of water, Amid oak trees at the edge of a forest, Where the leaves fall, As you hear the crow of a c.o.c.k Where the third generation lives, and the strong men From a far-off farm-house, seen near the hills And the strong women are gone and forgotten.

And these grand-children and great grand-children Of the pioneers!

Truly did my camera record their faces, too, With so much of the old strength gone, And the old faith gone, And the old mastery of life gone, And the old courage gone, Which labors and loves and suffers and sings Under the sun!

William H. Herndon

There by the window in the old house Perched on the bluff, overlooking miles of valley, My days of labor closed, sitting out life's decline, Day by day did I look in my memory, As one who gazes in an enchantress' crystal globe, And I saw the figures of the past, As if in a pageant gla.s.sed by a shining dream, Move through the incredible sphere of time.