SKETCHES IN SONG.

SKETCHES IN SONG.Third Edition, Revised.

Third Edition, Revised.

Sketches in Song.

FOR THE LITTLE CRITICS.

A strange fish came from an inland homeOn a journey down to the sea.He split the ripples, and ript the foam,And danced and dived in glee.“Ho, ho!” cried the fry where the sea grew near,“Hurrah for a fresh-water fool!One gulp of our salt when he comes out hereWill send him back to his pool.”The fish was fleet, but the bar was high,And the low tide roil’d and dim;And he groped, as he slowly pass’d the fry,And to and fro would swim.“Ho, ho!” cried they, as they shook their scales,“The muddled one misses his way!”And they fann’d their fins, and slash’d their tails—“Aha, he here will stay!”The fish paused not till the way grew clear;Then launch’d out under the spray;And shower’d his fins in a white-cap nearThat rivall’d the rays of the day.“Ho, ho, showing off to the sharks!” cried the fry;“And look—a gull on the shoal.Yon surface-shiner would better be shy;The bird will swallow him whole.”The fish pass’d on, till the sea grew deep,Then, plunging down through the blue,A flash came back from a parting leap,As at last he sank from view.“Ho, ho,” cried the fry, “we can all do that,If we only go out with the tide.”But the tide had gone, so, left on the flat,They fried in the sun, and died.

A strange fish came from an inland home

On a journey down to the sea.

He split the ripples, and ript the foam,

And danced and dived in glee.

“Ho, ho!” cried the fry where the sea grew near,

“Hurrah for a fresh-water fool!

One gulp of our salt when he comes out here

Will send him back to his pool.”

The fish was fleet, but the bar was high,And the low tide roil’d and dim;And he groped, as he slowly pass’d the fry,And to and fro would swim.“Ho, ho!” cried they, as they shook their scales,“The muddled one misses his way!”And they fann’d their fins, and slash’d their tails—“Aha, he here will stay!”

The fish was fleet, but the bar was high,

And the low tide roil’d and dim;

And he groped, as he slowly pass’d the fry,

And to and fro would swim.

“Ho, ho!” cried they, as they shook their scales,

“The muddled one misses his way!”

And they fann’d their fins, and slash’d their tails—

“Aha, he here will stay!”

The fish paused not till the way grew clear;Then launch’d out under the spray;And shower’d his fins in a white-cap nearThat rivall’d the rays of the day.“Ho, ho, showing off to the sharks!” cried the fry;“And look—a gull on the shoal.Yon surface-shiner would better be shy;The bird will swallow him whole.”

The fish paused not till the way grew clear;

Then launch’d out under the spray;

And shower’d his fins in a white-cap near

That rivall’d the rays of the day.

“Ho, ho, showing off to the sharks!” cried the fry;

“And look—a gull on the shoal.

Yon surface-shiner would better be shy;

The bird will swallow him whole.”

The fish pass’d on, till the sea grew deep,Then, plunging down through the blue,A flash came back from a parting leap,As at last he sank from view.“Ho, ho,” cried the fry, “we can all do that,If we only go out with the tide.”But the tide had gone, so, left on the flat,They fried in the sun, and died.

The fish pass’d on, till the sea grew deep,

Then, plunging down through the blue,

A flash came back from a parting leap,

As at last he sank from view.

“Ho, ho,” cried the fry, “we can all do that,

If we only go out with the tide.”

But the tide had gone, so, left on the flat,

They fried in the sun, and died.

The monument stands, no longer the careOf mallet and chisel and plummet and square.With a flourish of trumpets and rolling of drumsThe glad hour comesWhen the statue above it will loom unveil’d.Lo, now the crowds that are under it sway;The bugles are sounding; and look!—awayThe veil is dropt!—and afar is hail’d,With wild huzzas and hands that fly,The form of the man that stands on high.

The monument stands, no longer the care

Of mallet and chisel and plummet and square.

With a flourish of trumpets and rolling of drums

The glad hour comes

When the statue above it will loom unveil’d.

Lo, now the crowds that are under it sway;

The bugles are sounding; and look!—away

The veil is dropt!—and afar is hail’d,

With wild huzzas and hands that fly,

The form of the man that stands on high.

How the crowd are cheering! but, ah, their cheerRecalls a dayWhen few were here;And the most of them daintily shrank away,Afraid a foot or a frill to smearIn the mire of this place, while deep in the clayThe soil was dug for the monument here.

How the crowd are cheering! but, ah, their cheer

Recalls a day

When few were here;

And the most of them daintily shrank away,

Afraid a foot or a frill to smear

In the mire of this place, while deep in the clay

The soil was dug for the monument here.

And was there not, when his course began,While clearing the ground for the life he had plann’d,A time this crowd would have shrunk from the manWhose image is now enthroned by the land?Alas, how oft in youth’s chill mornTheir tears alone are the dews that adornThe natures that wakeTo the light of a day beginning to break!And oft how long, ere the light will burst,The mists of the valley surround them first!And oh, how many and many a tombOf a dead hope, buried and left in gloom,Must mark the path of the man whose needIs taught through failure how to succeed!And oft how long, ere he knows of this,Will hard work doomHis heart that in sympathy seeks for blissTo a life as lone as death in a tomb,Where sweetness and lightAre all shut out,Nor a flower nor a birdIs heeded or heard,Nor often, if ever, there comes a sightOf a friend who cares what he cares about,Or is willing to soilA finger with even a touch of his toil!For our race are too ready to turn with a sneerFrom arms that are brawny, and hands that smearWhile a man is dependent, in need of a friend,The world is a snob, and shuns its own peer.When a man is a master, his need at an end,The world is a sycophant, cringing to cheer.Cheer on, wise world, but, oh! forget not,Whatever encouragement each man gotWhen in gloom and doubt his course began,But little he heard from the lips of man.

And was there not, when his course began,

While clearing the ground for the life he had plann’d,

A time this crowd would have shrunk from the man

Whose image is now enthroned by the land?

Alas, how oft in youth’s chill morn

Their tears alone are the dews that adorn

The natures that wake

To the light of a day beginning to break!

And oft how long, ere the light will burst,The mists of the valley surround them first!And oh, how many and many a tombOf a dead hope, buried and left in gloom,Must mark the path of the man whose needIs taught through failure how to succeed!And oft how long, ere he knows of this,Will hard work doomHis heart that in sympathy seeks for blissTo a life as lone as death in a tomb,Where sweetness and lightAre all shut out,Nor a flower nor a birdIs heeded or heard,Nor often, if ever, there comes a sightOf a friend who cares what he cares about,Or is willing to soilA finger with even a touch of his toil!For our race are too ready to turn with a sneerFrom arms that are brawny, and hands that smearWhile a man is dependent, in need of a friend,The world is a snob, and shuns its own peer.When a man is a master, his need at an end,The world is a sycophant, cringing to cheer.Cheer on, wise world, but, oh! forget not,Whatever encouragement each man gotWhen in gloom and doubt his course began,But little he heard from the lips of man.

And oft how long, ere the light will burst,

The mists of the valley surround them first!

And oh, how many and many a tomb

Of a dead hope, buried and left in gloom,

Must mark the path of the man whose need

Is taught through failure how to succeed!

And oft how long, ere he knows of this,

Will hard work doom

His heart that in sympathy seeks for bliss

To a life as lone as death in a tomb,

Where sweetness and light

Are all shut out,

Nor a flower nor a bird

Is heeded or heard,

Nor often, if ever, there comes a sight

Of a friend who cares what he cares about,

Or is willing to soil

A finger with even a touch of his toil!

For our race are too ready to turn with a sneer

From arms that are brawny, and hands that smear

While a man is dependent, in need of a friend,

The world is a snob, and shuns its own peer.

When a man is a master, his need at an end,

The world is a sycophant, cringing to cheer.

Cheer on, wise world, but, oh! forget not,

Whatever encouragement each man got

When in gloom and doubt his course began,

But little he heard from the lips of man.

But the monument knew a different day,When masons with mortar and mallet wrought hereThe firm and deep foundation to lay.Still few would turn from the well-trod wayTo climb the mounds of marble and clayWhich hid the work; or, if some drew near,They only came with a stare of surprise,Or a shrug or sigh for its form or size.

But the monument knew a different day,

When masons with mortar and mallet wrought here

The firm and deep foundation to lay.

Still few would turn from the well-trod way

To climb the mounds of marble and clay

Which hid the work; or, if some drew near,

They only came with a stare of surprise,

Or a shrug or sigh for its form or size.

That man, too, now on the monument resting,—How long and hard life’s basis to lay,Strove he, while about him was nothing suggestingThe meed that the present is proud to pay!When all sailing is over, the shouts of a stateThat hail a Columbus may name him great.Before it is over, that isle of the west,The goal of his quest,Is merely, for most, the point of a jest.Nor a few, the while he turns to his mission,Will deem him moved by a mean ambition.Ay, often indeed, the nobler the claimsInspiring his aims,The more earth deemsThey are selfish schemesOf a Joseph it hates for having strange dreams.Alas, where hateIs a normal state,Who serves the world with a love that is greatIs rated a foe by those who refuse it,Nor always a friend by those who use it;For he, forsooth, he knew of their needIn the day they knew not how to succeed!—And thus this man in the marble wrought on,Life’s fruit fell off, and the fall frost froze,And the winter of life came, weary and wan,Ere words to welcome his worth arose.Wise world, the one who is now your boastHeard few of your cheers, when needing them most:The pride of his youth in his life or its plan,It came not then from the praise of man.

That man, too, now on the monument resting,—

How long and hard life’s basis to lay,

Strove he, while about him was nothing suggesting

The meed that the present is proud to pay!

When all sailing is over, the shouts of a state

That hail a Columbus may name him great.

Before it is over, that isle of the west,

The goal of his quest,

Is merely, for most, the point of a jest.

Nor a few, the while he turns to his mission,

Will deem him moved by a mean ambition.

Ay, often indeed, the nobler the claims

Inspiring his aims,

The more earth deems

They are selfish schemes

Of a Joseph it hates for having strange dreams.

Alas, where hateIs a normal state,Who serves the world with a love that is greatIs rated a foe by those who refuse it,Nor always a friend by those who use it;For he, forsooth, he knew of their needIn the day they knew not how to succeed!—And thus this man in the marble wrought on,Life’s fruit fell off, and the fall frost froze,And the winter of life came, weary and wan,Ere words to welcome his worth arose.Wise world, the one who is now your boastHeard few of your cheers, when needing them most:The pride of his youth in his life or its plan,It came not then from the praise of man.

Alas, where hate

Is a normal state,

Who serves the world with a love that is great

Is rated a foe by those who refuse it,

Nor always a friend by those who use it;

For he, forsooth, he knew of their need

In the day they knew not how to succeed!—

And thus this man in the marble wrought on,

Life’s fruit fell off, and the fall frost froze,

And the winter of life came, weary and wan,

Ere words to welcome his worth arose.

Wise world, the one who is now your boast

Heard few of your cheers, when needing them most:

The pride of his youth in his life or its plan,

It came not then from the praise of man.

But the monument grew, anon to displayAbove its foundation,Those fair white sides that rose to their stationAll cunningly wrought into tablet and column.Then children, and others, as childlike as they,Would delight in its beauty; but, doubtful and solemn,The wise were all wary. “A man cannot rateA work till complete,” said they, “so we must wait.”

But the monument grew, anon to display

Above its foundation,

Those fair white sides that rose to their station

All cunningly wrought into tablet and column.

Then children, and others, as childlike as they,

Would delight in its beauty; but, doubtful and solemn,

The wise were all wary. “A man cannot rate

A work till complete,” said they, “so we must wait.”

And thus the man grew,And thus did a fewFind, thoughtfully plann’d for the wants they divined,His work that is now the pride of his kind.Who prized it at first?—Ah, those little verstIn the codes that are current turn first from them allTo the herald that comes to trump a new call.Those nearest their youthLive nearest the breasts that glow with the truth,And welcome it gratefully warm from the heart.Earth’s elders and sages,Far off from the place where the springs all start,Scarce ever can prizeA stream that suppliesA draft less far from its font than their age is.No deeds can course from as grand a sourceAs the life of which they in their youth form’d a part.Naught sparkles as brightTo them as the lightOf an old, cold, frozen, and crystallized art.But, ah, if you ask them what was trueWhen the words or the ways of their art were new,If you ask them what were the traits it would showEre the form now frozen no longer could flow,Or how it differ’d in nature from thoseThat spring in the present, when first it rose,—All this their critic cares not to know.He is nothing if not the dog of his day,Who barks or who licksAs his master, the world, may make him obeyBy throwing him bones or swinging him kicks.Pray, what can he know till all the world know it!If currents in viewAre to crystallize tooLike things of the past, the winter will show it.The future must rateThe fruit of the present: so shrewd men wait,And but of the deadAre their eulogies read.—Good souls, they never will let one restUntil he is borne to the land of the blest!No heart is aglowWith the burning zeal of a holiest mission,But makes them fearful of heat below,And tremble in dread of a fiend’s apparition.For Satan has toils that, no matter whetherCome evil or good, trap all men together.Whenever one spiesLight coming, he cries,“’Tis naught but a will-o-the-wisp to the wise.”Half trust him, and half, not duped by his lies,Begin to dispute them; and then, at the quarrel,The seer of the light has thorns for his laurel.Ay, rare, indeed, in that day is his fate,If the eye of the prophet—so noble a trait—Escape from censure and gibe and hate.For an eye like his will a goal pursueSo far in advance of his time and its view,That only the march of an age, forsooth,Can o’ertake the vision he sees in his youth.But, oh! in that age, when it comes, the earthWill live in his light and know of his worth.And many and many will be the menWho move on then,And about them findThe scenes that he in his day divined,Who, sure of his presence, will know he is nigh,And feel he is leading, and never can die.This man of the monument lived like that.Men cheer him now; but of old they satIn judgment against him; while, far awayFrom the place where they had chosen to stay,He push’d for the light; and grew old and hoarEre one whom he knew had begun to explore,Or seek what he sought. Alone in the van,He had fail’d of aid had he thought it in man.

And thus the man grew,

And thus did a few

Find, thoughtfully plann’d for the wants they divined,

His work that is now the pride of his kind.

Who prized it at first?—

Ah, those little verst

In the codes that are current turn first from them all

To the herald that comes to trump a new call.

Those nearest their youth

Live nearest the breasts that glow with the truth,

And welcome it gratefully warm from the heart.

Earth’s elders and sages,

Far off from the place where the springs all start,

Scarce ever can prize

A stream that supplies

A draft less far from its font than their age is.

No deeds can course from as grand a source

As the life of which they in their youth form’d a part.

Naught sparkles as bright

To them as the light

Of an old, cold, frozen, and crystallized art.

But, ah, if you ask them what was true

When the words or the ways of their art were new,

If you ask them what were the traits it would show

Ere the form now frozen no longer could flow,

Or how it differ’d in nature from those

That spring in the present, when first it rose,—

All this their critic cares not to know.

He is nothing if not the dog of his day,

Who barks or who licks

As his master, the world, may make him obey

By throwing him bones or swinging him kicks.

Pray, what can he know till all the world know it!

If currents in view

Are to crystallize too

Like things of the past, the winter will show it.

The future must rate

The fruit of the present: so shrewd men wait,

And but of the dead

Are their eulogies read.—

Good souls, they never will let one rest

Until he is borne to the land of the blest!

No heart is aglow

With the burning zeal of a holiest mission,

But makes them fearful of heat below,

And tremble in dread of a fiend’s apparition.

For Satan has toils that, no matter whether

Come evil or good, trap all men together.

Whenever one spies

Light coming, he cries,

“’Tis naught but a will-o-the-wisp to the wise.”

Half trust him, and half, not duped by his lies,

Begin to dispute them; and then, at the quarrel,

The seer of the light has thorns for his laurel.

Ay, rare, indeed, in that day is his fate,If the eye of the prophet—so noble a trait—Escape from censure and gibe and hate.For an eye like his will a goal pursueSo far in advance of his time and its view,That only the march of an age, forsooth,Can o’ertake the vision he sees in his youth.But, oh! in that age, when it comes, the earthWill live in his light and know of his worth.And many and many will be the menWho move on then,And about them findThe scenes that he in his day divined,Who, sure of his presence, will know he is nigh,And feel he is leading, and never can die.This man of the monument lived like that.Men cheer him now; but of old they satIn judgment against him; while, far awayFrom the place where they had chosen to stay,He push’d for the light; and grew old and hoarEre one whom he knew had begun to explore,Or seek what he sought. Alone in the van,He had fail’d of aid had he thought it in man.

Ay, rare, indeed, in that day is his fate,

If the eye of the prophet—so noble a trait—

Escape from censure and gibe and hate.

For an eye like his will a goal pursue

So far in advance of his time and its view,

That only the march of an age, forsooth,

Can o’ertake the vision he sees in his youth.

But, oh! in that age, when it comes, the earth

Will live in his light and know of his worth.

And many and many will be the men

Who move on then,

And about them find

The scenes that he in his day divined,

Who, sure of his presence, will know he is nigh,

And feel he is leading, and never can die.

This man of the monument lived like that.

Men cheer him now; but of old they sat

In judgment against him; while, far away

From the place where they had chosen to stay,

He push’d for the light; and grew old and hoar

Ere one whom he knew had begun to explore,

Or seek what he sought. Alone in the van,

He had fail’d of aid had he thought it in man.

Yet now are justice and judgment one.That statue glows in the gleam of the sun,Amid drumming and trumpeting, chorus and song,The praise of the speaker, the shout of the throng,Throned white o’er the waving of plumes and of flagsThat surge to its base as a sea to her crags.Now cheer we the monument, capp’d and clear’d,So cheer we the man for whom it is rear’d.

Yet now are justice and judgment one.

That statue glows in the gleam of the sun,

Amid drumming and trumpeting, chorus and song,

The praise of the speaker, the shout of the throng,

Throned white o’er the waving of plumes and of flags

That surge to its base as a sea to her crags.

Now cheer we the monument, capp’d and clear’d,

So cheer we the man for whom it is rear’d.

What? cheer we the man?No doubt, in youthThere were times when the joy in his heart overranAt a smile from one who knew him in truth;There were times, years later, when merely a tearFrom a grateful eyeWould have seem’d more dearThan all the glitter that gold could buy;But, alas! in age, when character standsAs fix’d as yon monument, then it demands,Ere aught can move it, far more, far moreThan the cheer or the sigh that had stirr’d it of yore.Not oft, nor till ages of suns and stormsHave wrought with the verdure in earthly forms,Are these turn’d into stone, no more to decay.But often on earthThe owners of worthThat men image in marble grow stony, that way.Ah, man, whom in hardship you might make a friendAnd turn from—beware, beware in the end,Lest he whom you harden grow hard unto you.O world, when ready your hero to cheer,How heeds he your welcome? say, what does he do?His eye, does it see? his ear, does it hear?His heart, does it throb? his pulse, does it thrill?Or his touch, is it cold? his clasp, is it chill?—O world, you have waited long; what have you done?O man, you have wrought so long; what have you won?—

What? cheer we the man?

No doubt, in youth

There were times when the joy in his heart overran

At a smile from one who knew him in truth;

There were times, years later, when merely a tear

From a grateful eye

Would have seem’d more dear

Than all the glitter that gold could buy;

But, alas! in age, when character stands

As fix’d as yon monument, then it demands,

Ere aught can move it, far more, far more

Than the cheer or the sigh that had stirr’d it of yore.

Not oft, nor till ages of suns and storms

Have wrought with the verdure in earthly forms,

Are these turn’d into stone, no more to decay.

But often on earth

The owners of worth

That men image in marble grow stony, that way.

Ah, man, whom in hardship you might make a friend

And turn from—beware, beware in the end,

Lest he whom you harden grow hard unto you.

O world, when ready your hero to cheer,

How heeds he your welcome? say, what does he do?

His eye, does it see? his ear, does it hear?

His heart, does it throb? his pulse, does it thrill?

Or his touch, is it cold? his clasp, is it chill?—

O world, you have waited long; what have you done?

O man, you have wrought so long; what have you won?—

That monument there,So high, so fair,That throne of light for the man who led,Is only a tomb. They are cheering the dead.

That monument there,

So high, so fair,

That throne of light for the man who led,

Is only a tomb. They are cheering the dead.

And he himself—did he know it all?Had he look’d, in his youth,Past the shadows of form to the substance of truth?Had he learn’d that all life turns to seasons, and shiftsFrom winter and spring into summer and fall?Or divined that eternity, balancing gifts,Grants honor like heaven, a state after strife,And a glorified name to a sacrificed life?Did he know that sighs, when yearning for love,Best open the soul to breathe in from aboveThe air immortal, and make it worth whileThat art should chisel in marble clearThe lines divine that temper a smileBeyond the sway of a mortal’s cheer?—Did he know it or not, perchance for his goodHis work was lonely and misunderstood.Perchance it was well, the best for the soul,Its nature, its nurture, that aught to controlThe aims inspiring his life or its planHad gain’d but little from earth or man.

And he himself—did he know it all?

Had he look’d, in his youth,

Past the shadows of form to the substance of truth?

Had he learn’d that all life turns to seasons, and shifts

From winter and spring into summer and fall?

Or divined that eternity, balancing gifts,

Grants honor like heaven, a state after strife,

And a glorified name to a sacrificed life?

Did he know that sighs, when yearning for love,

Best open the soul to breathe in from above

The air immortal, and make it worth while

That art should chisel in marble clear

The lines divine that temper a smile

Beyond the sway of a mortal’s cheer?—

Did he know it or not, perchance for his good

His work was lonely and misunderstood.

Perchance it was well, the best for the soul,

Its nature, its nurture, that aught to control

The aims inspiring his life or its plan

Had gain’d but little from earth or man.

The hills rang back our parting jest;The dear, dear day was over;The sun had sunk below the west;We walk’d home through the clover.Our words were gay, but thought astrayOur parting kept regretting,—“The old old way!” would seem to say;“The suns are ever setting.”Then, gazing back with longing soon,At once my step grew bolder;For, bright and new, I spied the moonJust over my right shoulder.I turn’d about and bade her look;We were not superstitious;We jok’d about that shining hook,Bright bait, and skies auspicious.We joked, but, oh, I thought with woe,“This bright bait lures me only,—Like more before it, comes to go,And leave life dark and lonely.Past yon horizon, things are strewnWith broken moons,” I told her:“Each bore a bright hope, too, each moon,When over my right shoulder.“Alas to trust in each new light,A man were moonstruck, surely,—A lunatic!”—We laugh’d outright,And then look’d back demurely.Lo, dimly shown, the moon’s old zoneMade full hope’s crescent new one.I thought, “Would my old love, made known,Prove hope of love a true one?—What would she say?”—I ask’d her soon,And took her hand to hold her.“Ah, love,” she sigh’d, “to-night the moonIs over my right shoulder.”

The hills rang back our parting jest;

The dear, dear day was over;

The sun had sunk below the west;

We walk’d home through the clover.

Our words were gay, but thought astray

Our parting kept regretting,—

“The old old way!” would seem to say;

“The suns are ever setting.”

Then, gazing back with longing soon,

At once my step grew bolder;

For, bright and new, I spied the moon

Just over my right shoulder.

I turn’d about and bade her look;We were not superstitious;We jok’d about that shining hook,Bright bait, and skies auspicious.We joked, but, oh, I thought with woe,“This bright bait lures me only,—Like more before it, comes to go,And leave life dark and lonely.Past yon horizon, things are strewnWith broken moons,” I told her:“Each bore a bright hope, too, each moon,When over my right shoulder.

I turn’d about and bade her look;

We were not superstitious;

We jok’d about that shining hook,

Bright bait, and skies auspicious.

We joked, but, oh, I thought with woe,

“This bright bait lures me only,—

Like more before it, comes to go,

And leave life dark and lonely.

Past yon horizon, things are strewn

With broken moons,” I told her:

“Each bore a bright hope, too, each moon,

When over my right shoulder.

“Alas to trust in each new light,A man were moonstruck, surely,—A lunatic!”—We laugh’d outright,And then look’d back demurely.Lo, dimly shown, the moon’s old zoneMade full hope’s crescent new one.I thought, “Would my old love, made known,Prove hope of love a true one?—What would she say?”—I ask’d her soon,And took her hand to hold her.“Ah, love,” she sigh’d, “to-night the moonIs over my right shoulder.”

“Alas to trust in each new light,

A man were moonstruck, surely,—

A lunatic!”—We laugh’d outright,

And then look’d back demurely.

Lo, dimly shown, the moon’s old zone

Made full hope’s crescent new one.

I thought, “Would my old love, made known,

Prove hope of love a true one?—

What would she say?”—I ask’d her soon,

And took her hand to hold her.

“Ah, love,” she sigh’d, “to-night the moon

Is over my right shoulder.”

Be calm, O Wind, and gently blow,Nor rouse the waves’ commotion.Ye Clouds, veil not the bay so low:My love sails o’er the ocean.Out, boatman, out! The wind will rise;The yawl will find it stormy.Ay, thrice thy fee.—Her signal flies.—My love is waiting for me.Blow on, ye Winds, your prey is flown,Who cares for wave or weather?My love, my own! no more alone,We walk the shore together.

Be calm, O Wind, and gently blow,Nor rouse the waves’ commotion.Ye Clouds, veil not the bay so low:My love sails o’er the ocean.

Be calm, O Wind, and gently blow,

Nor rouse the waves’ commotion.

Ye Clouds, veil not the bay so low:

My love sails o’er the ocean.

Out, boatman, out! The wind will rise;The yawl will find it stormy.Ay, thrice thy fee.—Her signal flies.—My love is waiting for me.

Out, boatman, out! The wind will rise;

The yawl will find it stormy.

Ay, thrice thy fee.—Her signal flies.—

My love is waiting for me.

Blow on, ye Winds, your prey is flown,Who cares for wave or weather?My love, my own! no more alone,We walk the shore together.

Blow on, ye Winds, your prey is flown,

Who cares for wave or weather?

My love, my own! no more alone,

We walk the shore together.

So many eyes that dim tears fill,That a glance of love could clear;So many ears, all sad and still,That a sigh of love could cheer;So many hearts that are beating to greetLove that will heed no sign;So many lips that are parting to meetLove that is air, like mine;—Dykes that fashion has bank’d so fast,Burst from our souls apart!Burst! and let the truth flow past,Filling each unfill’d heart.

So many eyes that dim tears fill,That a glance of love could clear;So many ears, all sad and still,That a sigh of love could cheer;

So many eyes that dim tears fill,

That a glance of love could clear;

So many ears, all sad and still,

That a sigh of love could cheer;

So many hearts that are beating to greetLove that will heed no sign;So many lips that are parting to meetLove that is air, like mine;—

So many hearts that are beating to greet

Love that will heed no sign;

So many lips that are parting to meet

Love that is air, like mine;—

Dykes that fashion has bank’d so fast,Burst from our souls apart!Burst! and let the truth flow past,Filling each unfill’d heart.

Dykes that fashion has bank’d so fast,

Burst from our souls apart!

Burst! and let the truth flow past,

Filling each unfill’d heart.

I Hear fair Fancy call’d a guideWho smiles when one is youthful,But oft in sudden shades will hide,And prove at times untruthful.“When through the skies,”They say, “she fliesAnd leaves behind each earthly care;When round about her in the airNo danger seems attendingThe light we find her wending,Beware! amid the brightest airThe storm may burst, the lightning tear,Beware and fear!With earth so nearNone can be free from care.”I hear fair Fancy call’d a guideOf rarest grace and beauty;But prone to lead the soul asideFrom irksome paths of duty.“Man is but man:He cannot scanToo high delights, and highly rateThe lowly joys of earth’s estate.A soul to fancy turning,”They say, “is fill’d with yearning;And lives in dreams and idle schemes,That with their lure of rival gleamsMake dim the lightAbout the sightThe working soul esteems.”I hear fair Fancy call’d a guideOft rendering life distressful,With views that loom too high, too wide,To make a man successful.They say, “We errWho soar with her.Earth only shoos or shoots a bird;To draw its wealth, it yokes the herd.—But few are those not tiringOf natures too aspiring.The common leaders of the dayAmid the common people stay,Who but confideIn those that guideAlong the common way.”And yet my dear and dangerous guide,I prize thy peerless beauty.I chose thee long ago my brideFor love and not for booty.How much is wroughtBy risking naught?When I behold a path of bliss,Tho’ bordering on the worst abyss,My fears of falling underWill not restrain my wonder.And, from what thou hast found for me,Full many a truth my soul can seeThat earth must knowEre it foregoIts need of knowing thee.

I Hear fair Fancy call’d a guide

Who smiles when one is youthful,

But oft in sudden shades will hide,

And prove at times untruthful.

“When through the skies,”

They say, “she flies

And leaves behind each earthly care;

When round about her in the air

No danger seems attending

The light we find her wending,

Beware! amid the brightest air

The storm may burst, the lightning tear,

Beware and fear!

With earth so near

None can be free from care.”

I hear fair Fancy call’d a guideOf rarest grace and beauty;But prone to lead the soul asideFrom irksome paths of duty.“Man is but man:He cannot scanToo high delights, and highly rateThe lowly joys of earth’s estate.A soul to fancy turning,”They say, “is fill’d with yearning;And lives in dreams and idle schemes,That with their lure of rival gleamsMake dim the lightAbout the sightThe working soul esteems.”

I hear fair Fancy call’d a guide

Of rarest grace and beauty;

But prone to lead the soul aside

From irksome paths of duty.

“Man is but man:

He cannot scan

Too high delights, and highly rate

The lowly joys of earth’s estate.

A soul to fancy turning,”

They say, “is fill’d with yearning;

And lives in dreams and idle schemes,

That with their lure of rival gleams

Make dim the light

About the sight

The working soul esteems.”

I hear fair Fancy call’d a guideOft rendering life distressful,With views that loom too high, too wide,To make a man successful.They say, “We errWho soar with her.Earth only shoos or shoots a bird;To draw its wealth, it yokes the herd.—But few are those not tiringOf natures too aspiring.The common leaders of the dayAmid the common people stay,Who but confideIn those that guideAlong the common way.”

I hear fair Fancy call’d a guide

Oft rendering life distressful,

With views that loom too high, too wide,

To make a man successful.

They say, “We err

Who soar with her.

Earth only shoos or shoots a bird;

To draw its wealth, it yokes the herd.—

But few are those not tiring

Of natures too aspiring.

The common leaders of the day

Amid the common people stay,

Who but confide

In those that guide

Along the common way.”

And yet my dear and dangerous guide,I prize thy peerless beauty.I chose thee long ago my brideFor love and not for booty.How much is wroughtBy risking naught?When I behold a path of bliss,Tho’ bordering on the worst abyss,My fears of falling underWill not restrain my wonder.And, from what thou hast found for me,Full many a truth my soul can seeThat earth must knowEre it foregoIts need of knowing thee.

And yet my dear and dangerous guide,

I prize thy peerless beauty.

I chose thee long ago my bride

For love and not for booty.

How much is wrought

By risking naught?

When I behold a path of bliss,

Tho’ bordering on the worst abyss,

My fears of falling under

Will not restrain my wonder.

And, from what thou hast found for me,

Full many a truth my soul can see

That earth must know

Ere it forego

Its need of knowing thee.

I wonder not that artists’ hands,Inspired by themes of joyTo picture forms of angel-bands,Paint, first of all, the boy.I know if I were set the taskTo lure a man’s desireBy traits the heavenliest one could ask,When most our souls aspire,I would not take a blushing bride,For she may wed for pelf;Nor him who stands the bride beside,He may but love himself;Nor matron, with her thoughts confinedTo maxims meant for youth;Nor man mature: too oft his mindWill close to others’ truth.But I would blend the purityOf her whom I adoreWith manly power for masteryAnd promise yet in store.So I would take the boy who roamsToward life, half understood,From thresholds of those holy homesThat face alone the good;—A boy who has not reach’d the brinkWhere vice will cross his track,Whose wish that loathes the wish to drinkStill keeps the tempter back;—A boy who hardly knows of ill,Or ill can apprehend,With cheeks that blush, with eyes that fill,And faith that fears no end.And oh, I know that those who loveThe purest part of joy,Would choose with me from all aboveThe heaven that held my boy.

I wonder not that artists’ hands,Inspired by themes of joyTo picture forms of angel-bands,Paint, first of all, the boy.

I wonder not that artists’ hands,

Inspired by themes of joy

To picture forms of angel-bands,

Paint, first of all, the boy.

I know if I were set the taskTo lure a man’s desireBy traits the heavenliest one could ask,When most our souls aspire,

I know if I were set the task

To lure a man’s desire

By traits the heavenliest one could ask,

When most our souls aspire,

I would not take a blushing bride,For she may wed for pelf;Nor him who stands the bride beside,He may but love himself;

I would not take a blushing bride,

For she may wed for pelf;

Nor him who stands the bride beside,

He may but love himself;

Nor matron, with her thoughts confinedTo maxims meant for youth;Nor man mature: too oft his mindWill close to others’ truth.

Nor matron, with her thoughts confined

To maxims meant for youth;

Nor man mature: too oft his mind

Will close to others’ truth.

But I would blend the purityOf her whom I adoreWith manly power for masteryAnd promise yet in store.

But I would blend the purity

Of her whom I adore

With manly power for mastery

And promise yet in store.

So I would take the boy who roamsToward life, half understood,From thresholds of those holy homesThat face alone the good;—

So I would take the boy who roams

Toward life, half understood,

From thresholds of those holy homes

That face alone the good;—

A boy who has not reach’d the brinkWhere vice will cross his track,Whose wish that loathes the wish to drinkStill keeps the tempter back;—

A boy who has not reach’d the brink

Where vice will cross his track,

Whose wish that loathes the wish to drink

Still keeps the tempter back;—

A boy who hardly knows of ill,Or ill can apprehend,With cheeks that blush, with eyes that fill,And faith that fears no end.

A boy who hardly knows of ill,

Or ill can apprehend,

With cheeks that blush, with eyes that fill,

And faith that fears no end.

And oh, I know that those who loveThe purest part of joy,Would choose with me from all aboveThe heaven that held my boy.

And oh, I know that those who love

The purest part of joy,

Would choose with me from all above

The heaven that held my boy.

A smile—could it be meant for me?—Yet there she stood before me.But she had charm’d so many eyesAnd I was neither rich nor wise,—The belle of all the county, she:I seem’d a child,She only smiledBecause she knew her mien was mild,While mine confusion bore me.And praise—could it be meant for me?—Ah, how could I suppose it?The rarest minds I knew aboutHad held her gauge of them in doubt.A prize past all I hoped for, she;But young was I;And this was whyShe thought my pride to gratify;Yet I could but disclose it.A blush—could it be meant for me?—Yet so she met no other.A face that all with joy would meet,Could it have blush’d my own to greet?A belle whom all had sought for, she;Yet I could seeHeave but for meA sigh that strove and would be free.I spoke to free another.She answer’d—All was meant for meWhom rivals off were shoving;And all my love had burst in flameTo feel her ardor while it came.“A woman, whosoe’er she be,Is nothing more,O loved of yore,Than just a woman, nothing o’er,And can but love the loving.”

A smile—could it be meant for me?—

Yet there she stood before me.

But she had charm’d so many eyes

And I was neither rich nor wise,—

The belle of all the county, she:

I seem’d a child,

She only smiled

Because she knew her mien was mild,

While mine confusion bore me.

And praise—could it be meant for me?—Ah, how could I suppose it?The rarest minds I knew aboutHad held her gauge of them in doubt.A prize past all I hoped for, she;But young was I;And this was whyShe thought my pride to gratify;Yet I could but disclose it.

And praise—could it be meant for me?—

Ah, how could I suppose it?

The rarest minds I knew about

Had held her gauge of them in doubt.

A prize past all I hoped for, she;

But young was I;

And this was why

She thought my pride to gratify;

Yet I could but disclose it.

A blush—could it be meant for me?—Yet so she met no other.A face that all with joy would meet,Could it have blush’d my own to greet?A belle whom all had sought for, she;Yet I could seeHeave but for meA sigh that strove and would be free.I spoke to free another.

A blush—could it be meant for me?—

Yet so she met no other.

A face that all with joy would meet,

Could it have blush’d my own to greet?

A belle whom all had sought for, she;

Yet I could see

Heave but for me

A sigh that strove and would be free.

I spoke to free another.

She answer’d—All was meant for meWhom rivals off were shoving;And all my love had burst in flameTo feel her ardor while it came.“A woman, whosoe’er she be,Is nothing more,O loved of yore,Than just a woman, nothing o’er,And can but love the loving.”

She answer’d—All was meant for me

Whom rivals off were shoving;

And all my love had burst in flame

To feel her ardor while it came.

“A woman, whosoe’er she be,

Is nothing more,

O loved of yore,

Than just a woman, nothing o’er,

And can but love the loving.”

I live to write; and write, good friend.In part, I know, for you;Though, while I do so, in the endMyself it pleases too.“The world,” you think, “may prize my rhymes.”Of old, I hoped it would.But many and many have been the timesI only deem’d them good!I “love to write”? You near the truth.I love to talk, as well;And poems breathe a part, forsooth,Of what the soul would tell.—Ay, ay, the soul. For it how meetThat those we love should see—Not poems—but the poem sweetThat all one’s life would be!

I live to write; and write, good friend.In part, I know, for you;Though, while I do so, in the endMyself it pleases too.

I live to write; and write, good friend.

In part, I know, for you;

Though, while I do so, in the end

Myself it pleases too.

“The world,” you think, “may prize my rhymes.”Of old, I hoped it would.But many and many have been the timesI only deem’d them good!

“The world,” you think, “may prize my rhymes.”

Of old, I hoped it would.

But many and many have been the times

I only deem’d them good!

I “love to write”? You near the truth.I love to talk, as well;And poems breathe a part, forsooth,Of what the soul would tell.—

I “love to write”? You near the truth.

I love to talk, as well;

And poems breathe a part, forsooth,

Of what the soul would tell.—

Ay, ay, the soul. For it how meetThat those we love should see—Not poems—but the poem sweetThat all one’s life would be!

Ay, ay, the soul. For it how meet

That those we love should see—

Not poems—but the poem sweet

That all one’s life would be!

My mountains, how I love your forms that standSo beautiful, so bleak, so grim, so grand.Your gleaming crags above my boyhood’s play,Undimm’d as hope, rose o’er each rising day.When now light hope has yielded place to care,O’er steadfast work I see you steadfast there.And when old age at last shall yearn for rest,By your white peaks will each aspiring glance be blest.How bright and broad with ever fresh surprise,The scenes ye brought allured my youthful eyes!Now, when rude hands those views of old assail,When growing towns have changed the lower vale,When other friends are lost or sadly strange,Ye stand familiar still, ye do not change.And when all else abides as now no more,In you I still may see the forms I loved of yore.Ye mounts deserve long life. Your peaks at dawnCatch light no sooner from the night withdrawn,Than those ye rear see truth, when brave men vowTo serve the serf, and bid the despot bow.In vales below, if tyrants make men mild,The weak who scale your sides learn winds are wild,That beasts break loose, and birds awaken’d flee,As if in deepest sleep they dream’d of being free.High homes of manhood, human lips can phraseNo tribute fit to echo half your praise.By Piedmont’s church and Ziska’s rock-wall’d see,By Swiss and Scot who left their children free,By our New England, when she named him knaveWho, flank’d by bloodhounds, chased his fleeing slave,Stand ye like them, whose memories, ever grand,Tower far above earth’s lords, as ye above its land.Ay, stand like monuments in lasting stoneTo souls as lofty as the world has known.Ye fitly symbol, when with kindling lightThe dawn and sunset gild your summits white,The glories of their pure, aspiring worthWho aim’d at stars to feed the hopes of earth;And fitly point where they, in brighter skies,View grander scenes than yours where your heights cannot rise.

My mountains, how I love your forms that stand

So beautiful, so bleak, so grim, so grand.

Your gleaming crags above my boyhood’s play,

Undimm’d as hope, rose o’er each rising day.

When now light hope has yielded place to care,

O’er steadfast work I see you steadfast there.

And when old age at last shall yearn for rest,

By your white peaks will each aspiring glance be blest.

How bright and broad with ever fresh surprise,The scenes ye brought allured my youthful eyes!Now, when rude hands those views of old assail,When growing towns have changed the lower vale,When other friends are lost or sadly strange,Ye stand familiar still, ye do not change.And when all else abides as now no more,In you I still may see the forms I loved of yore.

How bright and broad with ever fresh surprise,

The scenes ye brought allured my youthful eyes!

Now, when rude hands those views of old assail,

When growing towns have changed the lower vale,

When other friends are lost or sadly strange,

Ye stand familiar still, ye do not change.

And when all else abides as now no more,

In you I still may see the forms I loved of yore.

Ye mounts deserve long life. Your peaks at dawnCatch light no sooner from the night withdrawn,Than those ye rear see truth, when brave men vowTo serve the serf, and bid the despot bow.In vales below, if tyrants make men mild,The weak who scale your sides learn winds are wild,That beasts break loose, and birds awaken’d flee,As if in deepest sleep they dream’d of being free.

Ye mounts deserve long life. Your peaks at dawn

Catch light no sooner from the night withdrawn,

Than those ye rear see truth, when brave men vow

To serve the serf, and bid the despot bow.

In vales below, if tyrants make men mild,

The weak who scale your sides learn winds are wild,

That beasts break loose, and birds awaken’d flee,

As if in deepest sleep they dream’d of being free.

High homes of manhood, human lips can phraseNo tribute fit to echo half your praise.By Piedmont’s church and Ziska’s rock-wall’d see,By Swiss and Scot who left their children free,By our New England, when she named him knaveWho, flank’d by bloodhounds, chased his fleeing slave,Stand ye like them, whose memories, ever grand,Tower far above earth’s lords, as ye above its land.

High homes of manhood, human lips can phrase

No tribute fit to echo half your praise.

By Piedmont’s church and Ziska’s rock-wall’d see,

By Swiss and Scot who left their children free,

By our New England, when she named him knave

Who, flank’d by bloodhounds, chased his fleeing slave,

Stand ye like them, whose memories, ever grand,

Tower far above earth’s lords, as ye above its land.

Ay, stand like monuments in lasting stoneTo souls as lofty as the world has known.Ye fitly symbol, when with kindling lightThe dawn and sunset gild your summits white,The glories of their pure, aspiring worthWho aim’d at stars to feed the hopes of earth;And fitly point where they, in brighter skies,View grander scenes than yours where your heights cannot rise.

Ay, stand like monuments in lasting stone

To souls as lofty as the world has known.

Ye fitly symbol, when with kindling light

The dawn and sunset gild your summits white,

The glories of their pure, aspiring worth

Who aim’d at stars to feed the hopes of earth;

And fitly point where they, in brighter skies,

View grander scenes than yours where your heights cannot rise.

“Martin Cooney,” [I have found, upon making inquiry at Pittston, that the boy’s name was Craegin, not Cooney] “is the name of the boy who, deep down in the horrid depths of the Pittston mine, performed a deed of heroic self-sacrifice which shames into insignificance the actions by which many happier men have climbed to fame and honor. Cooney and a companion stood at the bottom of the shaft as the car was about to ascend for the last time. High above them roaring flame and blinding smoke amid the crash of falling timber were fast closing up the narrow way to light and life; below them in the gloomy pit were a score of men working on, unconscious of their deadly peril. Cooney, with one foot upon the car, thought of his endangered friends. He proposed to his companion that they should return and warn the miners of their threatened fate. His companion refused to go, and then Cooney, without a moment’s hesitation, but with full consciousness that he had chosen almost certain death, leaped from the car and groped his way back through the growing darkness. It was too late: the miners had closed the ventilating door before he reached them; and standing there between the immovable barrier and the shaft, the hot breath of the fiery pit poured in upon him in a pitiless blast, and so he died.”—Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, June 5, 1871.

Up, thou Warden gray of Honor,Swing thy temple’s rusted door;Hither from the mine of Pittston,Hies, at last, one hero more....While he toil’d amid the miners,Came a cry that startled him;“Fire!” he heard, and o’er him quickly,Saw the smoking shaft grow dim.“Now for life!” a comrade shouted,“Mount this car! no more cars go!”“Nay for life,” replied young Martin,“Call the men at work below!”Cried the first: “No time to tarry!Look!—The flames!—We must not stay!”“Time for them to close the smoke out!”Martin cried, and rush’d away.“Fire! fire! fire!” he shouted shrilly,Groping down the passage dim.“Fire!” those heard, and closed the passage,Closed it on the smoke and him.“Stop the smoke!” cried men above him.—Still the ghastly fumes crept on;Caught the boy, and, crawling round him,Choked his corpse they clung upon.“Woe on woe!” cried those above him,“All will die; the fires descend!”By the coal-pit, by the coal-boy,Never light like that was kenn’d.Whence, O whence that blinding brightness?What had touch’d the boy afar?—For the chariot of ElijahHad he spurn’d his comrade’s car?“Stop the fire!” cried all the village,—Ah, but none could now keep downMartin’s love, there marshal’d heavenward,Haloed by a martyr’s crown.Not the flood that men set flowingFaster than the fire could spread,Now could quench the flame eternalBurning in the soul that sped.Not the cloud of smoke that gather’d,Not the dark, sad funeral pall,Now could dim the boy’s devotion,With its glory gilding all....Up, thou Warden gray of Honor,Wheels immortal sweep the sky,Swing thy gates!—another heroLove incites to do and die.

Up, thou Warden gray of Honor,Swing thy temple’s rusted door;Hither from the mine of Pittston,Hies, at last, one hero more.

Up, thou Warden gray of Honor,

Swing thy temple’s rusted door;

Hither from the mine of Pittston,

Hies, at last, one hero more.

...

While he toil’d amid the miners,Came a cry that startled him;“Fire!” he heard, and o’er him quickly,Saw the smoking shaft grow dim.

While he toil’d amid the miners,

Came a cry that startled him;

“Fire!” he heard, and o’er him quickly,

Saw the smoking shaft grow dim.

“Now for life!” a comrade shouted,“Mount this car! no more cars go!”“Nay for life,” replied young Martin,“Call the men at work below!”

“Now for life!” a comrade shouted,

“Mount this car! no more cars go!”

“Nay for life,” replied young Martin,

“Call the men at work below!”

Cried the first: “No time to tarry!Look!—The flames!—We must not stay!”“Time for them to close the smoke out!”Martin cried, and rush’d away.

Cried the first: “No time to tarry!

Look!—The flames!—We must not stay!”

“Time for them to close the smoke out!”

Martin cried, and rush’d away.

“Fire! fire! fire!” he shouted shrilly,Groping down the passage dim.“Fire!” those heard, and closed the passage,Closed it on the smoke and him.

“Fire! fire! fire!” he shouted shrilly,

Groping down the passage dim.

“Fire!” those heard, and closed the passage,

Closed it on the smoke and him.

“Stop the smoke!” cried men above him.—Still the ghastly fumes crept on;Caught the boy, and, crawling round him,Choked his corpse they clung upon.

“Stop the smoke!” cried men above him.—

Still the ghastly fumes crept on;

Caught the boy, and, crawling round him,

Choked his corpse they clung upon.

“Woe on woe!” cried those above him,“All will die; the fires descend!”By the coal-pit, by the coal-boy,Never light like that was kenn’d.

“Woe on woe!” cried those above him,

“All will die; the fires descend!”

By the coal-pit, by the coal-boy,

Never light like that was kenn’d.

Whence, O whence that blinding brightness?What had touch’d the boy afar?—For the chariot of ElijahHad he spurn’d his comrade’s car?

Whence, O whence that blinding brightness?

What had touch’d the boy afar?—

For the chariot of Elijah

Had he spurn’d his comrade’s car?

“Stop the fire!” cried all the village,—Ah, but none could now keep downMartin’s love, there marshal’d heavenward,Haloed by a martyr’s crown.

“Stop the fire!” cried all the village,—

Ah, but none could now keep down

Martin’s love, there marshal’d heavenward,

Haloed by a martyr’s crown.

Not the flood that men set flowingFaster than the fire could spread,Now could quench the flame eternalBurning in the soul that sped.

Not the flood that men set flowing

Faster than the fire could spread,

Now could quench the flame eternal

Burning in the soul that sped.

Not the cloud of smoke that gather’d,Not the dark, sad funeral pall,Now could dim the boy’s devotion,With its glory gilding all.

Not the cloud of smoke that gather’d,

Not the dark, sad funeral pall,

Now could dim the boy’s devotion,

With its glory gilding all.

...

Up, thou Warden gray of Honor,Wheels immortal sweep the sky,Swing thy gates!—another heroLove incites to do and die.

Up, thou Warden gray of Honor,

Wheels immortal sweep the sky,

Swing thy gates!—another hero

Love incites to do and die.

What has a child that a man has not,When “of such is the kingdom” on high?At play in the home, at work in the school,Oh, what does he care for the soul, or its rule,Or for aught that hints of the sky?Ay, what does he serve but his own desires,Impell’d by a fancy that toils or tires?His moods flow on like currents in brooks,Or ruffled or smooth, to answer the crooks.All things that are sweet or fair to seeHe buzzes and bustles about like a bee.He would work his arms at ball and bow,Though he never had known it would make them grow.—What virtue is his?—While a man can doubtThe truth within him, nor show it without,The child holds fast, unfetter’d by lies,A faith that he never has dared to despise,Expression that knows no other controlThan that of the Maker who moves the soul,A beauty of wisdom that works to obeyA holy, because a natural way;And that may he have that a man may not.What has a man that a child has not,When “of such is the kingdom” on high?Oh, he has been train’d by the world and the schoolTo curb his character in by ruleTill the rule of his life is a lie.A man like that would spurn to findIn God’s designs the quest of his mind.He crams and drams for an appetiteThat nothing on earth can sate or excite.His words are as dry as the words of a book,—Your sentence is ready, wherever you look.His views—he never saw any thing strange:If he did, some fellow might question his range.And all of profit he tests by pelf,And all of manhood measures by self,Forgets that God rules the world he is at,And stars himself as its autocrat.Alas for reason with such a judge!If ever you whisper or smile or budge—You may study and ponder and prove and pray—But he has a sneering, cynical way;And that may he have that a child has not.What has a man that a child has too,When “of such is the kingdom” on high?He knows that life is better’d by rules,But he knows how split the wise and the foolsWhen judging of rules they apply.He feels that life worth living proceedsFrom nature that prompts the bent of deeds;And he lets the reins of his being go,Whenever the soul moves upward so.If he look to God through self or His Book,Or leading the way through a bishop’s crook,He welcomes whatever has worth in the new,Though it grew outside of his Timbuctoo.For modest he is, and loves to findEarth blest by minds that differ in kind.In short, to the simple, the frail, and the fewHe is fill’d with charity through and through;And, waiving your reason its right of control,Trusts God for enough truth left in your soul;And though he may tell you he doubts your way,He has much to love in spite of his “nay”;And that may a man and a child have too.

What has a child that a man has not,

When “of such is the kingdom” on high?

At play in the home, at work in the school,

Oh, what does he care for the soul, or its rule,

Or for aught that hints of the sky?

Ay, what does he serve but his own desires,

Impell’d by a fancy that toils or tires?

His moods flow on like currents in brooks,

Or ruffled or smooth, to answer the crooks.

All things that are sweet or fair to see

He buzzes and bustles about like a bee.

He would work his arms at ball and bow,

Though he never had known it would make them grow.—

What virtue is his?—While a man can doubt

The truth within him, nor show it without,

The child holds fast, unfetter’d by lies,

A faith that he never has dared to despise,

Expression that knows no other control

Than that of the Maker who moves the soul,

A beauty of wisdom that works to obey

A holy, because a natural way;

And that may he have that a man may not.

What has a man that a child has not,When “of such is the kingdom” on high?Oh, he has been train’d by the world and the schoolTo curb his character in by ruleTill the rule of his life is a lie.A man like that would spurn to findIn God’s designs the quest of his mind.He crams and drams for an appetiteThat nothing on earth can sate or excite.His words are as dry as the words of a book,—Your sentence is ready, wherever you look.His views—he never saw any thing strange:If he did, some fellow might question his range.And all of profit he tests by pelf,And all of manhood measures by self,Forgets that God rules the world he is at,And stars himself as its autocrat.Alas for reason with such a judge!If ever you whisper or smile or budge—You may study and ponder and prove and pray—But he has a sneering, cynical way;And that may he have that a child has not.

What has a man that a child has not,

When “of such is the kingdom” on high?

Oh, he has been train’d by the world and the school

To curb his character in by rule

Till the rule of his life is a lie.

A man like that would spurn to find

In God’s designs the quest of his mind.

He crams and drams for an appetite

That nothing on earth can sate or excite.

His words are as dry as the words of a book,—

Your sentence is ready, wherever you look.

His views—he never saw any thing strange:

If he did, some fellow might question his range.

And all of profit he tests by pelf,

And all of manhood measures by self,

Forgets that God rules the world he is at,

And stars himself as its autocrat.

Alas for reason with such a judge!

If ever you whisper or smile or budge—

You may study and ponder and prove and pray—

But he has a sneering, cynical way;

And that may he have that a child has not.

What has a man that a child has too,When “of such is the kingdom” on high?He knows that life is better’d by rules,But he knows how split the wise and the foolsWhen judging of rules they apply.He feels that life worth living proceedsFrom nature that prompts the bent of deeds;And he lets the reins of his being go,Whenever the soul moves upward so.If he look to God through self or His Book,Or leading the way through a bishop’s crook,He welcomes whatever has worth in the new,Though it grew outside of his Timbuctoo.For modest he is, and loves to findEarth blest by minds that differ in kind.In short, to the simple, the frail, and the fewHe is fill’d with charity through and through;And, waiving your reason its right of control,Trusts God for enough truth left in your soul;And though he may tell you he doubts your way,He has much to love in spite of his “nay”;And that may a man and a child have too.

What has a man that a child has too,

When “of such is the kingdom” on high?

He knows that life is better’d by rules,

But he knows how split the wise and the fools

When judging of rules they apply.

He feels that life worth living proceeds

From nature that prompts the bent of deeds;

And he lets the reins of his being go,

Whenever the soul moves upward so.

If he look to God through self or His Book,

Or leading the way through a bishop’s crook,

He welcomes whatever has worth in the new,

Though it grew outside of his Timbuctoo.

For modest he is, and loves to find

Earth blest by minds that differ in kind.

In short, to the simple, the frail, and the few

He is fill’d with charity through and through;

And, waiving your reason its right of control,

Trusts God for enough truth left in your soul;

And though he may tell you he doubts your way,

He has much to love in spite of his “nay”;

And that may a man and a child have too.

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