I often met her in the days of youthAlong the highway where the world goes by;And sometimes when I caught her wistful eyeI wondered that it seemed so filled with ruth.She was a modest maiden, plain, in truth,And unattractive, and I thought, "Now whyShould one seek her companionship; not I—At least, until I've had my fling, forsooth!"And so I passed her by and had my day,And met a thousand whom I thought more fairIn tinsel gowns beneath electric glare—A thousand, but they went their primrose way.Now she's a queen, and boasts a score of sons—Her consort he who shunned my charming ones!HOLIDAY THOUGHTSThe night was like some monster omen ill,Whose shrieking froze the marrow of my bones;But day dawned calm, though white as polar zones,The bluebird shouting "Spring!" from every hill.The world lay parching in the noonday grill,And blades of corn were twisting into cones;But night brought rain, and now, like golden thrones,The fruited shocks deride October's chill.Dear Lord, I would that we might live by faith,However cold and dark the day may seem,And trust that every cloud is just a wraith,And every shadow but a fading dream.Oh, grant our eyes may see the beacon lightsThat blaze forever on the peaks and heights!THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEWGood-bye, Old Year; our journey has been brief;I'm sorry now to leave thee dying here,For thou hast borne my burdens with good cheer,And never murmured, but assuaged my grief.When buds of promise never came to leaf;When broken resolutions, doubt, and fearDid mock at my defeat, O good Gray Year,Thy reassuring smile restored belief.Good-bye—farewell! I trust thy dear young child,Who greets me at the gateway of the dawn,Will deal as gently with me and my friends,And lead our footsteps through the springtime mild,O'er summer's lawn, down autumn's slopes, and onTo where the path of chill December ends.FELLOW TRAVELERSOld comrade, must we separate to-day?Sometimes my feet have faltered, sore and tired,And sometimes in the sloughs and quicksands mired,But it has always helped to hear you say,"The road is fine a little further on."Your optimism and your hearty cheerHave made the journey pleasant, good Old Year,And I, in truth, regret to see you gone.Young New Year whom you leave me as a guide,In doubt, would have me pledge a lot of thingsBefore we start, and make some offeringsTo gods whose love, I fear, will not abide.And yet I like my new companion's face.Old Year, lend him your wisdom and your grace.JAMES WHITCOMB RILEYBeloved Poet, thou hast taught our heartA sympathy it hardly knew before—A yearning kinship and a spirit loreOf humble folk, a love transcending art!The pulse of brotherhood throbs in thy song.No mystic, blindly groping on the shoreOf dark uncertainty; unlike Tagore,Thy faith is pure and definite and strong.Consumpted Jim and thriftless Coon-dog Wess,The Girly Girl with eyes of limpid blue,The Raggedy Man that Orphant Annie knew;The Little Cripple, glad, though motherless;Poor hare-lip Joney and the Wandering Jew—All these thy pen doth glorify and bless!CALE YOUNG RICEHe loves the boom of breakers on the shore,And winds that lash the billows into foam;He loves the placid seas beneath the domeOf blue infinitudes—not less, but more;He loves to brood upon the mystic loreOf silent stars above the silent seas,And feel the passion of infinitiesBeyond, where only Faith would dare explore.Thus groping after God has helped him findDivinity in man (where only sinAnd brutal lusts have seemed to hedge him in),And taught his heart that Fate is never blind.That somehow, somewhere, now beyond our ken,One day we'll understand the wrongs of men.PILATE'S MONOLOGUE[This monologue of Pilate to Herod takes place a few days after the resurrection at the home of Pontius Pilate. Pilate and Herod are standing on the east porch of the Governor's mansion in Jerusalem, looking toward the Mount of Olives. The time is just at sunset.]Oh! Herod, couldst thou find no fault in Him—The Man of Galilee? Clearly HeBelonged within thy jurisdiction. DidstThou fear to do thy duty? Still I blameThee not—the mob was clamorous for blood!I questioned Him, but like a lamb beforeHis shearers He was dumb and answered meNo word. Was not His silence proof of guilt?But even then I offered to releaseHim, till the rabble shouted, "CrucifyThis Man: set free Barabbas, if thou wilt,But we demand the life of Jesus whomThey call theChrist." Oh! dost thou think His bloodCan be upon my head? I washed my handsBefore the multitude and told them IWas innocent of any crime toward Him.I scourged Him, it is true, but that was all.They stripped Him and bedecked Him with a robeOf scarlet cloth, and placed a crown of thornsUpon His head, and then they mocked and jeeredAnd spat upon Him, hailing Him asKing!I can not think that this was right, but stillThey say He blasphemed and deserved to die.But what Is blasphemy?Oh, Herod, ICan never rid my dreams of Jesus' look.He turned His eyes upon me as I dippedMy fingers in the bowl—a glance that seemedMore fraught with love and pity than with hate.He blessed the people as He hung uponThe cross in agony of pain, and prayedHis God to pardon them because they knewNot what they did. Thou canst not, Herod, thinkThis Nazarene was more than man? It can'tBe possible that He whom Pilate scourgedWasChristindeed! But could amanforgiveHis murderers? They say the tomb is burstAnd that His body is no longer there!I might endure His curse. My pen has stabbedTo death a thousand men and never feltCompunction for the deed, because I knewThey hated me. But now the voice that hauntsMy sleep asks only blessings on my head.They say He wept for men because of sin,And yet no guile was found in Him. If ICould close my eyes and see that face no moreI might find peace again.Three nights I haveNot slept. I hear that Judas hanged himself!And now no guard that watched beforeThe sepulchre can anywhere be found.Had I but set the Galilean free!But did he not insult my majesty?He must have known I ruled in Cæsar's stead.What if my wife was troubled in a dreamAnd suffered many things on His account?A Roman governor must be a man!They say the temple's veil was rent in twain—The sky was darkened and the sun was hid.He said I had no power to crucifyExcept that it be given from above.He did not know the strength of Pilate's arm!'Tis said He cried, "My God, my God, why hastThou now forsaken me?" The earth did quake,The tombs were cracked, and then the shrouded deadStalked ghost-like through the fields and open streets!Look! Look! What is yon robe of shining white?Behold the Man—the Man of Galilee!With outstretched arms He stands on Olivet,The shadows purpling o'er Gethsemane.I hear Him cry in agony of soul,"How often would I, O Jerusalem,Have gathered unto Me thy children asA hen her brood beneath her wing, but yeWould not come." Herod, canst thou hear His voice?It is impossible! It can not be!He must not know that I am Pilate! StillHe calls my name! I can not, dare not go!What would the people think? I willBe free. There is no blood upon my hands.See, I wash them clean and am myselfAgain. Oh! Now the spell is gone. Though notThe king, I am governor of the Jews!THE VIRILE SPIRIT[Written after reading a letter in which the writer said: "I covet for our country a great war—one that will stir our virile spirits and send forth our youth to fight and die for our country."]What is courage? To face the bursting shellWhen rhythmic sheets of fire discover gulfsOf death, yet rather steel than daunt the heart;When comrades fall beneath the knapsack's weight,Foot froze and bleeding on the icy road,To hear the blasts from towering snow-crowned AlpsSing only martial airs that stir the blood!It is a noble thing to die in war—To sacrifice the breath of life; to feelThe pain of hunger and of cold, yet flinchNot that one's country may be great or free.Many a generation yet unbornWill bless the name of Valley Forge, and holdIn reverence the field of Gettysburg.But war is not the only thing that triesThe bravest soul. To live does sometimes takeMore courage than to close with death; and oftThe coward shrinks from living when the braveMan scorns to die. We need no bugle noteTo rouse our manhood's strength. The call to menIs clear and strong. It is not to repelThe Hun, the Teuton, or the Slav, nor yetTo drive the Yellow Peril from the seas.We must send forth our men to live, not die—We need to save, not kill our fellow man,To smite the Minotaur of Sin, and stopThe tribute greater now than all the tollsOf war. The beast in man is ravenousAnd must be slain. He feeds upon the fruitsOf toil, and blights the home with poverty;He drags the innocent to dens of shameTo satisfy his brute carnality.No fiery dragon in the days of mythLaid waste a land or blasted life with breathMore foul or appetite insatiate.This is the enemy that we must fight.No dreadnaughts now afloat, no submarines,No legions that may ever bivouac onOur shores, no Zeppelins disgorging firePortend the dire disasters wrought uponOur nation's strength by Avarice and Lust.The sword of Theseus is too dull a blade,The arm of Beowulf not strong enoughTo battle with Cupidity and Sin.We need the breastplate of a righteous life,Our loins must be girt about with truth,The heart protected by the shield of faith,And in the right hand there must ever beThe spirit's sword, which is the Word of God!And even clothed and weaponed thus it takesA heart as fearless as the dauntless Dane'sTo strike the Mammon of Unrighteousness—To grapple with this Grendel that invadesThe mead-halls still and ravishes our youth.BLUEBIRD.Bluebird in the cedar bush—Fresh and clean as the evergreen,Through a rift of leaves,Or my eye deceives.But silent! Hush!He calls, he calls!The first spring noteFrom a feathered throatMy heart enthralls;And my pulses leapAs a child from sleepOn Christmas morn, at the blast of horn,To meet, to greet,The choral sweetFrom bluebird in the cedar bush:At last, at lastThe snow and sleetOf winter's blastHave passed, have passed,And spring is here, good cheer, good cheer!The call comes ringing in to meFrom Bluebird in the cedar tree.AN AUTUMN MINORRusset and amber and gold,Crimson and yellow and green,And far away the blue and gray,A twinkling silver sheen.Violet, scarlet and red,Purple and dark maroon,And over it all the music of fall—A weird prismatic tune.An opera serious and grand,An orchestra mystic and sad—A symphony alone of color and toneTo drive a mortal mad.SLABS AND OBELISKHollyhocks were blooming in the backyard near the barn,Proud as rhododendrons by a regal mountain tarn,Purple, white and yellow, blue and velvet red—Humble little cottage, but a royal flower bed.Pink and crimson roses and carnations took your breath—Dark-eyed little pansies looking like the Head of Death;Golden-rayed sunflowers, lifting discs of hazel brown,Filled the heart with wonder and the garden with renown.Little Harold, born a poet, watched the petals blow,Read the mystic cryptographs his elders didn't know;Heard the music in the wind like sirens on the shore,Far beyond the sunset in the land Forevermore.Oft the village sages saw him lying in the shade,Gazing where the sun and vapor wrought a strange brocade—Tapestries of gold and silver on a field of blue,Heard him murmur softly riddles no one ever knew.All the people pitied Harold, thinking of the endIn the cold, unfeeling world he couldn't comprehend—Seeing nothing else but lilies, living in a trance,In an age of facts and figures, dreaming wild romance.But the sages now are sleeping on the little hill,Modest slabs are keeping watch with rue and daffodil.Harold has an obelisk that towers toward the sky,Hollyhocks upon his mound to bless and glorify.ON BROADWAYEven as to-night on BroadwayLong ago I wandered downThe Great White Way of childhood,Mystified, enchanted, as I watchedThe million butterfliesThat tilted through the air in rhythmic flight,And pulsed above the petaled sweets,And sipped the nectar of the purple thistle bloom,Until at last they staggered down the dusty Road to Death.POSTSCRIPTPostscriptAN EMBER ETCHINGAn old man sat before his great log fireAnd gazed dreamily into the dying blaze.His eyes were red as though with weeping.The long, thin locks of hairWere spotless as the snowSilently mantling the earthThat last sad night of the dying year.Four days and nightsHe had sat beside the bedOf his life-companion.But now the watchers by the bierIn the adjoining room,Were dozing in their chairs.The cold nightHad driven the mice from their hiding,And the loud tick of the clockNo longer frightened themAs they scampered over the hearth.The man was breathing heavily,Although his eyes were open,And his stare fixed upon the fire:Down by a gnarled oak near the springTwo children played.Rebecca had dipped a dock leafIn the water,And now whisked it in the sunlight.Against the trunk of the treeThere was a playhouse made of broken boughs.The girl's dolls were lying on the green moss bed,And a little cracked slate lay upon the ground.An almost illegible scrawl was written on the slate.Two childish hands had traced their names:"Rupert—Rebecca."And the words were linked together by linesThat looked like twisted ropes.The boy and girl sat down before the playhouse,And crossed their hands in imitationOf the lines that bound their names together.And then they smiledAnd looked upon the dollsAsleep in the fresh June morning.A chunk broke and fell in the ashes.The blaze died into a glow of coals.In the gray beyond the dog ironsThe old man saw two figuresSitting before an awning:Two golden haired childrenSlept in a little bed.The man and woman who sat beside the shelterWere old and bent,Their faces thin and white.They clasped their handsAnd looked into each other's face.And then they turned and lookedUpon the children.A coal dropped into the picture,And the fitful fire diedInto deepening shadows.Next day the pall-bearersBore two bodies awayAnd lowered a single coffinInto a graveBeneath the snow-laden cedar.A TRAGEDY IN BIRDLANDA little maiden blue-jay,Fresh from her April morning bath,Sat on the limb of a weeping willow,Preening her shining feathersAnd dreaming of a songTo which she had listenedOn the afternoon of the preceding day.A wild joy was in her heartAnd yet it took all the sunshine and songFrom a hundred other throatsTo withstand the gloomThat seemed hovering just above her.She was conscious of the threatening cloud,But her heart beat furiouslyAnd hope thrilled her bird-beingWith an unwonted light.And yet she knew,When she dared to think at all,That it was a hopeless hopeThat flooded her soul with love—A hope that must ere longChange to a black despair.She lifted her crested headAnd looked toward the old beech treeWhere her blue-jay lover now satIn melancholy gloom.Why not raise her voiceAnd gladden his heart?He had been true and faithfulFor many weeks,And his suit would long sinceHave won another's love.Why had she thrilledAt the alien voice of another throat?She had been a foolish maidenTo have entertained so wild a thought.But hark! Again the song!On the topmost spireOf yonder Gothic poplarSits a cardinal fop,In a coat of matchless red,And a beak of shining ivory.He lifts his sumach plumeInto the glinting sunlightAnd sends a Cupid shaftFrom his beaded eyeInto the trembling breastOf little maiden blue-jay.Poor little mademoiselle!Once more the notesCome whistling and glitteringLike a shower of pearlsThrough the sunshine:"Oh! my true love is a little blue-jay—Mademoiselle, my bird gazelle,My little gazelle, and I love her well.Fresh and sweet from her morning sprayShe sits on the willow and her crest is gay—Mademoiselle, my little gazelle I love so well."Down from his commanding heightFlashed the cardinal flameAnd perched on another limbOf the weeping willow.And then he strutted and prancedAnd capered and dancedAnd shot his fiery glancesToward the modest little maidenWhose heart was now flutteringBeyond all control. Master blue-jayOver on the beech boughSaw the terrible tragedyThat would follow in the wake of betrayalAnd was desperate to save this PsycheTo whom he had often poured out his soulIn amorous vows,Swearing by all the gods in birdlandThat there was none other beside her.But like many another loverOf larger experience and better advantage,He forgot that the very wayTo lose his loved oneWas to berate his rival,And lifting his reedTo the upper register of a clarinet,He almost screamed:"He's a liar, he is, by the god of all birds,A master of villainous art—A hypocrite, a varlet, believe not his words,This dandy, this fop, deceiver, betrayer,A coward, seducer, a murderous slayer—He'll crush thy innocent heart."Poor little maiden blue-jayHeard his screams of anger and despairBut heeded not the warning.She only fluttered overTo where the cardinal satAnd threw herself under his protecting arm,Declaring her perfect faithIn his undying love.The red prince liftedHis burning plume triumphantlyInto the sunlight,And shot a contemptuous glanceToward the old beech tree.Master Blue-Jay unableLonger to control himself,Darted like a lance of blue steelAt the red coat.But the high churchman was a skilled fencer,And stepped aside just in timeTo send his antagonistWith terrible momentumInto the thorn treeBeyond the willow,Where a moment later he writhed and fluttered,Pinioned through his bodyBy a sword-like thornThat projected from the trunk of the spiny tree.It was a sight to touch the heartOf the most abandoned denizen of birdland.But Mademoiselle Blue-Jay,Who would ordinarily have weptAt so sad a fate of one of her kind,Was just now too happyIn the love of her wooerTo notice another;And unmindful of the ebbing life-bloodThat was fast turning her unfortunate lover's coatOf bright and shining blueTo one of dark and dull maroon,She nestled closeTo the false-hearted ecclesiasticAnd sighed the lovelorn sighThat has come from the maiden heartSince the foundation of the world.The low cedarIn which Madam Blue-Jay-Cardinal now satOn such a nest of eggsAs no blue-jay had ever brooded over before,Wondering, fearing, doubting, longing—Was only a rod or so from the spiny thornWhere the dried body of the fated loverStill hung.But where now was the supercilious fopWhose seductive vows of loveHad won the little maiden's confidenceAnd robbed her true and faithful loverOf that incense that belonged of rightOnly to him?For more than a weekShe had not seen him.Surely he would return on the morrow,For he must rememberThat soon the little broodWould need his protecting love.Yes, he would return againTo praise her slender form and shining crestAnd call her once more his little gazelle.But the cardinal came not.The brood had hatched,And the little birds were covered nowWith tiny feathers.Strange sight!All the blue-jays in the woods aroundHad gathered to witnessWhat no mortal bird had ever seen before—Little birdling blue-jaysWith crimson stains on wings and breasts!And the poor little mother,Madam Blue-Jay-Cardinal,No longer mademoiselle, the bird gazelle,But an outcast and disgraced motherOf a mongrel offspring,Left alone in this hour of shame,Remembered now the words of himWho had warned against this sad hour.But the memory brought her only bitter grief,And she watched her brood in broken-hearted sorrow,As they looked with wondering eyesAt the strange panorama in birdland.And all the blue-jays sat in silent condemnationOf the unpardonable sin.There was no mercyTo be found in all the land of birdsFor either the forsaken motherOr her little brood.The deserted wife and widowed mother blue-jaySuddenly threw her wingsOver the astonished little children,As though to wipe the stain of sinFrom their innocent lives,And as she did so,The crested cardinalWith a fresh crimson bride flashed by,And perched upon the old beech limb.And there he satIn undisturbed and cynical silence,While all the courtOf high crimes and misdemeanorsPraised his sacerdotal coat and shining mitre.The mother felt the birdlings stir beneath her wing,And their scarlet stain suffuse her being.She looked toward the thorn treeBut no word was spoken.A wise old owl that moped and moanedOn the limb of a sycamore treeThat overhung the little streamSuddenly lifted his voice and cried:"Let him who is without stain of sin,Lift the first note of songAgainst the little blue-jay."But all the woods were still.Only the thorn tree swayed slightly in the breeze,And then a flute-like note floated outUpon the wondering air:"Oh! my little blue-jay, my little bluebell,I would I could come to thee;I would find all the food for thy sin-stained brood,And thy bridegroom I should be.That villainous fop on the old beech limbAnd the arrogant wife that sits by himHave broken the heart of my little bluebell,The little gazelle, the bird gazelle he loved so well,And they laugh in their cynical glee.Oh! I would heal thy deep chagrin,Forgive thy blood-stained life its sin,And thou shouldst be my beauteous bride,Forever happy at my side.My hope, my joy, my love, my pride,If I could only come to thee,If I could only come to thee."Again the air was silent as the tomb.The little mother birdMoved with her frightened childrenToward the old thorn tree.And when she at last stoodBeneath the swordUpon which her faithful lover was pinionedBehold the miracle that was enactedBefore her wondering eyes.The crimson dyesThat streaked the birdlings' wings and breastsTurned suddenly to a dull and dark maroon,And not a jay in all birdlandBut would swear that her little childrenNow resembled in every line and stainThe dead body of her valiant loverWho had shed his bloodTo save his little bluebell from betrayal.
I often met her in the days of youthAlong the highway where the world goes by;And sometimes when I caught her wistful eyeI wondered that it seemed so filled with ruth.She was a modest maiden, plain, in truth,And unattractive, and I thought, "Now whyShould one seek her companionship; not I—At least, until I've had my fling, forsooth!"And so I passed her by and had my day,And met a thousand whom I thought more fairIn tinsel gowns beneath electric glare—A thousand, but they went their primrose way.Now she's a queen, and boasts a score of sons—Her consort he who shunned my charming ones!
I often met her in the days of youthAlong the highway where the world goes by;And sometimes when I caught her wistful eyeI wondered that it seemed so filled with ruth.She was a modest maiden, plain, in truth,And unattractive, and I thought, "Now whyShould one seek her companionship; not I—At least, until I've had my fling, forsooth!"
And so I passed her by and had my day,And met a thousand whom I thought more fairIn tinsel gowns beneath electric glare—A thousand, but they went their primrose way.Now she's a queen, and boasts a score of sons—Her consort he who shunned my charming ones!
The night was like some monster omen ill,Whose shrieking froze the marrow of my bones;But day dawned calm, though white as polar zones,The bluebird shouting "Spring!" from every hill.The world lay parching in the noonday grill,And blades of corn were twisting into cones;But night brought rain, and now, like golden thrones,The fruited shocks deride October's chill.Dear Lord, I would that we might live by faith,However cold and dark the day may seem,And trust that every cloud is just a wraith,And every shadow but a fading dream.Oh, grant our eyes may see the beacon lightsThat blaze forever on the peaks and heights!
The night was like some monster omen ill,Whose shrieking froze the marrow of my bones;But day dawned calm, though white as polar zones,The bluebird shouting "Spring!" from every hill.The world lay parching in the noonday grill,And blades of corn were twisting into cones;But night brought rain, and now, like golden thrones,The fruited shocks deride October's chill.
Dear Lord, I would that we might live by faith,However cold and dark the day may seem,And trust that every cloud is just a wraith,And every shadow but a fading dream.Oh, grant our eyes may see the beacon lightsThat blaze forever on the peaks and heights!
Good-bye, Old Year; our journey has been brief;I'm sorry now to leave thee dying here,For thou hast borne my burdens with good cheer,And never murmured, but assuaged my grief.When buds of promise never came to leaf;When broken resolutions, doubt, and fearDid mock at my defeat, O good Gray Year,Thy reassuring smile restored belief.Good-bye—farewell! I trust thy dear young child,Who greets me at the gateway of the dawn,Will deal as gently with me and my friends,And lead our footsteps through the springtime mild,O'er summer's lawn, down autumn's slopes, and onTo where the path of chill December ends.
Good-bye, Old Year; our journey has been brief;I'm sorry now to leave thee dying here,For thou hast borne my burdens with good cheer,And never murmured, but assuaged my grief.When buds of promise never came to leaf;When broken resolutions, doubt, and fearDid mock at my defeat, O good Gray Year,Thy reassuring smile restored belief.
Good-bye—farewell! I trust thy dear young child,Who greets me at the gateway of the dawn,Will deal as gently with me and my friends,And lead our footsteps through the springtime mild,O'er summer's lawn, down autumn's slopes, and onTo where the path of chill December ends.
Old comrade, must we separate to-day?Sometimes my feet have faltered, sore and tired,And sometimes in the sloughs and quicksands mired,But it has always helped to hear you say,"The road is fine a little further on."Your optimism and your hearty cheerHave made the journey pleasant, good Old Year,And I, in truth, regret to see you gone.Young New Year whom you leave me as a guide,In doubt, would have me pledge a lot of thingsBefore we start, and make some offeringsTo gods whose love, I fear, will not abide.And yet I like my new companion's face.Old Year, lend him your wisdom and your grace.
Old comrade, must we separate to-day?Sometimes my feet have faltered, sore and tired,And sometimes in the sloughs and quicksands mired,But it has always helped to hear you say,"The road is fine a little further on."Your optimism and your hearty cheerHave made the journey pleasant, good Old Year,And I, in truth, regret to see you gone.
Young New Year whom you leave me as a guide,In doubt, would have me pledge a lot of thingsBefore we start, and make some offeringsTo gods whose love, I fear, will not abide.And yet I like my new companion's face.Old Year, lend him your wisdom and your grace.
Beloved Poet, thou hast taught our heartA sympathy it hardly knew before—A yearning kinship and a spirit loreOf humble folk, a love transcending art!The pulse of brotherhood throbs in thy song.No mystic, blindly groping on the shoreOf dark uncertainty; unlike Tagore,Thy faith is pure and definite and strong.Consumpted Jim and thriftless Coon-dog Wess,The Girly Girl with eyes of limpid blue,The Raggedy Man that Orphant Annie knew;The Little Cripple, glad, though motherless;Poor hare-lip Joney and the Wandering Jew—All these thy pen doth glorify and bless!
Beloved Poet, thou hast taught our heartA sympathy it hardly knew before—A yearning kinship and a spirit loreOf humble folk, a love transcending art!The pulse of brotherhood throbs in thy song.No mystic, blindly groping on the shoreOf dark uncertainty; unlike Tagore,Thy faith is pure and definite and strong.
Consumpted Jim and thriftless Coon-dog Wess,The Girly Girl with eyes of limpid blue,The Raggedy Man that Orphant Annie knew;The Little Cripple, glad, though motherless;Poor hare-lip Joney and the Wandering Jew—All these thy pen doth glorify and bless!
He loves the boom of breakers on the shore,And winds that lash the billows into foam;He loves the placid seas beneath the domeOf blue infinitudes—not less, but more;He loves to brood upon the mystic loreOf silent stars above the silent seas,And feel the passion of infinitiesBeyond, where only Faith would dare explore.Thus groping after God has helped him findDivinity in man (where only sinAnd brutal lusts have seemed to hedge him in),And taught his heart that Fate is never blind.That somehow, somewhere, now beyond our ken,One day we'll understand the wrongs of men.
He loves the boom of breakers on the shore,And winds that lash the billows into foam;He loves the placid seas beneath the domeOf blue infinitudes—not less, but more;He loves to brood upon the mystic loreOf silent stars above the silent seas,And feel the passion of infinitiesBeyond, where only Faith would dare explore.
Thus groping after God has helped him findDivinity in man (where only sinAnd brutal lusts have seemed to hedge him in),And taught his heart that Fate is never blind.That somehow, somewhere, now beyond our ken,One day we'll understand the wrongs of men.
[This monologue of Pilate to Herod takes place a few days after the resurrection at the home of Pontius Pilate. Pilate and Herod are standing on the east porch of the Governor's mansion in Jerusalem, looking toward the Mount of Olives. The time is just at sunset.]
Oh! Herod, couldst thou find no fault in Him—The Man of Galilee? Clearly HeBelonged within thy jurisdiction. DidstThou fear to do thy duty? Still I blameThee not—the mob was clamorous for blood!I questioned Him, but like a lamb beforeHis shearers He was dumb and answered meNo word. Was not His silence proof of guilt?But even then I offered to releaseHim, till the rabble shouted, "CrucifyThis Man: set free Barabbas, if thou wilt,But we demand the life of Jesus whomThey call theChrist." Oh! dost thou think His bloodCan be upon my head? I washed my handsBefore the multitude and told them IWas innocent of any crime toward Him.I scourged Him, it is true, but that was all.They stripped Him and bedecked Him with a robeOf scarlet cloth, and placed a crown of thornsUpon His head, and then they mocked and jeeredAnd spat upon Him, hailing Him asKing!I can not think that this was right, but stillThey say He blasphemed and deserved to die.But what Is blasphemy?Oh, Herod, ICan never rid my dreams of Jesus' look.He turned His eyes upon me as I dippedMy fingers in the bowl—a glance that seemedMore fraught with love and pity than with hate.He blessed the people as He hung uponThe cross in agony of pain, and prayedHis God to pardon them because they knewNot what they did. Thou canst not, Herod, thinkThis Nazarene was more than man? It can'tBe possible that He whom Pilate scourgedWasChristindeed! But could amanforgiveHis murderers? They say the tomb is burstAnd that His body is no longer there!I might endure His curse. My pen has stabbedTo death a thousand men and never feltCompunction for the deed, because I knewThey hated me. But now the voice that hauntsMy sleep asks only blessings on my head.They say He wept for men because of sin,And yet no guile was found in Him. If ICould close my eyes and see that face no moreI might find peace again.Three nights I haveNot slept. I hear that Judas hanged himself!And now no guard that watched beforeThe sepulchre can anywhere be found.Had I but set the Galilean free!But did he not insult my majesty?He must have known I ruled in Cæsar's stead.What if my wife was troubled in a dreamAnd suffered many things on His account?A Roman governor must be a man!They say the temple's veil was rent in twain—The sky was darkened and the sun was hid.He said I had no power to crucifyExcept that it be given from above.He did not know the strength of Pilate's arm!'Tis said He cried, "My God, my God, why hastThou now forsaken me?" The earth did quake,The tombs were cracked, and then the shrouded deadStalked ghost-like through the fields and open streets!Look! Look! What is yon robe of shining white?Behold the Man—the Man of Galilee!With outstretched arms He stands on Olivet,The shadows purpling o'er Gethsemane.I hear Him cry in agony of soul,"How often would I, O Jerusalem,Have gathered unto Me thy children asA hen her brood beneath her wing, but yeWould not come." Herod, canst thou hear His voice?It is impossible! It can not be!He must not know that I am Pilate! StillHe calls my name! I can not, dare not go!What would the people think? I willBe free. There is no blood upon my hands.See, I wash them clean and am myselfAgain. Oh! Now the spell is gone. Though notThe king, I am governor of the Jews!
Oh! Herod, couldst thou find no fault in Him—The Man of Galilee? Clearly HeBelonged within thy jurisdiction. DidstThou fear to do thy duty? Still I blameThee not—the mob was clamorous for blood!I questioned Him, but like a lamb beforeHis shearers He was dumb and answered meNo word. Was not His silence proof of guilt?But even then I offered to releaseHim, till the rabble shouted, "CrucifyThis Man: set free Barabbas, if thou wilt,But we demand the life of Jesus whomThey call theChrist." Oh! dost thou think His bloodCan be upon my head? I washed my handsBefore the multitude and told them IWas innocent of any crime toward Him.I scourged Him, it is true, but that was all.They stripped Him and bedecked Him with a robeOf scarlet cloth, and placed a crown of thornsUpon His head, and then they mocked and jeeredAnd spat upon Him, hailing Him asKing!I can not think that this was right, but stillThey say He blasphemed and deserved to die.But what Is blasphemy?Oh, Herod, ICan never rid my dreams of Jesus' look.He turned His eyes upon me as I dippedMy fingers in the bowl—a glance that seemedMore fraught with love and pity than with hate.He blessed the people as He hung uponThe cross in agony of pain, and prayedHis God to pardon them because they knewNot what they did. Thou canst not, Herod, thinkThis Nazarene was more than man? It can'tBe possible that He whom Pilate scourgedWasChristindeed! But could amanforgiveHis murderers? They say the tomb is burstAnd that His body is no longer there!I might endure His curse. My pen has stabbedTo death a thousand men and never feltCompunction for the deed, because I knewThey hated me. But now the voice that hauntsMy sleep asks only blessings on my head.They say He wept for men because of sin,And yet no guile was found in Him. If ICould close my eyes and see that face no moreI might find peace again.Three nights I haveNot slept. I hear that Judas hanged himself!And now no guard that watched beforeThe sepulchre can anywhere be found.Had I but set the Galilean free!But did he not insult my majesty?He must have known I ruled in Cæsar's stead.What if my wife was troubled in a dreamAnd suffered many things on His account?A Roman governor must be a man!They say the temple's veil was rent in twain—The sky was darkened and the sun was hid.He said I had no power to crucifyExcept that it be given from above.He did not know the strength of Pilate's arm!'Tis said He cried, "My God, my God, why hastThou now forsaken me?" The earth did quake,The tombs were cracked, and then the shrouded deadStalked ghost-like through the fields and open streets!Look! Look! What is yon robe of shining white?Behold the Man—the Man of Galilee!With outstretched arms He stands on Olivet,The shadows purpling o'er Gethsemane.I hear Him cry in agony of soul,"How often would I, O Jerusalem,Have gathered unto Me thy children asA hen her brood beneath her wing, but yeWould not come." Herod, canst thou hear His voice?It is impossible! It can not be!He must not know that I am Pilate! StillHe calls my name! I can not, dare not go!What would the people think? I willBe free. There is no blood upon my hands.See, I wash them clean and am myselfAgain. Oh! Now the spell is gone. Though notThe king, I am governor of the Jews!
[Written after reading a letter in which the writer said: "I covet for our country a great war—one that will stir our virile spirits and send forth our youth to fight and die for our country."]
What is courage? To face the bursting shellWhen rhythmic sheets of fire discover gulfsOf death, yet rather steel than daunt the heart;When comrades fall beneath the knapsack's weight,Foot froze and bleeding on the icy road,To hear the blasts from towering snow-crowned AlpsSing only martial airs that stir the blood!It is a noble thing to die in war—To sacrifice the breath of life; to feelThe pain of hunger and of cold, yet flinchNot that one's country may be great or free.Many a generation yet unbornWill bless the name of Valley Forge, and holdIn reverence the field of Gettysburg.But war is not the only thing that triesThe bravest soul. To live does sometimes takeMore courage than to close with death; and oftThe coward shrinks from living when the braveMan scorns to die. We need no bugle noteTo rouse our manhood's strength. The call to menIs clear and strong. It is not to repelThe Hun, the Teuton, or the Slav, nor yetTo drive the Yellow Peril from the seas.We must send forth our men to live, not die—We need to save, not kill our fellow man,To smite the Minotaur of Sin, and stopThe tribute greater now than all the tollsOf war. The beast in man is ravenousAnd must be slain. He feeds upon the fruitsOf toil, and blights the home with poverty;He drags the innocent to dens of shameTo satisfy his brute carnality.No fiery dragon in the days of mythLaid waste a land or blasted life with breathMore foul or appetite insatiate.This is the enemy that we must fight.No dreadnaughts now afloat, no submarines,No legions that may ever bivouac onOur shores, no Zeppelins disgorging firePortend the dire disasters wrought uponOur nation's strength by Avarice and Lust.The sword of Theseus is too dull a blade,The arm of Beowulf not strong enoughTo battle with Cupidity and Sin.We need the breastplate of a righteous life,Our loins must be girt about with truth,The heart protected by the shield of faith,And in the right hand there must ever beThe spirit's sword, which is the Word of God!And even clothed and weaponed thus it takesA heart as fearless as the dauntless Dane'sTo strike the Mammon of Unrighteousness—To grapple with this Grendel that invadesThe mead-halls still and ravishes our youth.
What is courage? To face the bursting shellWhen rhythmic sheets of fire discover gulfsOf death, yet rather steel than daunt the heart;When comrades fall beneath the knapsack's weight,Foot froze and bleeding on the icy road,To hear the blasts from towering snow-crowned AlpsSing only martial airs that stir the blood!It is a noble thing to die in war—To sacrifice the breath of life; to feelThe pain of hunger and of cold, yet flinchNot that one's country may be great or free.Many a generation yet unbornWill bless the name of Valley Forge, and holdIn reverence the field of Gettysburg.But war is not the only thing that triesThe bravest soul. To live does sometimes takeMore courage than to close with death; and oftThe coward shrinks from living when the braveMan scorns to die. We need no bugle noteTo rouse our manhood's strength. The call to menIs clear and strong. It is not to repelThe Hun, the Teuton, or the Slav, nor yetTo drive the Yellow Peril from the seas.We must send forth our men to live, not die—We need to save, not kill our fellow man,To smite the Minotaur of Sin, and stopThe tribute greater now than all the tollsOf war. The beast in man is ravenousAnd must be slain. He feeds upon the fruitsOf toil, and blights the home with poverty;He drags the innocent to dens of shameTo satisfy his brute carnality.No fiery dragon in the days of mythLaid waste a land or blasted life with breathMore foul or appetite insatiate.This is the enemy that we must fight.No dreadnaughts now afloat, no submarines,No legions that may ever bivouac onOur shores, no Zeppelins disgorging firePortend the dire disasters wrought uponOur nation's strength by Avarice and Lust.The sword of Theseus is too dull a blade,The arm of Beowulf not strong enoughTo battle with Cupidity and Sin.We need the breastplate of a righteous life,Our loins must be girt about with truth,The heart protected by the shield of faith,And in the right hand there must ever beThe spirit's sword, which is the Word of God!And even clothed and weaponed thus it takesA heart as fearless as the dauntless Dane'sTo strike the Mammon of Unrighteousness—To grapple with this Grendel that invadesThe mead-halls still and ravishes our youth.
Bluebird in the cedar bush—Fresh and clean as the evergreen,Through a rift of leaves,Or my eye deceives.But silent! Hush!He calls, he calls!The first spring noteFrom a feathered throatMy heart enthralls;And my pulses leapAs a child from sleepOn Christmas morn, at the blast of horn,To meet, to greet,The choral sweetFrom bluebird in the cedar bush:At last, at lastThe snow and sleetOf winter's blastHave passed, have passed,And spring is here, good cheer, good cheer!The call comes ringing in to meFrom Bluebird in the cedar tree.
Bluebird in the cedar bush—Fresh and clean as the evergreen,Through a rift of leaves,Or my eye deceives.But silent! Hush!He calls, he calls!The first spring noteFrom a feathered throatMy heart enthralls;And my pulses leapAs a child from sleepOn Christmas morn, at the blast of horn,To meet, to greet,The choral sweetFrom bluebird in the cedar bush:At last, at lastThe snow and sleetOf winter's blastHave passed, have passed,And spring is here, good cheer, good cheer!The call comes ringing in to meFrom Bluebird in the cedar tree.
Russet and amber and gold,Crimson and yellow and green,And far away the blue and gray,A twinkling silver sheen.Violet, scarlet and red,Purple and dark maroon,And over it all the music of fall—A weird prismatic tune.An opera serious and grand,An orchestra mystic and sad—A symphony alone of color and toneTo drive a mortal mad.
Russet and amber and gold,Crimson and yellow and green,And far away the blue and gray,A twinkling silver sheen.
Violet, scarlet and red,Purple and dark maroon,And over it all the music of fall—A weird prismatic tune.
An opera serious and grand,An orchestra mystic and sad—A symphony alone of color and toneTo drive a mortal mad.
Hollyhocks were blooming in the backyard near the barn,Proud as rhododendrons by a regal mountain tarn,Purple, white and yellow, blue and velvet red—Humble little cottage, but a royal flower bed.Pink and crimson roses and carnations took your breath—Dark-eyed little pansies looking like the Head of Death;Golden-rayed sunflowers, lifting discs of hazel brown,Filled the heart with wonder and the garden with renown.Little Harold, born a poet, watched the petals blow,Read the mystic cryptographs his elders didn't know;Heard the music in the wind like sirens on the shore,Far beyond the sunset in the land Forevermore.Oft the village sages saw him lying in the shade,Gazing where the sun and vapor wrought a strange brocade—Tapestries of gold and silver on a field of blue,Heard him murmur softly riddles no one ever knew.All the people pitied Harold, thinking of the endIn the cold, unfeeling world he couldn't comprehend—Seeing nothing else but lilies, living in a trance,In an age of facts and figures, dreaming wild romance.But the sages now are sleeping on the little hill,Modest slabs are keeping watch with rue and daffodil.Harold has an obelisk that towers toward the sky,Hollyhocks upon his mound to bless and glorify.
Hollyhocks were blooming in the backyard near the barn,Proud as rhododendrons by a regal mountain tarn,Purple, white and yellow, blue and velvet red—Humble little cottage, but a royal flower bed.Pink and crimson roses and carnations took your breath—Dark-eyed little pansies looking like the Head of Death;Golden-rayed sunflowers, lifting discs of hazel brown,Filled the heart with wonder and the garden with renown.
Little Harold, born a poet, watched the petals blow,Read the mystic cryptographs his elders didn't know;Heard the music in the wind like sirens on the shore,Far beyond the sunset in the land Forevermore.Oft the village sages saw him lying in the shade,Gazing where the sun and vapor wrought a strange brocade—Tapestries of gold and silver on a field of blue,Heard him murmur softly riddles no one ever knew.
All the people pitied Harold, thinking of the endIn the cold, unfeeling world he couldn't comprehend—Seeing nothing else but lilies, living in a trance,In an age of facts and figures, dreaming wild romance.But the sages now are sleeping on the little hill,Modest slabs are keeping watch with rue and daffodil.Harold has an obelisk that towers toward the sky,Hollyhocks upon his mound to bless and glorify.
Even as to-night on BroadwayLong ago I wandered downThe Great White Way of childhood,Mystified, enchanted, as I watchedThe million butterfliesThat tilted through the air in rhythmic flight,And pulsed above the petaled sweets,And sipped the nectar of the purple thistle bloom,Until at last they staggered down the dusty Road to Death.
Even as to-night on BroadwayLong ago I wandered downThe Great White Way of childhood,Mystified, enchanted, as I watchedThe million butterfliesThat tilted through the air in rhythmic flight,And pulsed above the petaled sweets,And sipped the nectar of the purple thistle bloom,Until at last they staggered down the dusty Road to Death.
An old man sat before his great log fireAnd gazed dreamily into the dying blaze.His eyes were red as though with weeping.The long, thin locks of hairWere spotless as the snowSilently mantling the earthThat last sad night of the dying year.Four days and nightsHe had sat beside the bedOf his life-companion.But now the watchers by the bierIn the adjoining room,Were dozing in their chairs.The cold nightHad driven the mice from their hiding,And the loud tick of the clockNo longer frightened themAs they scampered over the hearth.The man was breathing heavily,Although his eyes were open,And his stare fixed upon the fire:Down by a gnarled oak near the springTwo children played.Rebecca had dipped a dock leafIn the water,And now whisked it in the sunlight.Against the trunk of the treeThere was a playhouse made of broken boughs.The girl's dolls were lying on the green moss bed,And a little cracked slate lay upon the ground.An almost illegible scrawl was written on the slate.Two childish hands had traced their names:"Rupert—Rebecca."And the words were linked together by linesThat looked like twisted ropes.The boy and girl sat down before the playhouse,And crossed their hands in imitationOf the lines that bound their names together.And then they smiledAnd looked upon the dollsAsleep in the fresh June morning.A chunk broke and fell in the ashes.The blaze died into a glow of coals.In the gray beyond the dog ironsThe old man saw two figuresSitting before an awning:Two golden haired childrenSlept in a little bed.The man and woman who sat beside the shelterWere old and bent,Their faces thin and white.They clasped their handsAnd looked into each other's face.And then they turned and lookedUpon the children.A coal dropped into the picture,And the fitful fire diedInto deepening shadows.Next day the pall-bearersBore two bodies awayAnd lowered a single coffinInto a graveBeneath the snow-laden cedar.
An old man sat before his great log fireAnd gazed dreamily into the dying blaze.His eyes were red as though with weeping.The long, thin locks of hairWere spotless as the snowSilently mantling the earthThat last sad night of the dying year.Four days and nightsHe had sat beside the bedOf his life-companion.But now the watchers by the bierIn the adjoining room,Were dozing in their chairs.The cold nightHad driven the mice from their hiding,And the loud tick of the clockNo longer frightened themAs they scampered over the hearth.
The man was breathing heavily,Although his eyes were open,And his stare fixed upon the fire:Down by a gnarled oak near the springTwo children played.Rebecca had dipped a dock leafIn the water,And now whisked it in the sunlight.Against the trunk of the treeThere was a playhouse made of broken boughs.The girl's dolls were lying on the green moss bed,And a little cracked slate lay upon the ground.An almost illegible scrawl was written on the slate.Two childish hands had traced their names:"Rupert—Rebecca."And the words were linked together by linesThat looked like twisted ropes.The boy and girl sat down before the playhouse,And crossed their hands in imitationOf the lines that bound their names together.And then they smiledAnd looked upon the dollsAsleep in the fresh June morning.
A chunk broke and fell in the ashes.The blaze died into a glow of coals.In the gray beyond the dog ironsThe old man saw two figuresSitting before an awning:Two golden haired childrenSlept in a little bed.The man and woman who sat beside the shelterWere old and bent,Their faces thin and white.They clasped their handsAnd looked into each other's face.And then they turned and lookedUpon the children.A coal dropped into the picture,And the fitful fire diedInto deepening shadows.
Next day the pall-bearersBore two bodies awayAnd lowered a single coffinInto a graveBeneath the snow-laden cedar.
A little maiden blue-jay,Fresh from her April morning bath,Sat on the limb of a weeping willow,Preening her shining feathersAnd dreaming of a songTo which she had listenedOn the afternoon of the preceding day.A wild joy was in her heartAnd yet it took all the sunshine and songFrom a hundred other throatsTo withstand the gloomThat seemed hovering just above her.She was conscious of the threatening cloud,But her heart beat furiouslyAnd hope thrilled her bird-beingWith an unwonted light.And yet she knew,When she dared to think at all,That it was a hopeless hopeThat flooded her soul with love—A hope that must ere longChange to a black despair.She lifted her crested headAnd looked toward the old beech treeWhere her blue-jay lover now satIn melancholy gloom.Why not raise her voiceAnd gladden his heart?He had been true and faithfulFor many weeks,And his suit would long sinceHave won another's love.Why had she thrilledAt the alien voice of another throat?She had been a foolish maidenTo have entertained so wild a thought.But hark! Again the song!On the topmost spireOf yonder Gothic poplarSits a cardinal fop,In a coat of matchless red,And a beak of shining ivory.He lifts his sumach plumeInto the glinting sunlightAnd sends a Cupid shaftFrom his beaded eyeInto the trembling breastOf little maiden blue-jay.Poor little mademoiselle!Once more the notesCome whistling and glitteringLike a shower of pearlsThrough the sunshine:"Oh! my true love is a little blue-jay—Mademoiselle, my bird gazelle,My little gazelle, and I love her well.Fresh and sweet from her morning sprayShe sits on the willow and her crest is gay—Mademoiselle, my little gazelle I love so well."Down from his commanding heightFlashed the cardinal flameAnd perched on another limbOf the weeping willow.And then he strutted and prancedAnd capered and dancedAnd shot his fiery glancesToward the modest little maidenWhose heart was now flutteringBeyond all control. Master blue-jayOver on the beech boughSaw the terrible tragedyThat would follow in the wake of betrayalAnd was desperate to save this PsycheTo whom he had often poured out his soulIn amorous vows,Swearing by all the gods in birdlandThat there was none other beside her.But like many another loverOf larger experience and better advantage,He forgot that the very wayTo lose his loved oneWas to berate his rival,And lifting his reedTo the upper register of a clarinet,He almost screamed:"He's a liar, he is, by the god of all birds,A master of villainous art—A hypocrite, a varlet, believe not his words,This dandy, this fop, deceiver, betrayer,A coward, seducer, a murderous slayer—He'll crush thy innocent heart."Poor little maiden blue-jayHeard his screams of anger and despairBut heeded not the warning.She only fluttered overTo where the cardinal satAnd threw herself under his protecting arm,Declaring her perfect faithIn his undying love.The red prince liftedHis burning plume triumphantlyInto the sunlight,And shot a contemptuous glanceToward the old beech tree.Master Blue-Jay unableLonger to control himself,Darted like a lance of blue steelAt the red coat.But the high churchman was a skilled fencer,And stepped aside just in timeTo send his antagonistWith terrible momentumInto the thorn treeBeyond the willow,Where a moment later he writhed and fluttered,Pinioned through his bodyBy a sword-like thornThat projected from the trunk of the spiny tree.It was a sight to touch the heartOf the most abandoned denizen of birdland.But Mademoiselle Blue-Jay,Who would ordinarily have weptAt so sad a fate of one of her kind,Was just now too happyIn the love of her wooerTo notice another;And unmindful of the ebbing life-bloodThat was fast turning her unfortunate lover's coatOf bright and shining blueTo one of dark and dull maroon,She nestled closeTo the false-hearted ecclesiasticAnd sighed the lovelorn sighThat has come from the maiden heartSince the foundation of the world.The low cedarIn which Madam Blue-Jay-Cardinal now satOn such a nest of eggsAs no blue-jay had ever brooded over before,Wondering, fearing, doubting, longing—Was only a rod or so from the spiny thornWhere the dried body of the fated loverStill hung.But where now was the supercilious fopWhose seductive vows of loveHad won the little maiden's confidenceAnd robbed her true and faithful loverOf that incense that belonged of rightOnly to him?For more than a weekShe had not seen him.Surely he would return on the morrow,For he must rememberThat soon the little broodWould need his protecting love.Yes, he would return againTo praise her slender form and shining crestAnd call her once more his little gazelle.But the cardinal came not.The brood had hatched,And the little birds were covered nowWith tiny feathers.Strange sight!All the blue-jays in the woods aroundHad gathered to witnessWhat no mortal bird had ever seen before—Little birdling blue-jaysWith crimson stains on wings and breasts!And the poor little mother,Madam Blue-Jay-Cardinal,No longer mademoiselle, the bird gazelle,But an outcast and disgraced motherOf a mongrel offspring,Left alone in this hour of shame,Remembered now the words of himWho had warned against this sad hour.But the memory brought her only bitter grief,And she watched her brood in broken-hearted sorrow,As they looked with wondering eyesAt the strange panorama in birdland.And all the blue-jays sat in silent condemnationOf the unpardonable sin.There was no mercyTo be found in all the land of birdsFor either the forsaken motherOr her little brood.The deserted wife and widowed mother blue-jaySuddenly threw her wingsOver the astonished little children,As though to wipe the stain of sinFrom their innocent lives,And as she did so,The crested cardinalWith a fresh crimson bride flashed by,And perched upon the old beech limb.And there he satIn undisturbed and cynical silence,While all the courtOf high crimes and misdemeanorsPraised his sacerdotal coat and shining mitre.The mother felt the birdlings stir beneath her wing,And their scarlet stain suffuse her being.She looked toward the thorn treeBut no word was spoken.A wise old owl that moped and moanedOn the limb of a sycamore treeThat overhung the little streamSuddenly lifted his voice and cried:"Let him who is without stain of sin,Lift the first note of songAgainst the little blue-jay."But all the woods were still.Only the thorn tree swayed slightly in the breeze,And then a flute-like note floated outUpon the wondering air:"Oh! my little blue-jay, my little bluebell,I would I could come to thee;I would find all the food for thy sin-stained brood,And thy bridegroom I should be.That villainous fop on the old beech limbAnd the arrogant wife that sits by himHave broken the heart of my little bluebell,The little gazelle, the bird gazelle he loved so well,And they laugh in their cynical glee.Oh! I would heal thy deep chagrin,Forgive thy blood-stained life its sin,And thou shouldst be my beauteous bride,Forever happy at my side.My hope, my joy, my love, my pride,If I could only come to thee,If I could only come to thee."Again the air was silent as the tomb.The little mother birdMoved with her frightened childrenToward the old thorn tree.And when she at last stoodBeneath the swordUpon which her faithful lover was pinionedBehold the miracle that was enactedBefore her wondering eyes.The crimson dyesThat streaked the birdlings' wings and breastsTurned suddenly to a dull and dark maroon,And not a jay in all birdlandBut would swear that her little childrenNow resembled in every line and stainThe dead body of her valiant loverWho had shed his bloodTo save his little bluebell from betrayal.
A little maiden blue-jay,Fresh from her April morning bath,Sat on the limb of a weeping willow,Preening her shining feathersAnd dreaming of a songTo which she had listenedOn the afternoon of the preceding day.A wild joy was in her heartAnd yet it took all the sunshine and songFrom a hundred other throatsTo withstand the gloomThat seemed hovering just above her.She was conscious of the threatening cloud,But her heart beat furiouslyAnd hope thrilled her bird-beingWith an unwonted light.And yet she knew,When she dared to think at all,That it was a hopeless hopeThat flooded her soul with love—A hope that must ere longChange to a black despair.She lifted her crested headAnd looked toward the old beech treeWhere her blue-jay lover now satIn melancholy gloom.Why not raise her voiceAnd gladden his heart?He had been true and faithfulFor many weeks,And his suit would long sinceHave won another's love.Why had she thrilledAt the alien voice of another throat?She had been a foolish maidenTo have entertained so wild a thought.
But hark! Again the song!On the topmost spireOf yonder Gothic poplarSits a cardinal fop,In a coat of matchless red,And a beak of shining ivory.He lifts his sumach plumeInto the glinting sunlightAnd sends a Cupid shaftFrom his beaded eyeInto the trembling breastOf little maiden blue-jay.Poor little mademoiselle!Once more the notesCome whistling and glitteringLike a shower of pearlsThrough the sunshine:"Oh! my true love is a little blue-jay—Mademoiselle, my bird gazelle,My little gazelle, and I love her well.Fresh and sweet from her morning sprayShe sits on the willow and her crest is gay—Mademoiselle, my little gazelle I love so well."
Down from his commanding heightFlashed the cardinal flameAnd perched on another limbOf the weeping willow.And then he strutted and prancedAnd capered and dancedAnd shot his fiery glancesToward the modest little maidenWhose heart was now flutteringBeyond all control. Master blue-jayOver on the beech boughSaw the terrible tragedyThat would follow in the wake of betrayalAnd was desperate to save this PsycheTo whom he had often poured out his soulIn amorous vows,Swearing by all the gods in birdlandThat there was none other beside her.But like many another loverOf larger experience and better advantage,He forgot that the very wayTo lose his loved oneWas to berate his rival,And lifting his reedTo the upper register of a clarinet,He almost screamed:
"He's a liar, he is, by the god of all birds,A master of villainous art—A hypocrite, a varlet, believe not his words,This dandy, this fop, deceiver, betrayer,A coward, seducer, a murderous slayer—He'll crush thy innocent heart."
Poor little maiden blue-jayHeard his screams of anger and despairBut heeded not the warning.She only fluttered overTo where the cardinal satAnd threw herself under his protecting arm,Declaring her perfect faithIn his undying love.
The red prince liftedHis burning plume triumphantlyInto the sunlight,And shot a contemptuous glanceToward the old beech tree.Master Blue-Jay unableLonger to control himself,Darted like a lance of blue steelAt the red coat.But the high churchman was a skilled fencer,And stepped aside just in timeTo send his antagonistWith terrible momentumInto the thorn treeBeyond the willow,Where a moment later he writhed and fluttered,Pinioned through his bodyBy a sword-like thornThat projected from the trunk of the spiny tree.It was a sight to touch the heartOf the most abandoned denizen of birdland.But Mademoiselle Blue-Jay,Who would ordinarily have weptAt so sad a fate of one of her kind,Was just now too happyIn the love of her wooerTo notice another;And unmindful of the ebbing life-bloodThat was fast turning her unfortunate lover's coatOf bright and shining blueTo one of dark and dull maroon,She nestled closeTo the false-hearted ecclesiasticAnd sighed the lovelorn sighThat has come from the maiden heartSince the foundation of the world.
The low cedarIn which Madam Blue-Jay-Cardinal now satOn such a nest of eggsAs no blue-jay had ever brooded over before,Wondering, fearing, doubting, longing—Was only a rod or so from the spiny thornWhere the dried body of the fated loverStill hung.But where now was the supercilious fopWhose seductive vows of loveHad won the little maiden's confidenceAnd robbed her true and faithful loverOf that incense that belonged of rightOnly to him?For more than a weekShe had not seen him.Surely he would return on the morrow,For he must rememberThat soon the little broodWould need his protecting love.Yes, he would return againTo praise her slender form and shining crestAnd call her once more his little gazelle.
But the cardinal came not.The brood had hatched,And the little birds were covered nowWith tiny feathers.Strange sight!All the blue-jays in the woods aroundHad gathered to witnessWhat no mortal bird had ever seen before—Little birdling blue-jaysWith crimson stains on wings and breasts!And the poor little mother,Madam Blue-Jay-Cardinal,No longer mademoiselle, the bird gazelle,But an outcast and disgraced motherOf a mongrel offspring,Left alone in this hour of shame,Remembered now the words of himWho had warned against this sad hour.
But the memory brought her only bitter grief,And she watched her brood in broken-hearted sorrow,As they looked with wondering eyesAt the strange panorama in birdland.And all the blue-jays sat in silent condemnationOf the unpardonable sin.There was no mercyTo be found in all the land of birdsFor either the forsaken motherOr her little brood.The deserted wife and widowed mother blue-jaySuddenly threw her wingsOver the astonished little children,As though to wipe the stain of sinFrom their innocent lives,And as she did so,The crested cardinalWith a fresh crimson bride flashed by,And perched upon the old beech limb.And there he satIn undisturbed and cynical silence,While all the courtOf high crimes and misdemeanorsPraised his sacerdotal coat and shining mitre.The mother felt the birdlings stir beneath her wing,And their scarlet stain suffuse her being.She looked toward the thorn treeBut no word was spoken.A wise old owl that moped and moanedOn the limb of a sycamore treeThat overhung the little streamSuddenly lifted his voice and cried:
"Let him who is without stain of sin,Lift the first note of songAgainst the little blue-jay."
But all the woods were still.Only the thorn tree swayed slightly in the breeze,And then a flute-like note floated outUpon the wondering air:"Oh! my little blue-jay, my little bluebell,I would I could come to thee;I would find all the food for thy sin-stained brood,And thy bridegroom I should be.That villainous fop on the old beech limbAnd the arrogant wife that sits by himHave broken the heart of my little bluebell,The little gazelle, the bird gazelle he loved so well,And they laugh in their cynical glee.Oh! I would heal thy deep chagrin,Forgive thy blood-stained life its sin,And thou shouldst be my beauteous bride,Forever happy at my side.My hope, my joy, my love, my pride,If I could only come to thee,If I could only come to thee."
Again the air was silent as the tomb.The little mother birdMoved with her frightened childrenToward the old thorn tree.And when she at last stoodBeneath the swordUpon which her faithful lover was pinionedBehold the miracle that was enactedBefore her wondering eyes.The crimson dyesThat streaked the birdlings' wings and breastsTurned suddenly to a dull and dark maroon,And not a jay in all birdlandBut would swear that her little childrenNow resembled in every line and stainThe dead body of her valiant loverWho had shed his bloodTo save his little bluebell from betrayal.