One moment stay—why comest thouWith doleful dittyUnbidden to my room;Wee, dusky mourner, do not go,But say—what is it claims thy pity,And sets thee telling, tellingSuch a solemn storySo to me,As if there knelling, knellingOf some departed gloryDear to thee?O sad musician, put aside thy fiddle,And admit life is a riddle,And Heaven holds the key.
One moment stay—why comest thouWith doleful dittyUnbidden to my room;Wee, dusky mourner, do not go,But say—what is it claims thy pity,And sets thee telling, tellingSuch a solemn storySo to me,As if there knelling, knellingOf some departed gloryDear to thee?O sad musician, put aside thy fiddle,And admit life is a riddle,And Heaven holds the key.
Thou mindest not; for hark!—againResounds thy racketShriller than before;Singst thou this sad strainAs if befitting to thy ebon jacket,With carvings curious,And a color glossy,Like old wine—Tiny thing, be not so furiousAnd uneedful noisy;Cease to pineFor something fled—for joys or hopes departed,Or thou wilt make the angels broken-hearted,O mourner most divine.
Thou mindest not; for hark!—againResounds thy racketShriller than before;Singst thou this sad strainAs if befitting to thy ebon jacket,With carvings curious,And a color glossy,Like old wine—Tiny thing, be not so furiousAnd uneedful noisy;Cease to pineFor something fled—for joys or hopes departed,Or thou wilt make the angels broken-hearted,O mourner most divine.
Drop Sweet Inez, would that I might pledgeMy thoughts to thee with line on line,And prove, if tender words can prove,That all my tender thoughts are thine.Would that my feeble pen might pluckFrom the green fields of poetry,Some flower, sweet girl, wherewith to deckThy name so near, so dear to me.Would that my hand might gather hereFrom the sweet fields of tender thought,Some blossom, fragrant as the rose,Some lily, lovely as I ought.But why should I commit a sinBy wishing any flower for thee;Thou art more beautiful, I know,Than all the flowers of poetry.What shall I then with thee compare,To make a true comparison—The dawning day, the dying light,The rising or the setting sun?At morn I see the early sunAppear with glory in her eye,But looking there, I think of thee,And thinking of thee, for thee sigh.At noon I see that fervid orbProclaim the sultry hour of day,But looking there, I think of thee,And thinking of thee, turn away.At length I see that same bright sunDescend below the western blue,Yet looking there, I think of thee,And thinking of thee love thee, too.Fade then, ye flowers of the field,And sink, ye dying beams of light,But let, O let my Inez beForever present to my sight.
Drop Sweet Inez, would that I might pledgeMy thoughts to thee with line on line,And prove, if tender words can prove,That all my tender thoughts are thine.
Drop S
Would that my feeble pen might pluckFrom the green fields of poetry,Some flower, sweet girl, wherewith to deckThy name so near, so dear to me.
Would that my hand might gather hereFrom the sweet fields of tender thought,Some blossom, fragrant as the rose,Some lily, lovely as I ought.
But why should I commit a sinBy wishing any flower for thee;Thou art more beautiful, I know,Than all the flowers of poetry.
What shall I then with thee compare,To make a true comparison—The dawning day, the dying light,The rising or the setting sun?
At morn I see the early sunAppear with glory in her eye,But looking there, I think of thee,And thinking of thee, for thee sigh.
At noon I see that fervid orbProclaim the sultry hour of day,But looking there, I think of thee,And thinking of thee, turn away.
At length I see that same bright sunDescend below the western blue,Yet looking there, I think of thee,And thinking of thee love thee, too.
Fade then, ye flowers of the field,And sink, ye dying beams of light,But let, O let my Inez beForever present to my sight.
Drop Two thousand years!—two thousand yearsSince Mary, with a mother's fears,Brought forth for all humanitiesThe Christian of the centuries;And now men turn from toil awayTo celebrate his natal dayBy feasting happy hours awayAnd giving gifts with lavish hand,Throughout the length of every land;—A noble custom nobly bornIn Bethlehem one holy morn,But intermingling with the good,A pagan custom long has stood,As you and I and all may see—This war against the greenwood tree,This robbing of posterity,—Until the burden of my rhymeIs of this crime of Christmastime.
Drop Two thousand years!—two thousand yearsSince Mary, with a mother's fears,Brought forth for all humanitiesThe Christian of the centuries;And now men turn from toil awayTo celebrate his natal dayBy feasting happy hours awayAnd giving gifts with lavish hand,Throughout the length of every land;—A noble custom nobly bornIn Bethlehem one holy morn,But intermingling with the good,A pagan custom long has stood,As you and I and all may see—This war against the greenwood tree,This robbing of posterity,—Until the burden of my rhymeIs of this crime of Christmastime.
Drop T
The skies are white with soft moonlight;In Christian lands the lamps burn bright,In splendor gleaming from the wallsOf parlors and of festive halls;Or yet, amid some snow-white choir,Sweet maidens sing the world's desire,Till, answering in low refrain,The people all repeat the strainOf "peace on earth, to men good-will,"When sudden all the hall is still.Then tender music, soft and low,Heavenward seems to float and flow,But—mid these glittering lights, O seeThe stately form of greenwood tree!Whose graceful arms are drooping wideAs grieving this fair Christmastide.
The skies are white with soft moonlight;In Christian lands the lamps burn bright,In splendor gleaming from the wallsOf parlors and of festive halls;Or yet, amid some snow-white choir,Sweet maidens sing the world's desire,Till, answering in low refrain,The people all repeat the strainOf "peace on earth, to men good-will,"When sudden all the hall is still.
Then tender music, soft and low,Heavenward seems to float and flow,But—mid these glittering lights, O seeThe stately form of greenwood tree!Whose graceful arms are drooping wideAs grieving this fair Christmastide.
The hills are white with lovely light,And everywhere the stars burn brightIn splendor gleaming on the wood,Where once, in loyal familyhood,The evergreens together stood,But—now no vespers, sweet or low,In happy measures upward flow,For there—by Heaven's lights, O seeThe absence of the greenwood tree!Whose noble form once waiving wide,This melancholy waste did hide.
The hills are white with lovely light,And everywhere the stars burn brightIn splendor gleaming on the wood,Where once, in loyal familyhood,The evergreens together stood,But—now no vespers, sweet or low,In happy measures upward flow,For there—by Heaven's lights, O seeThe absence of the greenwood tree!Whose noble form once waiving wide,This melancholy waste did hide.
Yet here and there a lonely treeStill sounds a mournful melody,And answering, in low refrain,The winds repeat the solemn strain,Until the hills conscious of harm,Awaken in a wild alarm,Until, with trumpets to the sky,They echo up to Heaven the cry:—Ye Forests, rouse—shake off thy shroud,And sound a protest, long and loud;Ye Mountains, speak, and Heaven, chideThis carelessness of Christmastide—And Man, thou prodigal of Time,Bestir thyself—and heed my rhyme,And curb this crime of Christmastime.
Yet here and there a lonely treeStill sounds a mournful melody,And answering, in low refrain,The winds repeat the solemn strain,Until the hills conscious of harm,Awaken in a wild alarm,Until, with trumpets to the sky,They echo up to Heaven the cry:—Ye Forests, rouse—shake off thy shroud,And sound a protest, long and loud;Ye Mountains, speak, and Heaven, chideThis carelessness of Christmastide—And Man, thou prodigal of Time,Bestir thyself—and heed my rhyme,And curb this crime of Christmastime.
Drop Beyond the beams of brightening dayA lonely miner, moving slowAlong a darkly winding way,Is daily seen to go,Where shines no sun or cheerful rayTo make those gloomy caverns gay.For there no glorious morning lightIs burning in a cloudless skyAnd there no banners flaming bright,Are lifted heaven-high,But that lone miner, far from sight,Treads boundless realms of boundless night.There neither brook nor lovely lawnAllures the miner's weary eye,For, having caught one glimpse of dawn,With many an anxious sigh,Those precious lights are left in pawnTo be by fainter hearts withdrawn.Nor tender leaf nor fragrant flowerDare penetrate that fearful gloom,Where, low beneath a crumbling tower,Or dark, resounding room,Yon miner, in some evil hour,A ruined prisoner may cower.Yet, while the day is speeding on,Far from those skies that shine so clear,Far from the glory of the sunAnd happy birds that cheer—Hark!—through those echoing caves, anonThe hammer's merry monotone.There, far from every happy soundOf blithesome bird or cheerful song,In yonder solitudes profound,The miner, all day long,Hears his own music echo roundThose deep-voiced caverns underground.There, in that gloom which doth affrightFaint-hearted, sky-enamoured men,The miner, with his little light,Hews out a hollow den,And seems to find some keen delightWhere others see but noisesome night.Thus many a heart, along life's way,Must labor where no cheerful sunOf golden hopes or pleasures gay,Shines till the day is done,For where the deepest shadows playThe purest hearts are led astray.Yet some, unseen by careless Fate,Know naught of gloom or sorrow here.But happily, with hearts elate,They walk a charmed sphere,And lightly laugh, or lightly prateOf lonely souls left desolate.So are we miners, great and small,By sunny slope or lower gloom,And day by day we hear a callAs from the distant tomb,But, when the evening shadows fall,The lights of home will gleam for all.
Drop Beyond the beams of brightening dayA lonely miner, moving slowAlong a darkly winding way,Is daily seen to go,Where shines no sun or cheerful rayTo make those gloomy caverns gay.
Drop B
For there no glorious morning lightIs burning in a cloudless skyAnd there no banners flaming bright,Are lifted heaven-high,But that lone miner, far from sight,Treads boundless realms of boundless night.
There neither brook nor lovely lawnAllures the miner's weary eye,For, having caught one glimpse of dawn,With many an anxious sigh,Those precious lights are left in pawnTo be by fainter hearts withdrawn.
Nor tender leaf nor fragrant flowerDare penetrate that fearful gloom,Where, low beneath a crumbling tower,Or dark, resounding room,Yon miner, in some evil hour,A ruined prisoner may cower.
Yet, while the day is speeding on,Far from those skies that shine so clear,Far from the glory of the sunAnd happy birds that cheer—Hark!—through those echoing caves, anonThe hammer's merry monotone.
There, far from every happy soundOf blithesome bird or cheerful song,In yonder solitudes profound,The miner, all day long,Hears his own music echo roundThose deep-voiced caverns underground.
There, in that gloom which doth affrightFaint-hearted, sky-enamoured men,The miner, with his little light,Hews out a hollow den,And seems to find some keen delightWhere others see but noisesome night.
Thus many a heart, along life's way,Must labor where no cheerful sunOf golden hopes or pleasures gay,Shines till the day is done,For where the deepest shadows playThe purest hearts are led astray.
Yet some, unseen by careless Fate,Know naught of gloom or sorrow here.But happily, with hearts elate,They walk a charmed sphere,And lightly laugh, or lightly prateOf lonely souls left desolate.
So are we miners, great and small,By sunny slope or lower gloom,And day by day we hear a callAs from the distant tomb,But, when the evening shadows fall,The lights of home will gleam for all.
Drop Love of country is the life of war;Love not your country then,If loving it should lead you into war;Oh do not be deceived—Love is broader,—Love is broader than a wheatfield,Love is broader than a landscape;Do not be misled—love the world;Begin at home—love your birthplace,Then your county, then your state,Then your country, then the countriesOf your brothers and sisters, who lookSo much like you—like hands, like feet,Like ears, like eyes, like lips; like sorrows,Like hopes, like joys; like body, mindAnd spirit, for the spirit of one manDiffereth not from the spirit of another,Or high or low, or rich or poor, beingThe same yesterday, to-day and forever.Love of country is the life of war;Love not your country then,If loving it should lead you into war—Should lead you into hatredOf your neighbor's country—lead youTo strike down even unto deathYour brother who so resembles you,Made in your image, and in the likenessOf the living God.
Drop Love of country is the life of war;Love not your country then,If loving it should lead you into war;Oh do not be deceived—Love is broader,—Love is broader than a wheatfield,Love is broader than a landscape;Do not be misled—love the world;Begin at home—love your birthplace,Then your county, then your state,Then your country, then the countriesOf your brothers and sisters, who lookSo much like you—like hands, like feet,Like ears, like eyes, like lips; like sorrows,Like hopes, like joys; like body, mindAnd spirit, for the spirit of one manDiffereth not from the spirit of another,Or high or low, or rich or poor, beingThe same yesterday, to-day and forever.
Drop L
Love of country is the life of war;Love not your country then,If loving it should lead you into war—Should lead you into hatredOf your neighbor's country—lead youTo strike down even unto deathYour brother who so resembles you,Made in your image, and in the likenessOf the living God.
Drop Titanic!—rightly named, sir"—says the captain of the ship,"And the safest of all vessels—now mark her maiden trip,"And all think as the captain thinks—all her two thousand soulsAs steadily out o'er the sea the stately vessel rolls.For she is shod with iron and her frame is built of oak,And stout hearts man the vessel, wherefore the captain spoke;And with naught for pleasure lacking, so stately and so fair,She seems a floating palace—fit for angels living there.So "farewell," says merry England, "farewell" says each green isle,"And blessings for this noble ship on her initial trial,And praise be to her makers, and good-will to her crew,And safety to her passengers"—take this as our adieu.O there were pleasant partings as the vessel sail'd away,And there was joy in every heart that pleasant April day,And there were happy thoughts of home—of meeting kith and kin,For the stately vessel soon would be her harbor safe within.And so blue the sky above them and so blue the wave beneath,That all,—all thought of living and no one thought of death,As, hour by hour, the vessel left England far behind,And, hour by hour, the ship sped on as speeds an ocean wind.And when night came, with fond good-nights the floating city slept,Yet ever o'er the rolling waves the mighty vessel swept,And no one thought of danger—until with thunderous roar,The great ship struck the rock-like ice, and shook from floor to floor.Then there was breaking timbers, and bulging plates of steel,And noise of great commotion along that vessel's keel—Then there were cries of anguish, and curses from rough men,And earnest prayers for safety—O prayers for safety then.For women wept in terror, and stout men drop'd a tear,And the shouting and the tumult was maddening to hear,Yet there amidst that seething the life-boats, one by one,Were set adrift at midnight—where cold sea-rivers run.Then, on that fated vessel, the thousand waited thereIn hope some sea-born sister would snatch them from despair,But no ship came to aid her, and, in the dead of night,The noble ship Titanic sank suddenly from sight.O midway in old ocean, in her darkest, deepest gloom,A thousand brave hearts bravely went down to meet their doom,—And what a tragic picture!—Oh, what a solemn sightUpon that fated vessel with the stars still shining bright!Then there was time for thinking—O time enough to spare,And there was time for cursing and time enough for pray'r,—Time,—time for retrospection, and time enough to die,Time, time for life's great tragedy—and time to reason why.That was the greatest battle that ever yet was fought;That was the greatest picture on any canvas wrought;That was the greatest lesson that mortal man can teach;That was the greatest sermon that priests of earth can preach.Yet no one fought that battle with saber or with gun,And no one saw that picture, save those brave hearts alone,And no one read that lesson there written in the dark,And no one heard that sermon that went straight to its mark.Nor shall we know their story, the saddest of the sea,Or shall we learn the sequel, the sorrow yet to be,But long shall we remember how brave men bravely diedFor some poor, lowly woman with a baby at her side.And when the world gets scorning the greatest of the great,When poverty sits cursing the man of large estate,O then let men remember, how, in that awful hour,The wealth of all the world was powerless in its power.
Drop Titanic!—rightly named, sir"—says the captain of the ship,"And the safest of all vessels—now mark her maiden trip,"And all think as the captain thinks—all her two thousand soulsAs steadily out o'er the sea the stately vessel rolls.
Drop T
For she is shod with iron and her frame is built of oak,And stout hearts man the vessel, wherefore the captain spoke;And with naught for pleasure lacking, so stately and so fair,She seems a floating palace—fit for angels living there.So "farewell," says merry England, "farewell" says each green isle,"And blessings for this noble ship on her initial trial,And praise be to her makers, and good-will to her crew,And safety to her passengers"—take this as our adieu.
O there were pleasant partings as the vessel sail'd away,And there was joy in every heart that pleasant April day,And there were happy thoughts of home—of meeting kith and kin,For the stately vessel soon would be her harbor safe within.
And so blue the sky above them and so blue the wave beneath,That all,—all thought of living and no one thought of death,As, hour by hour, the vessel left England far behind,And, hour by hour, the ship sped on as speeds an ocean wind.
And when night came, with fond good-nights the floating city slept,Yet ever o'er the rolling waves the mighty vessel swept,And no one thought of danger—until with thunderous roar,The great ship struck the rock-like ice, and shook from floor to floor.
Then there was breaking timbers, and bulging plates of steel,And noise of great commotion along that vessel's keel—Then there were cries of anguish, and curses from rough men,And earnest prayers for safety—O prayers for safety then.
For women wept in terror, and stout men drop'd a tear,And the shouting and the tumult was maddening to hear,Yet there amidst that seething the life-boats, one by one,Were set adrift at midnight—where cold sea-rivers run.
Then, on that fated vessel, the thousand waited thereIn hope some sea-born sister would snatch them from despair,But no ship came to aid her, and, in the dead of night,The noble ship Titanic sank suddenly from sight.
O midway in old ocean, in her darkest, deepest gloom,A thousand brave hearts bravely went down to meet their doom,—And what a tragic picture!—Oh, what a solemn sightUpon that fated vessel with the stars still shining bright!
Then there was time for thinking—O time enough to spare,And there was time for cursing and time enough for pray'r,—Time,—time for retrospection, and time enough to die,Time, time for life's great tragedy—and time to reason why.
That was the greatest battle that ever yet was fought;That was the greatest picture on any canvas wrought;That was the greatest lesson that mortal man can teach;That was the greatest sermon that priests of earth can preach.
Yet no one fought that battle with saber or with gun,And no one saw that picture, save those brave hearts alone,And no one read that lesson there written in the dark,And no one heard that sermon that went straight to its mark.
Nor shall we know their story, the saddest of the sea,Or shall we learn the sequel, the sorrow yet to be,But long shall we remember how brave men bravely diedFor some poor, lowly woman with a baby at her side.
And when the world gets scorning the greatest of the great,When poverty sits cursing the man of large estate,O then let men remember, how, in that awful hour,The wealth of all the world was powerless in its power.
Drop War is hell!—war is hell!—This is what the war-men yellYet they love to be in hell,Love to hear the iron hailStrike, till even strong men quail;Love the dying soldier's knell,Ringing shot and shrieking shell,Love to hear the battle-cry,Love to see men fight and dieWith the struggle in their eye—War is hell—war is hell,—This is what the war-men yell.War is wrong—war is wrong;This the burden of my song:War is wrong—war is wrong—Sound the pean, human tongue;Let the message far be flung—Sound it, sound it heaven-high,Sound it to the starry sky,And Heaven, repeat the echoing,Till all the earth of peace shall sing.Peace loves day, but war loves night;Peace loves calmness, war—to fightIn the wrong or in the right;Peace the hungry man gives bread,War would give a stone instead;Peace is honest—not so war,Crying—any way is fair;Peace loves life—War loves the deadWith a halo overhead;Peace pleads justice—War cries mightIn the wrong or in the right;Peace pleads—love your fellow-man,War cries—kill him if you can;Peace no evil thing would slight,Yet while daring dares not fight,Knowing might makes nothing right;Peace means liberty and life,War means enmity and strife;Peace means plenty, peace means power,War means—hell, and would devourAll who do not trust its power;Peace means joy and love tomorrow,War means hatred, death and sorrow;Peace says—Bless you—men are brothers,War says—Damn you, and all others.War is hell, war is hell!—This is what the war-men yell;War is wrong, war is wrong—This the burden of my song;War is wrong, war is wrong,There never was a just one,Never;There never was a just one,Never.True as two from two leaves none,True as days are never done,True as rivers downward run,True as heaven holds the sun,—War is wrong, war is wrong,There never was a just one,Never;There never was a just one,Never—Sound the message, human tongue,Sound it, sound it heaven-high,Sound it to the starry sky,And Heaven, repeat the echoingTill all the earth of peace shall sing.
Drop War is hell!—war is hell!—This is what the war-men yellYet they love to be in hell,Love to hear the iron hailStrike, till even strong men quail;Love the dying soldier's knell,Ringing shot and shrieking shell,Love to hear the battle-cry,Love to see men fight and dieWith the struggle in their eye—War is hell—war is hell,—This is what the war-men yell.
Drop W
War is wrong—war is wrong;This the burden of my song:War is wrong—war is wrong—Sound the pean, human tongue;Let the message far be flung—Sound it, sound it heaven-high,Sound it to the starry sky,And Heaven, repeat the echoing,Till all the earth of peace shall sing.
Peace loves day, but war loves night;Peace loves calmness, war—to fightIn the wrong or in the right;Peace the hungry man gives bread,War would give a stone instead;Peace is honest—not so war,Crying—any way is fair;Peace loves life—War loves the deadWith a halo overhead;Peace pleads justice—War cries mightIn the wrong or in the right;Peace pleads—love your fellow-man,War cries—kill him if you can;Peace no evil thing would slight,Yet while daring dares not fight,Knowing might makes nothing right;Peace means liberty and life,War means enmity and strife;Peace means plenty, peace means power,War means—hell, and would devourAll who do not trust its power;Peace means joy and love tomorrow,War means hatred, death and sorrow;Peace says—Bless you—men are brothers,War says—Damn you, and all others.
War is hell, war is hell!—This is what the war-men yell;War is wrong, war is wrong—This the burden of my song;War is wrong, war is wrong,There never was a just one,Never;There never was a just one,Never.True as two from two leaves none,True as days are never done,True as rivers downward run,True as heaven holds the sun,—War is wrong, war is wrong,There never was a just one,Never;There never was a just one,Never—Sound the message, human tongue,Sound it, sound it heaven-high,Sound it to the starry sky,And Heaven, repeat the echoingTill all the earth of peace shall sing.
Blest is that man who first cries peace,But curst is he who first cries war,For war is murder. It must ceaseForever and from everywhere.
Blest is that man who first cries peace,But curst is he who first cries war,For war is murder. It must ceaseForever and from everywhere.
Drop Philanthropist, far-sighted millionaire,Lover of prose and friend of poetry,What needs my pen in furtherance declareThou art also a friend of liberty,—Thou art, indeed, a very Prince of Peace,Who, conscious of the uselessness of war,Believest man's red carnage soon should cease,And nations now for nobler things prepare:What needs my pen in furtherance reciteThy kindly interest in the weal of man—Yet, lacking need, I nothing lose to write,But rather gain in praising as I can,For, if thy wealth the world sweet peace may give,Perhaps my lines in praise of peace may live.
Drop Philanthropist, far-sighted millionaire,Lover of prose and friend of poetry,What needs my pen in furtherance declareThou art also a friend of liberty,—Thou art, indeed, a very Prince of Peace,Who, conscious of the uselessness of war,Believest man's red carnage soon should cease,And nations now for nobler things prepare:What needs my pen in furtherance reciteThy kindly interest in the weal of man—Yet, lacking need, I nothing lose to write,But rather gain in praising as I can,For, if thy wealth the world sweet peace may give,Perhaps my lines in praise of peace may live.
Drop P
Press of TYPOGRAPHICAL UNION LABEL CARBONDALE PA Munn's Review
Transcriber's notes:The index entries for "The Miner" and "Love of Country" have been moved from after "The Sinking of the Titanic".In "The Miner" a stanza break was inserted before the line "Nor tender leaf nor fragrant flower".The following is a list of other changes made to the original. The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one.Andprohesytoo plainly the unseen;Andprophesytoo plainly the unseen;As mocksadvceand takes a happy pace,As mocksadviceand takes a happy pace,These, his instructors, willrehersehim well,These, his instructors, willrehearsehim well,Ringing shot andshreikingshell,Ringing shot andshriekingshell,Thouarealso a friend of liberty,—Thouartalso a friend of liberty,—Believethman's red carnage soon should cease,Believestman's red carnage soon should cease,
Transcriber's notes:
The index entries for "The Miner" and "Love of Country" have been moved from after "The Sinking of the Titanic".
In "The Miner" a stanza break was inserted before the line "Nor tender leaf nor fragrant flower".
The following is a list of other changes made to the original. The first line is the original line, the second the corrected one.
Andprohesytoo plainly the unseen;Andprophesytoo plainly the unseen;
As mocksadvceand takes a happy pace,As mocksadviceand takes a happy pace,
These, his instructors, willrehersehim well,These, his instructors, willrehearsehim well,
Ringing shot andshreikingshell,Ringing shot andshriekingshell,
Thouarealso a friend of liberty,—Thouartalso a friend of liberty,—
Believethman's red carnage soon should cease,Believestman's red carnage soon should cease,