"Next drive we o'er the slimy-weeded sea.`Lo! herebeneath' (another coward cries)`The cursed land of sunk Atlantis lies:This slime will suck us down — turn while thou'rt free!' —`But no!' I said, `Freedom bears West for me!'Yet when the long-time stagnant winds arise,And day by day the keel to westward flies,My Good my people's Ill doth come to be:`Ever the winds into the West do blow;Never a ship, once turned, might homeward go;Meanwhile we speed into the lonesome main.For Christ's sake, parley, Admiral! Turn, beforeWe sail outside all bounds of help from pain!' —`Our help is in the West,' I said once more.
"So when there came a mighty cry of `Land!'And we clomb up and saw, and shouted strong`Salve Regina!' all the ropes along,But knew at morn how that a counterfeit bandOf level clouds had aped a silver strand;So when we heard the orchard-bird's small song,And all the people cried, `A hellish throngTo tempt us onward by the Devil planned,Yea, all from hell — keen heron, fresh green weeds,Pelican, tunny-fish, fair tapering reeds,Lie-telling lands that ever shine and dieIn clouds of nothing round the empty sky.Tired Admiral, get thee from this hell, and rest!' —`Steersman,' I said, `hold straight into the West.'
"I marvel how mine eye, ranging the Night,From its big circling ever absentlyReturns, thou large low Star, to fix on thee.`Maria!' Star? No star: a Light, a Light!Wouldst leap ashore, Heart? Yonder burns — a Light.Pedro Gutierrez, wake! come up to me.I prithee stand and gaze about the sea:What seest? `Admiral, like as land — a Light!'Well! Sanchez of Segovia, come and try:What seest? `Admiral, naught but sea and sky!'Well! But *I* saw It. Wait! the Pinta's gun!Why, look, 'tis dawn, the land is clear: 'tis done!Two dawns do break at once from Time's full hand —God's, East — mine, West: good friends, behold my Land!"
Master, Master! faster flyNow the hurrying seasons by;Now the Sea of Darkness wideRolls in light from side to side;Mark, slow drifting to the WestDown the trough and up the crest,Yonder piteous heartsease petalMany-motioned rise and settle —Petal cast a-sea from landBy the awkward-fingered HandThat, mistaking Nature's course,Tears the love it fain would force —Petal calm of heartsease flowerSmiling sweet on tempest sour,Smiling where by crest and troughHeartache Winds at heartsease scoff,Breathing mild perfumes of prayer'Twixt the scolding sea and air.
Mayflower, piteous Heartsease Petal!Suavely down the sea-troughs settle,Gravely breathe perfumes of prayer'Twixt the scolding sea and air,Bravely up the sea-hills rise —Sea-hills slant thee toward the skies.Master, hold disaster offFrom the crest and from the trough;Heartsease, on the heartache seaGod, thy God, will pilot thee.
Mayflower, Ship of Faith's best Hope!Thou art sure if all men grope;Mayflower, Ship of Hope's best Faith!All is true the great God saith;Mayflower, Ship of Charity!Love is Lord of land and sea.Oh, with love and love's best careThy large godly freightage bear —Godly Hearts that, Grails of gold,Still the blood of Faith do hold.
Now bold Massachusetts clearCuts the rounding of the sphere.`Out the anchor, sail no more,Lay us by the Future's shore —Not the shore we sought, 'tis true,But the time is come to do.Leap, dear Standish, leap and wade;Bradford, Hopkins, Tilley, wade:Leap and wade ashore and kneel —God be praised that steered the keel!Home is good and soft is rest,Even in this jagged West:Freedom lives, and Right shall stand;Blood of Faith is in the land.'
Then in what time the primal icy yearsScraped slowly o'er the Puritans' hopes and fears,Like as great glaciers built of frozen tears,The Voice from far within the secret skySaid, `Blood of Faith ye have? So; let us try.'And presentlyThe anxious-masted ships that westward fare,Cargo'd with trouble and a-list with care,Their outraged decks hot back to England bear,Then come again with stowage of worse weight,Battle, and tyrannous Tax, and Wrong, and Hate,And all bad items of Death's perilous freight.
O'er Cambridge set the yeomen's mark:Climb, patriot, through the April dark.O lanthorn! kindle fast thy light,Thou budding star in the April night,For never a star more news hath told,Or later flame in heaven shall hold.Ay, lanthorn on the North Church tower,When that thy church hath had her hour,Still from the top of Reverence highShalt thou illume Fame's ampler sky;For, statured large o'er town and tree,Time's tallest Figure stands by thee,And, dim as now thy wick may shineThe Future lights his lamp at thine.
Now haste thee while the way is clear,Paul Revere!Haste, Dawes! but haste thou not, O Sun!To Lexington.
Then Devens looked and saw the light:He got him forth into the night,And watched alone on the river-shore,And marked the British ferrying o'er.
John Parker! rub thine eyes and yawn:But one o'clock and yet 'tis Dawn!Quick, rub thine eyes and draw thy hose:The Morning comes ere darkness goes.Have forth and call the yeomen out,For somewhere, somewhere close aboutFull soon a Thing must come to beThine honest eyes shall stare to see —Full soon before thy patriot eyesFreedom from out of a Wound shall rise.
Then haste ye, Prescott and Revere!Bring all the men of Lincoln here;Let Chelmsford, Littleton, Carlisle,Let Acton, Bedford, hither file —Oh hither file, and plainly seeOut of a wound leap Liberty.
Say, Woodman April! all in green,Say, Robin April! hast thou seenIn all thy travel round the earthEver a morn of calmer birth?But Morning's eye alone sereneCan gaze across yon village-greenTo where the trooping British runThrough Lexington.
Good men in fustian, stand ye still;The men in red come o'er the hill.`Lay down your arms, damned Rebels!' cryThe men in red full haughtily.But never a grounding gun is heard;The men in fustian stand unstirred;Dead calm, save maybe a wise bluebirdPuts in his little heavenly word.O men in red! if ye but knewThe half as much as bluebirds do,Now in this little tender calmEach hand would out, and every palmWith patriot palm strike brotherhood's strokeOr ere these lines of battle broke.
O men in red! if ye but knewThe least of the all that bluebirds do,Now in this little godly calmYon voice might sing the Future's Psalm —The Psalm of Love with the brotherly eyesWho pardons and is very wise —Yon voice that shouts, high-hoarse with ire,`Fire!'The red-coats fire, the homespuns fall:The homespuns' anxious voices call,`Brother, art hurt?' and `Where hit, John?'And, `Wipe this blood,' and `Men, come on,'And, `Neighbor, do but lift my head,'And `Who is wounded? Who is dead?'`Seven are killed.' `My God! my God!'`Seven lie dead on the village sod.Two Harringtons, Parker, Hadley, Brown,Monroe and Porter, — these are down.'`Nay, look! Stout Harrington not yet dead!'He crooks his elbow, lifts his head.He lies at the step of his own house-door;He crawls and makes a path of gore.The wife from the window hath seen, and rushed;He hath reached the step, but the blood hath gushed;He hath crawled to the step of his own house-door,But his head hath dropped: he will crawl no more.Clasp, Wife, and kiss, and lift the head:Harrington lies at his doorstep dead.
But, O ye Six that round him layAnd bloodied up that April day!As Harrington fell, ye likewise fell —At the door of the House wherein ye dwell;As Harrington came, ye likewise cameAnd died at the door of your House of Fame.
————
Go by, old Field of Freedom's hopes and fears;Go by, old Field of Brothers' hate and tears:Behold! yon home of Brothers' Love appearsSet in the burnished silver of July,On Schuylkill wrought as in old broideryClasped hands upon a shining baldric lie,New Hampshire, Georgia, and the mighty tenThat lie between, have heard the huge-nibbed penOf Jefferson tell the rights of man to men.They sit in the reverend Hall: `Shall we declare?'Floats round about the anxious-quivering air'Twixt narrow Schuylkill and broad Delaware.Already, Land! thou HAST declared: 'tis done.Ran ever clearer speech than that did runWhen the sweet Seven died at Lexington?Canst legibler write than Concord's large-stroked Act,Or when at Bunker Hill the clubbed guns cracked?Hast ink more true than blood, or pen than fact?Nay, as the poet mad with heavenly firesFlings men his song white-hot, then back retires,Cools heart, broods o'er the song again, inquires,`Why did I this, why that?' and slowly drawsFrom Art's unconscious act Art's conscious laws;So, Freedom, writ, declares her writing's cause.All question vain, all chill foreboding vain.Adams, ablaze with faith, is hot and fain;And he, straight-fibred Soul of mighty grain,Deep-rooted Washington, afire, serene —Tall Bush that burns, yet keeps its substance green —Sends daily word, of import calm yet keen,Warm from the front of battle, till the fireWraps opposition in and flames yet higher,And Doubt's thin tissues flash where Hope's aspire;And, `Ay, declare,' and ever strenuous `Ay'Falls from the Twelve, and Time and Nature cryConsent with kindred burnings of July;And delegate Dead from each past age and race,Viewless to man, in large procession paceDownward athwart each set and steadfast face,Responding `Ay' in many tongues; and lo!Manhood and Faith and Self and Love and WoeAnd Art and Brotherhood and Learning goRearward the files of dead, and softly sayTheir saintly `Ay', and softly pass awayBy airy exits of that ample day.Now fall the chill reactionary snowsOf man's defect, and every wind that blowsKeeps back the Spring of Freedom's perfect Rose.Now naked feet with crimson fleck the ways,And Heaven is stained with flags that mutinies raise,And Arnold-spotted move the creeping days.Long do the eyes that look from Heaven seeTime smoke, as in the spring the mulberry tree,With buds of battles opening fitfully,Till Yorktown's winking vapors slowly fade,And Time's full top casts down a pleasant shadeWhere Freedom lies unarmed and unafraid.
————
Master, ever faster flyNow the vivid seasons by;Now the glittering Western landTwins the day-lit Eastern Strand;Now white Freedom's sea-bird wingRoams the Sea of Everything;Now the freemen to and froBind the tyrant sand and snow,Snatching Death's hot bolt ere hurled,Flash new Life about the world,Sun the secrets of the hills,Shame the gods' slow-grinding mills,Prison Yesterday in Print,Read To-morrow's weather-hint,Haste before the halting Time,Try new virtue and new crime,Mould new faiths, devise new creeds,Run each road that frontward leads,Driven by an Onward-ache,Scorning souls that circles make.Now, O Sin! O Love's lost Shame!Burns the land with redder flame:North in line and South in lineYell the charge and spring the mine.Heartstrong South would have his way,Headstrong North hath said him nay:O strong Heart, strong Brain, beware!Hear a Song from out the air:
"Lists all white and blue in the skies;And the people hurried amainTo the Tournament under the ladies' eyesWhere jousted Heart and Brain.
"`Blow, herald, blow!' There entered Heart,A youth in crimson and gold.`Blow, herald, blow!' Brain stood apart,Steel-armored, glittering, cold.
"Heart's palfrey caracoled gayly round,Heart tra-li-raed merrily;But Brain sat still, with never a sound —Full cynical-calm was he.
"Heart's helmet-crest bore favors threeFrom his lady's white hand caught;Brain's casque was bare as Fact — not heOr favor gave or sought.
"`Blow, herald, blow!' Heart shot a glanceTo catch his lady's eye;But Brain looked straight a-front, his lanceTo aim more faithfully.
"They charged, they struck; both fell, both bled;Brain rose again, ungloved;Heart fainting smiled, and softly said,`My love to my Beloved.'"
Heart and Brain! no more be twain;Throb and think, one flesh again!Lo! they weep, they turn, they run;Lo! they kiss: Love, thou art one!
————
Now the Land, with drying tears,Counts him up his flocks of years,"See," he says, "my substance grows;Hundred-flocked my Herdsman goes,Hundred-flocked my Herdsman standsOn the Past's broad meadow-lands,Come from where ye mildly graze,Black herds, white herds, nights and days.Drive them homeward, Herdsman Time,From the meadows of the Prime:I will feast my house, and rest.Neighbor East, come over West;Pledge me in good wine and wordsWhile I count my hundred herds,Sum the substance of my PastFrom the first unto the last,Chanting o'er the generous brimCloudy memories yet more dim,Ghostly rhymes of Norsemen paleStaring by old Bjoerne's sail,Strains more noble of that nightWorn Columbus saw his Light,Psalms of still more heavenly tone,How the Mayflower tossed alone,Olden tale and later songOf the Patriot's love and wrong,Grandsire's ballad, nurse's hymn —Chanting o'er the sparkling brimTill I shall from first to lastSum the substance of my Past."
————
Then called the Artist's God from in the sky:"This Time shall show by dream and mysteryThe heart of all his matter to thine eye.Son, study stars by looking down in streams,Interpret that which is by that which seems,And tell thy dreams in words which are but dreams."
The Master with His lucent handPinched up the atom hills and plainsO'er all the moiety of landThe ocean-bounded West contains:The dust lay dead upon the calmAnd mighty middle of His palm.
And lo! He wrought full tenderly,And lo! He wrought with love and might,And lo! He wrought a thing to seeWas marvel in His people's sight:He wrought His image dead and small,A nothing fashioned like an All.
Then breathed He softly on the dead:"Live Self! — thou part, yet none, of Me;Dust for humility," He said,"And my warm breath for Charity.Behold my latest work, thou Earth!The Self of Man is taking birth."
Then, Land, tall Adam of the West,Thou stood'st upon the springy sod,Thy large eye ranging self-possest,Thy limbs the limbs of God's young god,Thy Passion murmuring `I will' —Lord of the Lordship Good-and-Ill.
O manful arms, of supple sizeTo clasp a world or a waist as well!O manful eyes, to front the skiesOr look much pity down on hell!O manful tongue, to work and sing,And soothe a child and dare a king!
O wonder! Now thou sleep'st in pain,Like as some dream thy soul did grieve:God wounds thee, heals thee whole again,And calls thee trembling to thine Eve.Wide-armed, thou dropp'st on knightly knee:`Dear Love, Dear Freedom, go with me!'
Then all the beasts before thee passed —Beast War, Oppression, Murder, Lust,False Art, False Faith, slow skulking last —And out of Time's thick-rising dustThy Lord said, "Name them, tame them, Son;Nor rest, nor rest, till thou hast done."
Ah, name thou false, or tame thou wrong,At heart let no man fear for thee:Thy Past sings ever Freedom's Song,Thy Future's voice sounds wondrous free;And Freedom is more large than Crime,And Error is more small than Time.
Come, thou whole Self of Latter Man!Come o'er thy realm of Good-and-Ill,And do, thou Self that say'st `I can,'And love, thou Self that say'st `I will;'And prove and know Time's worst and best,Thou tall young Adam of the West!
____ Baltimore, 1876.
At First. To Charlotte Cushman.
My crippled sense fares bow'd alongHis uncompanioned way,And wronged by death pays life with wrongAnd I wake by night and dream by day.
And the Morning seems but fatigued NightThat hath wept his visage pale,And the healthy mark 'twixt dark and lightIn sickly sameness out doth fail.
And the woods stare strange, and the wind is dumb,— O Wind, pray talk again —And the Hand of the Frost spreads stark and numbAs Death's on the deadened window-pane.
Still dumb, thou Wind, old voluble friend?And the middle of the day is cold,And the heart of eve beats lax i' the endAs a legend's climax poorly told.
Oh vain the up-straining of the handsIn the chamber late at night,Oh vain the complainings, the hot demands,The prayers for a sound, the tears for a sight.
No word from over the starry line,No motion felt in the dark,And never a day gives ever a signOr a dream sets seal with palpable mark.
And O my God, how slight it were,How nothing, thou All! to thee,That a kiss or a whisper might fall from herDown by the way of Time to me:
Or some least grace of the body of love,— Mere wafture of floating-by,Mere sense of unseen smiling above,Mere hint sincere of a large blue eye,
Mere dim receipt of sad delightFrom Nearness warm in the air,What time with the passing of the nightShe also passed, somehow, somewhere.
____ Baltimore, 1876.
A Ballad of Trees and the Master.
Into the woods my Master went,Clean forspent, forspent.Into the woods my Master came,Forspent with love and shame.But the olives they were not blind to Him,The little gray leaves were kind to Him:The thorn-tree had a mind to HimWhen into the woods He came.
Out of the woods my Master went,And He was well content.Out of the woods my Master came,Content with death and shame.When Death and Shame would woo Him last,From under the trees they drew Him last:'Twas on a tree they slew Him — lastWhen out of the woods He came.
____ Baltimore, November, 1880.
A Florida Sunday.
From cold Norse caves or buccaneer Southern seasOft come repenting tempests here to die;Bewailing old-time wrecks and robberies,They shrive to priestly pines with many a sigh,Breathe salutary balms through lank-lock'd hairOf sick men's heads, and soon — this world outworn —Sink into saintly heavens of stirless air,Clean from confessional. One died, this morn,And willed the world to wise Queen Tranquil: she,Sweet sovereign Lady of all souls that bideIn contemplation, tames the too bright skiesLike that faint agate film, far down descried,Restraining suns in sudden thoughtful eyesWhich flashed but now. Blest distillation rareOf o'er-rank brightness filtered waterwiseThrough all the earths in heaven — thou always fair,Still virgin bride of e'er-creating thought —Dream-worker, in whose dream the Future's wrought —Healer of hurts, free balm for bitter wrongs —Most silent mother of all sounding songs —Thou that dissolvest hells to make thy heaven —Thou tempest's heir, that keep'st no tempest leaven —But after winds' and thunders' wide mischanceDost brood, and better thine inheritance —Thou privacy of space, where each grave StarAs in his own still chamber sits afarTo meditate, yet, by thy walls unpent,Shines to his fellows o'er the firmament —Oh! as thou liv'st in all this sky and seaThat likewise lovingly do live in thee,So melt my soul in thee, and thine in me,Divine Tranquillity!
Gray Pelican, poised where yon broad shallows shine,Know'st thou, that finny foison all is mineIn the bag below thy beak — yet thine, not less?For God, of His most gracious friendliness,Hath wrought that every soul, this loving morn,Into all things may be new-corporate born,And each live whole in all: I sail with thee,Thy Pelican's self is mine; yea, silver Sea,In this large moment all thy fishes, ripples, bights,Pale in-shore greens and distant blue delights,White visionary sails, long reaches fairBy moon-horn'd strands that film the far-off air,Bright sparkle-revelations, secret majesties,Shells, wrecks and wealths, are mine; yea, Orange-trees,That lift your small world-systems in the light,Rich sets of round green heavens studded brightWith globes of fruit that like still planets shine,Mine is your green-gold universe; yea, mine,White slender Lighthouse fainting to the eyeThat wait'st on yon keen cape-point wistfully,Like to some maiden spirit pausing pale,New-wing'd, yet fain to sailAbove the serene Gulf to where a bridegroom soulCalls o'er the soft horizon — mine thy doleOf shut undaring wings and wan desire —Mine, too, thy later hope and heavenly fireOf kindling expectation; yea, all sights,All sounds, that make this morn — quick flightsOf pea-green paroquets 'twixt neighbor trees,Like missives and sweet morning inquiriesFrom green to green, in green — live oaks' round heads,Busy with jays for thoughts — grays, whites and redsOf pranked woodpeckers that ne'er gossip out,But alway tap at doors and gad about —Robins and mocking-birds that all day longAthwart straight sunshine weave cross-threads of song,Shuttles of music — clouds of mosses grayThat rain me rains of pleasant thoughts alwayFrom a low sky of leaves — faint yearning psalmsOf endless metre breathing through the palmsThat crowd and lean and gaze from off the shoreEver for one that cometh nevermore —Palmettos ranked, with childish spear-points setAgainst no enemy — rich cones that fretHigh roofs of temples shafted tall with pines —Green, grateful mangroves where the sand-beach shines —Long lissome coast that in and outward swerves,The grace of God made manifest in curves —All riches, goods and braveries never toldOf earth, sun, air and heaven — now I holdYour being in my being; I am ye,And ye myself; yea, lastly, Thee,God, whom my roads all reach, howe'er they run,My Father, Friend, Beloved, dear All-One,Thee in my soul, my soul in Thee, I feel,Self of my self. Lo, through my sense doth stealClear cognizance of all selves and qualities,Of all existence that hath been or is,Of all strange haps that men miscall of chance,And all the works of tireless circumstance:Each borders each, like mutual sea and shore,Nor aught misfits his neighbor that's before,Nor him that's after — nay, through this still air,Out of the North come quarrels, and keen blareOf challenge by the hot-breath'd parties blown;Yet break they not this peace with alien tone,Fray not my heart, nor fright me for my land,— I hear from all-wards, allwise understand,The great bird Purpose bears me twixt her wings,And I am one with all the kinsmen thingsThat e'er my Father fathered. Oh, to meAll questions solve in this tranquillity:E'en this dark matter, once so dim, so drear,Now shines upon my spirit heavenly-clear:Thou, Father, without logic, tellest meHow this divine denial true may be,— How `All's in each, yet every one of allMaintains his Self complete and several.'
____ Tampa, Florida, 1877.
To My Class: On Certain Fruits and Flowers Sent Me in Sickness.
If spicy-fringed pinks that blush and paleWith passions of perfume, — if violets blueThat hint of heaven with odor more than hue, —If perfect roses, each a holy GrailWherefrom the blood of beauty doth exhaleGrave raptures round, — if leaves of green as newAs those fresh chaplets wove in dawn and dewBy Emily when down the Athenian valeShe paced, to do observance to the May,Nor dreamed of Arcite nor of Palamon, —If fruits that riped in some more riotous playOf wind and beam that stirs our temperate sun, —If these the products be of love and pain,Oft may I suffer, and you love, again.
____ Baltimore, Christmas, 1880.
On Violet's Wafers, Sent Me When I Was Ill.
Fine-tissued as her finger-tips, and whiteAs all her thoughts; in shape like shields of prize,As if before young Violet's dreaming eyesStill blazed the two great Theban bucklers brightThat swayed the random of that furious fightWhere Palamon and Arcite made assizeFor Emily; fresh, crisp as her replies,That, not with sting, but pith, do oft inviteMore trial of the tongue; simple, like her,Well fitting lowlihood, yet fine as well,— The queen's no finer; rich (though gossamer)In help to him they came to, which may tellHow rich that him SHE'LL come to; thus men see,Like Violet's self e'en Violet's wafers be.
____ Baltimore, 1881.
Ireland.
Written for the Art Autograph during the Irish Famine, 1880.
Heartsome Ireland, winsome Ireland,Charmer of the sun and sea,Bright beguiler of old anguish,How could Famine frown on thee?
As our Gulf-Stream, drawn to thee-ward,Turns him from his northward flow,And our wintry western headlandsSend thee summer from their snow,
Thus the main and cordial currentOf our love sets over sea, —Tender, comely, valiant Ireland,Songful, soulful, sorrowful Ireland, —Streaming warm to comfort thee.
____ Baltimore, 1880.
Under the Cedarcroft Chestnut.
Trim set in ancient sward, his manful boleUpbore his frontage largely toward the sky.We could not dream but that he had a soul:What virtue breathed from out his bravery!
We gazed o'erhead: far down our deepening eyesRained glamours from his green midsummer mass.The worth and sum of all his centuriesSuffused his mighty shadow on the grass.
A Presence large, a grave and steadfast FormAmid the leaves' light play and fantasy,A calmness conquered out of many a storm,A Manhood mastered by a chestnut-tree!
Then, while his monarch fingers downward heldThe rugged burrs wherewith his state was rife,A voice of large authoritative EldSeemed uttering quickly parables of life:
`How Life in truth was sharply set with ills;A kernel cased in quarrels; yea, a sphereOf stings, and hedge-hog-round of mortal quills:How most men itched to eat too soon i' the year,
`And took but wounds and worries for their pains,Whereas the wise withheld their patient hands,Nor plucked green pleasures till the sun and rainsAnd seasonable ripenings burst all bands
`And opened wide the liberal burrs of life.'There, O my Friend, beneath the chestnut bough,Gazing on thee immerged in modern strife,I framed a prayer of fervency — that thou,
In soul and stature larger than thy kind,Still more to this strong Form might'st liken thee,Till thy whole Self in every fibre findThe tranquil lordship of thy chestnut tree.
____ Tampa, Florida, February, 1877.
An Evening Song.
Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands,And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea,How long they kiss in sight of all the lands.Ah! longer, longer, we.
Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun,As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine,And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done,Love, lay thine hand in mine.
Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart;Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands.O night! divorce our sun and sky apartNever our lips, our hands.
____ 1876.
————————————————————————————————- | "A Sunrise Song" leads a group of seven short poems | | overlooked in earlier editions. Six of these, beginning with | | "On a Palmetto", were unrevised pencillings of late date, | | excepting the lines of 1866 to J. D. H. | ————————————————————————————————-
A Sunrise Song.
Young palmer sun, that to these shining sandsPourest thy pilgrim's tale, discoursing stillThy silver passages of sacred lands,With news of Sepulchre and Dolorous Hill,
Canst thou be he that, yester-sunset warm,Purple with Paynim rage and wrack desire,Dashed ravening out of a dusty lair of Storm,Harried the west, and set the world on fire?
Hast thou perchance repented, Saracen Sun?Wilt warm the world with peace and dove-desire?Or wilt thou, ere this very day be done,Blaze Saladin still, with unforgiving fire?
____ Baltimore, 1881.
On a Palmetto.
Through all that year-scarred agony of height,Unblest of bough or bloom, to where expandsHis wandy circlet with his bladed bandsDividing every wind, or loud or light,To termless hymns of love and old despite,Yon tall palmetto in the twilight stands,Bare Dante of these purgatorial sandsThat glimmer marginal to the monstrous night.Comes him a Southwind from the scented vine,It breathes of Beatrice through all his blades,North, East or West, Guelph-wind or Ghibelline,'Tis shredded into music down the shades;All sea-breaths, land-breaths, systol, diastol,Sway, minstrels of that grief-melodious Soul.
____ 1880.
Struggle.
My soul is like the oar that momentlyDies in a desperate stress beneath the wave,Then glitters out again and sweeps the sea:Each second I'm new-born from some new grave.
Control.
O Hunger, Hunger, I will harness theeAnd make thee harrow all my spirit's glebe.Of old the blind bard Herve sang so sweetHe made a wolf to plow his land.
To J. D. H.
(Killed at Surrey C. H., October, 1866.)
. . . . .
Dear friend, forgive a wild lamentInsanely following thy flight.I would not cumber thine ascentNor drag thee back into the night;
But the great sea-winds sigh with me,The fair-faced stars seem wrinkled, old,And I would that I might lie with theeThere in the grave so cold, so cold!
Grave walls are thick, I cannot see thee,And the round skies are far and steep;A-wild to quaff some cup of Lethe,Pain is proud and scorns to weep.
My heart breaks if it cling about thee,And still breaks, if far from thine.O drear, drear death, to live without thee,O sad life — to keep thee mine.
. . . . .
Marsh Hymns.
Between Dawn and Sunrise.
Were silver pink, and had a soul,Which soul were shy, which shyness mightA visible influence be, and rollThrough heaven and earth — 'twere thou, O light!
O rhapsody of the wraith of red,O blush but yet in prophecy,O sun-hint that hath overspreadSky, marsh, my soul, and yonder sail.
Thou and I.
So one in heart and thought, I trow,That thou might'st press the strings and I might draw the bowAnd both would meet in music sweet,Thou and I, I trow.
____ 1881.
The Hard Times in Elfland.
A Story of Christmas Eve.
Strange that the termagant winds should scoldThe Christmas Eve so bitterly!But Wife, and Harry the four-year-old,Big Charley, Nimblewits, and I,
Blithe as the wind was bitter, drewMore frontward of the mighty fire,Where wise Newfoundland Fan foreknewThe heaven that Christian dogs desire —
Stretched o'er the rug, serene and grave,Huge nose on heavy paws reclined,With never a drowning boy to save,And warmth of body and peace of mind.
And, as our happy circle sat,The fire well capp'd the company:In grave debate or careless chat,A right good fellow, mingled he:
He seemed as one of us to sit,And talked of things above, below,With flames more winsome than our wit,And coals that burned like love aglow.
While thus our rippling discourse rolledSmooth down the channel of the night,We spoke of Time: thereat, one toldA parable of the Seasons' flight.
"Time was a Shepherd with four sheep.In a certain Field he long abode.He stood by the bars, and his flock bade leapOne at a time to the Common Road.
"And first there leapt, like bird on wing,A lissome Lamb that played in the air.I heard the Shepherd call him `Spring':Oh, large-eyed, fresh and snowy fair
"He skipped the flowering Highway fast,Hurried the hedgerows green and white,Set maids and men a-yearning, passedThe Bend, and gamboll'd out of sight.
"And next marched forth a matron Ewe(While Time took down a bar for her),Udder'd so large 'twas much adoE'en then to clear the barrier.
"Full softly shone her silken fleeceWhat stately time she paced along:Each heartsome hoof-stroke wrought increaseOf sunlight, substance, seedling, song,
"In flower, in fruit, in field, in bird,Till the great globe, rich fleck'd and pied,Like some large peach half pinkly furred,Turned to the sun a glowing side
"And hung in the heavenly orchard, bright,None-such, complete.Then, while the EweSlow passed the Bend, a blur of light,The Shepherd's face in sadness grew:
"`Summer!' he said, as one would sayA sigh in syllables. So, in haste(For shame of Summer's long delay,Yet gazing still what way she paced),
"He summoned Autumn, slanting downThe second bar. Thereover strodeA Wether, fleeced in burning brown,And largely loitered down the Road.
"Far as the farmers sight his shapeMajestic moving o'er the way,All cry `To harvest,' crush the grape,And haul the corn and house the hay,
"Till presently, no man can say,(So brown the woods that line that end)If yet the brown-fleeced Wether may,Or not, have passed beyond the Bend.
"Now turn I towards the Shepherd: lo,An aged Ram, flapp'd, gnarly-horn'd,With bones that crackle o'er the snow,Rheum'd, wind-gall'd, rag-fleec'd, burr'd and thorn'd.
"Time takes the third bar off for him,He totters down the windy lane.'Tis Winter, still: the Bend lies dim.O Lamb, would thou wouldst leap again!"
Those seasons out, we talked of these:And I (with inward purpose slyTo shield my purse from Christmas treesAnd stockings and wild robbery
When Hal and Nimblewits invadeMy cash in Santa Claus's name)In full the hard, hard times surveyed;Denounced all waste as crime and shame;
Hinted that "waste" might be a termIncluding skates, velocipedes,Kites, marbles, soldiers, towers infirm,Bows, arrows, cannon, Indian reeds,
Cap-pistols, drums, mechanic toys,And all th' infernal host of hornsWhereby to strenuous hells of noiseAre turned the blessed Christmas morns;
Thus, roused — those horns! — to sacred rage,I rose, forefinger high in air,When Harry cried (SOME war to wage),"Papa, is hard times ev'ywhere?
"Maybe in Santa Claus's landIt isn't hard times none at all!"Now, blessed Vision! to my handMost pat, a marvel strange did fall.
Scarce had my Harry ceased, when "Look!"He cried, leapt up in wild alarm,Ran to my Comrade, shelter tookBeneath the startled mother's arm.
And so was still: what time we sawA foot hang down the fireplace! Then,With painful scrambling scratched and raw,Two hands that seemed like hands of men
Eased down two legs and a body throughThe blazing fire, and forth there cameBefore our wide and wondering viewA figure shrinking half with shame,
And half with weakness. "Sir," I said,— But with a mien of dignityThe seedy stranger raised his head:"My friends, I'm Santa Claus," said he.
But oh, how changed! That rotund faceThe new moon rivall'd, pale and thin;Where once was cheek, now empty space;Whate'er stood out, did now stand in.
His piteous legs scarce propped him up:His arms mere sickles seemed to be:But most o'erflowed our sorrow's cupWhen that we saw — or did not see —
His belly: we remembered howIt shook like a bowl of jelly fine:An earthquake could not shake it now;He HAD no belly — not a sign.
"Yes, yes, old friends, you well may stare:I HAVE seen better days," he said:"But now, with shrinkage, loss and care,Your Santa Claus scarce owns his head.
"We've had such hard, hard times this yearFor goblins! Never knew the like.All Elfland's mortgaged! And we fearThe gnomes are just about to strike.
"I once was rich, and round, and hale.The whole world called me jolly brick;But listen to a piteous tale.Young Harry, — Santa Claus is sick!
"'Twas thus: a smooth-tongued railroad manComes to my house and talks to me:`I've got,' says he, `a little planThat suits this nineteenth century.
"`Instead of driving, as you do,Six reindeer slow from house to house,Let's build a Grand Trunk Railway throughFrom here to earth's last terminus.
"`We'll touch at every chimney-top(An Elevated Track, of course),Then, as we whisk you by, you'll dropEach package down: just think, the force
"`You'll save, the time! — Besides, we'll makeOur millions: look you, soon we willCompete for freights — and then we'll takeDame Fortune's bales of good and ill
"`(Why, she's the biggest shipper, sir,That e'er did business in this world!):Then Death, that ceaseless Traveller,Shall on his rounds by us be whirled.
"`When ghosts return to walk with men,We'll bring 'em cheap by steam, and fast:We'll run a Branch to heaven! and thenWe'll riot, man; for then, at last
"`We'll make with heaven a contract fairTo call, each hour, from town to town,And carry the dead folks' souls up there,And bring the unborn babies down!'
"The plan seemed fair: I gave him cash,Nay, every penny I could raise.My wife e'er cried, `'Tis rash, 'tis rash:'How could I know the stock-thief's ways?
"But soon I learned full well, poor fool!My woes began, that wretched day.The President plied me like a tool.In lawyer's fees, and rights of way,
"Injunctions, leases, charters, IWas meshed as in a mighty maze.The stock ran low, the talk ran high:Then quickly flamed the final blaze.
"With never an inch of track — 'tis true!The debts were large . . . the oft-told tale.The President rolled in splendor new— He bought my silver at the sale.
"Yes, sold me out: we've moved away.I've had to give up everything.My reindeer, even, whom I . . . pray,Excuse me" . . . here, o'er-sorrowing,
Poor Santa Claus burst into tears,Then calmed again: "my reindeer fleet,I gave them up: on foot, my dears,I now must plod through snow and sleet.
"Retrenchment rules in Elfland, now;Yes, every luxury is cut off.— Which, by the way, reminds me howI caught this dreadful hacking cough:
"I cut off the tail of my Ulster furredTo make young Kris a coat of state.That very night the storm occurred!Thus we became the sport of Fate.
"For I was out till after one,Surveying chimney-tops and roofs,And planning how it could be doneWithout my reindeers' bouncing hoofs.
"`My dear,' says Mrs. Claus, that night(A most superior woman she!)`It never, never can be rightThat you, deep-sunk in poverty,
"`This year should leave your poor old bed,And trot about, bent down with toys,(There's Kris a-crying now for bread!)To give to other people's boys.
"`Since you've been out, the news arrivesThe Elfs' Insurance Company's gone.Ah, Claus, those premiums! Now, our livesDepend on yours: thus griefs go on.
"`And even while you're thus harassed,I do believe, if out you went,You'd go, in spite of all that's passed,To the children of that President!'
"Oh, Charley, Harry, Nimblewits,These eyes, that night, ne'er slept a wink.My path seemed honeycombed with pits.Naught could I do but think and think.
"But, with the day, my courage rose.Ne'er shall my boys, MY boys (I cried),When Christmas morns their eyes unclose,Find empty stockings gaping wide!
"Then hewed and whacked and whittled I;The wife, the girls and Kris took fire;They spun, sewed, cut, — till by and byWe made, at home, my pack entire!"
(He handed me a bundle, here.)"Now, hoist me up: there, gently: quick!Dear boys, DON'T look for much this year:Remember, Santa Claus is sick!"
____ Baltimore, December, 1877.
Dialect Poems.
A Florida Ghost.
Down mildest shores of milk-white sand,By cape and fair Floridian bay,Twixt billowy pines — a surf asleep on land —And the great Gulf at play,
Past far-off palms that filmed to nought,Or in and out the cunning keysThat laced the land like fragile patterns wroughtTo edge old broideries,
The sail sighed on all day for joy,The prow each pouting wave did leaveAll smile and song, with sheen and ripple coy,Till the dusk diver Eve
Brought up from out the brimming EastThe oval moon, a perfect pearl.In that large lustre all our haste surceased,The sail seemed fain to furl,
The silent steersman landward turned,And ship and shore set breast to breast.Under a palm wherethrough a planet burnedWe ate, and sank to rest.
But soon from sleep's dear death (it seemed)I rose and strolled along the seaDown silver distances that faintly gleamedOn to infinity.
Till suddenly I paused, for lo!A shape (from whence I ne'er divined)Appeared before me, pacing to and fro,With head far down inclined.
`A wraith' (I thought) `that walks the shoreTo solve some old perplexity.'Full heavy hung the draggled gown he wore;His hair flew all awry.
He waited not (as ghosts oft use)To be `dearheaven'd!' and `oh'd!'But briskly said: "Good-evenin'; what's the news?Consumption? After boa'd?
"Or mebbe you're intendin' ofInvestments? Orange-plantin'? Pine?Hotel? or Sanitarium? What aboveThis yea'th CAN be your line?
"Speakin' of sanitariums, now,Jest look 'ee here, my friend:I know a little story, — well, I swow,Wait till you hear the end!
"Some year or more ago, I s'pose,I roamed from Maine to Floridy,And, — see where them Palmettos grows?I bought that little key,
"Cal'latin' for to build right offA c'lossal sanitarium:Big surf! Gulf breeze! Jest death upon a cough!— I run it high, to hum!
"Well, sir, I went to work in style:Bought me a steamboat, loaded itWith my hotel (pyazers more'n a mile!)Already framed and fit,
"Insured 'em, fetched 'em safe around,Put up my buildin', moored my boat,COM-plete! then went to bed and slept as soundAs if I'd paid a note.
"Now on that very night a squall,Cum up from some'eres — some bad place!An' blowed an' tore an' reared an' pitched an' all,— I had to run a race
"Right out o' bed from that hotelAn' git to yonder risin' ground,For, 'twixt the sea that riz and rain that fell,I pooty nigh was drowned!
"An' thar I stood till mornin' cum,Right on yon little knoll of sand,FreQUENTly wishin' I had stayed to humFur from this tarnal land.
"When mornin' cum, I took a goodLong look, and — well, sir, sure's I'm ME —That boat laid right whar that hotel had stood,And HIT sailed out to sea!
"No: I'll not keep you: good-bye, friend.Don't think about it much, — preehapsYour brain might git see-sawin', end for end,Like them asylum chaps,
"For here *I* walk, forevermore,A-tryin' to make it gee,How one same wind could blow my ship to shoreAnd my hotel to sea!"
____ Chadd's Ford, Pennsylvania, 1877.
Uncle Jim's Baptist Revival Hymn.
By Sidney and Clifford Lanier.
[Not long ago a certain Georgia cotton-planter, driven to desperation by awaking each morning to find that the grass had quite outgrown the cotton overnight, and was likely to choke it, in defiance of his lazy freedmen's hoes and ploughs, set the whole State in a laugh by exclaiming to a group of fellow-sufferers: "It's all stuff about Cincinnatus leaving the plough to go into politics FOR PATRIOTISM; he was just a-runnin' from grass!"
This state of things — when the delicate young rootlets of the cotton are struggling against the hardier multitudes of the grass-suckers — is universally described in plantation parlance by the phrase "in the grass"; and Uncle Jim appears to have found in it so much similarity to the condition of his own ("Baptis'") church, overrun, as it was, by the cares of this world, that he has embodied it in the refrain of a revival hymn such as the colored improvisator of the South not infrequently constructs from his daily surroundings. He has drawn all the ideas of his stanzas from the early morning phenomena of those critical weeks when the loud plantation-horn is blown before daylight, in order to rouse all hands for a long day's fight against the common enemy of cotton-planting mankind.
In addition to these exegetical commentaries, the Northern reader probably needs to be informed that the phrase "peerten up" means substantially `to spur up', and is an active form of the adjective "peert" (probably a corruption of `pert'), which is so common in the South, and which has much the signification of "smart" in New England, as e.g., a "peert" horse, in antithesis to a "sorry" — i.e., poor, mean, lazy one.]
Solo. — Sin's rooster's crowed, Ole Mahster's riz,De sleepin'-time is pas';Wake up dem lazy Baptissis,Chorus. — Dey's mightily in de grass, grass,Dey's mightily in de grass.
Ole Mahster's blowed de mornin' horn,He's blowed a powerful blas';O Baptis' come, come hoe de corn,You's mightily in de grass, grass,You's mightily in de grass.
De Meth'dis team's done hitched; O fool,De day's a-breakin' fas';Gear up dat lean ole Baptis' mule,Dey's mightily in de grass, grass,Dey's mightily in de grass.
De workmen's few an' mons'rous slow,De cotton's sheddin' fas';Whoop, look, jes' look at de Baptis' row,Hit's mightily in de grass, grass,Hit's mightily in de grass.
De jay-bird squeal to de mockin'-bird: "Stop!Don' gimme none o' yo' sass;Better sing one song for de Baptis' crop,Dey's mightily in de grass, grass,Dey's mightily in de grass."
And de ole crow croak: "Don' work, no, no;"But de fiel'-lark say, "Yaas, yaas,An' I spec' you mighty glad, you debblish crow,Dat de Baptissis's in de grass, grass,Dat de Baptissis's in de grass!"
Lord, thunder us up to de plowin'-match,Lord, peerten de hoein' fas',Yea, Lord, hab mussy on de Baptis' patch,Dey's mightily in de grass, grass,Dey's mightily in de grass.
____ 1876.
"Nine from Eight".
I was drivin' my two-mule waggin,With a lot o' truck for sale,Towards Macon, to git some baggin'(Which my cotton was ready to bale),And I come to a place on the side o' the pikeWhar a peert little winter branch jest had throw'dThe sand in a kind of a sand-bar like,And I seed, a leetle ways up the road,A man squattin' down, like a big bull-toad,On the ground, a-figgerin' thar in the sandWith his finger, and motionin' with his hand,And he looked like Ellick Garry.And as I driv up, I heerd him bleatTo hisself, like a lamb: "Hauh? nine from eightLeaves nuthin' — and none to carry?"
And Ellick's bull-cart was standin'A cross-wise of the way,And the little bull was a-expandin',Hisself on a wisp of hay.But Ellick he sat with his head bent down,A-studyin' and musin' powerfully,And his forrud was creased with a turrible frown,And he was a-wurken' appearentlyA 'rethmetic sum that wouldn't gee,Fur he kep' on figgerin' away in the sandWith his finger, and motionin' with his hand,And I seed it WAS Ellick Garry.And agin I heard him softly bleatTo hisself, like a lamb: "Hauh? nine from eightLeaves nuthin' — and none to carry!"
I woa'd my mules mighty easy(Ellick's back was towards the roadAnd the wind hit was sorter breezy)And I got down off'n my load,And I crep' up close to Ellick's back,And I heerd him a-talkin' softly, thus:"Them figgers is got me under the hack.I caint see how to git out'n the muss,Except to jest nat'ally fail and bus'!My crap-leen calls for nine hundred and more.My counts o' sales is eight hundred and four,Of cotton for Ellick Garry.Thar's eight, ought, four, jest like on a slate:Here's nine and two oughts — Hauh? nine from eightLeaves nuthin' — and none to carry.
"Them crap-leens, oh, them crap-leens!I giv one to Pardman and Sharks.Hit gobbled me up like snap-beansIn a patch full o' old fiel'-larks.But I thought I could fool the crap-leen nice,And I hauled my cotton to Jammel and Cones.But shuh! 'fore I even had settled my priceThey tuck affidavy without no bonesAnd levelled upon me fur all ther loansTo the 'mount of sum nine hundred dollars or more,And sold me out clean for eight hundred and four,As sure as I'm Ellick Garry!And thar it is down all squar and straight,But I can't make it gee, fur nine from eightLeaves nuthin' — and none to carry."
Then I says "Hello, here, Garry!However you star' and frownThare's somethin' fur YOU to carry,Fur you've worked it upside down!"Then he riz and walked to his little bull-cart,And made like he neither had seen nor heerdNor knowed that I knowed of his raskilly part,And he tried to look as if HE wa'nt feared,And gathered his lines like he never keered,And he driv down the road 'bout a quarter or so,And then looked around, and I hollered "Hello,Look here, Mister Ellick Garry!You may git up soon and lie down late,But you'll always find that nine from eightLeaves nuthin' — and none to carry."
____ Macon, Georgia, 1870.
"Thar's more in the Man than thar is in the Land".
I knowed a man, which he lived in Jones,Which Jones is a county of red hills and stones,And he lived pretty much by gittin' of loans,And his mules was nuthin' but skin and bones,And his hogs was flat as his corn-bread pones,And he had 'bout a thousand acres o' land.
This man — which his name it was also Jones —He swore that he'd leave them old red hills and stones,Fur he couldn't make nuthin' but yallerish cotton,And little o' THAT, and his fences was rotten,And what little corn he had, HIT was boughtenAnd dinged ef a livin' was in the land.
And the longer he swore the madder he got,And he riz and he walked to the stable lot,And he hollered to Tom to come thar and hitchFur to emigrate somewhar whar land was rich,And to quit raisin' cock-burrs, thistles and sich,And a wastin' ther time on the cussed land.
So him and Tom they hitched up the mules,Pertestin' that folks was mighty big foolsThat 'ud stay in Georgy ther lifetime out,Jest scratchin' a livin' when all of 'em moughtGit places in Texas whar cotton would sproutBy the time you could plant it in the land.
And he driv by a house whar a man named BrownWas a livin', not fur from the edge o' town,And he bantered Brown fur to buy his place,And said that bein' as money was skace,And bein' as sheriffs was hard to face,Two dollars an acre would git the land.
They closed at a dollar and fifty cents,And Jones he bought him a waggin and tents,And loaded his corn, and his wimmin, and truck,And moved to Texas, which it tuckHis entire pile, with the best of luck,To git thar and git him a little land.
But Brown moved out on the old Jones' farm,And he rolled up his breeches and bared his arm,And he picked all the rocks from off'n the groun',And he rooted it up and he plowed it down,Then he sowed his corn and his wheat in the land.
Five years glid by, and Brown, one day(Which he'd got so fat that he wouldn't weigh),Was a settin' down, sorter lazily,To the bulliest dinner you ever see,When one o' the children jumped on his kneeAnd says, "Yan's Jones, which you bought his land."
And thar was Jones, standin' out at the fence,And he hadn't no waggin, nor mules, nor tents,Fur he had left Texas afoot and cumTo Georgy to see if he couldn't git sumEmployment, and he was a lookin' as hum-Ble as ef he had never owned any land.
But Brown he axed him in, and he sotHim down to his vittles smokin' hot,And when he had filled hisself and the floorBrown looked at him sharp and riz and sworeThat, "whether men's land was rich or poorThar was more in the MAN than thar was in the LAND."
____ Macon, Georgia, 1869.
Jones's Private Argyment.
That air same Jones, which lived in Jones,He had this pint about him:He'd swear with a hundred sighs and groans,That farmers MUST stop gittin' loans,And git along without 'em:
That bankers, warehousemen, and sichWas fatt'nin' on the planter,And Tennessy was rotten-richA-raisin' meat and corn, all whichDraw'd money to Atlanta:
And the only thing (says Jones) to doIs, eat no meat that's boughten:`But tear up every I, O, U,And plant all corn and swear for trueTo quit a-raisin' cotton!'
Thus spouted Jones (whar folks could hear,— At Court and other gatherin's),And thus kep' spoutin' many a year,Proclaimin' loudly far and nearSich fiddlesticks and blatherin's.
But, one all-fired sweatin' day,It happened I was hoein'My lower corn-field, which it lay'Longside the road that runs my wayWhar I can see what's goin'.
And a'ter twelve o'clock had comeI felt a kinder faggin',And laid myself un'neath a plumTo let my dinner settle sum,When 'long come Jones's waggin,
And Jones was settin' in it, SO:A-readin' of a paper.His mules was goin' powerful slow,Fur he had tied the lines ontoThe staple of the scraper.
The mules they stopped about a rodFrom me, and went to feedin''Longside the road, upon the sod,But Jones (which he had tuck a tod)Not knowin', kept a-readin'.
And presently says he: "Hit's true;That Clisby's head is level.Thar's one thing farmers all must do,To keep themselves from goin' tewBankruptcy and the devil!
"More corn! more corn! MUST plant less ground,And MUSTN'T eat what's boughten!Next year they'll do it: reasonin's sound:(And, cotton will fetch 'bout a dollar a pound),THARFORE, I'LL plant ALL cotton!"
____ Macon, Georgia, 1870.
The Power of Prayer; or, The First Steamboat up the Alabama.
By Sidney and Clifford Lanier.
You, Dinah! Come and set me whar de ribber-roads does meet.De Lord, HE made dese black-jack roots to twis' into a seat.Umph, dar! De Lord have mussy on dis blin' ole nigger's feet.
It 'pear to me dis mornin' I kin smell de fust o' June.I 'clar', I b'lieve dat mockin'-bird could play de fiddle soon!Dem yonder town-bells sounds like dey was ringin' in de moon.
Well, ef dis nigger IS been blind for fo'ty year or mo',Dese ears, DEY sees the world, like, th'u' de cracks dat's in de do'.For de Lord has built dis body wid de windows 'hind and 'fo'.
I know my front ones IS stopped up, and things is sort o' dim,But den, th'u' DEM, temptation's rain won't leak in on ole Jim!De back ones show me earth enough, aldo' dey's mons'ous slim.
And as for Hebben, — bless de Lord, and praise His holy name —DAT shines in all de co'ners of dis cabin jes' de sameAs ef dat cabin hadn't nar' a plank upon de frame!
Who CALL me? Listen down de ribber, Dinah! Don't you hyarSomebody holl'in' "Hoo, Jim, hoo?" My Sarah died las' y'ar;IS dat black angel done come back to call ole Jim f'om hyar?
My stars, dat cain't be Sarah, shuh! Jes' listen, Dinah, NOW!What KIN be comin' up dat bend, a-makin' sich a row?Fus' bellerin' like a pawin' bull, den squealin' like a sow?
De Lord 'a' mussy sakes alive, jes' hear, — ker-woof, ker-woof —De Debble's comin' round dat bend, he's comin' shuh enuff,A-splashin' up de water wid his tail and wid his hoof!
I'se pow'ful skeered; but neversomeless I ain't gwine run away:I'm gwine to stand stiff-legged for de Lord dis blessed day.YOU screech, and swish de water, Satan! I'se a gwine to pray.
O hebbenly Marster, what thou willest, dat mus' be jes' so,And ef Thou hast bespoke de word, some nigger's bound to go.Den, Lord, please take ole Jim, and lef young Dinah hyar below!
'Scuse Dinah, 'scuse her, Marster; for she's sich a little chile,She hardly jes' begin to scramble up de homeyard stile,But dis ole traveller's feet been tired dis many a many a mile.
I'se wufless as de rotten pole of las' year's fodder-stack.De rheumatiz done bit my bones; you hear 'em crack and crack?I cain'st sit down 'dout gruntin' like 'twas breakin' o' my back.
What use de wheel, when hub and spokes is warped and split, and rotten?What use dis dried-up cotton-stalk, when Life done picked my cotton?I'se like a word dat somebody said, and den done been forgotten.