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 Not of wars and wars’ alarms,
Yours the songs of woman’s charms,
Your tones silk-fitting rosy lips
From which the kissing lyric slips.

When he limped along the trail

That his wild men might not fail
Of the sacrament which saves
And lights the shadowed way of graves
Did the halt monk, thinking how
His Saint Francis on the bough
Gathered all the gracious birds,
Preached to them the gospel’s words,
Still his earnest heart to hear
Your lover-calls sing out their cheer,
And for one heart-beat clean forgot
The Christ-fervor of his thought,
Hearing words that thrilled his soul
Ere he wore the hallowed stole,
Among red roses there in Spain
Where he’ll never walk again?

But these tongues you cannot speak,

Hebrew, Latin, Spanish, Greek;
’Tis in Anglo-Saxon tongue
Your name-calls are sweetly sung.

If from Saxon land you hail,

Not the Mayflower was your sail;
But some daring Cavalier
Loved your song and brought you here,—
Fervid, knightly, militant,
Still his heart your raptures chant;
And from his sorrows maybe came
Your minors, wavering like flame
Which marked the ashes that remain
When wild men have burned and slain;
 In your tones the Southern tongue,
Chivalry forever young,
Love the only noble theme
When we’re waking, when we dream?

But your secret still allures,

Whence came those sweetheart names of yours?

You, the American of birds,

You are singing English words;
So where Shakespeare’s tongue we speak
There your secret we must seek.

But your name? that tells it all;

Changes to your tongue befall,
And you can speak each language new
Or sing the last light wind that blew;
You hearken, and new gossipings
Are music-scattered by your wings;
You overhear and feel no shames;
And call out loud the lovers’ names.

In some dear later days you heard

This you sing in true love’s word.

I think that in our war’s some year

Your throat was taught these words so dear;
When Grant’s and Lee’s were names of dread,
Where billowed fields with sweetheart dead.

Your “Peter! Peter,” there you learned

As “Gertie! Gertie” to him yearned.
It was a time when sorrow rent
Full many a heart of sweet content.

’Twas beneath sweet Southern pines;

They walked softly on the spines,
While you, silent, on your nest
 Heard these names, and all the rest
Which passioned from their lips that time
You caught their name-calls in your rhyme;
E’en that night ’neath star-bright skies
Your joy-song sang their sweet Good-bys.

You’re an emigrant, as we;

Other states our birth-states be,
And we bring out memories here,
Bright with smile, or darked with tear;
So in California’s sun
Sings your song, back there begun.

But do you know, O song-heart brave,

That Peter’s in an unknown grave,
Where the Rappahannock flows;
No more fearing war’s dread blows?
And not a mound to mark the place
Where went out his sweetheart face;
And not a bough where some song-mate
Might his hero deeds relate,
And recall in bird-sweet lay
How called he Gertie’s name that day?

And Gertie grieved where the lagoons

Sluggish gulfward with their tunes,
And with breaking heart grew old
Waiting for her soldier bold,—
Dying lonely, lonely past,
Calling “Peter” to the last.

Where she’s resting no one notes,

Save your song-mates with sweet throats.

Do you know? Is that the note

Which sometimes saddens from your throat,
And makes my heart slow down a throb,
And my words hush in a sob?
That’s the Gertie, that’s the Peter
Who go rapturing through your meter!
Since within your song they live
Where skies such sunny brightness give,
Maybe in the Sky of skies
Love calls, hearing love’s replies;
Through some angel-mocking bird
All the earth-old sweetness heard,—
Gertie! Peter! still as dear
As when called their love-names here?

So our thoughts, as your fleet wings

Above the dark earth lightly springs,
Think that skies of brightness say,
“Love is love for aye and aye!”
And this Gertie and this Peter
Gentles love through angel-meter,
Which the grace of God outrhymes,
Calling, calling endless times!

When “Gertie,” “Peter” you so lift

As if the very stars you’d sift,
Down to their souls to voice their bliss,
O mocking-birds, do you know this?

A JOLLY GOOD FRIENDSHIP IS BETTER THAN ALL

(A BALLADE)
By Henry Meade Bland

You may travel in China, Luzon, or Japan;

Or lodge on the plains of the Ultimate West;
You may lounge at your ease on a rich divan;
And drink of red wine at a king’s behest,
Then lie by the hour in slumberous rest,
And be of deep joy a subservient thrall,
Yet awake with a feel that is clearly confessed,
 That a jolly good friendship is better than all!

You may sail from your home-port a half-a-world span,

And touch the Sweet Isle with joy in your breast;
You may sing as you sail, and shout as you scan
The white airy foam-flakes that ride the fair crest
Of orient wave: but, truly the test
Of laughters and pleasures that come at a call
Is fellowship rising in full easy zest—
A jolly good friendship is better than all!

You may listen to Melba or Sembrich and plan

With a five-dollar note to corner the best
Of Caruso’s high-piping; and be in the van
Of those who would fain with great Patti be blest:
But you’ll learn when you come to the end of your quest,
And find that the sweetest in cabin or hall,
No matter what note or what harmony stressed,
The lilt of good friendship is better than all!

ENVOI

Aye, rarer than any rare vintage e’er pressed

For banqueter merry or bold bacchanal;
Aye, better than nectar e’er dream of or guessed—
A jolly good fellowship is better than all.

THE TRAILMAN
(Lines written in 1909 in honor of John Muir)
By Henry Meade Bland

A spirit that pulses forever like the fiery heart of a boy;

A forehead that lifts to the sunlight and is wreathed forever in joy;
A muscle that holds like the iron that binds in the prisoner steam;
Yea, these are the Trailman’s glory; Yea, these are the Trailman’s
dream!
An eye that catches the splendor as it shines from mountain and sky;
And an ear that awakes to the song of the storm as it surges on high;
A sense that garners the beauty of sun, moon, or starry gleam;
Lo, these are the Trailman’s glory; Lo, these are the Trailman’s
dream!

The wild, high climb o’er the mountain, the lodge by the river’s brim;
The glance at the great cloud-horses, as they plunge o’er the range’s
rim;
The juniper’s balm for the nostril, the dash in the cool trout stream;
Yea, these are the Trailman’s glory; Yea, these are the Trailman’s
dream!

The ride up the wild river-canyon where the wild oats grow breast
high;
The shout of the quail on the hillside; the turtle dove flashing by;
An eve round the fragrant fire, and the tales of heroic theme;
Lo, these are the Trailman’s glory; Lo, these are the Trailman’s
dream!

THE HYMN OF THE WIND

By Howard V. Sutherland

I am the Wind, whom none can ever conquer;

I am the Wind, whom none may ever bind.
The One who fashion’d ye,
He, too, has fashion’d me—
He gave to me dominion o’er the air.
Go where ye will, and ye shall ever find
Me singing, ever free,
Over land and over sea,
From the fire-belted Tropics to the Poles.

I am the Wind. I sing the glad Spring’s coming;

I bid the leaves burst forth and greet the sun.
I lure the modest bloom
 From out the soil-sweet gloom;
I bid the wild-bird leave the drowsy South.
My loves are violets. By my pure kisses won,
They spring from earth, and smile,
All-innocent, the while
I woo them in the aisles of pensive woods.

I am the Wind. From dew-pearl’d heights of wonder

I fall like music on the listening wheat.
My hands disturb its calm
Till, like a joyous psalm,
Its swaying benediction greets the sky.
I kiss the pines that brood where seldom falls
The solace of the light,
And the hush’d voice of Night
Soothes the awed mountains in their somber dreams.

I am the Wind. I see enorme creations

Starring the vault above ye, and below.
Where bide the Seraphim
In silent places dim
I pass, and tell your coming in the end.
Omniscient I, eternal; and I know
The gleaming destiny
That waits ye, being free,
When ye have pass’d the border-line of Death.

I am the Wind—the Lord God’s faithful servant;

’Twixt earth and sky I wander, and I know
His Sign is ever found
The blue-veil’d earth around,
As on the furthest spheres that whirl in space,
All things are His; and all things slowly go
Through manifold degrees
Of marvelous mysteries,
From life to highest life, from highest life to Him.

I am the Wind. I know that all is tending

To that bright end; and ye, through years of toil
Shall reach at last the height
Where Freedom is, and Light;
And ye shall find new paths that still lead up.
Be free as I; be patient and have faith;
And when your scroll is writ
And God shall pass on it,
Ye need not fear to face Him—He is Love.

DRIFTING
By Thomas Buchanan Read

My soul to-day
Is far away,
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay;
My wingèd boat,
A bird afloat,
Swims round the purple peaks remote:—

Round purple peaks

It sails and seeks
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks,
Where high rocks throw,
Through deeps below,
A duplicated golden glow.

Far, vague and dim

The mountains swim;
While on Vesuvius’ misty brim,
With outstretched hands,
The gray smoke stands
O’erlooking the volcanic lands.

Here Ischia smiles

O’er liquid miles;
And yonder, bluest of the isles,
 Calm Capri waits,
Her sapphire gates
Beguiling to her bright estates.

I heed not, if
My rippling skiff
Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff;—
With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.

Under the walls

Where swells and falls
The Bay’s deep breast at intervals
At peace I lie,
Blown softly by,
A cloud upon this liquid sky.

The day, so mild,

Is Heaven’s own child,
With Earth and Ocean reconciled;—
The airs I feel
Around me steal
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel.

Over the rail

My hand I trail
Within the shadow of the sail,
A joy intense,
The cooling sense
Glides down my drowsy indolence.

With dreamful eyes

My spirit lies
Where Summer sings and never dies,—
O’erveiled with vines,
She glows and shines
Among her future oil and wines.
 Her children, hid
The cliffs amid,
Are gamboling with the gamboling kid;
Or down the walls,
With tipsy calls,
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls.

The fisher’s child,

With tresses wild,
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,
With glowing lips
Sings as she skips,
Or gazes at the far-off ships.

Yon deep bark goes

Where traffic blows,
From lands of sun to lands of snows;—
This happier one,
Its course is run
From lands of snow to lands of sun.

O happy ship,
To rise and dip,
With the blue crystal at your lip!
O happy crew,
My heart with you
Sails, and sails, and sings anew!

No more, no more
The worldly shore
Upbraids me with its loud uproar;
With dreamful eyes
My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise!

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO
 By Robert Burns

John Anderson, my jo, John,

When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessing on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

We clamb the hill together;
And monie a canty day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we’ll go;
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.

RECESSIONAL
By Rudyard Kipling

God of our fathers, known of old—

Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies—

The captains and the kings depart,
Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
Far-called, our navies melt away—
On dune and headland sinks the fire;
Lo! all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If drunk with sight of power, we loose

Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds, without the law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts its trust

In reeking tube, and iron shard—
All valiant dust, that builds on dust,
And guarding call not Thee to guard—
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord!

MY COUNTRY
By Robert Whitaker

My country is the world; I count

No son of man my foe,
Whether the warm life-currents mount
And mantle brows like snow
Or red or yellow, brown or black,
The face that into mine looks back.

My native land is Mother Earth,

And all men are my kin,
Whether of rude or gentle birth,
However steeped in sin;
Or rich, or poor, or great, or small,
I count them brothers, one and all.

My birthplace is no spot apart,

I claim no town nor State;
Love hath a shrine in every heart,
And wheresoe’er men mate
To do the right and say the truth,
Love evermore renews her youth.

My flag is the star-spangled sky,

Woven without a seam,
Where dawn and sunset colors lie,
Fair as an angel’s dream;
The flag that still, unstained, untorn,
Floats over all of mortal born.

My party is all human-kind,

My platform brotherhood;
I count all men of honest mind
Who work for human good,
And for the hope that gleams afar,
My comrades in this holy war.

My heroes are the great and good

Of every age and clime,
Too often mocked, misunderstood,
And murdered in their time;
But spite of ignorance and hate
Known and exalted soon or late.

My country is the world; I scorn

No lesser love than mine,
But calmly wait that happy morn
When all shall own this sign,
And love of country as of clan,
Shall yield to world-wide love of man.
 SOMEWHERE ADOWN THE YEARS
By Robert Whitaker

Somewhere adown the years there waits a man

Who shall give wings to what my soul has said:
Shall speak for me when I am mute and dead;
And shall perfect the work I but began.

What matter, therefore, if my word to-day

Falls on unwilling ears, finds few to praise?
Since some mere child, in his incipient days,
That word may win to walk a prophet’s way?

And he, of greater gift, more favored state,

Shall speak to thousands where I speak to one:
Shall do the work that I would fain have done;
Helped to that fortune at my lonely gate.

Perchance some Saul of Tarsus, hating me,

And hating mine while yet misunderstood,
Stung by my word shall some day find it good,
And bear it broadcast over land and sea.

Or some Saint Augustine, of careless mien,

Giving himself to sensuous pleasures now,
Shall catch the glory from his mother’s brow
That in some word of mine her soul hath seen.

Nay, but I claim no honor as my own

That is not equally the goal for all
Who run with truth, and care not though it fall
That they must sometimes run with her alone.

God will not suffer any word to fail

That is not uttered for the hour’s success:
No word that has in it the power to bless
Shall lack the means to make it of avail.
Who speaks the people’s weal shall some day find
Voices to bear it to the people’s will.
However potent be the present ill
They who assail it are to-morrow’s kind.

And that to-morrow shall uphold their cause

Who fell not for the plaudits of to-day:
Those who are reckoned rebels in their day
Are always makers of to-morrow’s laws.

Our present skeptics voice to-morrow’s faith;

To-day’s disturbers bring to-morrow’s peace:
’Tis they who dare to die who win release
For all their fellows from the fear of death.

SERENADE
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Stars of the summer night!

Far in your azure deeps,
Hide, hide your golden light!
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!

Moon of the summer night!

Far down yon western steeps,
Sink, sink in silver light!
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!

Wind of the summer night!

Where yonder woodbine creeps,
Fold, fold thy pinions light!
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
 Sleeps!

Dreams of the summer night!

Tell her, her lover keeps
Watch, while in slumbers light
She sleeps!
My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!

THE BROOKSIDE
By Richard Monckton Milnes

I wandered by the brookside,

I wandered by the mill;
I could not hear the brook flow,—
The noisy wheel was still.
There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird,
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree:

I watched the long, long shade,
And, as it grew longer,
I did not feel afraid;
For I listened for a footfall,
I listened for a word,—
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,—no, he came not,—

The night came on alone,—
The little stars sat one by one,
Each on his golden throne;
The evening wind passed by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirred,—
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

Fast, silent tears were flowing,

When something stood behind:
A hand was on my shoulder,—
I knew its touch was kind:
It drew me nearer—nearer—
We did not speak one word,
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG

By John Francis Waller

Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning;

Close by the window young Eileen is spinning;
Bent o’er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting,
Is groaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting,—
“Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping.”
“’Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping.”
“Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing.”
“’Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying.”
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot’s stirring;
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

“What’s that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?”

“’Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under.”
“What makes you be shoving and moving your stool in,
And singing all wrong that old song of ‘The Coolin’?’”
There’s a form at the casement,—the form of her true love,—
And he whispers, with face bent, “I’m waiting for you, love;
Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly,
We’ll rove in the grove while the moon’s shining brightly.”
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot’s stirring;
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing.

The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers,
Steals up from her seat,—longs to go, and yet lingers;
A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother,
Puts one foot on the stool, and spins the wheel with the other.
Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round;
Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel’s sound;
Noiseless and light to the lattice above her
The maid steps,—then leaps to the arms of her lover.
Slower—and slower—and slower the wheel swings;
Lower—and lower—and lower the reel rings;
Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving,
Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving.

DOWN THE LANE

By Clinton Scollard

Down the lane, as I went humming, humming,

Who should I see coming
But May Marjory!
“What was that I heard you humming, humming,
As you saw me coming?
Prithee, tell!” said she.

“Oh,” I smiled, “I was just humming, humming,

As I saw you coming
Where boughs met above,—
And the crickets kept on thrumming, thrumming,
As I saw you coming,—
Something about love!”
Ah, her blush it was becoming—coming,
As I kept on humming
 While we walked along,
And the crickets still were strumming, strumming,
As I kept on humming
That low strain of song.

Drooped her eyes as I continued humming;

Ah, ’twas so becoming
To May Marjory!
Then she raised them, and my heart went thrumming,
Though I kept on humming;
“You’re a dear!” said she.

—From Judge.

THE MOUNTAIN MIST

By Hesper Le Gallienne

I am the mist and the lover of mountains,

I, like a scarf, waft and wave in the breeze;
I am the sister of streams and of fountains,
Born ’neath the roots of the flowers and the trees.
Wayward and free
Listen to me—
I am the Now and the Never-to-Be!

Slowly I rise in the cool of the gloaming,

Softly I creep through the grass and the leaves,
Over the river, on past the men homing,
Men living lives midst the fruit and the sheaves,
Airy and light,
Filmy and white,
I come when Daytime is kissing the Night.

I am the Question, so luring, so cunning,

Yet, when you answer, the Answer is—none!
For, when you watch me skipping and running
Yet, when you catch me, you find I am—gone!
 Catch if you can!
Never there ran
Any so fast, be they maiden or man.

THE LOOM OF LIFE

Anonymous

All day, all night, I can hear the jar

Of the loom of life; and near and far
It thrills with its deep and muffled sound,
As the tireless wheels go always round.
Busily, ceaselessly goes the loom
In the light of day and the midnight’s gloom.
The wheels are turning early and late,
And the woof is wound in the warp of fate.
Click! Clack! there’s a thread of love wove in!
Click! Clack! and another of wrong and sin!

What a checkered thing this life will be,

When we see it unrolled in eternity!
Time, with a face like a mystery,
And hands as busy as hands can be,
Sits at the loom with its warp outspread,
To catch in its meshes each glancing thread.
When shall this wonderful web be done?
In a thousand years, perhaps, or one,
Or to-morrow, who knoweth? Not you nor I,
But the wheels turn on, and the shuttles fly.

Ah, sad-eyed weaver, the years are slow,

But each one is nearer the end, I know.
And some day the last thread shall be wove in,
God grant it be love instead of sin.
Are we spinners of woof for this life web, say?
Do we furnish the weavers a thread each day?
It were better then, O my friend, to spin