Second Book of Verse

Eugene Field

Second Book of Verse

A little bit of a woman cameAthwart my path one day;So tiny was she that she seemed to beA pixy strayed from the misty sea,Or a wandering greenwood fay."Oho, you little elf!" I cried,"And what are you doing here?So tiny as you will never doFor the brutal rush and hullaballooOf this practical world, I fear.""Voice have I, good sir," said she. —"'Tis soft as an Angel's sigh,But to fancy a word of yours were heardIn all the din of this world's absurd!"Smiling, I made reply."Hands have I, good sir" she quoth. —"Marry, and that have you!But amid the strife and the tumult rifeIn all the struggle and battle for life,What can those wee hands do?""Eyes have I, good sir," she said. —"Sooth, you have," quoth I,"And tears shall flow therefrom, I trow,And they betimes shall dim with woe,As the hard, hard years go by!"That little bit of a woman castHer two eyes full on me,And they smote me sore to my inmost core,And they hold me slaved forevermore, —Yet would I not be free!That little bit of a woman's handsReached up into my breastAnd rent apart my scoffing heart, —And they buffet it still with such sweet artAs cannot be expressed.That little bit of a woman's voiceHath grown most wondrous dear;Above the blare of all elsewhere(An inspiration that mocks at care)It riseth full and clear.Dear one, I bless the subtle powerThat makes me wholly thine;And I'm proud to say that I bless the dayWhen a little woman wrought her wayInto this life of mine!

FATHER'S WAY

MY father was no pessimist; he loved the things of earth, —Its cheerfulness and sunshine, its music and its mirth.He never sighed or moped around whenever things went wrong, —I warrant me he'd mocked at fate with some defiant song;But, being he warn't much on tune, when times looked sort o' blue,He'd whistle softly to himself this only tune he knew,Now mother, when she heard that tune which father whistled so,Would say, "There's something wrong to-day with Ephraim, I know;He never tries to make believe he's happy that 'ere wayBut that I'm certain as can be there's somethin' wrong to pay."And so betimes, quite natural-like, to us observant youthThere seemed suggestion in that tune of deep, pathetic truth.When Brother William joined the war, a lot of us went downTo see the gallant soldier boys right gayly out of town.A-comin' home, poor mother cried as if her heart would break,And all us children, too, – for hers, and not for William's sake!But father, trudgin' on ahead, his hands behind him so,Kept whistlin' to himself, so sort of solemn-like and low.And when my oldest sister, Sue, was married and went West,Seemed like it took the tuck right out of mother and the rest.She was the sunlight in our home, – why, father used to sayIt wouldn't seem like home at all if Sue should go away;But when she went, a-leavin' us all sorrer and all tears,Poor father whistled lonesome-like – and went to feed the steers.When crops were bad, and other ills befell our homely lot,He'd set of nights and try to act as if he minded not;And when came death and bore away the one he worshipped so,How vainly did his lips belie the heart benumbed with woe!You see the telltale whistle told a mood he'd not admit, —He'd always stopped his whistlin' when he thought we noticed it.I'd like to see that stooping form and hoary head again, —To see the honest, hearty smile that cheered his fellow-men.Oh, could I kiss the kindly lips that spake no creature wrong,And share the rapture of the heart that overflowed with song!Oh, could I hear the little tune he whistled long ago,When he did battle with the griefs he would not have us know!

TO MY MOTHER

HOW fair you are, my mother!Ah, though 't is many a yearSince you were here,Still do I see your beauteous face,And with the glowOf your dark eyes cometh a graceOf long ago.So gentle, too, my mother!Just as of old, upon my brow,Like benedictions now,Falleth your dear hand's touch;And still, as then,A voice that glads me over-muchCometh again,My fair and gentle mother!How you have loved me, mother,I have not power to tell,Knowing full wellThat even in the rest aboveIt is your willTo watch and guard me with your love,Loving me still.And, as of old, my mother,I am content to be a child,By mother's love beguiledFrom all these other charms;So to the lastWithin thy dear, protecting armsHold thou me fast,My guardian angel, mother!

KÖRNER'S BATTLE PRAYER

FATHER, I cry to Thee!Round me the billows of battle are pouring,Round me the thunders of battle are roaring;Father on high, hear Thou my cry, —Father, oh, lead Thou me!Father, oh, lead Thou me!Lead me, o'er Death and its terrors victorious, —See, I acknowledge Thy will as all-glorious;Point Thou the way, lead where it may, —God, I acknowledge Thee!God, I acknowledge Thee!As when the dead leaves of autumn whirl round me,So, when the horrors of war would confound me,Laugh I at fear, knowing Thee near, —Father, oh, bless Thou me!Father, oh, bless Thou me!Living or dying, waking or sleeping,Such as I am, I commit to Thy keeping:Frail though I be, Lord, bless Thou me!Father, I worship Thee!Father, I worship Thee!Not for the love of the riches that perish,But for the freedom and justice we cherish,Stand we or fall, blessing Thee, all —God, I submit to Thee!God, I submit to Thee!Yea, though the terrors of Death pass before me,Yea, with the darkness of Death stealing o'er me,Lord, unto Thee bend I the knee, —Father, I cry to Thee!

GOSLING STEW

IN Oberhausen, on a time,I fared as might a king;And now I feel the muse sublimeInspire me to embalm in rhymeThat succulent and sapid thingBehight of gentile and of JewA gosling stew!The good Herr Schmitz brought out his best, —Soup, cutlet, salad, roast, —And I partook with hearty zest,And fervently anon I blessedThat generous and benignant host,When suddenly dawned on my viewA gosling stew!I sniffed it coming on apace,And as its odors filledThe curious little dining-place,I felt a glow suffuse my face,I felt my very marrow thrilledWith rapture altogether new, —'Twas gosling stew!These callow birds had never playedIn yonder village pond;Had never through the gateway strayed,And plaintive spissant music madeUpon the grassy green beyond:Cooped up, they simply ate and grewFor gosling stew!My doctor said I mustn't eatHigh food and seasoned game;But surely gosling is a meatWith tender nourishment replete.Leastwise I gayly ate this same;I braved dyspepsy – wouldn't youFor gosling stew?I've feasted where the possums grow,Roast turkey have I tried,The joys of canvasbacks I know,And frequently I've eaten crowIn bleak and chill Novembertide;I'd barter all that native crewFor gosling stew!And when from Rhineland I adjournTo seek my Yankee shore,Back shall my memory often turn,And fiercely shall my palate burnFor sweets I'll taste, alas! no more, —Oh, that mein kleine frau could brewA gosling stew!Vain are these keen regrets of mine,And vain the song I sing;Yet would I quaff a stoup of wineTo Oberhausen auf der Rhine,Where fared I like a very king:And here's a last and fond adieuTo gosling stew!

CATULLUS TO LESBIA

COME, my Lesbia, no repining;Let us love while yet we may!Suns go on forever shining;But when we have had our day,Sleep perpetual shall o'ertake us,And no morrow's dawn awake us.Come, in yonder nook reclining,Where the honeysuckle climbs,Let us mock at Fate's designing,Let us kiss a thousand times!And if they shall prove too few, dear,When they're kissed we'll start anew, dear!And should any chance to see us,Goodness! how they'll agonize!How they'll wish that they could be us,Kissing in such liberal wise!Never mind their envious whining;Come, my Lesbia, no repining!

JOHN SMITH

TO-DAY I strayed in Charing Cross, as wretched as could be,With thinking of my home and friends across the tumbling sea;There was no water in my eyes, but my spirits were depressed,And my heart lay like a sodden, soggy doughnut in my breast.This way and that streamed multitudes, that gayly passed me by;Not one in all the crowd knew me, and not a one knew I."Oh for a touch of home!" I sighed; "oh for a friendly face!Oh for a hearty hand-clasp in this teeming, desert place!"And so soliloquizing, as a homesick creature will,Incontinent, I wandered down the noisy, bustling hill,And drifted, automatic-like and vaguely, into Lowe's,Where Fortune had in store a panacea for my woes.The register was open, and there dawned upon my sightA name that filled and thrilled me with a cyclone of delight, —The name that I shall venerate unto my dying day, —The proud, immortal signature: "John Smith, U. S. A."Wildly I clutched the register, and brooded on that name;I knew John Smith, yet could not well identify the same.I knew him North, I knew him South, I knew him East and West;I knew him all so well I knew not which I knew the best.His eyes, I recollect, were gray, and black, and brown, and blue;And when he was not bald, his hair was of chameleon hue;Lean, fat, tall, short, rich, poor, grave, gay, a blonde, and a brunette, —Aha, amid this London fog, John Smith, I see you yet!I see you yet; and yet the sight is all so blurred I seemTo see you in composite, or as in a waking dream.Which are you, John? I'd like to know, that I might weave a rhymeAppropriate to your character, your politics, and clime.So tell me, were you "raised" or "reared"? your pedigree confessIn some such treacherous ism as "I reckon" or "I guess."Let fall your telltale dialect, that instantly I mayIdentify my countryman, "John Smith, U. S. A."It's like as not you air the John that lived aspell agoDeown East, where codfish, beans, 'nd bona-fide schoolma'ams grow;Where the dear old homestead nestles like among the Hampshire hills,And where the robin hops about the cherry-boughs 'nd trills;Where Hubbard squash 'nd huckleberries grow to powerful size,And everything is orthodox from preachers down to pies;Where the red-wing blackbirds swing 'nd call beside the pickril pond,And the crows air cawin' in the pines uv the pasture lot beyond;Where folks complain uv bein' poor, because their money's lentOut West on farms 'nd railroads at the rate uv ten per cent;Where we ust to spark the Baker girls a-comin' home from choir,Or a-settin' namin' apples round the roarin' kitchen fire;Where we had to go to meetin' at least three times a week,And our mothers learnt us good religious Dr. Watts to speak;And where our grandmas sleep their sleep – God rest their souls, I say;And God bless yours, ef you're that John, "John Smith, U. S. A."Or, mebbe, Col. Smith, yo' are the gentleman I knowIn the country whar the finest Democrats 'nd hosses grow;Whar the ladies are all beautiful, an' whar the crap of cawnIs utilized for Burbon, and true awters are bawn.You've ren for jedge, and killed yore man, and bet on Proctor Knott;Yore heart is full of chivalry, yore skin is full of shot;And I disremember whar I've met with gentlemen so trueAs yo' all in Kaintucky, whar blood an' grass are blue,Whar a niggah with a ballot is the signal fo' a fight,Whar the yaller dawg pursues the coon throughout the bammy night,Whar blooms the furtive possum, – pride an' glory of the South!And anty makes a hoe-cake, sah, that melts within yo' mouth,Whar all night long the mockin'-birds are warblin' in the trees,And black-eyed Susans nod and blink at every passing breeze,Whar in a hallowed soil repose the ashes of our Clay, —H'yar's lookin' at yo', Col. "John Smith, U. S. A."Or wuz you that John Smith I knew out yonder in the West, —That part of our Republic I shall always love the best!Wuz you him that went prospectin' in the spring of '69In the Red Hoss Mountain country for the Gosh-all-Hemlock mine?Oh, how I'd liked to clasped your hand, an' set down by your side,And talked about the good old days beyond the Big Divide, —Of the rackaboar, the snaix, the bear, the Rocky Mountain goat,Of the conversazzhyony, 'nd of Casey's tabble-dote,And a word of them old pardners that stood by us long ago, —Three-fingered Hoover, Sorry Tom, and Parson Jim, you know!Old times, old friends, John Smith, would make our hearts beat high again,And we'd see the snow-top mountains like we used to see 'em then;The magpies would go flutterin' like strange sperrits to 'nd fro,And we'd hear the pines a-singin' in the ragged gulch below;And the mountain brook would loiter like upon its windin' way,Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play.You see, John Smith, just which you are I cannot well recall;And, really, I am pleased to think you somehow must be all!For when a man sojourns abroad awhile, as I have done,He likes to think of all the folks he left at home as one.And so they are, – for well you know there's nothing in a name;Our Browns, our Joneses, and our Smiths are happily the same, —All represent the spirit of the land across the sea;All stand for one high purpose in our country of the free.Whether John Smith be from the South, the North, the West, the East,So long as he's American, it mattereth not the least;Whether his crest be badger, bear, palmetto, sword, or pine,His is the glory of the stars that with the stripes combine.Where'er he be, whate'er his lot, he's eager to be known,Not by his mortal name, but by his country's name alone;And so, compatriot, I am proud you wrote your name to-dayUpon the register at Lowe's, "John Smith, U. S. A."

ST. MARTIN'S LANE

ST. MARTIN'S LANE winds up the hill,And trends a devious way;I walk therein amid the dinOf busy London day:I walk where wealth and squalor meet,And think upon a timeWhen others trod this saintly sod,And heard St. Martin's chime.But when those solemn bells invokeThe midnight's slumbrous grace,The ghosts of men come back againTo haunt that curious place:The ghosts of sages, poets, wits,Come back in goodly train;And all night long, with mirth and song,They walk St. Martin's Lane.There's Jerrold paired with Thackeray,Maginn and Thomas Moore,And here and there and everywhereFraserians by the score;And one wee ghost that climbs the hillIs welcomed with a shout, —No king could be revered as he, —The padre, Father Prout!They banter up and down the street,And clamor at the doorOf yonder inn, which once has beenThe scene of mirth galore:'Tis now a lonely, musty shell,Deserted, like to fall;And Echo mocks their ghostly knocks,And iterates their call.Come back, thou ghost of ruddy host,From Pluto's misty shore;Renew to-night the keen delightOf by-gone years once more;Brew for this merry, motley horde,And serve the steaming cheer;And grant that I may lurk hard by,To see the mirth, and hear.Ah, me! I dream what things may seemTo others childish vain,And yet at night 'tis my delightTo walk St. Martin's Lane;For, in the light of other days,I walk with those I love,And all the time St. Martin's chimeMakes piteous moan above.

THE SINGING IN GOD'S ACRE

OUT yonder in the moonlight, wherein God's Acre lies,Go angels walking to and fro, singing their lullabies.Their radiant wings are folded, and their eyes are bended low,As they sing among the beds whereon the flowers delight to grow, —"Sleep, oh, sleep!The Shepherd guardeth His sheep.Fast speedeth the night away,Soon cometh the glorious day;Sleep, weary ones, while ye may, —Sleep, oh, sleep!"The flowers within God's Acre see that fair and wondrous sight,And hear the angels singing to the sleepers through the night;And, lo! throughout the hours of day those gentle flowers prolongThe music of the angels in that tender slumber-song, —"Sleep, oh, sleep!The Shepherd loveth His sheep.He that guardeth His flock the bestHath folded them to His loving breast;So sleep ye now, and take your rest, —Sleep, oh, sleep!"From angel and from flower the years have learned that soothing song,And with its heavenly music speed the days and nights along;So through all time, whose flight the Shepherd's vigils glorify,God's Acre slumbereth in the grace of that sweet lullaby, —"Sleep, oh, sleep!The Shepherd loveth His sheep.Fast speedeth the night away,Soon cometh the glorious day;Sleep, weary ones, while ye may, —Sleep, oh, sleep!"

DEAR OLD LONDON

WHEN I was broke in London in the fall of '89,I chanced to spy in Oxford Street this tantalizing sign, —"A Splendid Horace cheap for Cash!" Of course I had to lookUpon the vaunted bargain, and it was a noble book!A finer one I've never seen, nor can I hope to see, —The first edition, richly bound, and clean as clean can be;And, just to think, for three-pounds-ten I might have had that Pine,When I was broke in London in the fall of '89!Down at Noseda's, in the Strand, I found, one fateful day,A portrait that I pined for as only maniac may, —A print of Madame Vestris (she flourished years ago,Was Bartolozzi's daughter and a thoroughbred, you know).A clean and handsome print it was, and cheap at thirty bob, —That's what I told the salesman, as I choked a rising sob;But I hung around Noseda's as it were a holy shrine,When I was broke in London in the fall of '89.At Davey's, in Great Russell Street, were autographs galore,And Mr. Davey used to let me con that precious store.Sometimes I read what warriors wrote, sometimes a king's command,But oftener still a poet's verse, writ in a meagre hand.Lamb, Byron, Addison, and Burns, Pope, Johnson, Swift, and Scott, —It needed but a paltry sum to comprehend the lot;Yet, though Friend Davey marked 'em down, what could I but decline?For I was broke in London in the fall of '89.Of antique swords and spears I saw a vast and dazzling heapThat Curio Fenton offered me at prices passing cheap;And, oh, the quaint old bureaus, and the warming-pans of brass,And the lovely hideous freaks I found in pewter and in glass!And, oh, the sideboards, candlesticks, the cracked old china plates,The clocks and spoons from Amsterdam that antedate all dates!Of such superb monstrosities I found an endless mineWhen I was broke in London in the fall of '89.O ye that hanker after boons that others idle by, —The battered things that please the soul, though they may vex the eye, —The silver plate and crockery all sanctified with grime,The oaken stuff that has defied the tooth of envious Time,The musty tomes, the speckled prints, the mildewed bills of play,And other costly relics of malodorous decay, —Ye only can appreciate what agony was mineWhen I was broke in London in the fall of '89.When, in the course of natural things, I go to my reward,Let no imposing epitaph my martyrdoms record;Neither in Hebrew, Latin, Greek, nor any classic tongue,Let my ten thousand triumphs over human griefs be sung;But in plain Anglo-Saxon – that he may know who seeksWhat agonizing pangs I've had while on the hunt for freaks —Let there be writ upon the slab that marks my grave this line:"Deceased was broke in London in the fall of '89."

CORSICAN LULLABY

BAMBINO in his cradle slept;And by his side his grandam grimBent down and smiled upon the child,And sung this lullaby to him, —This "ninna and anninia":"When thou art older, thou shalt mindTo traverse countries far and wide,And thou shalt go where roses blowAnd balmy waters singing glide —So ninna and anninia!"And thou shalt wear, trimmed up in points,A famous jacket edged in red,And, more than that, a peaked hat,All decked in gold, upon thy head —Ah! ninna and anninia!"Then shalt thou carry gun and knife.Nor shall the soldiers bully thee;Perchance, beset by wrong or debt,A mighty bandit thou shalt be —So ninna and anninia!"No woman yet of our proud raceLived to her fourteenth year unwed;The brazen churl that eyed a girlBought her the ring or paid his head —So ninna and anninia!"But once came spies (I know the thieves!)And brought disaster to our race;God heard us when our fifteen menWere hanged within the market-place —But ninna and anninia!"Good men they were, my babe, and true, —Right worthy fellows all, and strong;Live thou and be for them and meAvenger of that deadly wrong —So ninna and anninia!"

THE CLINK OF THE ICE

NOTABLY fond of music, I dote on a sweeter toneThan ever the harp has uttered or ever the lute has known.When I wake at five in the morning with a feeling in my headSuggestive of mild excesses before I retired to bed;When a small but fierce volcano vexes me sore inside,And my throat and mouth are furred with a fur that seemeth a buffalo hide, —How gracious those dews of solace that over my senses fallAt the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall!Oh, is it the gaudy ballet, with features I cannot name,That kindles in virile bosoms that slow but devouring flame?Or is it the midnight supper, eaten before we retire,That presently by combustion setteth us all afire?Or is it the cheery magnum? – nay, I'll not chide the cupThat makes the meekest mortal anxious to whoop things up:Yet, what the cause soever, relief comes when we call, —Relief with that rapturous clinkety-clink that clinketh alike for all.I've dreamt of the fiery furnace that was one vast bulk of flame,And that I was Abednego a-wallowing in that same;And I've dreamt I was a crater, possessed of a mad desireTo vomit molten lava, and to snort big gobs of fire;I've dreamt I was Roman candles and rockets that fizzed and screamed, —In short, I have dreamt the cussedest dreams that ever a human dreamed:But all the red-hot fancies were scattered quick as a winkWhen the spirit within that pitcher went clinking its clinkety-clink.Boy, why so slow in coming with that gracious, saving cup?Oh, haste thee to the succor of the man who is burning up!See how the ice bobs up and down, as if it wildly stroveTo reach its grace to the wretch who feels like a red-hot kitchen stove!The piteous clinks it clinks methinks should thrill you through and through:An erring soul is wanting drink, and he wants it p. d. q.!And, lo! the honest pitcher, too, falls in so dire a fretThat its pallid form is presently bedewed with a chilly sweat.May blessings be showered upon the man who first devised this drinkThat happens along at five a. m. with its rapturous clinkety-clink!I never have felt the cooling flood go sizzling down my throatBut what I vowed to hymn a hymn to that clinkety-clink devote;So now, in the prime of my manhood, I polish this lyric gemFor the uses of all good fellows who are thirsty at five a. m.,But specially for those fellows who have known the pleasing thrallOf the clink of the ice in the pitcher the boy brings up the hall.

THE BELLS OF NOTRE DAME

WHAT though the radiant thoroughfareTeems with a noisy throng?What though men bandy everywhereThe ribald jest and song?Over the din of oaths and criesBroodeth a wondrous calm,And mid that solemn stillness riseThe bells of Notre Dame."Heed not, dear Lord," they seem to say,"Thy weak and erring child;And thou, O gentle Mother, prayThat God be reconciled;And on mankind, O Christ, our King,Pour out Thy gracious balm," —'Tis thus they plead and thus they sing,Those bells of Notre Dame.And so, methinks, God, bending downTo ken the things of earth,Heeds not the mockery of the townOr cries of ribald mirth;For ever soundeth in His earsA penitential psalm, —'T is thy angelic voice He hears,O bells of Notre Dame!Plead on, O bells, that thy sweet voiceMay still forever beAn intercession to rejoiceBenign divinity;And that thy tuneful grace may fallLike dew, a quickening balm,Upon the arid hearts of all,O bells of Notre Dame!

LOVER'S LANE, SAINT JO

SAINT JO, Buchanan County,Is leagues and leagues away;And I sit in the gloom of this rented room,And pine to be there to-day.Yes, with London fog around meAnd the bustling to and fro,I am fretting to be across the seaIn Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.I would have a brown-eyed maidenGo driving once again;And I'd sing the song, as we snailed along,That I sung to that maiden then:I purposely say, "as we snailed along,"For a proper horse goes slowIn those leafy aisles, where Cupid smiles,In Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.From her boudoir in the aldersWould peep a lynx-eyed thrush,And we'd hear her say, in a furtive way,To the noisy cricket, "Hush!"To think that the curious creatureShould crane her neck to knowThe various things one says and singsIn Lover's Lane, Saint Jo!But the maples they should shield usFrom the gossips of the place;Nor should the sun, except by pun,Profane the maiden's face;And the girl should do the driving,For a fellow can't, you know,Unless he's neglectful of what's quite respectfulIn Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.Ah! sweet the hours of springtime,When the heart inclines to woo,And it's deemed all right for the callow wightTo do what he wants to do;But cruel the age of winter,When the way of the world says noTo the hoary men who would woo againIn Lover's Lane, Saint Jo!In the Union Bank of LondonAre forty pounds or more,Which I'm like to spend, ere the month shall end,In an antiquarian store;But I'd give it all, and gladly,If for an hour or soI could feel the grace of a distant place, —Of Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.Let us sit awhile, beloved,And dream of the good old days, —Of the kindly shade which the maples madeRound the stanch but squeaky chaise;With your head upon my shoulder,And my arm about you so,Though exiles, we shall seem to beIn Lover's Lane, Saint Jo.