Complete Poetical Works

THE RITUALIST

(BY A COMMUNICANT OF "ST. JAMES'S")     He wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we met;     A stole and snowy alb likewise,—I recollect it yet.     He called me "daughter," as he raised his jeweled hand to bless;     And then, in thrilling undertones, he asked, "Would I confess?"     O mother dear! blame not your child, if then on bended knees     I dropped, and thought of Abelard, and also Eloise;     Or when, beside the altar high, he bowed before the pyx,     I envied that seraphic kiss he gave the crucifix.     The cruel world may think it wrong, perhaps may deem me weak,     And, speaking of that sainted man, may call his conduct "cheek;"     And, like that wicked barrister whom Cousin Harry quotes,     May term his mixed chalice "grog," his vestments "petticoats;"     But, whatsoe'er they do or say, I'll build a Christian's hope     On incense and on altar-lights, on chasuble and cope.     Let others prove, by precedent, the faith that they profess:     "His can't be wrong" that's symbolized by such becoming dress.

A MORAL VINDICATOR

     If Mr. Jones, Lycurgus B.,     Had one peculiar quality,     'Twas his severe advocacy     Of conjugal fidelity.     His views of heaven were very free;     His views of life were painfully     Ridiculous; but fervently     He dwelt on marriage sanctity.     He frequently went on a spree;     But in his wildest revelry,     On this especial subject he     Betrayed no ambiguity.     And though at times Lycurgus B.     Did lay his hands not lovingly     Upon his wife, the sanctity     Of wedlock was his guaranty.     But Mrs. Jones declined to see     Affairs in the same light as he,     And quietly got a decree     Divorcing her from that L. B.     And what did Jones, Lycurgus B.,     With his known idiosyncrasy?     He smiled,—a bitter smile to see,—     And drew the weapon of Bowie.     He did what Sickles did to Key,—     What Cole on Hiscock wrought, did he;     In fact, on persons twenty-three     He proved the marriage sanctity.     The counselor who took the fee,     The witnesses and referee,     The judge who granted the decree,     Died in that wholesale butchery.     And then when Jones, Lycurgus B.,     Had wiped the weapon of Bowie,     Twelve jurymen did instantly     Acquit and set Lycurgus free.

CALIFORNIA MADRIGAL

(ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING)     Oh, come, my beloved, from thy winter abode,     From thy home on the Yuba, thy ranch overflowed;     For the waters have fallen, the winter has fled,     And the river once more has returned to its bed.     Oh, mark how the spring in its beauty is near!     How the fences and tules once more reappear!     How soft lies the mud on the banks of yon slough     By the hole in the levee the waters broke through!     All nature, dear Chloris, is blooming to greet     The glance of your eye and the tread of your feet;     For the trails are all open, the roads are all free,     And the highwayman's whistle is heard on the lea.     Again swings the lash on the high mountain trail,     And the pipe of the packer is scenting the gale;     The oath and the jest ringing high o'er the plain,     Where the smut is not always confined to the grain.     Once more glares the sunlight on awning and roof,     Once more the red clay's pulverized by the hoof,     Once more the dust powders the "outsides" with red,     Once more at the station the whiskey is spread.     Then fly with me, love, ere the summer's begun,     And the mercury mounts to one hundred and one;     Ere the grass now so green shall be withered and sear,     In the spring that obtains but one month in the year.

WHAT THE ENGINES SAID

(OPENING OF THE PACIFIC RAILROAD)     What was it the Engines said,     Pilots touching,—head to head     Facing on the single track,     Half a world behind each back?     This is what the Engines said,     Unreported and unread.     With a prefatory screech,     In a florid Western speech,     Said the Engine from the WEST:     "I am from Sierra's crest;     And if altitude's a test,     Why, I reckon, it's confessed     That I've done my level best."     Said the Engine from the EAST:     "They who work best talk the least.     S'pose you whistle down your brakes;     What you've done is no great shakes,     Pretty fair,—but let our meeting     Be a different kind of greeting.     Let these folks with champagne stuffing,     Not their Engines, do the PUFFING.     "Listen!  Where Atlantic beats     Shores of snow and summer heats;     Where the Indian autumn skies     Paint the woods with wampum dyes,—     I have chased the flying sun,     Seeing all he looked upon,     Blessing all that he has blessed,     Nursing in my iron breast     All his vivifying heat,     All his clouds about my crest;     And before my flying feet     Every shadow must retreat."     Said the Western Engine, "Phew!"     And a long, low whistle blew.     "Come, now, really that's the oddest     Talk for one so very modest.     You brag of your East!  YOU do?     Why, I bring the East to YOU!     All the Orient, all Cathay,     Find through me the shortest way;     And the sun you follow here     Rises in my hemisphere.     Really,—if one must be rude,—     Length, my friend, ain't longitude."     Said the Union: "Don't reflect, or     I'll run over some Director."     Said the Central: "I'm Pacific;     But, when riled, I'm quite terrific.     Yet to-day we shall not quarrel,     Just to show these folks this moral,     How two Engines—in their vision—     Once have met without collision."     That is what the Engines said,     Unreported and unread;     Spoken slightly through the nose,     With a whistle at the close.

THE LEGENDS OF THE RHINE

     Beetling walls with ivy grown,     Frowning heights of mossy stone;     Turret, with its flaunting flag     Flung from battlemented crag;     Dungeon-keep and fortalice     Looking down a precipice     O'er the darkly glancing wave     By the Lurline-haunted cave;     Robber haunt and maiden bower,     Home of Love and Crime and Power,—     That's the scenery, in fine,     Of the Legends of the Rhine.     One bold baron, double-dyed     Bigamist and parricide,     And, as most the stories run,     Partner of the Evil One;     Injured innocence in white,     Fair but idiotic quite,     Wringing of her lily hands;     Valor fresh from Paynim lands,     Abbot ruddy, hermit pale,     Minstrel fraught with many a tale,—     Are the actors that combine     In the Legends of the Rhine.     Bell-mouthed flagons round a board;     Suits of armor, shield, and sword;     Kerchief with its bloody stain;     Ghosts of the untimely slain;     Thunder-clap and clanking chain;     Headsman's block and shining axe;     Thumb-screw, crucifixes, racks;     Midnight-tolling chapel bell,     Heard across the gloomy fell,—     These and other pleasant facts     Are the properties that shine     In the Legends of the Rhine.     Maledictions, whispered vows     Underneath the linden boughs;     Murder, bigamy, and theft;     Travelers of goods bereft;     Rapine, pillage, arson, spoil,—     Everything but honest toil,     Are the deeds that best define     Every Legend of the Rhine.     That Virtue always meets reward,     But quicker when it wears a sword;     That Providence has special care     Of gallant knight and lady fair;     That villains, as a thing of course,     Are always haunted by remorse,—     Is the moral, I opine,     Of the Legends of the Rhine.

SONGS WITHOUT SENSE

FOR THE PARLOR AND PIANOI.  THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTAL     Affection's charm no longer gilds       The idol of the shrine;     But cold Oblivion seeks to fill       Regret's ambrosial wine.     Though Friendship's offering buried lies       'Neath cold Aversion's snow,     Regard and Faith will ever bloom       Perpetually below.     I see thee whirl in marble halls,       In Pleasure's giddy train;     Remorse is never on that brow,       Nor Sorrow's mark of pain.     Deceit has marked thee for her own;       Inconstancy the same;     And Ruin wildly sheds its gleam       Athwart thy path of shame.II.  THE HOMELY PATHETIC     The dews are heavy on my brow;       My breath comes hard and low;     Yet, mother dear, grant one request,       Before your boy must go.     Oh! lift me ere my spirit sinks,       And ere my senses fail,     Place me once more, O mother dear,       Astride the old fence-rail.     The old fence-rail, the old fence-rail!       How oft these youthful legs,     With Alice' and Ben Bolt's, were hung       Across those wooden pegs!     'Twas there the nauseating smoke       Of my first pipe arose:     O mother dear, these agonies       Are far less keen than those.     I know where lies the hazel dell,       Where simple Nellie sleeps;     I know the cot of Nettie Moore,       And where the willow weeps.     I know the brookside and the mill,       But all their pathos fails     Beside the days when once I sat       Astride the old fence-rails.III.  SWISS AIR     I'm a gay tra, la, la,     With my fal, lal, la, la,     And my bright—     And my light—         Tra, la, le.       [Repeat.]     Then laugh, ha, ha, ha,     And ring, ting, ling, ling,     And sing fal, la, la,         La, la, le.        [Repeat.]VI.  LITTLE POSTERITY

MASTER JOHNNY'S NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR

     It was spring the first time that I saw her, for her papa and mamma        moved in     Next door, just as skating was over, and marbles about to begin;     For the fence in our back yard was broken, and I saw, as I peeped        through the slat,     There were "Johnny-jump-ups" all around her, and I knew it was        spring just by that.     I never knew whether she saw me, for she didn't say nothing to me,     But "Ma! here's a slat in the fence broke, and the boy that is next        door can see."     But the next day I climbed on our wood-shed, as you know Mamma says        I've a right,     And she calls out, "Well, peekin' is manners!" and I answered her,        "Sass is perlite!"     But I wasn't a bit mad, no, Papa, and to prove it, the very next day,     When she ran past our fence in the morning I happened to get in her        way,—     For you know I am "chunked" and clumsy, as she says are all boys of        my size,—     And she nearly upset me, she did, Pa, and laughed till tears came in        her eyes.     And then we were friends from that moment, for I knew that she told        Kitty Sage,—     And she wasn't a girl that would flatter—"that she thought I was        tall for my age."     And I gave her four apples that evening, and took her to ride on my        sled,     And—  "What am I telling you this for?"  Why, Papa, my neighbor isDEAD!     You don't hear one half I am saying,—I really do think it's too bad!     Why, you might have seen crape on her door-knob, and noticed to-day        I've been sad.     And they've got her a coffin of rosewood, and they say they have        dressed her in white,     And I've never once looked through the fence, Pa, since she died—at        eleven last night.     And Ma says it's decent and proper, as I was her neighbor and friend,     That I should go there to the funeral, and she thinks that YOU ought        to attend;     But I am so clumsy and awkward, I know I shall be in the way,     And suppose they should speak to me, Papa, I wouldn't know just what        to say.     So I think I will get up quite early,—I know I sleep late, but I know     I'll be sure to wake up if our Bridget pulls the string that I'll tie        to my toe;     And I'll crawl through the fence, and I'll gather the "Johnny-jump-ups"        as they grew     Round her feet the first day that I saw her, and, Papa, I'll give        them to you.     For you're a big man, and, you know, Pa, can come and go just where        you choose,     And you'll take the flowers in to her, and surely they'll never        refuse;     But, Papa, don't SAY they're from Johnny; THEY won't understand,        don't you see?     But just lay them down on her bosom, and, Papa, SHE'LL know they're        from Me.

MISS EDITH'S MODEST REQUEST

     My Papa knows you, and he says you're a man who makes reading for        books;     But I never read nothing you wrote, nor did Papa,—I know by his        looks.     So I guess you're like me when I talk, and I talk, and I talk all        the day,     And they only say, "Do stop that child!" or, "Nurse, take Miss Edith        away."     But Papa said if I was good I could ask you—alone by myself—     If you wouldn't write me a book like that little one up on the shelf.     I don't mean the pictures, of course, for to make THEM you've got to        be smart     But the reading that runs all around them, you know,—just the        easiest part.     You needn't mind what it's about, for no one will see it but me,     And Jane,—that's my nurse,—and John,—he's the coachman,—just        only us three.     You're to write of a bad little girl, that was wicked and bold and        all that;     And then you're to write, if you please, something good—very good—        of a cat!     This cat, she was virtuous and meek, and kind to her parents, and        mild,     And careful and neat in her ways, though her mistress was such a bad        child;     And hours she would sit and would gaze when her mistress—that's me—        was so bad,     And blink, just as if she would say, "Oh, Edith! you make my heart        sad."     And yet, you would scarcely believe it, that beautiful, angelic cat     Was blamed by the servants for stealing whatever, they said, she'd        get at.     And when John drank my milk,—don't you tell me!  I know just the        way it was done,—     They said 'twas the cat,—and she sitting and washing her face in        the sun!     And then there was Dick, my canary.  When I left its cage open one        day,     They all made believe that she ate it, though I know that the bird        flew away.     And why?  Just because she was playing with a feather she found on        the floor.     As if cats couldn't play with a feather without people thinking        'twas more!     Why, once we were romping together, when I knocked down a vase from        the shelf,     That cat was as grieved and distressed as if she had done it herself;     And she walked away sadly and hid herself, and never came out until        tea,—     So they say, for they sent ME to bed, and she never came even to me.     No matter whatever happened, it was laid at the door of that cat.     Why, once when I tore my apron,—she was wrapped in it, and I called        "Rat!"—     Why, they blamed that on HER.  I shall never—no, not to my dying        day—     Forget the pained look that she gave me when they slapped ME and        took me away.     Of course, you know just what comes next, when a child is as lovely        as that:     She wasted quite slowly away; it was goodness was killing that cat.     I know it was nothing she ate, for her taste was exceedingly nice;     But they said she stole Bobby's ice cream, and caught a bad cold        from the ice.     And you'll promise to make me a book like that little one up on the        shelf,     And you'll call her "Naomi," because it's a name that she just gave        herself;     For she'd scratch at my door in the morning, and whenever I'd call        out, "Who's there?"     She would answer, "Naomi! Naomi!" like a Christian, I vow and declare.     And you'll put me and her in a book.  And mind, you're to say I was        bad;     And I might have been badder than that but for the example I had.     And you'll say that she was a Maltese, and—what's that you asked?        "Is she dead?"     Why, please, sir, THERE AIN'T ANY CAT!  You're to make one up out of        your head!

MISS EDITH MAKES IT PLEASANT FOR BROTHER JACK

     "Crying!"  Of course I am crying, and I guess you would be crying,        too,     If people were telling such stories as they tell about me, about YOU.     Oh yes, you can laugh if you want to, and smoke as you didn't care        how,     And get your brains softened like uncle's.  Dr. Jones says you're        gettin' it now.     Why don't you say "Stop!" to Miss Ilsey?  She cries twice as much as        I do,     And she's older and cries just from meanness,—for a ribbon or        anything new.     Ma says it's her "sensitive nature."  Oh my!  No, I sha'n't stop my        talk!     And I don't want no apples nor candy, and I don't want to go take a        walk!     I know why you're mad!  Yes, I do, now!  You think that Miss Ilsey        likes YOU,     And I've heard her REPEATEDLY call you the bold-facest boy that she        knew;     And she'd "like to know where you learnt manners."  Oh yes!  Kick        the table,—that's right!     Spill the ink on my dress, and go then round telling Ma that I look        like a fright!     What stories?  Pretend you don't know that they're saying I broke        off the match     Twixt old Money-grubber and Mary, by saying she called him        "Crosspatch,"     When the only allusion I made him about sister Mary was, she     Cared more for his cash than his temper, and you know, Jack, you        said that to me.     And it's true!  But it's ME, and I'm scolded, and Pa says if I keep        on I might     By and by get my name in the papers!  Who cares?  Why, 'twas only        last night     I was reading how Pa and the sheriff were selling some lots, and        it's plain     If it's awful to be in the papers, why, Papa would go and complain.     You think it ain't true about Ilsey?  Well, I guess I know girls,        and I say     There's nothing I see about Ilsey to show she likes you, anyway!     I know what it means when a girl who has called her cat after one        boy     Goes and changes its name to another's.  And she's done it—and I        wish you joy!

MISS EDITH MAKES ANOTHER FRIEND

     Oh, you're the girl lives on the corner?  Come in—if you want to—        come quick!     There's no one but me in the house, and the cook—but she's only a        stick.     Don't try the front way, but come over the fence—through the        window—that's how.     Don't mind the big dog—he won't bite you—just see him obey me!        there, now!     What's your name?  Mary Ellen?  How funny!  Mine's Edith—it's        nicer, you see;     But yours does for you, for you're plainer, though maybe you're        gooder than me;     For Jack says I'm sometimes a devil, but Jack, of all folks, needn't        talk,     For I don't call the seamstress an angel till Ma says the poor thing        must "walk."     Come in!  It's quite dark in the parlor, for sister will keep the        blinds down,     For you know her complexion is sallow like yours, but she isn't as        brown;     Though Jack says that isn't the reason she likes to sit here with        Jim Moore.     Do you think that he meant that she kissed him?  Would you—if your        lips wasn't sore?     If you like, you can try our piano.  'Tain't ours.  A man left it        here     To rent by the month, although Ma says he hasn't been paid for a        year.     Sister plays—oh, such fine variations!—why, I once heard a        gentleman say     That she didn't mind THAT for the music—in fact, it was just in her        way!     Ain't I funny?  And yet it's the queerest of all that, whatever I        say,     One half of the folks die a-laughing, and the rest, they all look        t'other way.     And some say, "That child!"  Do they ever say that to such people as        you?     Though maybe you're naturally silly, and that makes your eyes so        askew.     Now stop—don't you dare to be crying!  Just as sure as you live, if        you do,     I'll call in my big dog to bite you, and I'll make my Papa kill you,        too!     And then where'll you be?  So play pretty.  There's my doll, and a        nice piece of cake.     You don't want it—you think it is poison!  Then I'LL eat it, dear,        just for your sake!

WHAT MISS EDITH SAW FROM HER WINDOW

     Our window's not much, though it fronts on the street;         There's a fly in the pane that gets nothin' to eat;         But it's curious how people think it's a treat             For ME to look out of the window!     Why, when company comes, and they're all speaking low,         With their chairs drawn together, then some one says, "Oh!         Edith dear!—that's a good child—now run, love, and go             And amuse yourself there at the window!"     Or Bob—that's my brother—comes in with his chum,         And they whisper and chuckle, the same words will come.         And it's "Edith, look here!  Oh, I say! what a rum             Lot of things you can see from that window!"     And yet, as I told you, there's only that fly         Buzzing round in the pane, and a bit of blue sky,         And the girl in the opposite window, that I             Look at when SHE looks from HER window.     And yet, I've been thinking I'd so like to see         If what goes on behind HER, goes on behind ME!         And then, goodness gracious! what fun it would be             For us BOTH as we sit by our window!     How we'd know when the parcels were hid in a drawer,         Or things taken out that one never sees more;         What people come in and go out of the door,             That we never see from the window!     And that night when the stranger came home with our Jane         I might SEE what I HEARD then, that sounded so plain—         Like when my wet fingers I rub on the pane             (Which they won't let ME do on my window).     And I'd know why papa shut the door with a slam,         And said something funny that sounded like "jam,"         And then "Edith—where are you?"  I said, "Here I am."             "Ah, that's right, dear, look out of the window!"     They say when I'm grown up these things will appear         More plain than they do when I look at them here,         But I think I see some things uncommonly clear,             As I sit and look down from the window.     What things?  Oh, the things that I make up, you know,         Out of stories I've read—and they all pass below.         Ali Baba, the Forty Thieves, all in a row,             Go by, as I look from my window.     That's only at church time; other days there's no crowd.         Don't laugh!  See that big man who looked up and bowed?         That's our butcher—I call him the Sultan Mahoud             When he nods to me here at the window!     And THAT man—he's our neighbor—just gone for a ride         Has three wives in the churchyard that lie side by side.         So I call him "Bluebeard" in search of his bride,             While I'm Sister Anne at the window.     And what do I call you?  Well, here's what I DO:         When my sister expects you, she puts me here, too;         But I wait till you enter, to see if it's you,             And then—I just OPEN the window!     "Dear child!"  Yes, that's me!  "Oh, you ask what that's for?         Well, Papa says you're 'Poverty's self,' and what's more,         I open the window, when YOU'RE at the door,             To see Love fly out of the window!"

ON THE LANDING

(AN IDYL OF THE BALUSTERS)     BOBBY, aetat. 3 1/2.  JOHNNY, aetat. 4 1/2.BOBBY     Do you know why they've put us in that back room,     Up in the attic, close against the sky,     And made believe our nursery's a cloak-room?         Do you know why?JOHNNY     No more I don't, nor why that Sammy's mother,     What Ma thinks horrid, 'cause he bunged my eye,     Eats an ice cream, down there, like any other!         No more don't I!BOBBY     Do you know why Nurse says it isn't manners     For you and me to ask folks twice for pie,     And no one hits that man with two bananas?         Do you know why?JOHNNY     No more I don't, nor why that girl, whose dress is     Off of her shoulders, don't catch cold and die,     When you and me gets croup when WE undresses!         No more don't I!BOBBY     Perhaps she ain't as good as you and I is,     And God don't want her up there in the sky,     And lets her live—to come in just when pie is—         Perhaps that's why!JOHNNY     Do you know why that man that's got a cropped head     Rubbed it just now as if he felt a fly?     Could it be, Bobby, something that I dropped?         And is that why?BOBBY     Good boys behaves, and so they don't get scolded,     Nor drop hot milk on folks as they pass by.     JOHNNY (piously)     Marbles would bounce on Mr. Jones' bald head—         But I sha'n't try!BOBBY     Do you know why Aunt Jane is always snarling     At you and me because we tells a lie,     And she don't slap that man that called her darling?         Do you know why?JOHNNY     No more I don't, nor why that man with Mamma     Just kissed her hand.BOBBY                            She hurt it—and that's why;     He made it well, the very way that Mamma         Does do to I.JOHNNY     I feel so sleepy.... Was that Papa kissed us?     What made him sigh, and look up to the sky?BOBBY     We weren't downstairs, and he and God had missed us,     And that was why!