Bramble Brae
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BETWEEN TWO WORLDS
THE UNILLUMINED VERGE
TO A FRIEND DYINGThey tell you that Death’s at the turn of the road,That under the shade of a cypress you’ll find him,And, struggling on wearily, lashed by the goadOf pain, you will enter the black mist behind him.I can walk with you up to the ridge of the hill,And we’ll talk of the way we have come through the valley;Down below there a bird breaks into a trill,And a groaning slave bends to the oar of his galley.You are up on the heights now, you pity the slave—“Poor soul, how fate lashes him on at his rowing!Yet it’s joyful to live, and it’s hard to be braveWhen you watch the sun sink and the daylight is going.”We are almost there—our last walk on this height—I must bid you good-by at that cross on the mountain.See the sun glowing red, and the pulsating lightFill the valley, and rise like the flood in a fountain!And it shines in your face and illumines your soul;We are comrades as ever, right here at your going;You may rest if you will within sight of the goal,While I must return to my oar and the rowing.We must part now? Well, here is the hand of a friend;I will keep you in sight till the road makes its turningJust over the ridge within reach of the endOf your arduous toil—the beginning of learning.You will call to me once from the mist, on the verge,“Au revoir!” and “good night!” while the twilight is creepingUp luminous peaks, and the pale stars emerge?Yes, I hear your faint voice: “This is rest, and like sleeping!”FROM ONE LONG DEAD
What! You here in the moonlight and thinking of me?Is it you, O my comrade, who laughed at my jest?But you wept when I told you I longed to be free,And you mourned for a while when they laid me at rest.I’ve been dead all these years! and to-night in your heartThere’s a stir of emotion, a vision that slips—It’s my face in the moonlight that gives you a start,It’s my name that in joy rushes up to your lips!Yes, I’m young, oh, so young, and so little I know!A mere child that is learning to walk and to run;While I grasp at the shadows that wave to and froI am dazzled a bit by the light of the Sun.I am learning the lesson, I try to grow wise,But at night I am baffled and worn by the strife;I am humbled, and then there’s an impulse to rise,And a voice whispers, “Onward and win! This is Life!”And the Force that is drawing me up to the Height,That inspires me and thrills me,—each day a new birth,—Is the Force that to Chaos said, “Let there be Light!”And it gave us sweet glimpses of Heaven on Earth.It is Love! and you know it and feel it, my Soul!For you love me in spite of the grave and its bars.And it moves the whole Universe on to its goal,And it draws frail Humanity up to the stars!FATHER TO MOTHER
This is our child, Dear—flesh of our flesh and bone of our bone;Here is the end of our youth, and now we begin to atone.Now we do feel what their love was—those who have reared us and taught;Now do we know of the treasures that neither are sold nor bought.Here is the joy of the Race—joy that must grow out of pain;Here is the last of our Self—now we are links in the chain.Body of yours and mine no more is the measure of grief—All that he suffers is ours—and increased while we cry for relief;Yea, for our boy, our Beloved, we’ll yearn through the beckoning years—Toil for him, laugh with him, struggle, and pour out the fountain of tears!THE CHILD TO THE FATHER
Father, it’s your love that safely guides me,Always it’s around me, night and day;It shelters me, and soothes, but never chides me:Yet, father, there’s a shadow in my way.All the day, my father, I am playingUnder trees where sunbeams dance and dart—But often just at night when I am prayingI feel this awful hunger in my heart.Father, there is something—it has missed me;I’ve felt it through my little days and years;And even when you petted me and kissed meI’ve cried myself to sleep with burning tears.To-day I saw a child and mother walking;I caught a gentle shining in her eye,And music in her voice when she was talking—Oh, father, is it that that makes me cry?Oh, never can I put my arms around her,Or never cuddle closer in the night;Mother, oh, my mother! I’ve not found her—I look for her and cry from dark to light!A PRAYER OF OLD AGE
O Lord, I am so used to all the bywaysThroughout Thy devious world,The little hill-paths, yea, and the great highwaysWhere saints are safely whirled!And there are crooked ways, forbidden pleasures,That lured me with their spell;But there I lingered not, and found no treasures—Though in the mire I fell.And now I’m old and worn, and, scarcely seeingThe beauties of Thy work,I catch faint glimpses of the shadows fleeingThrough valleys in the murk;Yet I can feel my way—my mem’ry guides me;I bear the yoke and smile.I’m used to life, and nothing wounds or chides me;Lord, let me live awhile!And then, dear Lord, I still can feel the thrillingOf Nature in the Spring—The uplift of Thy hills, the song-birds trilling,The lyric joy they bring.I’m not too old to see the regal beautyOf moon and stars and sun;Nature can still reveal to me my dutyTill my long task is done.O Lord, to me the pageant is entrancing—The march of States and Kings!I keenly watch the human race advancingAnd see Man master Things:From him who read the secret of the thunderAnd made the lightning kind,Down to this marvel—all the growing wonderOf force controlled by Mind.And this dear land of ours, the freeman’s Nation!Lord, let me live and seeFulfilment of our fathers’ aspiration,When each man’s really free!When all the strength and skill that move the mountains,And pile up riches great,Shall sweeten patriotism at its fountainsAnd purify the State!But there are closer ties than these that bind meAnd make me long to stayAnd linger in the dusk where Death may find meOn Thine own chosen day;There’s one who walks beside me in the gloamingAnd holds my faltering hand—Without her guidance I can make no homingIn any distant land.Some day when we are tired, like children playing,And wearied drop our toys—When all the work and burden of our stayingHas mingled with our joys—With those we love around—our eyelids drooping,Too spent with toil to weep—Like some kind nurse o’er drowsy children stooping,Lord, take us home to sleep!THE RHONE GLACIER—SUNSET
Like the uncounted years of God it rollsFrom out the sky. The light of heaven shinesUpon its wrinkled brow, that seems a partOf that stupendous dome of boundless blueWhere, like a pebble in the ocean depths,This little world is lost. The sparkling sunPlays gently in the deep green, icy cleftsLike moonlight in the tender eyes of oneWho looks to heaven to find her lover’s face.Silent, serene, implacable it stands—A mighty symbol of the Force that movedAcross the surface of the youthful earthAnd scored the continents with valleys deep,As children write upon the yielding sand.Back to the dawn of things its lineage runs—Countless ages back to that bleak timeWhen frightful monsters played upon the hills—Always the same, yet moving slowly onward,In heaven its head, its feet upon the world.The Rhone that trickles from the glacier’s edge—Makes valleys smile with grain and flower and fruitAnd turns the wheels that forge the tools of trade—Is but the lash with which the giant playsAnd spins the tops that swarm with struggling men.“What is Man, that Thou art mindful of him?”—This pleasure or this pain, this wealth or want,This tragic comedy we call our life!Across the meadows as the evening fallsA shepherd drives his sheep, and fondly bearsAbove the rocky stream the weakling lamb;The children hear the father’s kindly voiceAnd run to greet and cheer his late return,While from his humble cottage gleams a light.The sheep are nestled in their sheltering fold—The door springs open to a welcome cry,And all at last are safe within the Home.In cold and awful majesty it standsAgainst the darkening sky,—Force without warmth,Strength without passion.But at the touchOf homely human ways its terrors fleeAnd Force is swallowed up in Life with Love.JAMES McCOSH
1811-1894Young to the end through sympathy with youth,Gray man of learning—champion of truth!Direct in rugged speech, alert in mind,He felt his kinship with all humankind,And never feared to trace developmentOf high from low—assured and full contentThat man paid homage to the Mind above,Uplifted by the “Royal Law of Love.”The laws of nature that he loved to traceHave worked, at last, to veil from us his face;The dear old elms and ivy-covered wallsWill miss his presence, and the stately hallsHis trumpet-voice; while in their joysSorrow will shadow those he called “my boys”!LE BONHEUR DE CE MONDE
(Copie d’un sonnet composé par Plantin au XVIe siècle.)
Avoir une maiſon commode, propre & belle,Un jardin tapiſſé d’eſpaliers odorans,Des fruits, d’excellent vin, peu de train, peu d’enfans,Poſſeder ſeul, ſans bruit, une fe mme fidéle.N’avoir dettes, amour, ni procés, ni querelle,Ni de partage à faire avecque ſes parens,Se contenter de peu, n’eſpérer rien des Grands,Régler tous ſes deſſeins sur un juſte modéle.Vivre avecque franchiſe & ſans ambition,S’adonner ſans ſcrupule à la dévotion,Domter ſes paſſions, les rendre obéiſſantes.Conſerver l’eſprit libre, & le jugement fort,Dire ſon Chapelet en cultivant ſes entes,C’eſt attendre chez ſoi bien doucement la mort.THE HAPPINESS OF THIS WORLD
FROM THE FRENCH OF PLANTINTo have a home, convenient for thy life,With fragrant fruit-walls in a garden fine,Some children, some retainers, and rare wine;To live serenely with thy faithful wife;To have no debts, nor quarrels, nor legal strife,Nor separation from dear kin of thine;Expecting nothing from the Great, to shineWith modest light and just, where greed is rife.To live with freedom, yet to be devout,Ruling thy well-curbed passions—and withoutAmbition’s scourge to thwart thy regnant will;Truly to worship God with ardent breathAmong His shrubs and trees on plain and hill—Thus pleasantly shalt thou at home wait Death.R. L. S
“Where hath fleeting Beauty led?To the doorway of the dead.”All the way you followed herTripping through the palms and fir;All the way around you flewSplendid spirits from the blue—Dreams and visions lightly caughtIn the meshes of your thought.What a glorious retinueMade that arduous chase with you!Half the world stood still to seeSong and Fancy follow freeAt the waving of your wand—While the echoing hills respondTo your voice.And now the raceEnds with your averted face;At full effort you have spedThrough that doorway of the dead—But the hills and woods remainPeopled from your teeming brain!All that stately companyLinger where their eyes may seeBeauty fling the laurel o’er,At the closing of the door!From Suppressed ChaptersMcGIFFEN
THE HERO COMING HOMEHis body was clad in his uniform of Captain in the Chinese Navy, and sent home to his mother at Washington, Pennsylvania.
Associated Press.I lent him to my country,And he wore the Navy blue;I bade him do his duty,And he said he would be true.It’s home they say you’re coming—And it’s home you came to meWhen you wore your first blue jacketAt the old Academy.And the neighbors said, “How handsome!What a sailor he will be!”But I only drew him closerIn my coddling mother’s joy,And said, “Well, what’s a sailor?He’s my brave boy!”And then they told the storyOf his courage in the fight—How he ruled a heathen war-shipAnd fought it with his might.It’s home he wrote his motherWhen the smoke had cleared away:“I can see—so don’t you worry—Though I’m riddled by the fray.”And the neighbors said, “How glorious!What a Hero is your son!The world is all a-talkingOf the battle that he won!”I said, “Well, what’s a Hero?He’s my brave son!”And now to me he’s coming,And he wears a Captain’s bars;It’s a foreign nation’s uniform,But wrapped in Stripes and Stars.It’s home at last you’re coming,And it’s home at last to me.You’re a hero and immortal,And you fought to make men free.But your heart is cold within youAnd your dear eyes cannot see!They say, “Be strong, O mother;Proud laurels crown his head!”Alas, what’s left of glory?My boy, my boy is dead!AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE
To live a hero, then to standIn bronze serene above the city’s throng;Hero at sea, and now on landRevered by thousands as they rush along;If these were all the gifts of fame—To be a shade amid alert reality,And win a statue and a name—How cold and cheerless immortality!But when the sun shines in the Square,And multitudes are swarming in the street,Children are always gathered there,Laughing and playing round the hero’s feet.And in the crisis of the game—With boyish grit and ardor it is played—You’ll hear some youngster call his name:“The Admiral—he never was afraid!”And so the hero daily lives,And boys grow braver as the Man they see!The inspiration that he givesStill helps to make them loyal, strong, and free!NEWS FROM A MISSING LINER
TO A CONVALESCENTCrawling back to port again, half her cargo shifted,Just enough of fuel left to steam her to the pier;Plunging through an icy gale when the fog has lifted,Battered by the breakers, but her lights a-burning clear!Hope almost abandoned, days and nights she floundered—Nights when not a star was out and no sea-lights were near;All the world believed her lost; men despaired, but wonderedHow the liner could be wrecked and Kipling there to steer!Now she makes her harbor-lights, glides through seas enchanted—Whistles shrieking gayly and thousands at the pier;On the bridge the Captain, pale and worn—undaunted!“Welcome back to life again!” Hear the people cheer!FOR A CLASSMATE DEAD AT SEA
(W. F. STOUTENBURGH)His voice was gentle and his eyes were kind;No one among us but did call him friend;Fond woman’s heart and student’s thoughtful mindTogether in him did with fitness blend:And now he is no more!We blindly murmur at the bitter FateThat summoned him in other lands to roam;And when upon him Sickness wrought its hateHalf round the world, it brought him almost home,To die when near our shore.We blindly murmur—but we only knowCalm rests his body in old Ocean’s deeps;While we are groping in the mists below,Serene his soul on other, cloudless steeps—Forever—evermore.BRAMBLE BRAE
A TOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND
Huge and alert, irascible yet strong,We make our fitful way ’mid right and wrong.One time we pour out millions to be free,Then rashly sweep an empire from the sea!One time we strike the shackles from the slaves,And then, quiescent, we are ruled by knaves.Often we rudely break restraining bars,And confidently reach out toward the stars.Yet under all there flows a hidden streamSprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dreamOf Washington and Franklin, men of oldWho knew that freedom is not bought with gold.This is the Land we love, our heritage,Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sageAnd full of promise—destined to be great.Drink to Our Native Land! God Bless the State!THE TOWERS OF PRINCETON
FROM THE TRAINThere they are! above the green trees shining—Old towers that top the castles of our dreams,Their turrets bright with rays of sun declining—A painted glory on the window gleams.But, oh, the messages to travellers wearyThey signal through the ether in the dark!The years are long, the path is steep and dreary,But there’s a bell that struck in boyhood—hark!The note is faint—but ghosts are gayly troopingFrom ivied halls and swarming ’neath the trees.Old friends, you bring new life to spirits drooping—Your laughter and your joy are in the breeze!They’re gone in dusk,—the towers and dreams are faded,—But something lingers of eternal Youth;We’re strong again, though doubting, worn, and jaded;We pledge anew to friends and love and truth!ROOSEVELT IN WYOMING
TOLD BY A GUIDE—1899 1
Do you know Yancey’s? Where the winding trailFrom Washburn Mountain strikes the old stage road,And wagons from Cooke City and the mailUnhitch awhile, and teamsters shift the load?A handy bunch of men are round the stoveAt Yancey’s—hunters back from Jackson’s Hole,And Ed Hough telling of a mighty droveOf elk that he ran down to Teton Bowl.And Yancey he says: “Mr. Woody, there,Can tell a hunting yarn or two—beside,He guided Roosevelt when he shot a bearAnd six bull elk with antlers spreading wide.”But Woody is a guide who doesn’t brag;He puffed his pipe awhile, then gravely said:“I knew he’d put the Spaniards in a bag,For Mister Roosevelt always picked a head.“That man won’t slosh around in politicsAnd waste his time a-killing little game;He studies elk, and men, and knows their tricks,And when he picks a head he hits the same.”Now, down at Yancey’s every man’s a sport,And free to back his knowledge up with lead;And each believes that Roosevelt is the sortTo run the State, because he “picks a head.”UNCLE SAM TO KIPLING
(1899)Take up the White Man’s burden!Have done with childish days.R. K.Oh, thank you, Mr. Kipling,For showing us the wayTo buckle down to businessAnd end our “childish day.”We know we’re young and friskyAnd haven’t too much sense—At least, not in the measureWe’ll have a few years hence.Now, this same “White Man’s burden”You’re asking us to toteIs not so unfamiliarAs you’re inclined to note.We freed three million negroes,Their babies and their wives;It cost a billion dollarsAnd near a million lives!And while we were a-fightingIn all those “thankless years”We did not get much helping—Well, not from English “peers.”And so—with best intentions—We’re not exactly wildTo free the Filipino,“Half devil and half child.”Then, thank you, Mr. Kipling;Though not disposed to groanAbout the “White Man’s burden,”We’ve troubles of our own;Enough to keep us busyWhen English friends inquire,“Why don’t you use your talons?There are chestnuts in the fire!”A NEW YEAR’S WISH FOR THOSE WHO WRITE
In this time of joy and cheerWhen we greet the buoyant year,Now, old friends, we cherish you,Bless the dreams you’ve brought to view—Kindly fancy, happy thought,Visions from the fairies caught,Rhyme and story, song and play,Fantasy for holiday—All the treasures of your mindSpent to make the world more kind.While we grope in dark and fog,Flounder onward through the bog,You, serene upon the height,Gambol in the cheery light—Toss your laughter from the steep,Bringing hope to those who weep.What fair visions brightly gleamThrough cloud-rifts! Your dearest dreamClothed in beauty on the peak,Waiting for the Muse to speak.Here’s our wish at New Year’s time,Faint-expressed in halting rhyme:For the men who dream and writeMake the future clear and bright;Thaw the cynic from their heart—Love and faith are highest Art.Let them picture with their penNot our manners but our men.Bless them all at New Year’s tide!May their skill and fame abide!And all women—charming, bright—Grant that they may never write!TO CHLOE
FOR A MENDED GLOVEFair Chloe looked upon the old torn glove,Then touched its ragged edges with her fingers,And lo! the rent was closed—as if for loveSweet healing follows where her touch but lingers.If all the rents that follow Chloe’s eyes,And all the hearts despairingly defended,Were healed so soon—we’d straightway realizeThat love and life are good as new when mended.TO THE ELF ON MY CALENDAR
Sweet Elf, you’ll pipe a merry tune,Make days and months all gladness;The clear, bright note you sound in JuneWill cheer December’s sadness.You’ll never pout on rainy days,Nor when it’s cold will shiver,But sit serene and sing your lays.May Old Time bless the giver!CAPRICE
Love laughed awhile,And ridiculed my daringTo rashly crave a smileFrom her, heart-whole, uncaring.Oh, how Love laughed!Love angry grewAnd spoiled her pretty features;I was—she vowed it true—The most despised of creatures.Oh, how Love frowned!Love dropped a tear,Her anger with it falling;I felt her blue eyes clear,My heart and hopes enthralling.Oh, how Love cried!Her tears Love dried,And then she looked up sweetly;No more her glance defied—I pressed my suit discreetly.Love kissed me then!RETROSPECT
At evening, when the breeze dies down,And regal Nature doffs her crown,When brown-limbed pines, like minarets,Fringe all the hills, and tired day fretsTo rest awhile—ah, then, I know,Into a shadowed room you go,And softly touch the organ keys;While pale stars blink amid the treesYou sing a peaceful vesper hymnThat rises from your full heart’s brim;Your kindly eyes are dimmed with tears—You wander through remembered years;From gay to grave your fancies fly,And end the journey with the cry:My heart played truant from my will!I loved him then—I love him still.IN THE CROWD
A pair of brown eyes—no matter where,In quiet street or crowded thoroughfare—Call up the image of your face to me.All others vanish, only you I see;Above the din of trade your voice I hear,And merry laughter, ringing sweet and clear,That fades into a smile away:Thus are you with me everywhere and every day.REMEMBRANCE
No, not despair of ever quite forgettingThe happy romance of those dreamy years,The painful weariness of vain regrettingThrough all life’s varied way of love and tearNot this the gladness of my heart represses,With shadow tinges still each sunny thoughtThe fancy that with poignant touch distressesIs that by thee I am perhaps forgot!OFF FORT HAMILTON IN SUMMER
Embrasured guns, like wearied hounds, all sleeping,Their muzzles resting on the cool, green turf;Along the Fort their peaceful watch now keepingAbove the mimic battle of the surf.And you, dear one, now that my suit is ended—Let passion slumber in your cool dark eyes;The wiles by which your heart was well defendedEmbrasured there look love on summer skies.OVER THE FERRY
ONOMATOPOETICClang! Ting-a-ling! Then a scream of the whistle.Sob! Sob! Sob! Sob!Heaves slowly the breast of the iron-sinewed giant;And the swift paddles fling, Like the down of a thistle,White foam from their blades, while the waters defiantGroan under their merciless tread; and the throbOf the heart grows exultingly faster;Now a race with a tug, and then it is past her—Glides under the bow of a stately Cunarder—The steel-lungèd giant breathing harder and harderWhile nearing the wharves of the City of VanityTo roll from its shoulders the load of humanity.And up near the bow, with arms crossed on the railing,The bold wind with kisses her fair cheeks assailingAnd tossing her hair from her brow, stands sweet Jennie,Who hopes on the way to the school to meet Bennie.And what he will say she is anticipating—Her heart full of pleasure, her blue eyes dilating;And what will she say? Ah, now she is blushing.There he stands on the pier! How the people are crushing!While out from the dock the churned waters are rushing.But the song of the wheels is, “I love him—I love him!”Then the pilot above Signals “Clang! Ting-a-ling!” And the slowing wheels sing,“Oh, my love—love—love!”Clang!BRAMBLE BRAE IN OCTOBER
And now the corn has ripened at Bramble Brae,And all the hosts are marshalled for Autumn’s fray;The quaint old farm is changing its green for brown,Save where the new wheat lifts itself to the lightAnd huddles in rows, like wrinkles in some old gown.Along the lane the quail are running in frightAt sound of guns on the upland—the cautious dogsAre coursing over the fields, and keen-eyed menWatch for the whir of wings; the hickory logsAre falling down in the clearing, while in their penThe big swine gloat on the heaped-up trough;In woods the dead leaves rustle, and red squirrels coughAnd chatter and screech—chasing each other from limbTo limb, and gather their stores at the roots of trees.And part of it all is a boy, and the heart of himGlows with the sumach, and sings with the Autumn breeze.Down in the valley the ancient village rests,Drowsing along the curbs of its quaint old street;High and peaked are the roofs, and antique crestsAre carved on the gables. Fair maids, discreet,Sit on the porches and talk with the passing youth;For Love goes by, sometimes in homespun clad,And sometimes rich in the wealth of truthThat speaks in the heart and the eyes of the lad.For none that pass are the eyes of the bonny girlExcept for him; she sits and waits by a climbing vine,Reading the verses of some old bard; the pearlShe seeks is love, and only love is the wineThat colors her cheeks and snaps in her sparkling eyesBut the lad is shy, and dreams the livelong dayThat love and his lady are proof against all surprise—So up on the hillside he longs for the village far away.. . . . . . . . . . . .Many Autumns have glowed on the hillside there;Slender saplings have sprung to giant trees;Gray is his head and furrowed his brow with care—The heart of the man cries out to the Autumn breeze.Dusk in the valley, and cold light on the hill—Brown is the sumach, the glory of youth has fled;Drowsing cattle shiver, the night is chill,Memory lives, but all of his hopes are dead.Years has he wandered over the land and sea;Friends he has cherished and lost, and women loved;Always that vision haunted his fancy free—The dreamer worshipped, but never the vision proved.Down in the valley the ancient houses sleep,Dotted with lights that break through the evening gloom;Dreams that stirred the face of the waters deepCover their eyes and flee to a welcoming tomb.