Poems for a Friend

Was it the squire for killing of his game? orCovetous parson for his tithes distraining?Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little All in a lawsuit?

(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,Ready to fall as soon as you have told your Pitiful story.

KNIFE-GRINDER.

Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir;Only, last night, a-drinking at the Chequers,This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were Torn in a scuffle.

Constables came up for to take me intoCustody; they took me before the justice;Justice Oldmixon put me into the parish Stocks for a vagrant.

I should be glad to drink your honor's health inA pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;But for my part, I never love to meddle With politics, sir.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first,--Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance,--Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast!

(Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, andexit in a transport of republican enthusiasmand universal philanthropy.)

O holy Hope! and high Humility, High as the heavens above!These are your walks, and you have show’d them me, To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the Just, Shining nowhere, but in the dark;What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledg’d bird’s nest may know, At first sight, if the bird be flown;But what fair well or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown.

And yet as Angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul, when man doth sleep:So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep.

If a star were confin’d into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there;But when the hand that lock’d her up gives room, She’ll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under Thee!Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective still as they pass:Or else remove me hence unto that hill, Where I shall need no glass.

As forth she went at early dawn,To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,Behind she hears the hunter's cries,And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies:She starts, she stops, she pants for breath;She hears the near advance of death;She doubles, to mislead the hound,And measures back her mazy round:Till, fainting in the public way,Half dead with fear she gasping lay.What transport in her bosom grew,When first the Horse appeared in view!"Let me," says she, "your back ascend,And owe my safety to a friend.You know my feet betray my flight:To friendship every burden's light."The Horse replied: "Poor honest Puss,It grieves my heart to see thee thus;Be comforted; relief is near,For all your friends are in the rear."She next the stately Bull implored;And thus replied the mighty lord:"Since every beast alive can tellThat I sincerely wish you well,I may, without offence, pretend,To take the freedom of a friend.Love calls me hence; a favorite cowExpects me near yon barley-mow;And when a lady's in the case,You know, all other things give place.To leave you thus might seem unkind;But see, the Goat is just behind."The Goat remarked her pulse was high,Her languid head, her heavy eye;"My back," says he, "may do you harm;The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm."The Sheep was feeble, and complainedHis sides a load of wool sustained:Said he was slow, confessed his fears,For hounds eat sheep as well as Hares.She now the trotting Calf addressed,To save from death a friend distressed."Shall I," says he, "of tender age,In this important care engage?Older and abler passed you by;How strong are those, how weak am I!Should I presume to bear you hence,Those friends of mine may take offence.Excuse me, then. You know my heart;But dearest friends, alas! must part.How shall we all lament! Adieu!For see, the hounds are just in view."

Sacred to pipes and meditation meetFor such a sunny and retired nook.There in the clear, warm mornings many a bookHas vied with the fair prospect of the hillsThat, vale on vale, rough brae on brae, upfillsHalfway to the zenith all the vacant skyTo keep my loose attention. . . .Horace has sat with me whole mornings through:And Montaigne gossiped, fairly false and true;And chattering Pepys, and a few besideThat suit the easy vein, the quiet tide,The calm and certain stay of garden-life,Far sunk from all the thunderous roar of strife.There is about the small secluded placeA garnish of old times; a certain graceOf pensive memories lays about the braes:The old chestnuts gossip tales of bygone days.Here, where some wandering preacher, blest Lazil,Perhaps, or Peden, on the middle hillHad made his secret church, in rain or snow,He cheers the chosen residue from woe.All night the doors stood open, come who might,The hounded kebbock mat the mud all night.Nor are there wanting later tales; of howPrince Charlie’s Highlanders . . .

I have had talents, too. In life’s first hourGod crowned with benefits my childish head.Flower after flower, I plucked them; flower by flowerCast them behind me, ruined, withered, dead.Full many a shining godhead disappeared.From the bright rank that once adorned her browThe old child’s Olympus

Gone are the fair old dreams, and one by one,As, one by one, the means to reach them went,As, one by one, the stars in riot and disgrace,I squandered what . . .

There shut the door, alas! on many a hopeToo many;My face is set to the autumnal slope,Where the loud winds shall . . .

There shut the door, alas! on many a hope,And yet some hopes remain that shall decideMy rest of years and down the autumnal slope.

Gone are the quiet twilight dreams that ILoved, as all men have loved them; gone!I have great dreams, and still they stir my soul on high—Dreams of the knight’s stout heart and tempered will.Not in Elysian lands they take their way;Not as of yore across the gay champaign,Towards some dream city, towered . . .and my . . .The path winds forth before me, sweet and plain,Not now; but though beneath a stone-grey skyNovember’s russet woodlands toss and wail,Still the white road goes thro’ them, still may I,Strong in new purpose, God, may still prevail.

I and my like, improvident sailors!

At whose light fall awaking, all my heartGrew populous with gracious, favoured thought,And all night long thereafter, hour by hour,The pageant of dead love before my eyesWent proudly, and old hopes with downcast headFollowed like Kings, subdued in Rome’s imperial hour,Followed the car; and I . . .

Unsuccesses to success,—Many thought-worn eves and morrows to a morrow free of thought.

“No more need we corn and clothing, feel of old terrestrial stress; Chill detraction stirs no sigh;Fear of death has even bygone us: death gave all that we possess.”

W. D.—“Ye mid burn the wold bass-viol that I set such vallie by.” Squire.—“You may hold the manse in fee,You may wed my spouse, my children’s memory of me may decry.”

Lady.—“You may have my rich brocades, my laces; take each householdkey; Ransack coffer, desk, bureau;Quiz the few poor treasures hid there, con the letters kept by me.”

Far.—“Ye mid zell my favourite heifer, ye mid let the charlock grow, Foul the grinterns, give up thrift.”Wife.—“If ye break my best blue china, children, I shan’t care orho.”

All. —“We’ve no wish to hear the tidings, how the people’s fortunesshift; What your daily doings are;Who are wedded, born, divided; if your lives beat slow or swift.

“Curious not the least are we if our intents you make or mar, If you quire to our old tune,If the City stage still passes, if the weirs still roar afar.”

—Thus, with very gods’ composure, freed those crosses late and soon Which, in life, the Trine allow(Why, none witteth), and ignoring all that haps beneath the moon,

William Dewy, Tranter Reuben, Farmer Ledlow late at plough, Robert’s kin, and John’s, and Ned’s,And the Squire, and Lady Susan, murmur mildly to me now.

Let your place all vacant be; Better blankness day by day Than companion torn away. Better bid his memory fade, Better blot each mark he made, Selfishly escape distress By contrived forgetfulness, Than preserve his prints to make Every morn and eve an ache.

From the chair whereon he sat Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat; Rake his little pathways out Mid the bushes roundabout; Smooth away his talons’ mark From the claw-worn pine-tree bark, Where he climbed as dusk embrowned, Waiting us who loitered round.

Strange it is this speechless thing, Subject to our mastering, Subject for his life and food To our gift, and time, and mood; Timid pensioner of us Powers, His existence ruled by ours, Should—by crossing at a breath Into safe and shielded death, By the merely taking hence Of his insignificance— Loom as largened to the sense, Shape as part, above man’s will, Of the Imperturbable.

As a prisoner, flight debarred, Exercising in a yard, Still retain I, troubled, shaken, Mean estate, by him forsaken; And this home, which scarcely took Impress from his little look, By his faring to the Dim Grows all eloquent of him.

Housemate, I can think you still Bounding to the window-sill, Over which I vaguely see Your small mound beneath the tree, Showing in the autumn shade That you moulder where you played.

October 2, 1904.

Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind,Let nobler views engage thy mind. With science tread the wondrous way,Or learn the muses' moral lay;In social hours indulge thy soul,Where mirth and temp'rance mix the bowl;To virtuous love resign thy breast,And be, by blessing beauty--blest. Thus taste the feast, by nature spread,Ere youth, and all its joys are fled;Come, taste with me the balm of life,Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife.I boast whate'er for man was meant,In health, and Stella, and content;And scorn! oh! let that scorn be thine!Mere things of clay that dig the mine.

Could not breed ill-will between them,For they kept each other’s counsel,Spake with naked hearts together,Pondering much and much contrivingHow the tribes of men might prosper.

Most beloved by HiawathaWas the gentle Chibiabos,He the best of all musicians,He the sweetest of all singers.Beautiful and childlike was he,Brave as man is, soft as woman,Pliant as a wand of willow,Stately as a deer with antlers.

When he sang, the village listened;All the warriors gathered round him,All the women came to hear him;Now he stirred their souls to passion,Now he melted them to pity.

From the hollow reeds he fashionedFlutes so musical and mellow,That the brook, the Sebowisha,Ceased to murmur in the woodland,That the wood-birds ceased from singing,And the squirrel, Adjidaumo,Ceased his chatter in the oak-tree,And the rabbit, the Wabasso,Sat upright to look and listen.

Yes, the brook, the Sebowisha,Pausing, said, “O Chibiabos,Teach my waves to flow in music,Softly as your words in singing!”

Yes, the bluebird, the Owaissa,Envious, said, “O Chibiabos,Teach me tones as wild and wayward,Teach me songs as full of frenzy!”

Yes, the robin, the Opechee,Joyous, said, “O Chibiabos,Teach me tones as sweet and tender,Teach me songs as full of gladness!”

And the whippoorwill, Wawonaissa,Sobbing, said, “O Chibiabos,Teach me tones as melancholy,Teach me songs as full of sadness!”

All the many sounds of natureBorrowed sweetness from his singing;All the hearts of men were softenedBy the pathos of his music;For he sang of peace and freedom,Sang of beauty, love, and longing;Sang of death, and life undyingIn the Islands of the Blessed,In the kingdom of Ponemah,In the land of the Hereafter.

Very dear to HiawathaWas the gentle Chibiabos,He the best of all musicians,He the sweetest of all singers;For his gentleness he loved him,And the magic of his singing.

Dear, too, unto HiawathaWas the very strong man, Kwasind,He the strongest of all mortals,He the mightiest among many;For his very strength he loved him,For his strength allied to goodness.

Idle in his youth was Kwasind,Very listless, dull, and dreamy,Never played with other children,Never fished and never hunted,Not like other children was he;But they saw that much he fasted,Much his Manito entreated,Much besought his Guardian Spirit.

“Lazy Kwasind!” said his mother,“In my work you never help me!In the Summer you are roamingIdly in the fields and forests;In the Winter you are coweringO’er the firebrands in the wigwam!In the coldest days of WinterI must break the ice for fishing;With my nets you never help me!At the door my nets are hanging,Dripping, freezing with the water;Go and wring them, Yenadizze!Go and dry them in the sunshine!”

Slowly, from the ashes, KwasindRose, but made no angry answer;From the lodge went forth in silence,Took the nets, that hung together,Dripping, freezing at the doorway;Like a wisp of straw he wrung them,Like a wisp of straw he broke them,Could not wring them without breaking,Such the strength was in his fingers.

“Lazy Kwasind!” said his father,“In the hunt you never help me;Every bow you touch is broken,Snapped asunder every arrow;Yet come with me to the forest,You shall bring the hunting homeward.”

Down a narrow pass they wandered,Where a brooklet led them onward,Where the trail of deer and bisonMarked the soft mud on the margin,Till they found all further passageShut against them, barred securelyBy the trunks of trees uprooted,Lying lengthwise, lying crosswise,And forbidding further passage.

“We must go back,” said the old man,“O’er these logs we cannot clamber;Not a woodchuck could get through them,Not a squirrel clamber o’er them!”And straightway his pipe he lighted,And sat down to smoke and ponder.But before his pipe was finished,Lo! the path was cleared before him;All the trunks had Kwasind lifted,To the right hand, to the left hand,Shot the pine-trees swift as arrows,Hurled the cedars light as lances.

“Lazy Kwasind!” said the young men,As they sported in the meadow:“Why stand idly looking at us,Leaning on the rock behind you?Come and wrestle with the others,Let us pitch the quoit together!”

Lazy Kwasind made no answer,To their challenge made no answer,Only rose, and slowly turning,Seized the huge rock in his fingers,Tore it from its deep foundation,Poised it in the air a moment,Pitched it sheer into the river,Sheer into the swift Pauwating,Where it still is seen in Summer.

Once as down that foaming river,Down the rapids of Pauwating,Kwasind sailed with his companions,In the stream he saw a beaver,Saw Ahmeek, the King of Beavers,Struggling with the rushing currents,Rising, sinking in the water.

Without speaking, without pausing,Kwasind leaped into the river,Plunged beneath the bubbling surface,Through the whirlpools chased the beaver,Followed him among the islands,Stayed so long beneath the water,That his terrified companionsCried, “Alas! good-by to Kwasind!We shall never more see Kwasind!”But he reappeared triumphant,And upon his shining shouldersBrought the beaver, dead and dripping,Brought the King of all the Beavers.

And these two, as I have told you,Were the friends of Hiawatha,Chibiabos, the musician,And the very strong man, Kwasind.Long they lived in peace together,Spake with naked hearts together,Pondering much and much contrivingHow the tribes of men might prosper.

"Truly a wonderful man was Caius Julius Caesar!Better be first, he said, in a little Iberian village,Than be second in Rome, and I think he was right when he said it.Twice was he married before he was twenty, and many times after;Battles five hundred he fought, and a thousand cities he conquered;He, too, fought in Flanders, as he himself has recorded;Finally he was stabbed by his friend, the orator Brutus!Now, do you know what he did on a certain occasion in Flanders,When the rear-guard of his army retreated, the front giving way too,And the immortal Twelfth Legion was crowded so closely togetherThere was no room for their swords? Why, he seized a shield from a soldier,Put himself straight at the head of his troops, and commanded the captains,Calling on each by his name, to order forward the ensigns;Then to widen the ranks, and give more room for their weapons;So he won the day, the battle of something-or-other.That's what I always say; if you wish a thing to be well done,You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!"

All was silent again; the Captain continued his reading.Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the striplingWriting epistles important to go next day by the Mayflower,Filled with the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla;Every sentence began or closed with the name of Priscilla,Till the treacherous pen, to which he confided the secret,Strove to betray it by singing and shouting the name of Priscilla!Finally closing his book, with a bang of the ponderous cover,Sudden and loud as the sound of a soldier grounding his musket,Thus to the young man spake Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth:"When you have finished your work, I have something important to tell you.Be not however in haste; I can wait; I shall not be impatient!"Straightway Alden replied, as he folded the last of his letters,Pushing his papers aside, and giving respectful attention:"Speak; for whenever you speak, I am always ready to listen,Always ready to hear whatever pertains to Miles Standish."Thereupon answered the Captain, embarrassed, and culling his phrases:"'T is not good for a man to be alone, say the Scriptures.This I have said before, and again and again I repeat it;Every hour in the day, I think it, and feel it, and say it.Since Rose Standish died, my life has been weary and dreary;Sick at heart have I been, beyond the healing of friendship.Oft in my lonely hours have I thought of the maiden Priscilla.She is alone in the world; her father and mother and brotherDied in the winter together; I saw her going and coming,Now to the grave of the dead, and now to the bed of the dying,Patient, courageous, and strong, and said to myself, that if everThere were angels on earth, as there are angels in heaven,Two have I seen and known; and the angel whose name is PriscillaHolds in my desolate life the place which the other abandoned.Long have I cherished the thought, but never have dared to reveal it,Being a coward in this, though valiant enough for the most part.Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth,Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of words but of actions,Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier.Not in these words, you know, but this in short is my meaning;I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases.You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant language,Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers,Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a maiden."

When he had spoken, John Alden, the fair-haired, taciturn stripling,All aghast at his words, surprised, embarrassed, bewildered,Trying to mask his dismay by treating the subject with lightness,Trying to smile, and yet feeling his heart stand still in his bosom,Just as a timepiece stops in a house that is stricken by lightning,Thus made answer and spake, or rather stammered than answered:"Such a message as that, I am sure I should mangle and mar it;If you would have it well done,--I am only repeating your maxim,--You must do it yourself, you must not leave it to others!"But with the air of a man whom nothing can turn from his purpose,Gravely shaking his head, made answer the Captain of Plymouth:"Truly the maxim is good, and I do not mean to gainsay it;But we must use it discreetly, and not waste powder for nothing.Now, as I said before, I was never a maker of phrases.I can march up to a fortress and summon the place to surrender,But march up to a woman with such a proposal, I dare not.I'm not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon,But of a thundering "No!" point-blank from the mouth of a woman,That I confess I'm afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it!So you must grant my request, for you are an elegant scholar,Having the graces of speech, and skill in the turning of phrases."Taking the hand of his friend, who still was reluctant and doubtful,Holding it long in his own, and pressing it kindly, he added:"Though I have spoken thus lightly, yet deep is the feeling that prompts me;Surely you cannot refuse what I ask in the name of our friendship!"Then made answer John Alden: "The name of friendship is sacred;What you demand in that name, I have not the power to deny you!"So the strong will prevailed, subduing and moulding the gentler,Friendship prevailed over love, and Alden went on his errand.

The dog in the night time now howls discontented, Of its master and mistress but lately bereft;I listen'd and look'd to the place they frequented, Of them not a sigh, nor a whisper is left.

How strong the emotions of friendship were glowing, When towed by the steamer the ocean they braved;Their force was evinced by the tears that were flowing, As the hat, or the hand, or the handkerchief waved.

From the shores of old England we anxiously view'd them, A cargo most precious, and dear to our sight;Far o'er the blue surface affection pursued them, Till the ship was conceal'd by the curtain of night.

They have left us,--their absence wakes mournful reflection, As the fast sailing Arundel bears them away;We can only consign them to heavenly protection, To Him, whom the winds and the waters obey.

He who roves through the wood may quickly discover, Their affection in tokens which there he will see;Where with sorrowful heart each friend or each lover, May sigh o'er their names in the bark of the tree.

Often have we seen at night, When the clouds have gathered o'er us,One lone star send forth its light, Marking out the path before us.Like that star some friendly eye Will beam on us in our sorrow;And, though clouded be our sky, We know there'll be a better morrow.We know that all will not depart, That some will, gather round to cheer us:Know we, in our inmost heart, Tried and faithful friends are near us.Brother, those who do not go May be deem‚d friends forever;Love them, trust them, have them know Nothing can your friendship sever.