Kitabı oku: «The Cornflower, and Other Poems», sayfa 4

THE PLOUGHMAN

 
Friend, mark these muscles; mine's a frame
Born, grown, and fitted for the toil.
My father, tiller of the soil,
Bequeathed them to me with my name.
 
 
Fear work? Nay, many times and oft
Upon my brow the sweat-bead stands,
And these two brown and sinewy hands,
Methinks, were never white or soft.
 
 
I earn my bread and know its worth,
Through days that chill and days that warm,
I wrest it with my strong right arm
From out the bosom of the earth.
 
 
The moneyed man may boast his wealth,
The high-born boast his pedigree,
But greater far, it seems to me,
My heritage of brawn and health.
 
 
My sinews strong, my sturdy frame,
My independence free and bold —
Mine is the richest dower, I hold,
And ploughman is a noble name.
 
 
Nor think me all uncouth and rough,
For, as I turn the furrows o'er,
Far clearer than the threshing-floor
I see the tender growing stuff.
 
 
A lab'rer, I, the long day through;
The lonely stretch of field and wood
Seem pleasant things to me, and good;
The river sings, the heaven's blue
 
 
Bends down so near the sun-crowned hill —
Thank God, I have the eyes to see
The beauty and the majesty
Of Nature, and the heart to thrill
 
 
At crimson sunset, dawn's soft flush,
The fields of gold that stretch afar,
The glimmer of the first pale star
That heralds in the evening's hush.
 
 
They lie who say that labor makes
A brute thing, an insensate clod,
Of man, the masterpiece of God;
They lie who say that labor takes
 
 
All from us save the lust of pelf,
Dulls eye, and ear, and soul, and mind,
For no man need be deaf or blind
Unless he wills it so himself.
 
 
This life I live's a goodly thing —
My soul keeps tune to one glad song
The while I turn the furrows long —
A ploughman happy as a king.
 

TWO MONUMENTS

 
Two men were born the self-same hour:
The one was heir to untold wealth,
To pride of birth and love of power;
The other's heritage was health.
 
 
A sturdy frame, an honest heart,
Of human sympathy a store,
A strength and will to do his part,
A nature wholesome to the core.
 
 
The two grew up to man's estate,
And took their places in the strife:
One found a sphere both wide and great,
One found the toil and stress of life.
 
 
Fate is a partial jade, I trow;
She threw the rich man gold and frame,
The laurel wreath to deck his brow,
High place, the multitude's acclaim.
 
 
The common things the other had —
The common hopes to thrill him deep,
The common joys to make him glad,
The common griefs to make him weep.
 
 
No high ambitions fired his breast;
The peace of God, the love of friend,
Of wife and child, these seemed the best,
These held and swayed him to the end.
 
 
The two grew old, and death's clear call
Came to them both the self-same day:
To him whose name was known to all,
To him who walked his lowly way.
 
 
Down to his grave the rich man went,
With cortege long, with pomp and pride,
O'er him was reared a monument
That told his virtues far and wide;
 
 
Told of his wealth, his lineage high,
His statesmanship, his trophies won,
How he had filled the public eye —
But empty praise when all was done.
 
 
The other found a narrow bed
Within God's acre, peaceful, lone;
The throng cared not that he was dead,
A man uncultured and unknown.
 
 
But in the house that he had left
A woman whispered through her tears:
"Christ, comfort me, who am bereft
Of love that failed not through the years."
 
 
And oft his stalwart sons and tall
Would murmur as their eyes grew dim:
"A useful life is best of all;
God grant we pattern after him!"
 
 
A sick man sighed: "I'll miss his smile;"
A shrivelled crone did shake her head
And mutter to herself the while
How oft his hand had given bread.
 
 
A maimed child sobbed: "He carried me
To gather blossoms in the wood,"
And more than one said, brokenly:
"A man who always did me good."
 
 
One came at twilight to the grave,
And knelt and kissed the fresh-turned sod.
"Oh, faithful soul," she cried, "and brave,
'Twas you that led me back to God!
 
 
"Back from the sin, the shame, the snare —
Forget your trust and faith? – not I;
Each helpful word, each tender prayer,
I will remember till I die!"
 
 
Two men that sleep: above the one
The monument an artist's hand
Has fashioned from the block of stone,
A thing of beauty, tall and grand;
 
 
Above the other naught – what then?
Ere he did fold his hands for rest,
He builded in the hearts of men
The fairest monument and best.
 

THE LONESOMEST HOUSE

 
It's the lonesomest house you ever saw,
This big gray house where I stay.
I don't call it living at all, at all,
Since my mother's gone away.
 
 
Only four weeks now – it seems a year —
Gone to heaven, the preacher said,
And my heart is just broke awaiting her,
And my eyes are always red.
 
 
I stay out of doors till I'm almost froze,
'Cause every identical room
Seems empty enough to scare a boy,
And packed to the door with gloom.
 
 
Oh, but I hate to come in to my meals,
And her not there in her place,
Pouring the tea, and passing the things,
With that lovin' shine on her face!
 
 
But night-time is worse. I creep up the stair
And to bed as still 's a mouse,
And cry in my pillow, it seems so hard
To stay in this old gray house!
 
 
And nobody giving me good-night hugs,
Or smoothing my hair back – so;
Things a boy makes fun of before his chums,
But things that he likes, you know.
 
 
There's no one to go to when things go wrong —
Oh, she was so safe and sure!
There wasn't a thing could tackle a boy
That she couldn't up and cure.
 
 
There's lots of women, it seems to me,
That wouldn't be missed so much,
The women whose boys are 'most growed up,
And old maid aunties, and such.
 
 
I can't understand it at all, at all,
Why on earth she should have to go,
And leave me here in this old gray house,
Needin' an' wantin' her so!
 
 
Oh, the very lonesomest thing of all
In the wide, wide world to-day
Is a big boy of twelve whose heart's just broke
'Cause his mother's gone away!
 

DADDY'S BOY

 
It is time for bed, so the nurse declares,
But I slip off to the nook,
The cozy nook at the head of the stairs,
Where daddy's reading his book.
 
 
"I want to sit here awhile on your knee,"
I say, as I toast my feet,
"And I want you to pop some corn for me,
And give me an apple sweet."
 
 
I tickle him under the chin – just so —
And I say, "Please can't I, dad?"
Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no
To his own little black-eyed lad.
 
 
"You can't have a pony this year at all,"
Says my stingy Uncle Joe,
After promising it – and there's the stall
Fixed ready for it, you know.
 
 
One can't depend on his uncle, I see,
It's daddies that are the best,
And I find mine and climb up on his knee
As he takes his smoke and rest.
 
 
I tickle him under the chin – just so —
And I say, "Please can't I, dad?"
Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no
To his own little black-eyed lad.
 
 
I want to skate, and oh, what a fuss
For fear I'll break through the ice!
This woman that keeps our house for us,
She isn't what I call nice.
 
 
She wants a boy to be just like a girl,
To play in the house all day,
Keep his face all clean and his hair in curl,
But dad doesn't think that way.
 
 
I tickle him under the chin – just so —
And I say, "Please can't I, dad?"
Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no
To his own little black-eyed lad.
 
 
"You're growing so big," says my dad to me.
"Soon be a man, I suppose,
Too big to climb on your old dad's knee
And toast your ten little toes."
 
 
Then his voice it gets the funniest shake,
And oh, but he hugs me tight!
I say, when I can't keep my eyes awake,
"Let me sleep with you to-night."
 
 
I tickle him under the chin – just so —
And I say, "Please can't I, dad?"
Then I kiss his mouth so he can't say no
To his own little black-eyed lad.
 

JANET

 
Janet, she was trim and small,
Swift her feet could go;
Sandy, he was great and tall,
Sandy, he was slow.
 
 
Dark the curls on Janet's heid,
Dark her een, and true;
Sandy's hair was straicht an' reid,
Sandy's een were blue.
 
 
Sandy had been coortin' lang,
Sandy wasna bold,
Blushed when Janet trilled the sang,
Sweet as it is old:
 
 
"Gin a body meet a body
Comin' through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?"
 
 
Janet's lips were reid and ripe,
Full o' sic delichts;
Longing for them spoiled the pipe
Sandy smoked o' nichts.
 
 
Janet laughed when he would sigh,
Janet wasna kin'.
Spite o' a' as days went by
Janet filled his min'.
 
 
When in kirk he sat and heard
Sermons deep and lang,
Every fluttering bird ootside
Seemed piping Janet's sang.
 
 
Through the psalm, and through the prayer,
Thought went wanderin' wide —
O what were toil, what were care,
Wi' Janet by his side?
 
 
Janet, wi' the waist sae sma',
Janet, dear indeed;
Sermon, psalm, and prayer, and a',
Sandy didna heed —
 
 
Going hame at sober pace
Made confession – sae:
"Hearken, Lord! hide no Thy face
Though I go astray.
 
 
"Help me juist tae do my pairt —
Win her if I can —
Sae I plead wi' a' my hairt,
Help a sinfu' mon!"
 
 
Surely faith was in that prayer.
Ere an hour went by
Janet cam' wi' lichtsome air
Through the fields o' rye.
 
 
Sandy, tak' ye hairt o' grace —
Surely 'tisna wrang —
Here's the lass wi' saucy face,
How runs Janet's sang?
 
 
"Gin a body meet a body
Comin' through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body
Need a body cry?"
 

THE LAD FROM INVERNESS

 
He would go, they could not keep him, for he came of fighting stock;
Though his widowed mother pleaded, he was firm as any rock.
Well he loved the patient woman who had nursed him on her breast,
Been quite blind to all his follies, – but he loved his country best.
"I'll come home again," he told her; " I'll come home again some day,"
Laid his face to her's and kissed her, said good-bye and marched away.
Stronger than the voice that pleaded, "Laddie, laddie, bide at home,"
Was the shrill voice of the bugle and the deep voice of the drum,
Calling to him all the day, calling to him in his dreams:
"Come, lad! Come, lad! Come! Come! Come!"
 
 
His face was like a maiden's face, so smooth it was, and fair;
The laughter in his eyes of gray, the sunshine in his hair;
But a man's heart, true and gallant, beat beneath the tartan plaid,
And a strong right arm he boasted, did this bonnie Highland lad.
Oh, the battlefield is gruesome, with its dying and its dead,
But 'twas to the field of battle that the drum and bugle led —
Magersfontein – and the bullets biting fiercely left and right,
And the lad in kilt and hose there in the thickest of the fight.
Fearful odds, and none to help them, fight they boldly, undismayed,
Gallant clansmen of the north land! Brave old Highlander brigade!
Someone blundered, this we know,
When you met the ambushed foe,
But you fought as heroes fight, and died as heroes die;
This we know, this we know.
 
 
Where the fighting had been fiercest, as the sun sank in the west,
Did they find the widow's laddie, with a bullet in his breast,
And his smiling face turned upward. Did he dream at last – who knows —
Of the far-off hills of Scotland? Lying there in kilt and hose,
With the gold hair gleaming brightly underneath the bonnet blue,
And the tartan plaid laid gently o'er the heart so brave and true.
Stilled forever! With death's coming did there fall upon his ear
Music that he loved to list to, bugle call so high and clear,
Thrilling, stirring, sweeter, shriller, and the deep voice of the drum,
Calling to him through the shadows, calling softly through the shadows,
"Come, lad! Come, lad! Come! Come! Come!"
 

ALL ON AN APRIL MORNING

 
The teacher was wise and learned, I wis,
All nonsense she held in scorning,
But you never can tell what the primmest miss
Will do of a bright spring morning.
 
 
What this one did was to spread a snare
For feet of a youth unheeding,
As March, with a meek and lamb-like air,
To its very last hour was speeding.
 
 
Oh, he was the dullard of his class,
For how can a youth get learning
With his eyes aye fixed on a pretty lass
And his heart aye filled with yearning?
 
 
"Who finds 'mong the rushes which fringe a pool,"
She told him, "the first wind blossom,
May wish what he will" – poor April fool,
With but one wish in his bosom.
 
 
Her gray eyes danced – on a wild-goose chase
He'd sally forth on the morrow,
And, later, she'd laugh in his sombre face,
And jest at his words of sorrow.
 
 
But penitence and a troubled mind
Were fruits of the night's reflection;
After all, he was simple, and strong, and kind —
'Twas wrong to flout his affection.
 
 
They met on the hill as she walked to school;
He said, unheeding her blushes,
"Here's the early flower your April fool
Found growing among the rushes.
 
 
"Take it or leave it as you will" —
His voice ringing out so clearly
Awoke in her heart a happy thrill —
"You know that I love you dearly."
 
 
Day-dreams indulged as she taught the school
Held lovers kneeling and suing;
"Take it or leave it" – her April fool
Was masterful in his wooing.
 
 
He gave her the flower – she gave him a kiss —
His suit she had long been scorning;
But you never can tell what the primmest miss
Will do of a bright spring morning.
 

BILLY

 
O! He was the boy of the house, you know,
A jolly and rollicking lad;
He never was sick, he never was tired,
And nothing could make him sad.
 
 
If he started to play at sunrise,
Not a rest would he take at noon;
No day was so long from beginning to end,
But his bed-time came too soon.
 
 
Did someone urge that he make less noise,
He would say, with a saucy grin:
"Why, one boy alone doesn't make much stir —
O sakes! I wish I was a twin.
 
 
"There's two of twins, and it must be fun
To go double at everything;
To holler by twos, and whistle by twos,
To stamp by twos, and to sing!"
 
 
His laugh was something to make you glad,
So brimful was it of joy;
A conscience he had, perhaps, in his breast,
But it never troubled the boy.
 
 
You met him out on the garden path,
The terrier at his heels,
And knew by the shout he hailed you with
How happy a youngster feels.
 
 
The maiden auntie was half distraught
With his tricks as the days went by;
"The most mischievous child in all the world!"
She said with a shrug and a sigh.
 
 
His father owned that her words were true,
His mother declared each day
He was putting wrinkles into her face,
And turning her brown hair gray.
 
 
His grown-up sister referred to him
As "a trouble," "a trial," "a grief";
The way he ignored all rules, she said,
Was something beyond belief!
 
 
It never troubled the boy of the house,
He revelled in racket and din,
Had only one regret in the world —
He hadn't been born a twin!
 

*****

 
There's nobody making a noise to-day,
There's nobody stamping the floor,
'Tis strangely silent upstairs and down —
White ribbons upon the door.
 
 
The terrier's whining out in the sun:
"Where's my comrade?" he seems to say.
Turn your plaintive eyes away, little dog,
There's no frolic for you to-day.
 
 
The freckle-faced girl from the house next door
Is sobbing her young heart out.
Don't cry, little girl, you'll soon forget
The laugh and the merry shout.
 
 
The grown-up sister is kissing his face,
And calling him "angel" and "sweet,"
And the maiden aunt is nursing the boots
He wore on his restless feet.
 
 
So big, so solemn the old house seems —
No uproar, no racket, no din,
No shrill peal of laughter, no voice shrieking out,
"O sakes! I wish I was a twin!"
 
 
A man and a woman white with grief
Watch the wearisome moments creep —
Oh! the loneliness touches everything,
The boy of the house is asleep!
 

SLY BOY

 
I was the slyest boy at home,
The slyest boy at school,
I wanted all the world to know
That I was no one's fool.
 
 
I kept my childish hopes and schemes
Locked closely in my breast,
No single secret shared with Bob,
The chum I liked the best.
 
 
I never showed my squirrel's nest,
Nor beaver dam, nor cave,
Nor fortress where I used to go
To be a soldier brave.
 
 
Oh, I was sly, just awful sly,
In winter, summer, spring,
While Bob would tell me all he knew,
I never told a thing.
 
 
And yet Bob always got ahead;
I'd find the careless knave
Asleep within my fortress walls,
And fishing in my cave.
 
 
"What, yours!" he said, in great surprise,
"You should have told me so.
You never said a word, old chum,
And how was I to know?"
 
 
My slyness hurt more than it helped;
If Bob had known, you see,
He was too kind to do his best
To get ahead of me.
 
 
I still was sly when I grew up.
I fell in love with Nan,
But scorned to own it to myself
Or any other man.
 
 
So sly was I, Nan never guessed —
No more did handsome Bob —
That every time she looked my way
My heart, it stirred and throbbed.
 
 
The same old story! Ere I knew,
My chum had loved and won.
When I explained I'd picked her out
To be my very own,
 
 
"What, yours!" he said in great surprise,
"You should have told me so.
You never said a word, old chum,
And how was I to know?"
 
 
I've learned my lesson, lost my girl;
You'll own 'tis rather rough.
Henceforward I'll not be too sly —
I'll be just sly enough.
 

Miscellaneous Poems

QUEEN VICTORIA

1837

 
The sunshine streaming through the stainèd glass
Touched her with rosy colors as she stood,
The maiden Queen of all the British realm,
In the old Abbey on that soft June day.
Youth shone within her eyes, where God had set
All steadfastness, and high resolve, and truth;
Youth flushed her cheek, dwelt on the smooth white brow
Whereon the heavy golden circlet lay.
 
 
The ashes of dead kings, the history of
A nation's growth, of strife, and victory,
The mighty past called soft through aisle and nave:
"Be strong, O Queen; be strong as thou art fair!"
A virgin, white of soul and unafraid,
Since back of her was God, and at her feet
A people loyal to the core, and strong,
And loving well her sweetness and her youth.
 

1901

 
Upon her woman's head earth's richest crown
Hath sat with grace these sixty years and more.
Her hand, her slender woman's hand, hath held
The weightiest sceptre, held it with such power
All homage hath been hers, at home, abroad,
Where'er hath dwelt a chivalrous regard
For strength of purpose and for purity,
For grand achievement and for noble aim.
 
 
To-day the cares of State no longer vex;
To-day the crown is laid from off her brow.
 
 
Dead! The great heart of her no more will beat
With tenderness for all beneath her rule.
Dead! The clear eyes of her no more will guard
The nation's welfare. Dead! The arm of her
No more will strike a mighty blow for right
And justice; make a wide world stand amazed
That one so gentle as old England's Queen
Could be so fearless and so powerful!
 
 
Full wearily the sense of grief doth press
And weight us down. The good Queen is no more;
And we are fain to weep as children weep
When greedy death comes to the home and bears
From thence the mother, whose unfailing love
Hath been their wealth, their safeguard, and their pride.
O bells that toll in every zone and clime!
There is a sound of sobbing in your breath.
East, west, north, south, the solemn clamor goes,
Voicing a great, a universal grief!
 

THANKFULNESS

 
I thank Thee, Lord,
For every joyous hour
That has been mine!
For every strengthening and helpful word,
For every tender sound that I have heard,
I thank Thee, Lord!
 
 
I thank Thee, Lord,
For work and weariness
That have been mine!
For patience toward one groping toward the light,
For mid-day burden and for rest of night,
I thank Thee, Lord.
 

THE NATIVE BORN

 
There's a thing we love to think of when the summer days are long,
And the summer winds are blowing, and the summer sun is strong,
When the orchards and the meadows throw their fragrance on the air,
When the grain-fields flaunt their riches, and the glow is everywhere.
Something sings it all the day,
Canada, fair Canada,
And the pride thrills through and through us,
'Tis our birthplace, Canada!
 
 
There's a thing we love to think of when the frost and ice and snow
Hold high carnival together, and the biting north winds blow.
There's a thing we love to think of through the bitter winter hours,
For it stirs a warmth within us – 'tis this fair young land of ours.
Something sings it all the day,
Canada, fair Canada,
And the pride thrills through and through us,
'Tis our birthplace, Canada!
 
 
Ours with all her youth and promise, ours with all her strength and might,
Ours with all her mighty waters and her forests deep as night.
Other lands may far outshine her, boast more charms than she can claim,
But this young land is our own land, and we love her very name.
Something sings it all the day,
Canada, fair Canada,
And the pride thrills through and through us,
'Tis our birthplace, Canada!
 
 
Let the man born in old England love the dear old land the most,
For what spot a man is born in, of that spot he's fain to boast;
Let the Scot look back toward Scotland with a longing in his eyes,
And the exile from old Erin think her green shores paradise,
Native born are we, are we,
Canada, fair Canada,
And the pride thrills through and through us,
'Tis our birthplace, Canada!
 
 
Well we love that sea-girt island, and we strive to understand
All the greatness, all the grandeur, of the glorious Mother Land;
And we cheer her to the skies, cheer her till the echoes start,
For the old land holds our homage, but the new land holds our heart!
Native born are we, are we,
Canada, fair Canada!
And the pride thrills through and through us,
'Tis our birthplace, Canada!