BION'S SONG OF EROS
EROS is the god of love;
He and I are hand-in-glove.
All the gentle, gracious Muses
Follow Eros where he leads,
And they bless the bard who chooses
To proclaim love's famous deeds;
Him they serve in rapturous glee, —
That is why they're good to me.
Sometimes I have gone astray
From love's sunny, flowery way:
How I floundered, how I stuttered!
And, deprived of ways and means,
What egregious rot I uttered, —
Such as suits the magazines!
I was rescued only when
Eros called me back again.
Gods forefend that I should shun
That benignant Mother's son!
Why, the poet who refuses
To emblazon love's delights
Gets the mitten from the Muses, —
Then what balderdash he writes!
I love Love; which being so,
See how smooth my verses flow!
Gentle Eros, lead the way, —
I will follow while I may:
Be thy path by hill or hollow,
I will follow fast and free;
And when I'm too old to follow,
I will sit and sing of thee, —
Potent still in intellect,
Sit, and sing, and retrospect.
MR. BILLINGS OF LOUISVILLE
THERE are times in one's life which one cannot forget;
And the time I remember's the evening I met
A haughty young scion of bluegrass renown
Who made my acquaintance while painting the town:
A handshake, a cocktail, a smoker, and then
Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten.
There flowed in his veins the blue blood of the South,
And a cynical smile curled his sensuous mouth;
He quoted from Lanier and Poe by the yard,
But his purse had been hit by the war, and hit hard:
I felt that he honored and flattered me when
Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten.
I wonder that never again since that night
A vision of Billings has hallowed my sight;
I pine for the sound of his voice and the thrill
That comes with the touch of a ten-dollar bill:
I wonder and pine; for – I say it again —
Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten.
I've heard what old Whittier sung of Miss Maud;
But all such philosophy's nothing but fraud;
To one who's a bear in Chicago to-day,
With wheat going up, and the devil to pay,
These words are the saddest of tongue or of pen:
"Mr. Billings of Louisville touched me for ten."
POET AND KING
THOUGH I am king, I have no throne
Save this rough wooden siege alone;
I have no empire, yet my sway
Extends a myriad leagues away;
No servile vassal bends his knee
In grovelling reverence to me,
Yet at my word all hearts beat high,
And there is fire in every eye,
And love and gratitude they bring
As tribute unto me, a king.
The folk that throng the busy street
Know not it is a king they meet;
And I am glad there is not seen
The monarch in my face and mien.
I should not choose to be the cause
Of fawning or of coarse applause:
I am content to know the arts
Wherewith to lord it o'er their hearts;
For when unto their hearts I sing,
I am a king, I am a king!
My sceptre, – see, it is a pen!
Wherewith I rule these hearts of men.
Sometime it pleaseth to beguile
Its monarch fancy with a smile;
Sometime it is athirst for tears:
And so adown the laurelled years
I walk, the noblest lord on earth,
Dispensing sympathy and mirth.
Aha! it is a magic thing
That makes me what I am, – a king!
Let empires crumble as they may,
Proudly I hold imperial sway;
The sunshine and the rain of years
Are human smiles and human tears
That come or vanish at my call, —
I am the monarch of them all!
Mindful alone of this am I:
The songs I sing shall never die;
Not even envious Death can wring
His glory from so great a king.
Come, brother, be a king with me,
And rule mankind eternally;
Lift up the weak, and cheer the strong,
Defend the truth, combat the wrong!
You'll find no sceptre like the pen
To hold and sway the hearts of men;
Its edicts flow in blood and tears
That will outwash the flood of years:
So, brother, sing your songs, oh, sing!
And be with me a king, a king!
LYDIA DICK
WHEN I was a boy at college,
Filling up with classic knowledge,
Frequently I wondered why
Old Professor Demas Bentley
Used to praise so eloquently
"Opera Horatii."
Toiling on a season longer
Till my reasoning powers got stronger,
As my observation grew,
I became convinced that mellow,
Massic-loving poet fellow,
Horace, knew a thing or two.
Yes, we sophomores figured duly
That, if we appraised him truly,
Horace must have been a brick;
And no wonder that with ranting
Rhymes he went a-gallivanting
Round with sprightly Lydia Dick!
For that pink of female gender
Tall and shapely was, and slender,
Plump of neck and bust and arms;
While the raiment that invested
Her so jealously suggested
Certain more potential charms.
Those dark eyes of hers that fired him,
Those sweet accents that inspired him,
And her crown of glorious hair, —
These things baffle my description:
I should have a fit conniption
If I tried; so I forbear.
Maybe Lydia had her betters;
Anyway, this man of letters
Took that charmer as his pick.
Glad – yes, glad I am to know it!
I, a
fin de siècle
poet,
Sympathize with Lydia Dick!
Often in my arbor shady
I fall thinking of that lady,
And the pranks she used to play;
And I'm cheered, – for all we sages
Joy when from those distant ages
Lydia dances down our way.
Otherwise some folks might wonder,
With good reason, why in thunder
Learned professors, dry and prim,
Find such solace in the giddy
Pranks that Horace played with Liddy
Or that Liddy played on him.
Still this world of ours rejoices
In those ancient singing voices,
And our hearts beat high and quick,
To the cadence of old Tiber
Murmuring praise of roistering Liber
And of charming Lydia Dick.
Still Digentia, downward flowing,
Prattleth to the roses blowing
By the dark, deserted grot.
Still Soracte, looming lonely,
Watcheth for the coming only
Of a ghost that cometh not.
LIZZIE
I WONDER ef all wimmin air
Like Lizzie is when we go out
To theaters an' concerts where
Is things the papers talk about.
Do other wimmin fret an' stew
Like they wuz bein' crucified, —
Frettin' a show or concert through,
With wonderin' ef the baby cried?
Now Lizzie knows that gran'ma's there
To see that everything is right;
Yet Lizzie thinks that gran'ma's care
Ain't good enuff f'r baby, quite.
Yet what am I to answer when
She kind uv fidgets at my side,
An' asks me every now an' then,
"I wonder ef the baby cried"?
Seems like she seen two little eyes
A-pinin' f'r their mother's smile;
Seems like she heern the pleadin' cries
Uv one she thinks uv all the while;
An' so she's sorry that she come.
An' though she allus tries to hide
The truth, she'd ruther stay to hum
Than wonder ef the baby cried.
Yes, wimmin folks is all alike —
By Lizzie you kin jedge the rest;
There never wuz a little tyke,
But that his mother loved him best.
And nex' to bein' what I be —
The husband uv my gentle bride —
I'd wisht I wuz that croodlin' wee,
With Lizzie wonderin' ef I cried.
LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE
AFTER dear old grandma died,
Hunting through an oaken chest
In the attic, we espied
What repaid our childish quest:
'Twas a homely little slate,
Seemingly of ancient date.
On its quaint and battered face
Was the picture of a cart
Drawn with all that awkward grace
Which betokens childish art.
But what meant this legend, pray:
"Homer drew this yesterday"?
Mother recollected then
What the years were fain to hide:
She was but a baby when
Little Homer lived and died.
Forty years, so mother said,
Little Homer had been dead.
This one secret through those years
Grandma kept from all apart,
Hallowed by her lonely tears
And the breaking of her heart;
While each year that sped away
Seemed to her but yesterday.
So the homely little slate
Grandma's baby's fingers pressed,
To a memory consecrate,
Lieth in the oaken chest,
Where, unwilling we should know,
Grandma put it years ago.
ALWAYS RIGHT
DON'T take on so, Hiram,
But do what you're told to do;
It's fair to suppose that yer mother knows
A heap sight more than you.
I'll allow that sometimes
her
way
Don't seem the wisest, quite;
But the
easiest
way,
When she's had her say,
Is to reckon yer mother is right.
Courted her ten long winters,
Saw her to singin'-school;
When she went down one spell to town,
I cried like a durned ol' fool;
Got mad at the boys for callin'
When I sparked her Sunday night:
But she said she knew
A thing or two, —
An' I reckoned yer mother wuz right.
I courted till I wuz aging,
And she wuz past her prime, —
I'd have died, I guess, if she hadn't said yes
When I popped f'r the hundredth time.
Said she'd never have took me
If I hadn't stuck so tight;
Opined that we
Could never agree, —
And I reckon yer mother wuz right!
"TROT, MY GOOD STEED, TROT!"
WHERE my true love abideth
I make my way to-night;
Lo! waiting, she
Espieth me,
And calleth in delight:
"I see his steed anear
Come trotting with my dear, —
Oh, idle not, good steed, but trot,
Trot thou my lover here!"
Aloose I cast the bridle,
And ply the whip and spur;
And gayly I
Speed this reply,
While faring on to her:
"Oh, true love, fear thou not!
I seek our trysting spot;
And double feed be yours, my steed,
If you more swiftly trot."
I vault from out the saddle,
And make my good steed fast;
Then to my breast
My love is pressed, —
At last, true heart, at last!
The garden drowsing lies,
The stars fold down their eyes, —
In this dear spot, my steed, neigh not,
Nor stamp in restless wise!
O passing sweet communion
Of young hearts, warm and true!
To thee belongs
The old, old songs
Love finds forever new.
We sing those songs, and then
Cometh the moment when
It's, "Good steed, trot from this dear spot, —
Trot, trot me home again!"
PROVIDENCE AND THE DOG
WHEN I was young and callow, which was many years ago,
Within me the afflatus went surging to and fro;
And so I wrote a tragedy that fairly reeked with gore,
With every act concluding with the dead piled on the floor, —
A mighty effort, by the gods! and after I had read
The manuscript to Daly, that dramatic censor said:
"The plot is most exciting, and I like the dialogue;
You should take the thing to Providence, and try it on a dog."
McCambridge organized a troupe, including many a name
Unknown alike to guileless me, to riches, and to fame.
A pompous man whose name was Rae was Nestor of this troupe, —
Amphibious, he was quite at home outside or in the soup!
The way McCambridge billed him! Why, such dreams in red and green
Had ne'er before upon the boards of Yankeedom been seen;
And my proud name was heralded, – oh that I'd gone incog.
When we took that play to Providence to try it on a dog!
Shall I forget the awful day we struck that wretched town?
Yet in what melting irony the treacherous sun beamed down!
The sale of seats had not been large; but then McCambridge said
The factory people seldom bought their seats so far ahead,
And Rae indorsed McCambridge. So they partly set at rest
The natural misgivings that perturbed my youthful breast;
For I wondered and lamented that the town was not agog
When I took my play to Providence to try it on a dog.
They never came at all, – aha! I knew it all the time, —
They never came to see and hear my tragedy sublime.
Oh, fateful moment when the curtain rose on act the first!
Oh, moment fateful to the soul for wealth and fame athirst!
But lucky factory girls and boys to stay away that night,
When the author's fervid soul was touched by disappointment's blight, —
When desolation settled down on me like some dense fog
For having tempted Providence, and tried it on a dog!
Those actors didn't know their parts; they maundered to and fro,
Ejaculating platitudes that were quite
mal à propos
;
And when I sought to reprimand the graceless scamps, the lot
Turned fiercely on me, and denounced my charming play as rot.
I might have stood their bitter taunts without a passing grunt,
If I'd had a word of solace from the people out in front;
But that chilly corporal's guard sat round like bumps upon a log
When I played that play at Providence with designs upon the dog.
We went with lots of baggage, but we didn't bring it back, —
For who would be so hampered as he walks a railway track?
"Oh, ruthless muse of tragedy! what prodigies of shame,
What marvels of injustice are committed in thy name!"
Thus groaned I in the spirit, as I strode what stretch of ties
'Twixt Providence, Rhode Island, and my native Gotham lies;
But Rae, McCambridge, and the rest kept up a steady jog, —
'Twas not the first time they had plied their arts upon the dog.
So much for my first battle with the fickle goddess, Fame, —
And I hear that some folks nowadays are faring just the same.
Oh, hapless he that on the graceless Yankee dog relies!
The dog fares stout and hearty, and the play it is that dies.
So ye with tragedies to try, I beg of you, beware!
Put not your trust in Providence, that most delusive snare;
Cast, if you will, your pearls of thought before the Western hog,
But never go to Providence to try it on a dog.
GETTIN' ON
WHEN I wuz somewhat younger,
I wuz reckoned purty gay;
I had my fling at everything
In a rollickin', coltish way.
But times have strangely altered
Since sixty years ago —
This age of steam an' things don't seem
Like the age I used to know.
Your modern innovations
Don't suit me, I confess,
As did the ways of the good ol' days, —
But I'm gettin' on, I guess.
I set on the piazza,
An' hitch round with the sun;
Sometimes, mayhap, I take a nap,
Waitin' till school is done.
An' then I tell the children
The things I done in youth, —
An' near as I can, as a vener'ble man,
I stick to the honest truth, —
But the looks of them 'at listen
Seem sometimes to express
The remote idee that I'm gone – you see? —
An' I
am
gettin' on, I guess.
I get up in the mornin',
An', nothin' else to do,
Before the rest are up an' dressed,
I read the papers through.
I hang round with the women
All day an' hear 'em talk;
An' while they sew or knit I show
The baby how to walk.
An', somehow, I feel sorry
When they put away his dress
An' cut his curls ('cause they're like a girl's!) —
I'm gettin' on, I guess.
Sometimes, with twilight round me,
I see, or seem to see,
A distant shore where friends of yore
Linger an' watch for me.
Sometimes I've heered 'em callin'
So tender-like 'nd low
That it almost seemed like a dream I dreamed,
Or an echo of long ago;
An' sometimes on my forehead
There falls a soft caress,
Or the touch of a hand, – you understand, —
I'm gettin' on, I guess.
THE SCHNELLEST ZUG
FROM Hanover to Leipzig is but a little way,
Yet the journey by the so-called schnellest zug consumes a day;
You start at half-past ten or so, and not till nearly night
Do the double towers of Magdeburg loom up before your sight;
From thence to Leipzig 's quick enough, – of that I'll not complain, —
But from Hanover to Magdeburg – confound that schnellest train!
The Germans say that "schnell" means fast, and "schnellest" faster yet, —
In all my life no grimmer bit of humor have I met!
Why, thirteen miles an hour 's the greatest speed they ever go,
While on the engine piston-rods do moss and lichens grow;
And yet the average Teuton will presumptuously maintain
That one
can't
know what swiftness is till he's tried das schnellest train!
Fool that I was! I should have walked, – I had no time to waste;
The little journey I had planned I had to do in haste, —
The quaint old town of Leipzig with its literary mart,
And Dresden with its crockery-shops and wondrous wealth of art,
The Saxon Alps, the Carlsbad cure for all dyspeptic pain, —
These were the ends I had in view when I took that schnellest train.
The natives dozed around me, yet none too deep to hear
The guard's sporadic shout of "funf minuten" (meaning beer);
I counted forty times at least that voice announce the stops
Required of those fat natives to glut their greed for hops,
Whilst
I
crouched in a corner, a monument to woe,
And thought unholy, awful things, and felt my whiskers grow!
And then, the wretched sights one sees while travelling by that train, —
The women doing men-folks' work at harvesting the grain,
Or sometimes grubbing in the soil, or hitched to heavy carts
Beside the family cow or dog, doing their slavish parts!
The husbands strut in soldier garb, – indeed
they
were too vain
To let creation see
them
work from that creeping schnellest train!
I found the German language all too feeble to convey
The sentiments that surged through my dyspeptic hulk that day;
I had recourse to English, and exploded without stint
Such virile Anglo-Saxon as would never do in print,
But which as