IN A VOLUME OF HERRICK Dear old worldling gone astray,
You would rather sing than pray;
While you wore the preacher’s gown
How you longed for London Town!
When your head ached, then, alack!
You, repentant, gave up sack;
Old and worn you ruthlessly
Bade farewell to poesy;
Full, you never cared for food,
Sated, you were always good.
Julia’s beauties you rehearse,
Sing her charms in wanton verse,
But to make poor Julia thine
Not one pleasure you’d resign.
Flattering, you tried to please;
Generous, you loved your ease!
Dear old Herrick, you’re a Man
Built upon the human plan;
To the world your fame belongs
For the beauty of your songs—
Glorious poet—not a saint—
Lyric splendor without taint!
IN “SHAKESPEARE’S SONNETS” The Sonnets—bound by RiviÈre
And newly illustrated!
As though the words that Shakespeare wrote
By outward dress are rated!
The soul—the fine, immortal part
That lives without the binding,
Is something from the poet’s heart;
’Tis here—and worth the finding.
IN “SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE” In this book a woman wrote her heart—
Etching there the image of a Man.
Faithful woman! But the years depart,
And love is dust, and life a broken span!
IN GEORGE MEREDITH’S POEMS Here is a forest tangle—
Rank weeds, luxuriant ferns, and giant trees,
All in a hoarse-voiced wrangle,
With creaking branches swaying in the breeze.
But if you care to listen,
Above the noise you’ll hear the piping of a bird,
Gay feathers in the tree-tops glisten,
And over all the sweetest music ever heard.
IN “THE KING’S LYRICS” Behold “The Lyrics of the King”!
As though a crown on those who sing
Could make their music sweeter!
To-day we’ll choose the better part—
The gentle music of the heart
That masters rhyme and metre.
THE SONG OF TEMBINOKA, KING OF APEMAMA
TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Sing, my warriors, sing! men of the sharklike race!
Sing of the poet who came and greeted us face to face.
He from the cold, gray North, I, in these tropic isles,
Meet as brothers and bards, with eloquent songs and smiles—
Meet as brothers, though singing words that are strange and proud.
Pale and wan is his face, while mine is a thunder-cloud;
But the heart of a man is hidden by neither language nor skin—
To love as a man and a brother maketh the whole world kin.
The tales that he tells are of heroes who fought like braves to the death—
Bone of our bone are these heroes, the very breath of our breath!
Then sing, my warriors, sing! men of the sharklike race!
Sing of the poet who came and greeted us face to face!
From Overheard in Arcady. IN THE MANNER OF KIPLING From Overheard in Arcady. FOR A NOVEL OF HALL CAINE’S
AFTER KIPLING He sits in a sea-green grotto with a bucket of lurid paint,
And draws the Thing as it isn’t for the God of Things as they ain’t!
IN “HELBECK OF BANNISDALE” The foolish story of a man and maid
Who loved each other but were dire afraid
To follow where their true hearts surely led
And, risking all things, bravely to be wed.
What’s in a creed to keep two souls apart?
The universal solvent is the heart!
A CHRISTMAS GREETING Good luck, good cheer, throughout the year!
A bright fire on the hearthstone burning;
A gleam of rose at evening’s close
When, wearied, you are homeward turning!
By ingle-nook a soothing book—
A few old friends in Mem’ry’s castle;
A bit of rhyme at Christmas-time
To wish you fortune at your wassail!
IN NICHOLSON’S “ALMANAC OF SPORTS”
(WITH VERSES BY KIPLING) In all your Calendar of Sports
Why, Rudyard, do you slight the wheel?
Were you, then, never out of sorts
Until you felt the vibrant steel
Skim over miles of level track?
For youth, with all its hope and cheer,
When we’re a-wheel comes rolling back—
And it is Summer all the year!
IN NICHOLSON’S “CITY TYPES” The City’s roar is rising from the street;
The old, bedraggled “types” are shuffling through the strife;
They plod and push, and elbow as they meet,
And glare and grin, and sadly call it “life.”
For us the fireside hearth is all aglow,
And those we love make up the life we know.
IN “THE GOLDEN TREASURY” The year is old, the way is far;
I catch your image like a star
That’s mirrored in a crystal brook;
For love of you I send a book!
A VALENTINE Though all the streams are white with frost
And all the fields with snow,
Though earth its greenery has lost,
And biting gales do blow—
Still I’ll recall the summer hours,
The blue skies and the vine—
The hillsides pink with Alpine flowers
To greet my Valentine!
IN “HALLO, MY FANCY!”
(BY CHARLES HENRY LÜDERS AND S. D. S., JR.) “Hallo, my Fancy! View Hallo!”
The nimble game has broken cover
And skims the valley to and fro;
By cooling brooks it seems to hover,
Then bounds along. “Ho, View Hallo!”
The huntsmen cry from brake to loch;
The chase grows ardent—“View Hallo!”
From quiet shelter echoes, Droch.
THE BOOK SPEAKS
TO EUGENE FIELD I’m keeping jolly comp’ny
In a room that’s full of books;
I’m cheek by jowl with Horace
And a lot of ancient crooks.
But the boys I like to play with,
When the boss takes off his coat,
Are the wild and woolly heroes
From Casey’s tabble-dote.
And when the lamp is lighted
And cosey hours ensue,
I talk with All-Aloney
And the little Boy in Blue.
But when the man that owns the books
Throws one kind glance at me
I sing just like the Dinkey
In the Amfelula Tree.
IN HERFORD’S VERSES To weep with those who weep is human;
We give our praises to the man of grit,
And honor with our trust the true man;
Let’s laugh a little with a man of wit!
IN A BOOK OF GIBSON’S DRAWINGS You may turn these pages over,
Looking for the priceless pearl;
You may search from back to cover
For the finest Gibson girl.
You can save yourself the trouble—
It’s no earthly use to look:
The charming girl who takes the medal
Is a-holding of the book.
IN A VOLUME OF MISS GUINEY’S POEMS A maker of smooth verse and facile rhymes,
And lover of quaint legends from old times;
A joyous singer in New England bleak—
Her heart is Irish and her mind is Greek.
IN “BARBARA FRIETCHIE—A PLAY”
TO J. M. We met her first in Arcady,
Where visions fair are apt to be,
Roaming beneath the arching trees—
Her laughter cheering up the breeze;
Sometimes as gay as Colinette,
Then fond and sad as Juliet.
And when we’d had enough of anguish
She’d make us laugh as Lydia Languish.
No mask or mood was twice the same—
Yet one fair face behind each name.
As that bright vixen of the mind,
The fascinating Rosalind—
As Imogen or Viola,
Or, best of all, sweet Barbara—
Always the same alluring grace
And wit that sparkles in her face!
The road to Arcady is far
And sometimes lonely for a star—
But all the phantoms of the air
And poets’ dreams that wander there
Would miss the welcome we extend,
Not to her Art—just to a friend!
TO C. H. M. AND H. H. M. Here is the story—
I haven’t half told it;
The fun and the glory,
A volume can’t hold it.
But this is a spray,
Withered leaves and pressed flowers,
From a faded bouquet
That was plucked in gay hours,
Within sound of the waves
Of the gentle Pacific,
Where Nature enslaves
And the days beatific
Are sandalled with gold
And wear gems on their fingers.
All the tale is not told
Which slow Fancy weaves,
But a faint odor lingers
About these dry leaves
That may bring recollection
Of prairie and loch
With a hint of affection
From
Yours ever,
Droch.
Dedication of The Monterey Wedding. TO MY MOTHER Long years you’ve kept the door ajar
To greet me, coming from afar;
Long years in my accustomed place
I’ve read my welcome in your face,
And felt the sunlight of your love
Drive back the years and gently move
The telltale shadow ’round to youth.
You’ve found the very spring, in truth,
That baffles time—the kindling joy
That keeps me in your heart a boy.
And now I send an unknown guest
To bide with you and snugly rest
Beside the old home’s ingle-nook.—
For love of me you’ll love my book.
Dedication of Overheard in Arcady. A BOOK’S SOLILOQUY My lady’s room is full of books
And easy-chairs and curtained nooks,
And dainty tea-things on a table,
And poetry, and tale, and fable,
And on the hearth a crackling fire
That welcome gives, and when you tire
Of pleasant talk you still may find
A tempting pasture where the mind
May browse awhile, and read the pages
Which poets wrote, or fools, or sages.
And here I come to ask a place
Among these worthies, face to face!
To be allowed on some low shelf
To rest and dream, and pride myself
On being in such company—
To watch fair women drinking tea;
And if, perchance, on some lone day,
The gentle mistress looks my way
And softly says, “Now I shall see
What’s going on in Arcady!”
Then I’ll rejoice that I’m a book
At which my lady deigns to look.
ENVOY
THE SHEPHERD TO HIS FLOCK The sun is warm upon the ridges now;
The way was rough and steep;
I’ll seek the shelter of a leafy bough
And watch my grazing sheep.
The smoke is rising from the valley there,
The hum of wheels and trade;
The stress of life is in the whirling air
While I pipe in the shade.
Where work is fierce amid the striving throng
And music’s voice is mute,
Some one may catch the echo of a song—
The faint note of a lute.
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