The Project Gutenberg eBook of Bramble Brae This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: Bramble Brae Author: Robert Bridges Release date: July 5, 2017 [eBook #55052] Language: English Credits: Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BRAMBLE BRAE *** Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) BOOKS IN PROSE BY ROBERT BRIDGES (DROCH) OVERHEARD IN ARCADY Dialogues about Howells, James, Aldrich, Stockton, Davis, Crawford, Kipling, Meredith, Stevenson, Barrie. Illustrated, _Fourth Edition_, $1.25. SUPPRESSED CHAPTERS, AND OTHER BOOKISHNESS CONTENTS: Suppressed Chapters--Arcadian Letters--Novels that Everybody Read--The Literary Partition of Scotland--Friends in Arcady--Arcadian Opinions. _Third Edition_, $1.25. Bramble Brae Bramble Brae By Robert Bridges (_Droch_) New York Charles Scribner’s Sons 1902 Copyright, 1902, by CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS _Published March, 1902_ THE DE VINNE PRESS To my Father You called the old farm Bramble Brae, And loved it till your hair was gray And footsteps faltered while you trod The sloping upland bright with sod. It blossomed in your quiet life With gowans from the Neuk of Fife; And while you walked the waving wheat You dreamed of heather and the peat. You’ve gane awa! My spirit yearns To hear you read the songs of Burns; The melody I’ve faintly caught Is just the lesson that you taught. If any hear your gentle voice In verse of mine, then I’ll rejoice And sing along my stumbling way, “He’s home again in Bramble Brae!” CONTENTS BETWEEN TWO WORLDS PAGE THE UNILLUMINED VERGE 1 FROM ONE LONG DEAD 4 FATHER TO MOTHER 6 THE CHILD TO THE FATHER 8 A PRAYER OF OLD AGE 10 THE RHONE GLACIER--SUNSET 14 JAMES MCCOSH 17 LE BONHEUR DE CE MONDE (_Plantin_) 18 THE HAPPINESS OF THIS WORLD (_Translation_) 19 R. L. S. 20 MCGIFFEN 22 AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE 25 NEWS FROM A MISSING LINER 27 FOR A CLASSMATE DEAD AT SEA 29 BRAMBLE BRAE A TOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND 33 THE TOWERS OF PRINCETON 34 ROOSEVELT IN WYOMING 36 UNCLE SAM TO KIPLING 38 A NEW YEAR’S WISH FOR THOSE WHO WRITE 40 TO CHLOE 42 TO THE ELF ON MY CALENDAR 43 CAPRICE 44 RETROSPECT 46 IN THE CROWD 47 REMEMBRANCE 48 OFF FORT HAMILTON IN SUMMER 49 OVER THE FERRY 50 BRAMBLE BRAE IN OCTOBER 52 WITH FLOWERS ON A SPRAY OF HEATHER 57 THE HOTHOUSE VIOLET SPEAKS 59 A SONG 61 WHAT THE FLOWERS SAID 63 DIANA’S VALENTINE 65 WITH SOME BIRTHDAY ROSES 67 WRITTEN IN BOOKS IN A VOLUME OF HERRICK 71 IN “SHAKESPEARE’S SONNETS” 73 IN “SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE” 74 IN GEORGE MEREDITH’S POEMS 75 IN “THE KING’S LYRICS” 76 THE SONG OF TEMBINOKA, KING OF APEMAMA 77 IN THE MANNER OF KIPLING 79 FOR A NOVEL OF HALL CAINE’S 80 IN “HELBECK OF BANNISDALE” 81 A CHRISTMAS GREETING 82 IN NICHOLSON’S “ALMANAC OF SPORTS” 83 IN NICHOLSON’S “CITY TYPES” 84 IN “THE GOLDEN TREASURY” 85 A VALENTINE 86 IN “HALLO, MY FANCY!” 87 THE BOOK SPEAKS 88 IN HERFORD’S VERSES 89 IN A BOOK OF GIBSON’S DRAWINGS 90 IN A VOLUME OF MISS GUINEY’S POEMS 91 IN “BARBARA FRIETCHIE--A PLAY” 92 TO C. H. M. AND H. H. M. 94 TO MY MOTHER 96 A BOOK’S SOLILOQUY 97 ENVOY 99 BETWEEN TWO WORLDS On the dark decline of the unillumined verge between the two worlds. _George Meredith._ THE UNILLUMINED VERGE TO A FRIEND DYING They 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 goad Of 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 brave When 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 light Fill 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 turning Just over the ridge within reach of the end Of 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 creeping Up 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 heart There’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 fro I 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 playing Under trees where sunbeams dance and dart-- But often just at night when I am praying I 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 me I’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 byways Throughout Thy devious world, The little hill-paths, yea, and the great highways Where 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 seeing The beauties of Thy work, I catch faint glimpses of the shadows fleeing Through 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 thrilling Of 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 beauty Of moon and stars and sun; Nature can still reveal to me my duty Till 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 advancing And see Man master Things: From him who read the secret of the thunder And made the lightning kind, Down to this marvel--all the growing wonder Of force controlled by Mind. And this dear land of ours, the freeman’s Nation! Lord, let me live and see Fulfilment 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 fountains And purify the State! But there are closer ties than these that bind me And make me long to stay And linger in the dusk where Death may find me On Thine own chosen day; There’s one who walks beside me in the gloaming And holds my faltering hand-- Without her guidance I can make no homing In 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 staying Has 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 rolls From out the sky. The light of heaven shines Upon its wrinkled brow, that seems a part Of that stupendous dome of boundless blue Where, like a pebble in the ocean depths, This little world is lost. The sparkling sun Plays gently in the deep green, icy clefts Like moonlight in the tender eyes of one Who looks to heaven to find her lover’s face. Silent, serene, implacable it stands-- A mighty symbol of the Force that moved Across the surface of the youthful earth And 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 time When 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 fruit And turns the wheels that forge the tools of trade-- Is but the lash with which the giant plays And 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 falls A shepherd drives his sheep, and fondly bears Above the rocky stream the weakling lamb; The children hear the father’s kindly voice And 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 stands Against the darkening sky,--Force without warmth, Strength without passion. But at the touch Of homely human ways its terrors flee And Force is swallowed up in Life with Love. JAMES McCOSH 1811-1894 Young 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 development Of high from low--assured and full content That man paid homage to the Mind above, Uplifted by the “Royal Law of Love.” The laws of nature that he loved to trace Have worked, at last, to veil from us his face; The dear old elms and ivy-covered walls Will miss his presence, and the stately halls His trumpet-voice; while in their joys Sorrow 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 femme 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 PLANTIN To 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 shine With modest light and just, where greed is rife. To live with freedom, yet to be devout, Ruling thy well-curbed passions--and without Ambition’s scourge to thwart thy regnant will; Truly to worship God with ardent breath Among 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 her Tripping through the palms and fir; All the way around you flew Splendid spirits from the blue-- Dreams and visions lightly caught In the meshes of your thought. What a glorious retinue Made that arduous chase with you! Half the world stood still to see Song and Fancy follow free At the waving of your wand-- While the echoing hills respond To your voice. And now the race Ends with your averted face; At full effort you have sped Through that doorway of the dead-- But the hills and woods remain Peopled from your teeming brain! All that stately company Linger where their eyes may see Beauty fling the laurel o’er, At the closing of the door! From _Suppressed Chapters_. McGIFFEN THE HERO COMING HOME His 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 me When you wore your first blue jacket At the old Academy. And the neighbors said, “How handsome! What a sailor he will be!” But I only drew him closer In my coddling mother’s joy, And said, “Well, what’s a sailor? He’s my brave boy!” And then they told the story Of his courage in the fight-- How he ruled a heathen war-ship And fought it with his might. It’s home he wrote his mother When 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-talking Of 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 you And 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 stand In bronze serene above the city’s throng; Hero at sea, and now on land Revered 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 gives Still helps to make them loyal, strong, and free! NEWS FROM A MISSING LINER TO A CONVALESCENT Crawling 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 wondered How 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 mind Together in him did with fitness blend: And now he is no more! We blindly murmur at the bitter Fate That summoned him in other lands to roam; And when upon him Sickness wrought its hate Half round the world, it brought him almost home, To die when near our shore. We blindly murmur--but we only know Calm 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 stream Sprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dream Of Washington and Franklin, men of old Who knew that freedom is not bought with gold. This is the Land we love, our heritage, Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sage And full of promise--destined to be great. Drink to Our Native Land! God Bless the State! THE TOWERS OF PRINCETON FROM THE TRAIN There 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 weary They 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 trooping From 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 trail From Washburn Mountain strikes the old stage road, And wagons from Cooke City and the mail Unhitch awhile, and teamsters shift the load? A handy bunch of men are round the stove At Yancey’s--hunters back from Jackson’s Hole, And Ed Hough telling of a mighty drove Of 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 bear And 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 politics And 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 sort To run the State, because he “picks a head.” [1] Tall, silent old Woody, a fine type of the fast-vanishing race of game-hunters and Indian-fighters. Roosevelt’s _The Wilderness Hunter_. 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 way To buckle down to business And end our “childish day.” We know we’re young and frisky And haven’t too much sense-- At least, not in the measure We’ll have a few years hence. Now, this same “White Man’s burden” You’re asking us to tote Is not so unfamiliar As you’re inclined to note. We freed three million negroes, Their babies and their wives; It cost a billion dollars And near a million lives! And while we were a-fighting In all those “thankless years” We did not get much helping-- Well, not from English “peers.” And so--with best intentions-- We’re not exactly wild To free the Filipino, “Half devil and half child.” Then, thank you, Mr. Kipling; Though not disposed to groan About the “White Man’s burden,” We’ve troubles of our own; Enough to keep us busy When 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 cheer When 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 mind Spent 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 gleam Through cloud-rifts! Your dearest dream Clothed 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 write Make the future clear and bright; Thaw the cynic from their heart-- Love and faith are highest Art. Let them picture with their pen Not 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 GLOVE Fair Chloe looked upon the old torn glove, Then touched its ragged edges with her fingers, And lo! the rent was closed--as if for love Sweet 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 realize That 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 June Will 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 daring To rashly crave a smile From her, heart-whole, uncaring. Oh, how Love laughed! Love angry grew And 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 frets To rest awhile--ah, then, I know, Into a shadowed room you go, And softly touch the organ keys; While pale stars blink amid the trees You sing a peaceful vesper hymn That 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 forgetting The happy romance of those dreamy years, The painful weariness of vain regretting Through all life’s varied way of love and tear Not this the gladness of my heart represses, With shadow tinges still each sunny thought The fancy that with poignant touch distresses Is 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 keeping Above 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 defended Embrasured there look love on summer skies. OVER THE FERRY ONOMATOPOETIC Clang! 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 defiant Groan under their merciless tread; and the throb Of 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 harder While nearing the wharves of the City of Vanity To 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 assailing And 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 light And huddles in rows, like wrinkles in some old gown. Along the lane the quail are running in fright At sound of guns on the upland--the cautious dogs Are coursing over the fields, and keen-eyed men Watch for the whir of wings; the hickory logs Are falling down in the clearing, while in their pen The big swine gloat on the heaped-up trough; In woods the dead leaves rustle, and red squirrels cough And chatter and screech--chasing each other from limb To limb, and gather their stores at the roots of trees. And part of it all is a boy, and the heart of him Glows 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 crests Are 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 truth That speaks in the heart and the eyes of the lad. For none that pass are the eyes of the bonny girl Except for him; she sits and waits by a climbing vine, Reading the verses of some old bard; the pearl She seeks is love, and only love is the wine That colors her cheeks and snaps in her sparkling eyes But the lad is shy, and dreams the livelong day That 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 deep Cover their eyes and flee to a welcoming tomb. WITH FLOWERS ON A SPRAY OF HEATHER Far from its native moorland Or crest of “wine-red” hill, At sight or scent of heather The hearts of Scotsmen thrill. Though crushed its purple blossoms, Its tender stems turned brown, It brings romantic Highlands Into prosaic town. The clans are on the border, The chiefs are in the fray; We’re keen upon their footsteps With Walter Scott to-day. Peat smoke from lowland cottage Floats curling up, and turns Our dreams toward quiet hearthstones And melodies of Burns. And last our fancy lingers With fond regret and vain Where sleeps our Tusitala Beneath the tropic rain-- Far from the purple heather Or gleaming rowan bough, Alone on mountain summit, “Our hearts remember how.” St. Andrew’s Day. THE HOTHOUSE VIOLET SPEAKS TO A FAIR WOMAN I’ve calmly lived my sunny little life Under the crinkling glass, and free from strife; The sky above and all around is blue, And from this haven now I come to you. Fair Lady, tell me have I heard aright That other flowers do not live so bright? That in dark forests and by noisy streams The pale wood violet sheds its purple beams? While we are merry in this fireside glow My humble cousin shivers in the snow; And yet a cricket whispered once to me That _I_ the captive was--my cousin, free! Sometimes I’ve dreamed the cricket told me true; I’ve longed for freedom and the pleasing view Of moss-grown hummocks and great whispering trees, With gold-winged songsters humming in the breeze. The dream is over--I have lived my day Nourished in sun with other violets gay; And now I’m borne afar to Paradise, To find my haven in your gentle eyes. If I may touch your lips I’ll die content Without one glimpse of freedom or days spent In woodland dells; oh, murmur, while I fade, Your own sweet mem’ries of the forest glade! Come, tell me quickly, for my brief hours pass; What! _You too captive in a house of glass?_ A SONG WITH A RED ROSE ON HER BIRTHDAY _What the Rose thought:_ Oh, to be one-and-twenty! But I am a rose that must bloom for a day; My life is like color and perfume in May; To-night I shall fade in her beautiful hair, And touch with my petals her proud neck and fair. Oh, to be one-and-twenty! _What She sang, exultingly:_ Oh, to be one-and-twenty! To feel that the glorious days of my youth Are only the promise of hope, love, and truth-- That all joyful things in my bright future gleam, And I am to _live_ them and find out my dream. Oh, to be one-and-twenty! _What He wrote, sadly:_ Oh, to be one-and-twenty! To dream that the great world is still all my own, And cherish again the ideals that have flown; To follow them, hiding with cunning and art, And find them all sleeping within her warm heart, Her heart that is one-and-twenty! WHAT THE FLOWERS SAID Here are roses, red and white, Each to speak what I would write; For, when in your quiet room You may smell their sweet perfume, I shall whisper through these flowers Fancy’s thoughts for evening hours. Then, when in the crowded street You and I may chance to meet, I’ll discover in your eyes What you’ve half expressed in sighs; For if in your dusky hair One red rose you deign to wear I shall say, “I know that she Wears it for her love of me.” But if on your gentle breast One white rose may dare to rest, Then in rapture I’ll declare, “That’s my heart a-resting there.” But if neither red nor white May your hair or gown bedight, Still with confidence I’ll say, “That is lovely woman’s way-- What of life is largest part Hides she deepest in her heart!” DIANA’S VALENTINE WITH A BUNCH OF VIOLETS _Good Saint Valentine, I pray, While around this town you stray, You will keep your eyes alert For a maid who loves to flirt._ If among the hurrying crowd-- Beauties fair and beauties proud-- You should see one like a queen, Eyes of blue, with golden sheen In her hair that’s flecked with brown, And a grace about her gown, _That’s Diana!_ Catch her eye As she’s gayly tripping by; Say you know a sorry wight, Slow of speech and slow to write, Who would tell her through these flowers That her eyes are bright as stars In the blue; that her speech Haunts his mem’ry (out of reach Like their perfume faint but fine); That her laugh is like rare wine. As you leave her touch her lips; Say that men are like old ships, Easy towed, but hard to steer; Then just whisper in her ear, “Lovers change, but friends are true Like these violets.” Then, “Adieu.” _This, Saint Valentine, I pray, On the morning of that day When you keep your eyes alert For all maids who love to flirt._ ARCADY, February fourteenth. WITH SOME BIRTHDAY ROSES If I were not a speechless flower I’d like to talk with you an hour And whisper many pretty things That thinking of your birthday brings. (For flowers can dream of happiness While you their velvet petals press!) But I can’t talk--I know a man Who often vainly thinks he can, And what he wanted me to do Was simply to look fair to you And wish you joy--and then surprise The gentle look in your dear eyes. WRITTEN IN BOOKS 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 “Show me the face of Truth,” the Sahib said-- “Show me its beauty, before I’m dead!” “Look!” said the priest, “with unflinching eyes; This is the World, and not Paradise. Look! It is wicked, and cruel, and strong, and wise!” 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 _Rosalīnd_-- 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. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BRAMBLE BRAE *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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