Bramble Brae

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.

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!

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.”