The Dyak chief, and other verses

When your doctors fail to render—
When your lotions fail to heal—
When the salted scar is burning—
When aturtle turns the keel:
When the lights are lost to leeward—
When the last least hope is gone—
Then I call ye—Oh my children—
As a Mother calls her spawn.

By no magic may I do it—
By no sudden quick surcease:
Slow, so slow, ye cannot know it
Do I bring ye your release.
As the blackened heavens soften
To the morning’s growing gray,
And the gray spreads gold and crimson
Till in splendor breaks the day:

So by little and by little,
That ye may not know or see,
Do I soothe the salted searing—
Do I bid the shadows flee—
Do I weld the torn heart-cord
No surgeon art may heal,
Till ye lift the fastened latchet
And go forth in laughing weal.

From Eastward and from Westward
I call my broken clan;
We may not meet in lane or street
Or greet us man and man:
But slowly spread my wide-leagued wings—
And falling tenderly,
I wrap my troubled Earth-spawn
Unto the heart of me.

MY LOVES

Oh do you wish to know my Loves?
Then you must come with me
To every land of all the lands
And the waves of every sea.

My love she nestles to my side,
Nor careth who discern,
For she’s the breeze o’ the Southern Seas
Where the egg-spume waters turn.

My love she wraps me in her arms
With a crushing grasp and wild,
For she was born o’ the six-months morn,
A strong, tumultuous child.

My love needs throw a kiss to me,
And the kiss is the rainbow spray,
Then laughing in glee, coquettishly,
She lightly trips away.

My love she comes with open arms,
A dazzling beauty bold—
Lilac and rose and amber,
Scarlet and blazing gold.

My love she gently beckons me
And folds me nearer yet,
A blushing maid with crown of jade
Where the first pale stars are set.

Oh do you wish to know my Loves?
Then you must come with me
To every land of all the lands
And the waves of every sea.

THE FORUM

Here strode triumphant Cæsars
Returning honored home:
Here rose the gorgeous temples
Of proud imperial Rome.

Here burned the Vestal Fire
The endless seasons through:
Here reared the haughty Arches
The far-flung Nations knew.

Lord of the last least horizon—
King of the Outer Seas—
Where beat a heart, where stood a mart,
There bended suppliant knees—

To Thee—Resplendent Sovereign—
Cradled among the hills,
Who still through the countless centuries
The wondering watcher thrills.

Only a Tale of the Ages—
Power and Pride and Death—
And the afterlight of an Empire’s might—
And the soft Campania’s breath.

Only the crumbled marble,
And Memory’s lingering wine,
And the grass and the scarlet poppies
And clover and dandelion.

THE MASTERPIECE

“Des Sohnes letzter Gruss” (“The Son’s last Salutation”). A modern painting by Karl Hoff in the Royal Picture Gallery, Dresden.

We tramped the stretching galleries—
We gazed each priceless gem—
Jordäens—Rubens—Raphael—
We paused and pondered them.

The famous, same Madonnas—
The fatuous forms at ease—
And the Wedding Feast with Cavaliers—
And a drunken Hercules.

We saw the Sistine Mother,
The farthest Nations know—
Till room on room of light and gloom
Swept row on outer row.

And some we knew and reverenced—
Whose praise the wide World sings;
And some we fled with callous dread
For flat and flaccid things.

Till at last at the gallery’s ending
In the room with the roof-let door,
We saw a young man standing—
The Lone Son bid to War.

Lithe and strong and supple,
Clean-limbed, clear-eyed and tall—
And the parting gaze of the parting ways
When the battered trumpets call.

And we saw the widowed Mother—
And the prostrate, sobless grief;
And the pitying priest beside her,
And the gentle, vain relief.

And the Sister—standing—watching—
’Twixt love, reproach and tears—
The tender light of the summer night
Where brood the unfathomed years.

The Maiden—standing, watching—
Fair as the first, faint star:
A dainty symbol sent to prove
How near the angels are.
. . . . . . . . . .
We gleaned the gallery’s gorgeous wealth—
But lost its wondrous worth,
As we bowed a head in silence
To the Good of all the Earth.

THE HERITAGE

Full well they tilled the barren soil—
Full well they sowed the seed—
Full well they held by life and life
The seal of the title deed.

From Bunker Hill to Yorktown
They waged a sacred fray:
Oh Sons of Iron Men give ye not
Your heritage away.

By commerce, mart and culture
Ye’ve raised a mighty state;
But ’ware the pampered spirit,
Ere ye ’ware the worst too late.

By commerce, mart and culture
Thrive ye forevermore,
But hold ye to the Iron Age—
The Iron Age of War.

With rugged heart and sinew—
With spirit stern and high,
Keep ye the ways o’ warrior days—
The days that may not die.

Keep ye the ways o’ warrior days,
Maintain the armor bright,
For where ye’ve raised your fathers blazed—
Hold ye their honor white.

That through the unborn years to come—
Unpampered, age on age—
Shall guarded stand their promised land—
Our Sacred Heritage.

THE ADJUSTING HOUR

Just the Adjusting Hour,
With nobody else around,
And you sort o’ straighten things a bit,
Beginning right down at the ground.

Just the Adjusting Hour,
When plans have gone askew,
And you stand with your back to the fire—
And only your God and you.

Just the Adjusting Hour,
Pondering very slow,
And you lay the firm foundations
And you pray that they will grow—

Tall and strong and splendid—
That they who run may see,
What the Adjusting Hour
Has given to you and me.

THE OUTPOSTERS

We’ve tête-à-têted here and there
Whence all the breezes fan,
From Cuba clear to Tokio
And back to Hindustan.

We’ve journeyed out of Agra
To see the Taj Mahal
Rise mystic white in the moonlit night
Above the Jumna wall.

Along the plains of Java
We shook you by the hand,
And watched among Tosari’s hills
The lace Tjemaras stand:

Or Aden’s great cathedral rocks—
High—majestic—bare—
Or Karnak’s columns rising sheer
Through the clear Egyptian air.

We’ve laughed with you in Poeroek Tjahoe,[A]
In the heart of Borneo,
Ere we hit the trail to northward
Where the lesser rivers flow:

Where the angry Moeroeng cuts the hills
And the endless jungles rise,
And the Dyak kampongs nestle ’neath
The speckless, fleckless skies.

By the myriad ship-lights stretching through
The Roads of Singapore,
By the crooked, winding, white-walled streets
Of burning Bangalore:

By the mighty, gilded Shwe Dagon
Aglitter above the trees,
Where the tiny ti bells tinkle
In the sough of the sunset breeze:

From where the terrace-sculptured gates
Of the great Sri Rangam rise,
To Bangkok’s triple temple roofs,
Red-gold against the skies:

By crowded, sewerless Canton—
By Hong Kong’s towering lights—
By the gorgeous Rajputana stars
That blazon the blue-black nights:

We’ve met you, Men of the Millionth Mark—
Outposters—far—alone—
Beyond the glut of the cities’ rut,
And we claim you for our own.

(Beyond the glut of the cities’ rut
And the roar of the rolling cart,
Beyond the blind of the stifled mind
And the hawking, haggling mart.)

And some of you were “rotters”—
And some were “18 fine”—
But on the whole—we saw your soul—
Oh outbound kin of mine.

So stand we pledged and hand in hand
By every ocean, gulf and land,
Stout hearts and humble knees:
Oh men of the Outer Reaches—
Oh men of the palm-lined beaches—
Oh men where the ice-pack bleaches—
Oh Brethren o’ the far-flung seas.

[A] Pronounced Poorook Jow.

WONDERING

Leaning on the midnight rail,
Looking o’er the sea,
Winking at the little stars,
While they wink at me.
Wondering how it happened
Ages long ago,
Wondering why I’m here to night—
Wondering where I’ll go.

Wondering how the Scorpion
Bends his mighty tail,
Wondering if the Archer’s aim
Makes Antares quail:
Wondering why Australia’s Crown
Happened to be made,
Wondering if I really ought
Not to be afraid.

Wondering if the blackened sea
Ever has a bend,
Wondering if the Milky Way
Ever has an end,
Wondering why the Southern Cross
Has an arm askew,
Wondering lots o’ funny things,
(I wonder, wouldn’t you?)

Wondering where He’s watching from—
Wondering if He’d see
Anything so very small
Just as you or me?
Wondering and wondering—
But still the echoes fail—
And so I’m left awondering
Over the silent rail.

LINES TO AN ELDERLY FRIEND

Written in a presentation copy of “My Bunkie and Other Ballads” given to A. Van Vleck, Esq., of New York City.

Where the sails hang limp and lifeless
In the doldrums’ deadly pause,
Where the lights above the Polar capes
Spread out in a golden gauze:
Where lilac tints are listing
O’er purple tropic seas—
Where the Arctic winds are whistling
And the north-flung rivers freeze—
We’ve met the men the Maker made
To dwell ’neath fir and palm—
And, we salute thee, friend and man—
M’sieur—le gentilhomme.

BATTLESHIPS

Addressed to “little-navy” Congressmen.

Fools there lived when the Nations sprang newborn from the arms of God—
Fools there’ll live when the Nations melt in the mold of the markless sod.
Fools there are and fools there were and fools there’ll ever be—
But none like the fools whom the ages teach, and then refuse to see.

With Other Peoples building them in squadrons—
The Other Peoples laden down with debt—
In the richest of the Nations you’ll cut appropriations,
But the Day of Reckoning—have ye counted yet?

Oh be careful, Oh be meager, Oh My Brothers;
Weigh the cost, and gasp, and pare it down again;
Till the twelve-inch children roar and the troop-ships grate the shore
And you hear the coming tread of marching men.

Then My Brothers, Oh my wise far-seeing Brothers,
Build a Fleet and build it swiftly overnight;
Ah truly ye who knew it all these years can surely do it,
For ye and only ye alone are right.

Go gaze across your growing, waving acres—
Go gaze adown the peaceful, busy street;
May the prestige of your town be your all-in-all renown,
And scorn the men who bid you, “BUILD THE FLEET.”

Or whine about your irrigation ditches—
Much they’ll help a scarred and battle-riven land.
Oh they’ll do a monstrous earning when the crops they grow are burning—
Because you would not hear the clear command.

With the jealous nations standing to the east-ward—
And the Sneaking Cur that watches on the west—
You’ll bargain, skimp and whine till the gray hulls lift the line,
And your children stand betrayèd and confessed.

For the sake of saving five or fifty millions—
For the sake of “politics” or local greed—
Will you brand yourselves arch traitors to the Nation—
You, the sons of men who served us in our need?

Will you risk a land your Sires died to bring you—
A land our faithful Fathers fell to save,
By the bleaching bones of Valley Forge and Monmouth
Or the crimson flood the Bloody Angle gave?

Will you see one half the Nation raped and burning—
Will you learn War’s callous, lurid, livid wrath
By the wailing ’long the wayside, by the ashes of the cities,
Ere your gathered army flings across their path?

You may strut and boast our boundless might and power—
You may call our race the Chosen of the Lord—
But if your town they raze—and if your home’s ablaze
You will wake and learn the Kingdom of the Sword.

You will wake and learn the word your Fathers taught you—
You will wake and learn the truth—but all too late:
By the shrieking shrapnel’s crying—by the homeless, wronged and dying—
You shall count what, you begrudged to Guard the Gate.

THE AMERICAN FLAG

It should be needless to note that the persons here addressed do not comprise the whole American people but a certain distinctive type.

Oh little men and sheltered—
Oh fatted pigs of a sty,
Through the Star Spangled Banner ye calmly sit,
Nor see the wrong, nor the why,
And ye stand with your hats on your thoughtless heads,
When the Flag of the Nation goes by.

Has the lust of the dollar gripped you
Till the fetid brain’s grown cold,
Till ye forget the days that are set
And the glorious deeds of old—
And the Song and the Passing Colors
Are drowned in a flood of gold?

Awake from your listless lethargy—
Arise and understand
The battle-hymn of your fathers—
And the Flag of your Fatherland—

As it rose to the hum of the feet that come
To the drum and the bugle’s call;
As it tasted the dregs of raw reverse—
As it rushed through the breach in the wall:

As it fell again on the gore-wet plain
Till new hands swung it high—
As it dipped in rest to East and West
Where it watched its Children die:

As it swept anew o’er the shotted blue,
And the great gulls reeled in fright;
As it bore the brave ’neath the whispering wave
To the Squadron’s hushed Goodnight:

As it mounted sheer ’mid cheer on cheer,
Till, far o’er land and sea,
It gave each fold to the sunlight’s gold—
And the name of Victory.

Then on your feet when the first proud strain
Of the Anthem rolls on high—
And see that ye stand uncovered
To the Colors passing by
And pray to your God for strength to guard
The Flag ye glorify.

Once more the somersaulting bells
In the great square tower ring—
Once more the sword and cowl draw back—
“The King—make way—The King!”
Sevilla—Mother of a world
Of pride and golden gain,
And greed and love and laughter
Of Periclean Spain.

Once more o’er purple ocean
Or coral-locked lagoon,
We watch the bowsprit cutting
The pathway of the moon.
The long white beach, the swaying palms’
Shifting silver sheen—
And the flickering flares of the flimsy fleet
Where the spear-poised fishers lean.

The low-hung, skimming scuppers—
The flaunting skull and bones—
The buccaneer on his poop-deck
Roaring in thunder tones
To a swarthy, ill-begotten crew—
As slow the daylight dies,
And he lifts with a smile the chartless isle
Where the buried treasure lies.

The lilt of living music
Caressing heart and brain:
Harp, guitar and mandolin
In languorous, limpid strain.
The fluttering fan—the furtive glance—
The black mantilla’s reign—
And the Captains bold who drop their gold
To bask in the eyes of Spain.

The towering galleons plunging
Thrice-tiered above the foam:
The ringing round-shot roaring,
And the crash of the hit gone home:
The yard-arms staggering under,
Where, scorning the iron rain
And showing its fangs to a parting world,
Goes down the Lion of Spain.
. . . . . . . . . .
When the clattering city cloys you
With the stress of its strident call—
When practical, calculating Things
Are domineering all—
When your clamped mind in its weariness
To Romance turns again,
Seek ye the Andalusian crags—
The flare of the gold and crimson flags—
And the scented breath where the night wind drags
Through the Isles of the Spanish Main.

C. Q. D.

THE PRESENT-DAY “S. O. S.”

Cities and kings and nations
Hush at my outer breath,
As sightless I glide o’er the wind-lashed tide
In my race with the deep-sea death.
War and Trade and the Laws ye made
Halt at the Letters Three,
Bound on my errand of mercy—I—
The ultimate C.Q.D.

No wave may intercept me,
Though it tower a hundred feet;
No storm shall ever stay me,
Though sky and waters meet.
Piercing the howling heavens—
Skimming the churning sea—
Through blast and gale I bring the tale—
I—the pitying C.Q.D.

And when through the white-toothed combers
The helping hull looms high,
And when the small-boats leap aside
Through the glare of the red-shot sky,
Out, out across the ocean’s dawn
The final flashes flee—
“All saved!” And the circling shores ring back—
“Thank God—and the C.Q.D!”

THE LIGHTS

The fair-weather lights are gleaming
Across a tranquil main,
By beam and beam so bright they seem
A laughing, endless chain.

The foul-weather lights are few and far—
Nor flash nor leap nor fail—
But slowly burn where the billows churn
In the teeth of the driving gale.

Oh the fair-weather lights o’er the sheltered bights
Are welcome sights to see—
But the foul-weather lights o’ the stormy nights,
Are the Lamps of the Years to be.

THE CHOSEN

And the Guiding One he pointed me
To each and each the deed,
And never a word was ever heard
Of Prophet or Saint or Creed.

And never a word was ever heard
But the path that each had run,
Till the purple mist stooped down and kissed
And said that the work was done.

And there stood he of the iron will
Nor gold could bend or buy:
And there stood she of the Mother Love
That never asketh why.

And there stood he who striving lost,
But striving, gained the Crest:
And there stood she who nursed them back
With bullet-ridden breast.

And there stood he whose right hand gave,
But the left—it never knew:
And there stood she who held him fast
When the Beckoning Whispers blew.

And there stood he who saved a life
By fire, sea or sword:
And these were Chiefs of the Upper Hosts
And first before the Lord.

But high o’er the great Arch-angels,
Higher than any stand,
I saw the chosen of the King
At the right of the Master’s hand.

And I questioning gazed in the deep-lit eyes
And the silent face aglow,
Till the Guiding One It answered me
The word that I wished to know—

“Out of the crash of battle,
Where the shrieking bullet sings,
The roaring front lines reel and rock
As a wounded vulture swings.

“As a wounded vulture halting swings
The quivering squadrons break,
Till the shattered herds catch up the words,
‘Back, back for your Country’s sake!’”