by William L. Stidger
Introduction by
To
INTRODUCTIONIn writing to the readers of Mr. Stidger's book I feel as though I were writing to old friends, friends who may have an interest in knowing some of the thoughts that I hold regarding questions of the hour and questions of the future. The Christian as he looks out upon the battling and broken world sees much to sadden his heart. Thinkers are everywhere asking, “Is Christianity a failure?” I hasten to assure you that Christianity has not failed, for Christianity has nowhere been tried yet, nowhere been tried in a large social sense. Christianity has been tried by individuals, and it has been found to be comforting and transforming. But it has never been tried by any large group of people in any one place—never by a whole city—never by a whole kingdom—-never by a whole people. It is for this trial that the watching angels are waiting. Our holy religion is not a saving power merely for individuals; it is also a saving power for society in its industrial order. We have applied it to the individual in the past, but we have never made any wholehearted effort to make religion the working principle of society. Religion is always cooperative and brotherly, but we have not yet made any earnest effort to apply the cooperative and brotherly principle to business. We have tried to persuade the individual to express the ideals of the Sermon on the Mount, but we have made no earnest effort to urge society to express the ideals of the Sermon on the Mount. Therefore, while it is true that we have individual Christians—men and women who make noble sacrifices in their effort to live the good life—it is also true that we have no Christian society anywhere on earth, no Christian civilization anywhere under the stars. Sometimes a careless talker will refer to our social order as “a Christian civilization.” All such references, dear friends, disturb our hearts; for they prove that the speaker has no conception of what a Christian civilization would be, how noble and brotherly it would be. Five minutes' reading of the Sermon on the Mount will convince any alert mind that we are yet thousands of miles from a Christian civilization. To speak of only one thing, it is certain that in a Christian civilization these cruel riches we see standing side by side with these cruel poverties could not exist; they would all crumble and vanish away in the fire of the social passion of the Christ. If we have not a Christian civilization, what have we? We have a civilization that is half barbaric; we have a social order with a light sprinkling of Christians in it. It is the hope of the future that this body of earnest Christian men and women will awaken to the call of the social Christ, awake determined to infuse his spirit into the industrial order, and thus extend the power of the cross down into the material ground of our existence. Men are not fully saved until tools are saved, till industries are saved. They must all be lit with the brother spirit of Christ the Artisan. All of this transformation is implied in the Sermon on the Mount. For that sermon may be taken to be the first draft of the constitution of the new social order that the Christ has in his heart for men. It was this new order that he had in mind when he uttered the great invitation, “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” All the work-worn toilers of the world were to find rest in the new brotherly order about to be established on the earth. The Master has laid one great duty upon his followers—to embrother men and to emparadise the world. This is a great labor, for it demands that the spirit of the brother Christ shall sing in all the wheels and sound in all the steps of our industrial life. It means that the Golden Rule shall become the working principle in our social order. This is the salvation that Christ came to bring to the world; this is the glad tidings; this the good news to men! This is only a glimpse of the great social truth of the Lord that is beginning to break like a new morning upon the world. And what I have said in this letter I have tried a thousand times to say in my poems that have gone out into the world. And this new note I catch in the lines of the poets everywhere in modern poets, especially in the poets discussed in the following pages. Yours in the Fellowship of the great hopes, [Signature: Edwin Markham] West New Brighton, N. Y. FOREWORDVachel Lindsay, one of the modern Christian poets, whose writings are discussed in this book, has expressed the reason for the book itself in these four lines: “I wish that I had learned by heart
The author of this book makes no assumption that the “Giant Hours" are in the setting he has given these literary gems, but in the “lyrics” themselves. AMERICAN POETSEDWIN MARKHAM [Footnote: The poetical selections appearing in this chapter are used by permission of the publishers, Doubleday, Page &Co., and are taken from the following works: The Shoes of Happiness and The Man with the Hoe.]A STUDY OF HAPPINESS IN POVERTY, IN SERVICE, IN LOWLINESS; AND A BIT OF “SCRIPT” FOR THE JOURNEY OF LIFE Edwin Markham is the David of modern poetry. He is biblical in the simplicity of his style. He, like the poet of old, tended sheep on “The Suisun Hills,” and of it he speaks: “Long, long ago I was a shepherd boy,
THE SHOES OF HAPPINESS. None less than William Dean Howells has said of him, “Excepting always my dear Whitcomb Riley, Edwin Markham is the first of the Americans.” “The greatest poet of the century” is the estimate of Ella Wheeler Wilcox; and Francis Grierson adds, “Edwin Markham is one of the greatest poets of the age, and the greatest poet of democracy.” Dr. David G. Downey makes his estimate of the poet, in his book, Modern Poets and Christian Teaching, a little broader and deeper in the two phrases: “He is not more poet than prophet,” and, “He is the poet of humanity—of man in relations.” And of them all I feel that the latter estimate is best put, for Edwin Markham is more than “the poet of democracy”; he is the poet of all humanity, down on the earth where humanity lives. And that Dr. Downey was right in calling him “prophet" one needs but to read some lines from “The Man with the Hoe” in the light of the Russian revolution, and proof is made: “O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
* * * * * How will it be with kingdoms and with kings—
THE MAN WITH THE HOE. “How will it be with kingdoms and with kings?” the “Man with the Hoe” is answering in Russia this star-lit night and sun-illumined day. Yes, Markham is prophet as well as poet. And to this humble writer's way of reading poetry there were never four lines for pure poetry more beautifully writ, neither across the seas, nor here at home, neither east nor west, than these four from “Virgilia”: “Forget it not till the crowns are crumbled
Prophetic? Yes! But ah, the music of it! Here rings and here sings David the shepherd; the sweet lute, the harp, the wind in the trees, the surge of the ocean-reef. It is music of a high and holy kind. Which reminds me that I am to treat in this chapter on Markham only of what he has written since 1906, the preceding period, best known through his “Man with the Hoe,” having been discussed by Dr. Downey in the book heretofore mentioned. I have the joy-task in these brief lines to bring to you Markham's “The Shoes of Happiness,” which seems to me the strongest book he has written, not forgetting, either, “The Hoe" book, as he himself calls it. If you have the privilege of personal friendship with this “Father Poet,” he will write for you somewhere, some time, some place, these four favorite lines, with a twinkle in his eyes that is half boy and half sage, but all love, which quatrain he calls “Outwitted”: “He drew a circle that shut me out—
And with these four lines he introduces the new book of poems, “The Shoes of Happiness.” THE HAPPINESS OF POVERTY One wonders where “The Shoes of Happiness” may be found, and the answer is forthcoming in the first of “Six Stories,” when he finds that the Sultan Mahmoud is near unto death, and that there is just one thing that will make him well, and that is that he may wear the shoes of a perfectly happy man: “For only by this can you break the ban:
The Vizier was sent to find these shoes or lose his own head: “Go forth, Vizier, when the dawn is red,
He first found a crowd of idle rich going forth for a day's outing among the fields and flowers, a “swarm of the folk of high degree,” and thought to find the shoes here, but, alas! he found that “In each glad heart was a wistful cry;
He turned from the rich and sought the homes of the poor, and the Father in the home of the poor said unto him: “Ah, Vizier,
A Poet was found weaving a song of happiness, and the Vizier thought that surely here would he find the man with the “happy shoes,” but the Poet cried: “No,” sighed the poet; “you do me wrong,
Everywhere that he wandered in search he found some touch of unhappiness. He tried Youth and Age, but, “The young were restless that youth should stay,
The Shoes of Happiness. He thought to find the shoes on the feet of the Lover, but heard the Lover say: “Yes, yes; but love is a tower of fears,
The Shoes of Happiness. He had heard of a wise old Sage, who had been to Mecca, and sought him only to hear, “I am not glad; I am only wise.” At last he heard of a man from far Algiers. With hurried steps he sought in vain. At last one day he found a man lying in a field: “'Ho,' cried Halil, 'I am seeking one
“Out into the field the vizier ran.
The Shoes of Happiness. THE HAPPINESS OF LOWLINESS And just as this opening poem teaches the happiness of poverty, so the next, “The Juggler of Touraine,” teaches the happiness of lowliness. Poor Barnabas, just a common juggler, when winter came, because he had been spending the summer amusing people, had no place to go, and a sympathetic monk took him into the monastery to live. Barnabas was happy for a time; but after a while, as he saw everybody else worshiping the Beautiful Mother with lute and brush, viol, drum, talent, and prayer, he began to feel that his talents were worthless: “But I, poor Barnabas, nothing can I,
The Shoes of Happiness. Then came a thought that leaped like flame over his being, and an hour later the monks found him, kneeling in the sacred altar place. What he was doing chagrined them. They were shocked just as many people of this day, to see a man worshiping with a different bend of the knee than that to which they had been accustomed. How prone we are to judge those who do not worship just as we have worshiped! This seems such a common human weakness that Alfred Noyes, with a touch of kindly indignation, speaks a word in “The Forest of Wild Thyme” that may be interjected just here in this study of Barnabas the juggler, whom the monks indignantly found worshiping the Virgin by juggling his colored balls in the air, and speaking thus as he juggled: “'Lady,' he cried again, 'look, I entreat:
“And they heard him cry at Our Lady's shrine:
The Shoes of Happiness. But the poor old monks were indignant. They, and some others of more modern days, had never caught the real gist of the “Judge not” of the New Testament; nor had they read Noyes: “How foolish, then, you will agree,
The Shoes of Happiness. No, we have no right to judge one another. The monks condemned poor Barnabas because he was not worshiping as they had always worshiped. They too forgot the real spirit of worship as they condemned him: “'Nothing like this do the rules provide!
The Shoes of Happiness. However, then, as now, men are not the final judges: “But why do the elders suddenly quake,
“'Ah,' cry the elders, beating the breast,
The Shoes of Happiness. “HOW THE GREAT GUEST CAME” A STUDY OF COMPLETE HAPPINESS IN SERVICE I have never found a poem which more truly pictures the Christ and how he comes to human beings than this one of Markham's. Conrad the cobbler had a dream, when he had grown old, that the Master would come “His guest to be.” He arose at dawn on that day of great expectations, decorated his simple shop with boughs of green and waited: “His friends went home; and his face grew still
The Shoes of Happiness. But the Master did not come. Instead came a beggar and the cobbler gave him shoes; instead came an old crone with a heavy load of faggots. He gave her a lift with her load and some of the food that he had prepared for the Christ when he should come. Finally a little child came, crying along the streets, lost. He pitied the child and left his shop to take it to its mother; such was his great heart of love. He hurried back that he might not miss the Great Guest when he came. But the Great Guest did not come. As the evening came and the shadows were falling through the window of his shop, more and more the truth, with all its weight of sadness, bore in upon him, that the dream was not to come true; that he had made a mistake; that Christ was not to come to his humble shop. His heart was broken and he cried out in his disappointment: “Why is it, Lord, that your feet delay?
The Shoes of Happiness. Then what sweeter scene in all the lines of the poetry of the world than this that follows? Where is Christ more wonderfully and simply summed up; his spirit of love, and care? “Then soft in the silence a voice he heard:
The Shoes of Happiness. One is reminded here of Masefield's “The Everlasting Mercy,” wherein he speaks as Markham speaks about the child: “And he who gives a child a treat
The Shoes of Happiness. “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of one of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me,” another great-hearted Poet once said; and these words Markham, in “How the Great Guest Came,” has made real. “SCRIPT FOR THE JOURNEY” “Script for the Journey” is all that it claims to be. Markham is not doing what Lindsay did. Lindsay started out on a long journey with only his poems for money. He meant to make his way buying his food with a verse. And he did that very thing. But Markham had a different idea, an idea that all of us need script for that larger journey, script that is not money and script that does not buy mere material food, but food for the soul. He means it to be script that will help us along the hard way. And he who has this script is rich indeed, in his inner life. “THE PLACE OF PEACE” One would pay much for peace at any time, but especially when one on the journey of life is wearied unto death with sin, and bickering, and trouble and hurt and pain. Life holds so much heartache and heartbreak. Markham has herein the answer: “At the heart of the cyclone tearing the sky,
The Shoes of Happiness. And when we learn to put our business ventures there as Abbey has his Sir Galahad do in the Vigil panel of “The Search for the Holy Grail,” in Boston Library; and when we have learned to put our homes, and our children, and our souls “In the hollow of God's palm,” there will be peace on the journey of life. Yes, that is good script. “ANCHORED TO THE INFINITE” What a lesson the poet brings us from the great swinging bridge at Niagara, as he tells of the tiny thread that was flown from a kite from shore to shore; and then a larger string, and then a heavy cord, and then a rope, and finally the great cable, and the mighty bridge. And this he applies to life! “So we may send our little timid thought
The Shoes of Happiness. Who does not need to know how simple a thing will lead to infinite anchorage? Who does not need to know that just the tiny threads of love and faith will draw greater cords and greater, stronger ropes until at last the chasm between man and God on the journey is bridged, and we may be anchored to him forever. This indeed is good script for the journey of life Godward. “THERE IS NO TIME FOR HATE” The world is full of hate these days. War-mad Germany produced “The Hymn of Hate,” the lowest song that ever was written in the history of the world. It seems impossible that a censorship so strict could ever let such a mass of mire out to the world. But when one reads this Markham poem, he somehow feels that life is so big, and yet so brief, that even in war we are all brother-men and, as the opening lines say, “There is no time for hate, O wasteful friend:
The Shoes of Happiness. And if all the world would learn the meaning of this great phrase, “There is no time for hate,” the world would happier be. Good script for the journey? The best there is, is to know “There is no time for hate.” II. VACHEL LINDSAY, POET OF TOWN; AND CITY TOO[Footnote: The poetical selections appearing in this chapter are used by permission, and are taken from the following works: The Congo, and General William Booth Enters Into Heaven, Published by the Macmillan Company, New York.] A STUDY OF CHRISTIAN INFLUENCES IN VILLAGE AND CITY; ON TEMPERANCE, MISSIONS, AND RACES Vachel Lindsay is not only a poet but he is also a preacher. I do not know whether he is ordained or not, but in a leaflet that he recently sent me, he says, “Mr. Lindsay offers the following sermons to be preached on short notice and without a collection, in any chapel that will open its doors as he passes by: 'The Gospel of the Hearth,' 'The Gospel of Voluntary Poverty,' 'The Holiness of Beauty.'“ His truly great book, “The Congo,” that poem which so sympathetically catches the spirit of the uplift of the Negro race through Christianity, that weird, musical, chanting, swinging, singing, sweeping, weeping, rhythmic, flowing, swaying, clanging, banging, leaping, laughing, groaning, moaning book of the elementals, was inspired suddenly, one Sabbath evening, as the poet sat in church listening to a returned missionary speaking on “The Congo.” Nor a Poe nor a Lanier ever wrote more weirdly or more musically. [Illustration: VACHEL LINDSAY] The poet himself, Christian to the bone, suggests that his poetry must be chanted to get the full sweep and beauty. This I have done, alone by my wood fire of a long California evening, and have found it strangely, beautifully, wonderfully full of memories of church. I think that it is the echo of old hymns that I catch in his poetry. Biblical they are, in their simplicity, Christian until they drip with love. CHRIST AND THE CITY SOUL I think that no Christian poet has so caught the soul of the real city. One phrase that links Christ with the city is the old-fashioned yet ever thrilling phrase, “The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit.” An electrical sign suggests prayer to him. It is a unique thought in “A Rhyme About An Electrical Advertising Sign,” the lines of which startle one almost with their newness: “Some day this old Broadway shall climb to the skies,
The Congo. He looks straight up above the signs to heaven. But he does not forget to look down also, where the people are, the folks that walk and live and crawl under the electric signs. In “Galahad, Knight Who Perished” (a poem dedicated to all crusaders against the international and interstate traffic in young girls), this phrase rings and rings its way into Christian consciousness: “Galahad—knight who perished—awaken again,
The Congo. And again and again one is rudely awakened from his ease by such lines as “The leaden-eyed” children of the city which he pictures: “Not that they starve, but starve so dreamlessly;
The Congo. Who has not seen factory windows in village, town, and city, and who has not known that “Factory windows are always broken”? How this smacks of pall, and smoke, and dirt, and grind, and hurt and little weak children, slaves of industry! Thank God, Vachel Lindsay, that the Christian Church has found an ally in you; and poet and preacher together—for they are both akin—pray God we may soon abolish forever child slavery. Yes, no wonder “Factory windows are always broken.” The children break them because they hate a prison. The “Coal Heaver,” “The Scissors Grinder,” “The Mendicant,” “The Tramp,” all so smacking of the city, have their interpretation. I wish in these pages might be quoted all of “The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit,” for it daringly, beautifully, and strongly carries into the new philosophy which Mr. Lindsay is introducing the thought that every village, every town, every city has a community soul that must be saved, through Christian influence. But the ring of it and the swing of it will suggest itself in a few verses: “Censers are swinging
* * * * * “Soldiers of Christ
* * * * * “Builders, toil on,
The Congo. Ah, if we could but catch this vision of not only the individuals but the city itself receiving the gift of the Holy Spirit, we would have therein a new and a tremendous force for good. One might quote from “The Drunkards in the Street”: “Within their gutters, drunkards dream of Hell.
General William Booth. He goes to the bottom of the social evil, down to its economic causes, and blames the state for “The Trap,” and this striking couplet rings in one's heart long after the book is laid down: “In liberty's name we cry
General William Booth. The poet who speaks in “The City That Will Not Repent” is only feeling over again, “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem,... how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not!” The “Old Horse in the City,” “To Reformers in Despair,” “The Gamblers”—it is all there: the heartaches, the struggle for existence, the fallen woman, the outcast man, the sound of drums, the tambourines, the singing of the mission halls. You find it all, especially in “General William Booth Enters Into Heaven.” Here is life—the very life of life in the city. FOREIGN MISSIONS They who have found opposition to foreign missions will discover with a thrill a new helper in Poet Lindsay, he who has won the ear of the literary world. It is good to hear one of his worth, singing the battle challenge of missions, just as it is good to hear him call the modern village, town, and city to “The Gift of the Holy Spirit.” “Foreign Fields in Battle Array” brings this thrillingly prophetic, Isaiahanic verse: “What is the final ending?
General William Booth. “Reborn”—does not that phrase sound familiar to Methodist ears, as does that other phrase, “The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit”? Or, again, hear two lines from “Star of My Heart”: “All hearts of the earth shall find new birth
General William Booth. TEMPERANCE In these days, when the world is being swept clean with the besom of temperance, the poet who sings the song of temperance is the “poet that sings to battle.” Lindsay has done this in some lines in his “General William Booth Enters Into Heaven,” which he admits having written while a field worker in the Anti-Saloon League in Illinois. At the end of each verse we have one of these three couplets: “But spears are set, the charge is on,
“Fierce Cromwell builds the flower-bright towns
and, “Our God establishes his arm
General William Booth. He puts the temperance worker in the “Round Table” under the heading, “King Arthur's Men Have Come Again.” He lifts the battle to a high realm. “To go about redressing human wrongs,” as King Arthur's Knights were sworn to do, would certainly be a most appropriate motto for the modern Christian temperance worker, and Lindsay is the only poet acknowledged by the literary world who has sung this Galahad's praise with keen insight. But his greatest poem, “The Congo,” that poem which has captured the imagination of the literary world and which is so little known to the Christian world—where it ought to be known best of all—will give a glimpse of the new Christian influence on the races. The poet suggests that it be chanted to the tune of the old hymn, “Hark, ten thousand harps and voices.” It is a strange poem. It is so new that it is startling, but it has won. Listen to its strange swing, and see its stranger pictures. Through the thin veneer of a new civilization, back of the Christianized Negro race, the poet sees, under the inspiration of a missionary sermon delivered in a modern church, the race that was: “Fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room,
The Congo. Then follows as vital, vivid, and vigorous a description as ever was written by pen, inspired of God, tipped with fire, of the uplift and redemption of the Negro race, through Jesus Christ. The “General William Booth” title poem to the second Lindsay book shook the literary world awake with its perfect interpretation of The Salvation Army leader. It is a poem to be chanted at first with “Bass drums beaten loudly” and then “with banjos”; then softly with “sweet flute music,” and finally, as the great General comes face to face with Christ, with a “Grand chorus of all instruments; tambourines to the foreground.” Running through this poem is the refrain of “Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?” and the last lines catch the tender, yet absolutely unique spirit of the entire poem: “And when Booth halted by the curb for prayer
General William Booth. But one could not get Lindsay to the hearts of folks, one could not make the picture complete, without putting Lincoln in, any more than he could make Lindsay complete without putting into these pages “The Soul of the City Receives the Gift of the Holy Spirit,” or “General William Booth Enters Into Heaven,” or “The Congo.” Lincoln seems to be as much a part of Lindsay as he is a part of Springfield. Lindsay and Lincoln, to those who love both, mean Springfield, and Springfield means Lincoln and Lindsay. And what Lindsay is trying to do for city, for village, for town, for the Negro, for every human being, is voiced in his poem, “Lincoln.” “Would I might rouse the Lincoln in you all,
General William Booth. Let this poem “Heart of God” be the benediction of this chapter on Lindsay: “O great heart of God,
“O, little heart of God,
“Heart, dear heart of God,
“Wild, thundering heart of God,
General William Booth. [Illustration: JOAQUIN MILLER] III. JOAQUIN MILLER[Footnote: The quotations from the poems of Joaquin Miller appearing in this chapter are used by permission of the Harr Wagner Publishing Company, owners of copyright.] A STUDY OF HOME, FATHER LOVE, GREAT MOMENTS WITH JESUS CHRIST, HEAVEN, AND GOD It was a warm, sunny May California day; and the day stands out, even above California days. A climb up the Piedmont hills back of Oakland, California, brought us to “The Heights,” the unique home of Joaquin Miller, poet of the West and poet of the world. A visit to the homes of the New England poets is always interesting because of historic and literary associations, but none of them has the touch of the unique personality of Miller. Most people interested in things literary know that Miller, with a great desire to emphasize the freedom of the individual, built a half dozen separate houses, one for himself, one for his wife, one for his daughter Juanita, several for guests from all over the world who were always visiting him, and a little chapel. Literary men from every nation on the planet visited Miller at “The Heights.” Most people interested knew also that Miller, with his own hands, had built monuments of stone to Fremont, the explorer, to Moses, and to Browning. There was also a granite funeral pyre for himself, within sight of the little “God's Acre,” in which he had buried some eighteen or twenty outcasts and derelicts of earth who had no other plot to call their own in which to take their last long sleep. We expected to find this strange group of buildings deserted, but after inspecting the chapel, which was modeled after Newstead Abbey, and after rambling through the old-fashioned garden that Miller himself had planted—a garden with a perfect riot of colors—suddenly a little woman with a sweet face walked up to us out of the bushes and said, “Are you lovers of the poet?” I humbly replied that we were. Then she said: “I am Mrs. Miller, and you are welcome. When you have looked around, come into Mr. Miller's own room and be refreshed. After that I will read to you from his writings.” It sounded stagey at first, but the more we knew of this sweet-faced widow of the poet the less we found about her that was not simple and sweet and natural. After wandering around, through the fascinating paths, under the great cross of a thousand pine trees, among the roses, and flowers that he had planted with his own hands, we came at last to the little house that Mrs. Miller had called “The poet's own room,” and there were we refreshed with cool lemonade and cakes. In the littleness of my soul I wondered when we were to pay for these favors, but the longer we remained the more was I shamed as I saw that this hospitality was just the natural expression of a woman, and a beautiful daughter's desire to extend the hospitality of the dead poet himself, to any who loved his writings. There was the bed on which Miller lay for months writing many of his greatest poems, including the famous “Columbus.” There was his picturesque sombrero, still hanging where he had put it last on the post of the great bed. His pen was at hand; his writing pad, his chair, his great fur coat, his handkerchief of many colors which in life he always wore about his neck; his great heavy, high-topped boots. And it was sunset. Then Mrs. Miller began to read. As the slanting rays of as crimson a sunset as God ever painted were falling through the great cross of pine trees, Mrs. Miller's dramatic, sweet, sympathetic voice interpreted his poems for us. I sat on the bed from which Miller had, just a few months previous to that, heard the great call. The others sat in his great rockers. Mrs. Miller stood as she read. I am sure that “Columbus” will never be lifted into the sublime as it was when she read it that late May afternoon, with its famous, and thrilling phrase “Sail on! Sail on! And on! And on!” A STUDY OF HOME I had thought before hearing Mrs. Miller read “The Greatest Battle that Ever was Fought” that I had caught all the subtle meanings of it, but after her reading that great tribute to womanhood I knew that I had never dreamed the half of its inner meaning: “The greatest battle that ever was fought—-
“Not with cannon or battle shot,
“But deep in a walled up woman's heart;
“No marshaling troops, no bivouac song,
“But faithful still as a bridge of stars
“Ho! ye with banners and battle shot,
Then, as if to give us another illustration of her great poet husband's home love, she read for us “Juanita”: “You will come, my bird, Bonita?
Who that hath the blessing of little children will not understand this waiting, yearning love of Miller for his ten-year-old girl, who was at that time in New York with her mother waiting until “The Heights” should be finished? Who does not understand how incomplete the hours were until she came? “You will come, my dearest, truest?
GREAT MOMENTS WITH CHRIST Miller had a profound, deep, sincere love for Christ, and more than any poet I know did he express with deep insight and with deeper sweetness the great moments in Christ's life. He made these great moments human. He brings them near to us, so that we see them more clearly. He makes them warm our hearts, and we feel that Christ's words are truly our words in this, our own day. In that great scene where Christ blessed little children, who has ever made it sweeter and nearer and warmer with human touch? “Then reaching his hands, he said, lowly,
“Held them close to his heart and caressed them,
The scene with the woman taken in adultery he has also made human and near in these lines, called “Charity”: “Who now shall accuse and arraign us?
That Jesus Christ died for the world, that Calvary had more meaning for humanity than anything else that has ever happened, Miller put in four lines: “Look starward! stand far, and unearthy,
He caught Christ's teaching, and the whole gist of the New Testament expressed in that immortal phrase “Judge not,” and he wrote some lines that have been on the lips of man the world over, and shall continue to be as long as men speak poetry. A unique pleasure was mine on this afternoon. I had noticed something that Mrs. Miller had not noticed in this great poem. She quoted it to us: “In men whom men condemn as ill
Miller wrote it that way when he first wrote it, in his younger days. It was natural for Mrs. Miller to quote it that way. But I had discovered in his revised and complete poems that he had changed a significant phrase in that great verse. He had said, “I do not dare,” in the fifth line, instead of “I hesitate.” His mature years had made him say, “I do not dare to draw the line!” GOD AND HEAVEN He knew that heaven and God were near to humanity and earth. He was not afraid of death. He teaches us all Christian courage in this line of thought. He knew that his “Greek Heights” were very near to heaven because he knew that anywhere is near to heaven to the believer: “Be this my home till some fair star
He yearned to teach men to believe in this God and his nearness; this God in whom he believed with all his heart. This cry out of his soul, written just a few days before his death, is like Tennyson's “Crossing The Bar” in that it was his swan song: “Could I but teach man to believe,
Yes, Miller believed in home, in Christ, and God and immortality. He believed that heaven and God were near to man, and in his last days there was no doubt. Thus his own writings confirm what Mrs. Miller, on that memorable afternoon, made certain by her warm, tear-wet, personal testimony. And as she quoted these last lines, and the sun had set behind the Golden Gate, which we could even then see from the room in which we sat, we felt as though Miller himself were near, listening as she read, listening with us. And these are the last verses that she quoted, which seem fit verses with which to close this chapter study of Joaquin Miller: “I will my ashes to my steeps,
And is it any wonder that, as we sat in the twilight listening to that invitation to his home, these words made the red roses and the green cross of Christ against the hill our very own? And is it any wonder that, as she quoted these last verses we felt him near to us? “Enough to know that I and you
and, “Come here when I am far away,
[Illustration: ALAN SEEGER] IV. ALAN SEEGER[Footnote: The poetical selections appearing in this chapter are used by permission, and are taken from poems by Alan Seeger. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York. ] POET OF YOUTH, BEAUTY, FAME, JOY, LOVE, DEATH, AND GOD Rupert Brooke and Alan Seeger—so shall their names be linked together forever by those who love poetry. In the first place, they were much alike: buoyant, young; loving life, living life; and both dying for the great cause of humanity in the world's greatest war. Brooke the Englishman; Seeger the American; so are they linked. Both were but lads in their twenties; both vivid as lightning and as warm as summer sunshine in their personalities; both truly great poets, who had, even in the short time they lived, run a wide gamut of poetic expression. I am not saying that either Brooke or Seeger may be called a Christian poet; nor am I saying that they may not be called that. This war in which they have given their lives will make a vast difference in the definition of what a Christian is. I can detect no orthodox Christian message in either of their dreamings, but I do find in both poets a clean, high moral message, and therefore give them place in this pulpit of the poets. The wide range of this young American's writing astonishes the reader. He died very young: while the morning sun was just lifting its head above the eastern horizon of life; while the heavens were still crimson, and gold, and rose, and fire. What he might have written in the steady white heat of noontime and in life's glorious afternoon of experience, and in its subtle charm of “sunset and the evening star,” one can only guess. But while he lived he lived; and, living, wrote. He dipped his pen in that same gold and fire of the only part of life he knew, its daybreak, and wrote. No wonder his writing was warm; no wonder he wrote of Youth, Beauty, Fame, Joy, Love, Death, and God. THE SONG OF YOUTH Nor Byron, nor Shelley, nor Keats, nor Swinburne, nor Brooke, nor any other poet ever sounded the heights and depths and glory of Youth as did Seeger. He sang it as he breathed it and lived it, and just as naturally. His singing of it was as rhythmic as breathing, and as sweet as the first song of an oriole in springtime. In his fifth sonnet, a form in which he loved to write and of which he was a master, he sings youth in terms “almost divine”: “Phantoms of bliss that beckon and recede—,
Poems by Alan Seeger. He loved New York; he loved Paris; he loved any city because youth and life and romance and love were there. He drank all of these into his soul like a thirsty desert drinks rain; to spring to flowers and life and color again. He drank of life and youth as a flower drinks of dew, or a bird at a city fountain, with fluttering joy, drinks, singing as it drinks. You feel all of that eagerness in “Sonnet VI” where he says: “Where I drank deep the bliss of being young,
Poems by Alan Seeger. THE SONG OF BEAUTY And closely akin to Youth always is Beauty. Beauty and Youth walk arm in arm everywhere, and one may even go so far as to say anywhere. Youth cares not where he goes as long as Beauty walks beside him. He will walk to the ends of the earth. Indeed, he prefers the long way home. Anybody who has known both Youth and Beauty knows this, and it need not be argued about much, thank God. And so it is most natural to find this young poet singing the lyric of Beauty even as he sings the lyric of Youth. How understandingly he addresses Beauty, and how reverently in “An Ode to Natural Beauty”! “Spirit of Beauty, whose sweet impulses,
Poems by Alan Seeger. Then, talking about the “Wanderer” as though that character were some far off person no kin to the poet (a way that poets have to hide the pulsing of their own hearts), Seeger writes of Beauty. But we who know him cannot be made to think that this “Wanderer” is a fellow we do not know; “nor Launcelot, nor another.” It is he, the poet of whom we write. It bears his imprint. It bears his trade mark. It is stamped “with the image of the king.” He cannot hide from us in this: “His heart the love of Beauty held as hides
Poems by Alan Seeger. THE SONG OF FAME Fame always lures Youth. Perhaps later experience proves that it is indeed a hollow thing, hardly worth striving for. But to Youth there is no goal that calls more insistently than Fame. Youth and Beauty and Fame—how closely akin they are! If Beauty and Fame keep him company, Youth is next the stars with delight. And so it is natural that this young poet shall sing the song of Fame with exuberant enthusiasm. He says in “The Need to Love”: “And I have followed Fame with less devotion,
Poems by Alan Seeger. And while we are listening to the music of these human stars, the music of the celestial spheres set down in human words, let us catch again the poetic echo of that third line and let it linger long as we listen, “Rise from the foam of Nature's sunlit ocean,” and “Forget it not till the crowns are crumbled,
that, as Edwin Markham sings, this echo is the echo of the eternal poetic music. With these wondrous lines he answers the question which he himself asks in “Fragments,” “What is Success?” “Out of the endless ore
Poems by Alan Seeger. Joy comes next in our treatment of the outstanding singings of this singing poet, and he himself has given us the connecting link in the following lines: “He has drained as well
Poems by Alan Seeger. And thus smoothly we pass from Fame to Joy and hear him sing of this fourth high peak of Youth. THE SONG OF JOY Whatever he did, whatever he sang, whatever he lived, this man swept all things else aside and plunged in over head. He loved to swim and he loved to dive. Perhaps into his living and his writing he carried this athletic joy also, and as he lived he lived to the full. It seems so as one reads in “I Loved” these impassioned lines: “From a boy
Poems by Alan Seeger. And then one pauses to weep awhile, and the lines grow dim as he reads them again to know that this man, who so loved to live, who gloated on existence, who saw life as a trembling opportunity for Joy, must leave it so soon. And yet he left it nobly. Again in “An Ode to Antares” he sings of Joy: “What clamor importuning from every booth!
Poems by Alan Seeger. Kindly Age, Age who had not lost his love, always sings like that to Youth; always tells Youth to live while he may, play while the playworld is his. Every poet who has older grown, from Shakespeare to Lowell, and yet retained his love, has told us this. We expect it of older poets, but here a young poet sees it all clearly; that Youth must buy Joy while his purse is full with Youth. And ye who rob Youth of playtime, of Joy, ye capitalists, ye money makers and life destroyers, listen to this dead poet who yet lives in these words. Fathers, mothers, let childhood spend its all for Joy while the purse of Youth is full. It will be empty after while and it shall never be filled again with Youth. So says the Poet. THE SONG OF LOVE The discriminating reader of Seeger soon sees, however, that, while he sings as needs he must, because of the springs that are within him bubbling over, sings of Youth, and Beauty, and Fame, and Joy, yet he knows that these are not all of life. He knows that there are higher things than these. These higher things are Love, Death, God—what a trilogy! Love is all. He is sure of this. He is true to this. Romantic love he knows—love of comrade, love of God. In this same “An Ode to Natural Beauty” his final conclusion is that Love is best after all: “On any venture set, but 'twas the first
Poems by Alan Seeger. This is more than romantic love; it is the “love of Love.” And lest this be not strong enough, he sings in “The Need to Love" as great a song as man ever heard on this great theme: “The need to love that all the stars obey
Poems by Alan Seeger. Then, not content, he sets up an altar of poetry and dedicates it to Love and lights a fire of worship there, and leaves it not, nor night nor day: “All that's not love is the dearth of my days,
Poems by Alan Seeger. If Love be not queen to him, the palace is cold and barren; the “altar unset and the candle unlit” THE SONG OF DEATH Like Brooke, a victim of the Hun, so Seeger, also a victim of the barbarian, seemed to feel the constant presence of Death, an unseen guest at the Feast of Youth and Joy and Fame and Love. Perhaps the war made these two imaginative poets think of Death sooner than Youth usually gives him heed. But most men will think of Death when they are face to face with the shadow day and night as were these soldier-crusading poets; when they see him stalking in every trench, in every wood, on every hill and road, and in every field and village. But how bravely he spoke of Death!— “Learn to drive fear, then, from your heart.
Poems by Alan Seeger. And again in this same poem, “Makatooh,” he sings of Death: “Guard that, not bowed nor blanched with fear
“So die, as though your funeral
“And it shall all depend therein
Poems by Alan Seeger. What a challenge this is to all who must die in this war, to all lads who are giving their lives heroically in God's great cause of liberty in his world—this challenge to die so that you may be welcomed into the fraternity of heroes! Without doubt Seeger's best-known poem, and one which illustrates also most strongly his attitude toward Death, is that poem entitled “I Have a Rendezvous With Death,” from which we quote: “I have a rendezvous with Death
* * * * * “God knows, 'twere better to be deep
Poems by Alan Seeger. THE SONG OF GOD From the lighter thoughts of Youth, Joy, Fame, Beauty, through the “long, long thoughts of Youth”; through Love and Death it is not a long way to climb to God. We would not expect this young poet to be thinking much in this direction, but he does just the same. I have even found those who say that he was not a God-man, but these poems refute that slander on a dead man and poet. I find him singing in “The Nympholept”: “I think it was the same: some piercing sense
Poems by Alan Seeger. This reminds one instantly of the haunting Christ of Thompson's “The Hound of Heaven.” And again in the presence of War's death the poet felt that other and greater presence without doubt, as these words prove: “When to the last assault our bugles blow:
Poems by Alan Seeger. And with magnificent acknowledgment of the divine plan of it all, of life and war and all, he sweeps that truly great poem, “The Hosts,” to a swinging climax in its last tremendous stanza; which, fitting too, shall be the closing lines of this chapter on our dead American, martyred poet. He first speaks of the marching columns of soldiers as “Big with the beauty of cosmic things. Mark how their columns surge!” “With bayonets bare and flags unfurled,
Poems by Alan Seeger. And then: “There was a stately drama writ
Poems by Alan Seeger. ENGLISH POETS[Illustration: JOHN OXENHAM.] V. JOHN OXENHAM[Footnote: The poetical selections appearing in this chapter are used by permission, and are taken from the following works The Vision Splendid, All's Well, and The Fiery Cross Published by George H. Doran Company, New York.] WHO MAKES ARTICULATE THE VOICE OF WAR, PEACE, THE CROSS, THE CHRIST. In the first volume of The Student in Arms, that widely read book of the war, Donald Hankey has a chapter on “The Religion of the Inarticulate,” in which he shows that the “Tommy” who for so long has been accused of having no religion, really has a very definite one. He has a religion that embraces all the Christian virtues, such as love, sacrifice, brotherhood, and comradeship, but he has never connected these with either Christ or the church. His religion is the “Religion of the Inarticulate.” Hankey then shows that this war is articulating religion as never before. John Oxenham, Poet-Preacher, is giving articulation to the voice of Christianity—a voice ringing out from over and above the thunder of the guns, the blare, the flare, the outcry, the hurt, the pain and anguish of the most awful war that earth has ever suffered. Some of us have been thinking of this war in terms of Christian hope. We have thought that we see in it a new Calvary out of which shall come a new resurrection to the spiritual world. We have dreamed that men are being redeemed through the sacrifice, through the spirit of service and brotherhood thrust upon the world by war's supreme demands. We have thought all of this, but we have not been able to make it articulate. Now comes a poet to do it for us. What magnificent hope sings out, even in the titles that Oxenham has selected for his books in these days of darkness, anguish and lostness. After his first book, Bees in Amber, comes that warm handclasp of strength: that thrill of hope; that word of a watchman in the night, like a sentinel crying through the very title of his second book, “All's Well.” Then came The Vision Splendid, and soon we are to have The Fiery Cross. The publishers were kind enough to let me examine this last book while it was still in the proof sheets. It is the one great hope book of the war. Every mother and father who has a boy in the war, every wife who has a husband, every child who has a father will thrill with a new pride and a new dignity after reading The Fiery Cross. WAR AND ITS VOICE No poet has voiced America's reasons for being in the war as has Oxenham, and nowhere does he do it better than in “Where Are You Going, Great-Heart?” the concluding stanza of which sums up compactly America's high purposes: “Where are you going, Great-Heart?
The Vision Splendid. To those who go to die in war the poet addresses himself in lines which he titles “On Eagle Wings”: “Higher than most, to you is given
The Vision Splendid. “If God be with you, who can be against you?” is the echo that we hear going and coming behind these great Christian lines. Indeed, behind every poem that Oxenham writes we can hear the echoes of some great scriptural word of promise, or hope or faith or courage. The Christian, as well as those who never saw the Bible or a church, will feel at home with this poet anywhere. The advantage that the Christian will have in reading him is that he will understand him better. Turning to those who stay at home and have lost loved ones, with what sympathy and deep, tender understanding does he write in “To You Who Have Lost.” You may almost see a great kindly father standing by your side, his warm hand in yours as he sings: “I know! I know!—
“Yea—think of this!—
All's Well. If those who have lost loved ones “Over There” cannot be buoyed by that, I know not what will buoy them, what will comfort. Oxenham too gives us a picture of a battlefield where birds sing and roses bloom, just as do Service and several other poets who have been in the midst of the conflict. We have become familiar with this picture, but no writer yet has caught its full, eternal meaning and pressed it down into three lines for the world as has this man; in “Here, There, and Everywhere”: “Man proposes—God disposes;
The Fiery Cross. But this poet in his interpretation of war does not forget peace; does not forget that it is coming; does not forget that the world is hungry for it; does not forget that it is the duty of the poets and the thinking men and women of the world not only to get ready for it, but to lead the way to it. PEACE AND ITS VOICE In a remarkable poem called “Watchman! What of the Night?” we see this great heart standing sentinel on the walls of the world, watching the midnight skies red with the blaze and glow of carnage: “Watchman! What of the night?
* * * * * “Beyond the war-clouds and the reddened ways,
All's Well. Then, as is most fair and logical, the poet tells us how we are to build again after peace comes. We must needs know that. The newspapers are full of a certain popular move—and success to it—to rebuild the destroyed cities of France and Belgium. But the rebuilding that the poet speaks of in “The Winnowing” is a deeper thing. It is a spiritual rebuilding without which there is no permanent peace in the world and no permanent safety for the material world. “How shall we start, Lord, to build life again,
All's Well. There is the answer to the world's cry in short, sharp, succinct lines; compact as a biblical phrase; and as meaningful. Hearken it, ye world! Only in Him can the new spiritual world be built for “Time and Eternity.” And only to those who so believe and hold shall the world belong henceforth. At least so says our poet: “To whom shall the world henceforth belong
which question he himself answers in the same verse: “To the Men of Good Fame
“To these shall the world henceforth belong,
The Fiery Cross. And finally in this fight for peace he does not forget prayer, and in “The Prayer Immortal,” which is introduced, as are so many of Oxenham's poems, by a phrase from the Bible, “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done,” he admonishes those who seek peace: “So—to your knees—And,
The Fiery Cross. THE CROSS AND ITS VOICE The voice of the cross of Calvary is being heard this day of war as it has never been heard before. The world is resonant with its message. Every soldier, every nation, every home, every mother and father and child and wife who has suffered because of this war, shall henceforth understand the Christ and his cross the better. All through this writer's interpretations of the war we find the cross to the fore. To him the cross symbolizes the war. This war is the cross in a deep and abiding sense. In “Through the Valley” he says: “And there of His radiant company,
The Vision Splendid. Thank God for that hope! Thank God for that word! In “The Ballad of Jim Baxter” this same thought is more vividly and strongly set forth. It is the story of one type of German cruelty of which we have heard in the war dispatches several times and that have been confirmed on the spot; the story of the Germans nailing men to crosses. Jim Baxter suffered this experience: “When Jim came to, he found himself
“He wondered dully if he'd died,
The Vision Splendid. And in this homely lad's homely way of putting his cruel experience who knows but that there may be such truth as yet we cannot see in the dark chaos of war? THE CHRIST AND HIS VOICE It isn't a far step from the cross to the Christ of the cross, and in this man's poetry the two mingle and commingle so closely that one overlaps the other. But always these two things stand out—the cross and the Christ. And in the new volume, The Fiery Cross, one finds many pages devoted to this great thought alone. Of the tenderness of the Christ he speaks most sympathetically, having in mind again the lads that war has taken. In “The Master's Garden” hear him: “And some, with wondrous tenderness,
The Vision Splendid. And then of his sweetness, referring again to the “Jim Baxter,” we have a wonderful picture of the oft mentioned Comrade in White, who is so real to the wounded soldiers: “His face was wondrous pitiful,
“'Christ!'—said the dying man once more,
The Vision Splendid. Oxenham has great faith in humanity. From time to time we find him expressing man's kinship with the stars and with God and Christ. “Thou hast made him a little lower than the angels” this poet takes seriously, thank God. This word from the Book means something to him. And so it is in a poem called “In Every Man” we see him finding Christ in every man: “In every soul of all mankind
* * * * * “And so, for love of Christ—and Thee,
The Fiery Cross. He feels Christ's eternity so much that he cries out for him continually and will not be satisfied without him. He knows that he must have the Christ if he wants to grow great enough to meet life's demands. In a poem, “A Prayer for Enlargement,” which I quote in full because of its brevity, one feels this dependence: “Shrive me of all my littleness and sin!
“Was I grown small and strait?—
The Fiery Cross. To the Christian the following quotation will mean much. In it we hear the echo of Masefield's The Everlasting Mercy; or of that marvelous story of the regeneration of a human soul in Tolstoy's The Resurrection; an old-fashioned conversion of a human being; a Paul's on the road to Damascus experience. And the tragedy is that just about the time that the world of literature is being fascinated with this story of “Rebirth” the church seems to be forgetting it. It is told in the first verse of Ex Tenebris—“The Lay of the King Who Rose Again”: “Take away my rage!
The Fiery Cross GOD AND HIS VOICE From the voice of Christ and the voice of the cross it is not far to hear the voice of God either in life or in John Oxenham's books. Behind the cross and behind the Christ stands the Father, and a treatment of this great poet's writings would not be complete if one did not quote a few excerpts from his writings to show that God was ever present “keeping watch above his own.” The first note we catch of the Father's voice is in “The Call of the Dead”: “One way there is—one only—
The Vision Splendid. And as the poet has walked the streets of America and elsewhere and has seen the service flag, which in “Each window shrines a name,” he has felt God everywhere. In “The Leaves of the Golden Book” he comforts those who mourn: “God will gather all these scattered
The Vision Splendid. So it is that over and over we hear this note, wrung from the experiences of war, that those who give up all, to die for God's plan, to take the cross in suffering that the world may be better; these shall have life eternal. And who dares to dispute it? In “Our Share” we are admonished that we must find God anew: “Heads of sham gold and feet of crumbling clay,
All's Well. Oxenham does not claim to fully understand the world cataclysm any more than some of the rest of us. If we all had to understand, we might find ourselves ineligible for the Kingdom, but the Book says everywhere, “He that believeth on me shall have everlasting life.” And we can believe whether we understand or no. So voices the poet in “God's Handwriting”: “He writes in characters too grand
All's Well, What better way to close this brief interpretation of our poet in this day of darkness and hate and hurt and war and woe and want, of seeing hopelessness and helplessness, than with these heartening lines from “God Is”: “God is;
All's Well. [Illustration: ALFRED NOYES.] VI. ALFRED NOYES[Footnote: The poetical selections appearing in this chapter are used by permission, and are taken from Collected Poems by Alfred Noyes, two volumes, copyright, 1913, by the Frederick A. Stokes Company, New York.] A STUDY OF CHILDHOOD, OF MANHOOD, CHRISTHOOD, AND GODHOOD If one wants to find the tenderest, most completely sympathetic study of childhood, one that finds echo not only in the heart of the grown-up, but in the heart of children the world over, he must this day go to Alfred Noyes. If you want proof of this, read “The Forest of Wild Thyme” or “The Flower of Old Japan” to your children and watch them sit with open mouths and open hearts to hear these wonder fairy tales. And, further, if you are too grown-up to want to read Noyes for his complete sympathy with childhood, more universal even than our beloved Riley; and you want a poet that challenges you to a more vigorous manhood, a poet who calls man to his highest and deepest virility, read Noyes. Or, if you happen to need a clearer, firmer insight into the man of Galilee and Calvary, read Noyes; and, finally, if you want firmer, more rocklike foundations to plant your faith in God upon, read Noyes, for herein one finds all of these. From childhood to Godhood is, indeed, a wide range for a poet to take, and yet they are akin. As another poet has said, none less than Edwin Markham, “Know man and you will know the deep of God.” And as Noyes himself says in the introduction to “The Forest of Wild Thyme”: “Husband, there was a happy day,
Collected Poems by Alfred Noyes. And when we know that the mother was talking about “Little Peterkin,” their lost baby, we know that she meant that in a little child there lay furled “The secret and meaning of all the world.” And so, beginning with childhood, through those intermediate steps of manhood and Christhood, with Noyes leading us, as he literally leads the little tots through the mysteries of Old Japan and the Wild Thyme, let us go from tree to tree, and flower to flower, and hope to hope, and pain to pain, up to God, from whence we came. It is a clear sweet pathway that he leads us. CHILDHOOD AND ITS GLORY Noyes assumes something that we all know for truth: that “Grown-ups do not understand” childhood. But after reading this sweet poet we know that he does understand; and we thank God for him. In Part II of “The Forest of Wild Thyme” one sees this clearly. “O, grown-ups cannot understand,
Collected Poems by Alfred Noyes. Thank the stars that watch over us in love that the great-hearted poets, and the children of the world—at least those little ones that a half-way Christian civilization has not robbed of childhood—know that “The world's an Eden still.” From the prelude to “The Flower of Old Japan” comes that same note, like a bluebird in springtime, that note of belief, of trust, of hope: “Do you remember the blue stream;
* * * * * “Ah, let us follow, follow far
Collected Poems by Alfred Noyes. And “The Forest of Wild Thyme” is full of the echos of fairy tales and childhood rhymes heard the world over. Little Peterkin, who went with the children to “Old Japan,” is dead now: “Come, my brother pirates, I am tired of play;
Collected Poems by Alfred Noyes. And so, they go to the last place they saw him, the old God's Acre, and fall asleep amid the wild thyme blooming there. As they dream the thyme grows to the size of trees, and they wander about in the forest hunting for Peterkin. As they hunted they found out who killed Cock Robin. They appeal to Little Boy Blue to help them hunt for Peterkin: “Little Boy Blue, you are gallant and brave,
Collected Poems by Alfred Noyes. The King of Fairyland gives command to Pease-Blossom: “And cried, Pease-blossom, Mustard-Seed! You know the old command;
Collected Poems by Alfred Noyes. They even discovered, as they were led on by Pease-Blossom and Mustard- Seed, how fairies were born: “Men upon earth
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