At the Hyla's Call

The things the sun and the south wind do

When the green o’ the year is peeping through,

And Joy is abroad, and the dancing hours

Know only the clocks of the leaves and flowers!

When the squirrel-cups are brimming with rain,

When blackbirds are come and the needly grain;

When the ribbon-snake slips from his dismal house

To the nest of the bird and the nest of the mouse;

In the thick of the meadow and greenwood smells,

Of the minstrelsy by the willowed wells;

By the brook, and the bridge of lichened log,

With the darting trout and the vaulting frog;

By the upland bunches the rabbit knows

Ere the great sun comes, when the great sun goes;

Along warm walls where ivies bind

And braid the sunshine and weave the wind,—

It’s to rouse and go forth at the hyla’s call,

It’s to learn the sweet secrets, one and all:

It’s to follow him with the locks love-curled,

To wander with Joy to the end of the world.

by John Vance Cheney

A Saint of Yore

Who brings it, now, her sweet accord

To every precept of her Lord?

In quaintly fashioned bonnet

With simplest ribbons on it,

The older folk remember well

How prompt she was at Sabbath bell.

I see her yet; her decent shawl,

Her sober gown, silk mitts, and all.

The deacons courtly meet her,

The pastor turns to greet her,

And maid and matron quit their place

To find her fan or smooth her lace.

I see her yet, with saintly smile,

Pass slowly up the quiet aisle;

Her mien, her every motion,

Is melody, devotion;

Contagious grace spreads round her way,

The prayer that words can never pray.

Old Groveland Church! the good folk fill

It yet, up on the windy hill;

The grass is round it growing

For nearest neighbors’ mowing;

The weathered, battered sheds, behind,

Still rattle, rattle, with the wind.

All is the same; but in yon ground

Have thickened fast the slab and mound.

Hark! Shall I join the praises?

Rather, among the daisies,

Let me, in peaceful thought, once more

Be silent with the saint of yore.

by John Vance Cheney

A Thought

Came a little lonely thought;

Straight toward my heart ‘t was flying.

Out I reached — ‘t would not be caught;

I could hear it sighing.

Whither bound I cannot say —

Than thought there ‘s nothing fleeter —

But I know, lodge where it may,

Only love is sweeter.

by John Vance Cheney

A Trilogy for This Time

I

FREEDOM

Freedom! have we won it yet?

To win it did our fathers set

Their strength, and build the home, the State,

?That, faithful, we

Should have the mastery over fate,

?Forever free.

Yon flag, no hand dare tear it down;

This proud, this high is our renown:

The nations look on us, and cry,—

?”Stanchly they hold

The heritage of liberty,

?The faith of old!”

The flattering nations look from far.

Freemen we seem, yet slaves we are,

Ironed with hateful gyves of greed;

?We cramp the place

Of him our brother, in his need,

?We grind his face.

On freemen’s ground the gold unearned

Is gold unowned; be justice spurned,

Freedom holds off from low and high:

?On freemen’s sod

Whoso oppresses poverty

?Reproaches God.

Freedom! won not yet, not yet.

Freemen deal truly, nor forget

That, now and in all days to be,

?Throughout the earth

Only one power can make men free,—

?Unselfish worth.

II

THE GOLD OF HAVILAH

If reign you will in Havilah,

?That land of plenty is your own;

But while you gather into bags

?The gold, the banded onyx stone,

Masters, beware

The high words there,

The black space writ across with fire,—

The laborer is worthy of his hire.

Yellow the gold in Havilah,

?The gold is yellow and is good;

Lo, you may build of it your house,

?May give of it for roof and food;

But take you care

He has his share,

Hungry in body and in soul,

Outworn with digging for you in the hole.

Mad, phantom kings! strive you to stand

?As bywords and as things for mirth?

Your kingdom ‘s broken and plucked up;

?Long since He portioned out the earth,

And heaven too.

What would you do?

Not all your gold can buy that trust,—

He raiseth up the poor from out the dust.

III

THE HYSSOP IN THE WALL

You ‘d be a taller thing,

?You shrubs who grow not to the goodly tree.

Wherefore? In low leaves, as in high, birds sing

?Their summer melody.

Never since time began

?A stalk yet for the impartial light too low.

June greens the meanest bush; the humblest man,

?Her warm winds on him blow.

Shrubs be, and there be trees,

?But this stands fast: shine down the sun and star

On these and those. What matter, those or these,

?Since all God’s plants they are?

You that would cast more shade,

?Remember who it was that wrought you small;

He, and no other, He the cedar made,

?The hyssop in the wall.

Blame not him at your side,

?Him with the braver root and prouder limb;

Lift your bold mouths to heaven, and call awide;

?The pattern is from Him.

Call, but first know that ills

?Are every man’s, as marrow in his bone;

That the Hand from one cup the measure spills,

?Be it of bread or stone;

Know that all’s poured for all;

?Alike for sweetest tree of field or wood

And you, the bitter hyssop in the wall,—

?The evil and the good.

This learned, it may draw nigher

?To mortals then, the trustful prophet’s morn

When shall come up the myrtle from the brier,

?The fir-tree for the thorn.

by John Vance Cheney

Abraham Lincoln

His people called, and forth he came

As one that answers to his name;

Nor dreamed how high his charge,

His privilege how large, —

To set the stones back in the wall

Lest the divided house should fall.

The shepherd who would keep

The flocks, would fold the sheep,

Humbly he came, yet with the mien

Presaging the immortal scene, —

Some battle of His wars

Who sealeth up the stars.

No flaunting of the banners bold

Borne by the haughty sons of old;

Their blare, their pageantries,

Their goal, — they were not his.

We called, he came; he came to crook

The spear into the pruning-hook,

To toil, untimely sleep,

And leave a world to weep.

by John Vance Cheney

At Parting

With tears and kisses let me go.

Love not too deep

To kiss and weep,

That love have many, many;

But one love, oh,

It doth not so!

Pale lips it has and tearless eyes;

Broken, motionless it lies,

A flower amid death’s mysteries,

A rose that dies.

With tears and kisses let me go;

Such love have many, many.

That other love my heart would know,

Or know not any.

by John Vance Cheney

At a Grave

I

As out of the dark the stars,

Broke forth the heavenly bars

Of passion strong, —

The wild bird’s song,

Borne, wave on wave,

From a branch above a grave.

Mute heart, you, listening, heard

The music of the bird;

‘T was in your cry, —

” A song had I,

But oh, I know

Of the dead asleep below! ”

II

Oft I call, he nothing hears;

Foolish is grief as death is wise.

The white peace chides me where he lies, —

” None would know again the years. ”

by John Vance Cheney

At the Hearthside

The children tucked away,

His hearthside bright and still,

The farmer’s frowns are all that say

The day has brought him ill.

The wife—her work is done—

Moves cheerly here and there;

The comforts gather, one by one,

Around the easy chair.

Now, as a sunny brook

Will woo the moody shore,

She nears the gloomy chimney nook;

She hardly ventures more.

If he but lift his face—

The hearth-flames quicken, spring;

A yielding smile, his old embrace,

And wife and kettle sing.

by John Vance Cheney