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Complete Poetical Works
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He ceased and passed, that truthful man; the children went their way
With downcast heads and downcast hearts—but not to sport or play.
For when at eve the lamps were lit, and supperless to bed
Each child was sent, with tasks undone and lessons all unsaid,
No man might know the awful woe that thrilled their youthful frames,
As they dreamed of Angels Spelling Bee and thought of Truthful James.
ARTEMIS IN SIERRA
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Poet. Philosopher. Jones of Mariposa.
POET
Halt! Here we are. Now wheel your mare a trifle
Just where you stand; then doff your hat and swear
Never yet was scene you might cover with your rifle
Half as complete or as marvelously fair.
PHILOSOPHER
Dropped from Olympus or lifted out of Tempe,
Swung like a censer betwixt the earth and sky!
He who in Greece sang of flocks and flax and hemp,—he
Here might recall them—six thousand feet on high!
POET
Well you may say so. The clamor of the river,
Hum of base toil, and man's ignoble strife,
Halt far below, where the stifling sunbeams quiver,
But never climb to this purer, higher life!
Not to this glade, where Jones of Mariposa,
Simple and meek as his flocks we're looking at,
Tends his soft charge; nor where his daughter Rosa—
(A shot.)
Hallo! What's that?
PHILOSOPHER
A—something thro' my hat—
Bullet, I think. You were speaking of his daughter?
POET
Yes; but—your hat you were moving through the leaves;
Likely he thought it some eagle bent on slaughter.
Lightly he shoots— (A second shot.)
PHILOSOPHER
As one readily perceives.
Still, he improves! This time YOUR hat has got it,
Quite near the band! Eh? Oh, just as you please—
Stop, or go on.
POET
Perhaps we'd better trot it
Down through the hollow, and up among the trees.
BOTH
Trot, trot, trot, where the bullets cannot follow;
Trot down and up again among the laurel trees.
PHILOSOPHER
Thanks, that is better; now of this shot-dispensing
Jones and his girl—you were saying—
POET
Well, you see—
I—hang it all!—Oh! what's the use of fencing!
Sir, I confess it!—these shots were meant for ME.
PHILOSOPHER
Are you mad!
POET
God knows, I shouldn't wonder!
I love this coy nymph, who, coldly—as yon peak
Shines on the river it feeds, yet keeps asunder—
Long have I worshiped, but never dared to speak.
Till she, no doubt, her love no longer hiding,
Waked by some chance word her father's jealousy;
Slips her disdain—as an avalanche down gliding
Sweeps flocks and kin away—to clear a path for ME.
Hence his attack.
PHILOSOPHER
He ceased and passed, that truthful man; the children went their way
With downcast heads and downcast hearts—but not to sport or play.
For when at eve the lamps were lit, and supperless to bed
Each child was sent, with tasks undone and lessons all unsaid,
No man might know the awful woe that thrilled their youthful frames,
As they dreamed of Angels Spelling Bee and thought of Truthful James.
ARTEMIS IN SIERRA
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Poet. Philosopher. Jones of Mariposa.
POET
Halt! Here we are. Now wheel your mare a trifle
Just where you stand; then doff your hat and swear
Never yet was scene you might cover with your rifle
Half as complete or as marvelously fair.
PHILOSOPHER
Dropped from Olympus or lifted out of Tempe,
Swung like a censer betwixt the earth and sky!
He who in Greece sang of flocks and flax and hemp,—he
Here might recall them—six thousand feet on high!
POET
Well you may say so. The clamor of the river,
Hum of base toil, and man's ignoble strife,
Halt far below, where the stifling sunbeams quiver,
But never climb to this purer, higher life!
Not to this glade, where Jones of Mariposa,
Simple and meek as his flocks we're looking at,
Tends his soft charge; nor where his daughter Rosa—
(A shot.)
Hallo! What's that?
PHILOSOPHER
A—something thro' my hat—
Bullet, I think. You were speaking of his daughter?
POET
Yes; but—your hat you were moving through the leaves;
Likely he thought it some eagle bent on slaughter.
Lightly he shoots— (A second shot.)
PHILOSOPHER
As one readily perceives.
Still, he improves! This time YOUR hat has got it,
Quite near the band! Eh? Oh, just as you please—
Stop, or go on.
POET
Perhaps we'd better trot it
Down through the hollow, and up among the trees.
BOTH
Trot, trot, trot, where the bullets cannot follow;
Trot down and up again among the laurel trees.
PHILOSOPHER
Thanks, that is better; now of this shot-dispensing
Jones and his girl—you were saying—
POET
Well, you see—
I—hang it all!—Oh! what's the use of fencing!
Sir, I confess it!—these shots were meant for ME.
PHILOSOPHER
Are you mad!
POET
God knows, I shouldn't wonder!
I love this coy nymph, who, coldly—as yon peak
Shines on the river it feeds, yet keeps asunder—
Long have I worshiped, but never dared to speak.
Till she, no doubt, her love no longer hiding,
Waked by some chance word her father's jealousy;
Slips her disdain—as an avalanche down gliding
Sweeps flocks and kin away—to clear a path for ME.
Hence his attack.
PHILOSOPHER
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