Part 2

Slowly, surely, toward me feeding, A monarch buck his subjects leading; Soon at my feet he will lie bleeding. On,--on he comes! What a prize! I can see his very eyes! Now he stands _at gaze_, In a half bewildered daze. There,--not eighty yards away! Turns his head the landscape to survey. Horns a yard long (or perhaps a foot!) Heavens! what a proud, exalted brute! How,--how my pulses throb and thrill, Oh, oh, _what a joy it is to kill_! As I glance along the tube of death I can scarcely draw my breath, Suppressing the emotions that I feel, Till my nerves grow firm as steel. (Nay, nay; I tremble just a trifle.) _Crack!_ sounds my little 30-30 rifle; Down he goes,--like a rock! Marcus Brutus! what a shock! Just behind the left shoulder, Struck him a thousand-pounds jolter. Round me, now, prong-horns, snort and leap; I could kill a dozen if I chose; Drop them, almost, in a heap. But I am not a butcher, God knows; Yet, nathless I cut his throat, And above him stand and gloat.

But when the deed is done, the excitement over, I feel a sense of sorrow ever. And when up to the gory scene I lead my gentle, courser, Queen, (She is a large gray, dapple mare, With wavy tail and main, and glossy hair.) Straight, straight up to my game she goes; Oh, a thing or two she knows! And I heave it on her back; But it tumbles “overboard” ker-whack! Does she snort, and pitch and bolt? And “swat” me with her heels a jolt? Oh, no,--just stretches forth her nose; Just touches my victim with her nose; Just fondles him with her soft, velvety nose, Just caresses him as if he were a colt, Just as if he were a little sleeping colt. And she shames me with her eyes, With her big, black, wondering eyes, Full of reproach and surprise, Till my heart within me cries, Deploring these, my loved iniquities. Till I vow to never kill again, But, such oath, of course, will be forsworn! And proud and happy homeward soon I hie; I’ll be plotting other _coups de grace_ bye and bye.

In the country of Bijou! Just in sight of mountains capped with snow, Stalking the prong-horns on the plain Will we go?--oh, will we go again?

_AT MY LITTLE CABIN HOME_

At my little cabin home, In the timber by the Platte; Have I ever cared to roam? Go away, quit, forsake my little, cozy, quaint, Colorado home? No, no; I could not,--could not think of that. Happy as a monarch I reside, In the forest by my native river-side.

In the valley of the Platte I am plucking flowers to-day, Early wildings of the May. See! I’ve nearly filled my hat!

Ridge-flowers red, sand-lilies white, Tufts of snowy-crested plumes; Currants crowned with golden blooms; Hawthorne-buds, bursting into light.

Strolling in the grove, Gathering flowers for my love, Gathering sweet flowers of the May Oh, my heart, my heart is glad to-day!

From my little cabin home By the swiftly-flowing Platte, Where the trout grow large and fat, Have I ever cared to roam? Go away, quit, forsake my little, cozy, quaint, Colorado home? No, no; I could not,--could not think of that. Happy as a monarch I reside In the forest by my native river-side.

_TO WALTER WHITMAN_

Walter Whitman! Walter Whitman! Walter, won’t you never quit, man? Say neighbor, say, throw those hyadons away! Those small wigglers are not fit, man, To make good canned sardines, I say.

Walter Whitman! Walter Whitman! Walter, don’t you ever kind of wish Just to drop down by the Platte and sit, man, And laze, and laze, and yank out some big fish?

Walter Whitman! Walter, we have “whoppers” here! What think you of twenty pounder trout? Walt, Walt, bring along your spear, You will call ’em “whales,” no doubt.

Walter Whitman! Walter Whitman! Walter, ain’t you yet caught it, man? Hey, neighbor! Hey there! I say. Walt, Walt, just please step down to our house; We have “natives,” “rainbows,” venison and grouse, Come, Walter, come, dine with us to-day.

_KING MAMMON_

Attended by his glittering train, King Mammon drives his chariot by, Prostrate and bleeding, on the plain, His crushed, yet fawning, subjects lie.

A mighty monarch--oh, ho! ho! is he! His hand shuts like a hasp. He dictates to “the Powers that be”; The nations tremble in his grasp.

For him “the lilies of the field” Their sweetest, sacred incense yield. He labors not--why should he toil? (For him the servile millions moil!)

A tyrant old--ah, ha! ha! he is; He rules the earth, he rules the seas, The rolling planets he would chain; He robs the farmers of their grain; He cheats the worker of his wage; He whelms the peasant in his rage; The merchant’s ruin swells his gain; Beneath his chariot wheels profane Ten thousand wights each year are slain.

Kneel, then, ye hosts! Grovel on the plain! King Mammon is driving by. Behold! Thugs, cut-throats--in his train! Hands up! Yield! Deliver! or ye shall die.

“_LO QUE ES EL MUNDI_”

In the Old World, in the New, Blameless mortals are but few; Men are scheming--ever dreaming Of the precious metals gleaming. Ever bent on money getting, They are fretting, they are sweating; Some are sighing, almost crying, Others cheating, others lying! Some are fasting, some are pining, Many over-drinking, over-dining; Hundreds swearing, groaning, whining, God forgetting! Joy declining! Oh, the rabble, babble, scrabble, squabble, Oh, the heart-ache, hate and strife and trouble,-- All for “filthy lucre,” that most greedy men would gladly gobble.

In the New World, in the Old, Shameless wights are bought and sold; Mammon tempts them with his gold; Hungry “thralls” without positions, Preachers, paupers, venal politicians, Half-salaried clerks, quack physicians, Useless drones with fat commissions; Soulless sharks grab all below. Syndicates and trusts, they “knead the dough!” Honest labor, stands small show, For Rothschilds & Company whole nations “hoe.” Bursted banks make hard conditions, Dampen, somewhat, our ambitions, Aggravate our evil dispositions.

In the Old World, in the New, Saintly “grafters” fleece the sinner crew. Labor’s hard, they know, to shirk, But the old “skin game,” can’t they work? “Gospel guides” deign not to moil, Nor earn their bread by honest toil. Converted “lambs” they will despoil, Yet oh, oh, their hands they hate to soil! Collections large they love to see, They e’en would pilfer charity! How dare, how dare they levy tax on you and me! _God’s word it should be free_, So taught the Christ, they killed at Calvary!

Were, oh, were these “chosen few” but fewer! Honest men then might profit more. But long as selfish Self serves only Self, So long as preachers preach for pelf, The righteous will lag back and not lead, “The heathen” will despise your creed, And count “ye saints,” most scurvy knaves indeed.

Wolves! What wolves beset both church and state! From prelate to chief magistrate, God’s debater and ye legislator Each alike to Heavy Purse will cater. Oh old Money Bags, he knows How to bribe “hobos” To vote a “single tax” That will break poor farmers’ backs And poor bachelors’ backs--by Halifax!--as well.

Crush out small realty owners, Exempt large money loaners, Leave half the values unassessed, Double the rates on the rest, Limit the coinage, confiscate the lands, Collect more revenues and rents To pay--_to pay_ THE GOVERNMENT EXPENSE!

Oh, ye vile viper classes! How ye prey upon the masses! Burden your brethren, like so many stupid asses! Tax-eaters and tax-beaters, Cold voters, heelers, thugs and repeaters, (Listen, ye doubting Thomases, ye Peters), Czar Shylocks hath our millions got; You and I have dearth of dimes, God wot? Force and fraud, fakir and robber, Shovel our dollars into their hopper, For humanity, _such_ care not a copper.

Arise! Arise! Ye long down-trod, Can Greed, can Wrong arrest the wrath of God? Have ye no heart, no courage left? Of reason, too, are you bereft? Combine, combine ye hosts, with awful power, _Organization will curb oppression in one brief hour_.

Beware! Beware! Ye sons of pride; Watch well “the farmer with the hoe,” Watch well the tradesman at his side, They plot--they plan! a tyrant’s overthrow.

Up then! Unite! All honest men unite! Amass your forces, drill, make ready for the fight. Fall in line--fill up the ranks of Truth and Right. March on! March on! In your native love of justice strong Wage relentless, rebellious war on Greed and Wrong!

What, become anarchists? No, oh, no--thrice no. Could Christian wish that blood should flow? No, no; but brave like Him of Nazareth, the frail, the lowly, Him who yet waged battles great and holy; Such fearless warriors again shall clear the way. Truths bravely told turn fraud away By scorning, scathing cheats--by honest acts--by honest ballots-- Just men yet shall masters be who now are valets!

_TO YE WORTHY SAILOR MAN_

Sailor-man! Sailor-man! Sail on--and sing if you can: “Sail on with a heart full of cheer, With a confidence strong and sincere. Fight out life’s daily battles without fretting or fear. Tho’ your fond hopes may fail, Never sit down with a tear to wail; Just trim your sail to meet the ever-shifting gale Of success and good-fortune; never despair. Success and good-fortune, ever await those who persistently persevere.”

Sailor-man--tho’ it may seem hard to die, To pass away and leave no trace behind, No sign, no token of thy dark or bright career, No glorious name to dower posterity, Yet, oh, oh yet, he that doeth good, is honest and kind, Or he who falls fighting bravely the righteous battle is just as dear, Is just as worthy and deserving in God’s eyes As he who wins on earth immortal victories.

To serve thy great Creator faithfully Should be thy constant solace and delight. Truth and principle are worth more to thee Than all the riches of earth’s treasury bright. Better a life of worthy poverty and honorable defeat, Than kingdoms won through oppression and deceit.

Sailor-man, sailor-man, the pure at heart alone are glad. True happiness in bosom vile can never dwell. The vain-glorious and the criminal both alike are sad. Bid, then, to pride, vanity and malevolence farewell.

Sailor-man, sailor-man, in thy rectitude serene and strong, Having done thy “lubber mates” no wrong, So live on, sailor-man, that when thou shalt die, To the mystic realms of Death thou shalt go trustingly; With no guilt at thy heart, and no shame on thy face, But being worthy, and confident still of His mercy and grace, So thou shalt stand without fear in the grand, solemn courts Upon High, Foreseeing that a kind, loving Wisdom beyond the dank grave Will never let perish one single, pure, precious worthy life that He gave.

Sailor-man, sailor-man Sail on, it soon will be dawn. Sail on, without fretting or fear. The darkness is lifting--no breakers are near! Sailor-man, sail on, with a heart full of cheer!

_BE JOYOUS, BE GENTLE, WORTHY, KIND_

Be joyous! Yes, be joyous--be gentle, worthy, kind; Fling rank, fling titles to the wind; Put pride, put selfishness behind; Throw caste, throw prejudice away! Show mankind more humanity; You may not live another day.

Why mortals frail? Why vain? Why proud? Soon lowly ye shall lie, swathed in a shroud. Alike, the rich, the great, the small, The grave ere long engulfeth all. Time’s scythe mows down all human kind; Time spares no rank. Oh, Death and Time, are blind.

Then, mortals frail, be just, be good; Treat not thy fellows mean and rude; Ye who true happiness would know Must kindness first to others show. Learn, then, ye mortals who are sad, Kind acts! Kind acts will make you glad.

Have honor, truth, and principle. Thy word should be thy bond. Fulfill Thy promises; nor lie for further favors still. Cheat not That One who “credit” gives; They who defraud are worst of thieves! What chance have they in Heaven to dwell Who swindle God and man on earth--pray tell?

Of worldly pelf, when thou hast need, Go work, go work. ’Tis good to delve! Hard labor counts. Be not afraid. Great power lies within thy self. Apply that force. Begin! Why wait? Self-effort delays not that friends may aid.

Have courage! Yes, be brave. Cowardice is a self-fettered slave! Have lofty purposes, ambitious dreams! He is a clod who never schemes. Energy, economy, skill, thoroughness, Par excellence, insures success!

Be useful. Yes, bear thy hard load! Rebel not ’gainst the will of God. Work! Work! All honest toil is blessed. Work faithfully; soon thou shalt rest. To further some great good intent He placed thee here; Then murmur not--be of good cheer.

At one, at many failures be not dismayed. Out of failures fortunes, master-works are made! Thou cans’t be good, thou cans’t be great! ’Tis not too late; tis not too late,-- Tho’ thy heart were black as night;--tho’ Thy hands were stained with blood,--yet God’s grace (and penance yet) would make thee white as snow.

A purpose have--firmly fixed, unchangeable! Staid as are Hercules’ rocks. Thus anchored fast unto Hope’s solid shore Thou cans’t withstand griefs ruder schocks. Let, oh let adversity’s mad ocean-billows roar Round thee. Hate’s spume shall fall as sea-flakes tossed but in jest. To pleasant dreams thou cans’t lie down, securely, sweetly rest Disturbed by neither Slander’s viper-tongue nor Mar’s iron crest.

Build,--build thy abode on solid ground, With massive walls and battlements around. What tho’ misfortune’s myrmadons come thick and fast! Abiding Confidence will rout the prowling foe at last. Complacent be in darkness--complacent be in rain; The never-quenched sun soon will shine again.

Lo! Is not earth a school? An outer court? A place wherein rude Intelligence is taught? Is not the soul immortal? Does not Death but tear away Life’s soiled habilaments of clay? If so--have, then, no fear of thy “good valet” Death. He strips thee but to cleanse, and better clothe.

Have hope, have faith, have charity; Strive to merit immortality. At Pleasure’s fount dip deep. In its pure ecstatic tide thy troubles steep. Grave saint, if _righteous souls shall joyous live again_ Why should we sorrow here? Why vainly foster care and pain? Nay, nay, most happy presence, acquainted best with Joy and Love Are those best fitted, sir, for life,--for exalted consecrated life above.

Then, mortals blest, why still? Why sad? Cheer up, dear fellows, and be glad. Live merrily--live while you may, Gaily, gaily tripping along life’s way. Waste not these few, these fleeting, precious hours; After death, as after night, dawns the brighter, fairer day, Be happy, then, be thankful, grateful as the flowers.

_MY COLORADO_

Colorado! Oh, my own beloved Colorado! Colorado, in the early days of spring; Colorado, “when the birds are on the wing.” Colorado, Colorado, ’tis of thee I dearly love to sing!

Colorado, when the brooks are flowing full and free; Colorado, when “the herds come lowing o’er the lea”; Colorado! Colorado! Oh, my own beloved Colorado! Colorado is the place for you, friend, and for me.

Colorado, Colorado in the Autumn’s golden glow; Colorado, when the hills are capped with snow; Colorado, when the skies are soft and blue; Colorado, Colorado,--how I do love you! Colorado! Oh, my own beloved Colorado!

_BEAUTIFUL COLORADO_

Colorado! Oh, what a glorious country! Colorado! Could Nature more beautious be? Colorado! See! Laughing sky is deep violet blue, And rolling prairie is emerald hue, While mountain leaps up from the foot-hill below, Great billow on billow of lily-white snow.

Oh, look away to the south! There yawns a canon’s great mouth,-- While out of the hazy distance beyond Behold Pike’s proud peak, so mighty and grand! Then lifting her snowy-white head high up in the West, Like a fond mother o’er offspring asleep on her breast, Madame Lincoln looks down on many a baby-peak’s crest. And joyous ever, rippling, murmuring near, With music most sweet to the ear, We catch the glad, sparkling beam Of our Platte River--muse-haunted stream.

_AT LITTLETON “IN THE GOOD OLD SUMMER TIME”_

At Littleton! At fair, auspicious Littleton! Upon a slope that tips it to the setting sun The village stands. Its lanes are spacious, wide, With purling brooks beside. Its grounds are ample, and shade trees, By the cool walks, arch greenly overhead. The cottages by the thick leaves are almost hid. On summer days, in wanton play, the breeze Steals through the boughs, and down the beautious ways The flowers scent the mellow airs, And wavily beside the fount, where the clear water smiles, Chaldea’s willow trails her silky hairs.

In pleasing contrast with yon damask rose, How sweetly here the lily blows. Here blissful poppies loll in calm repose, And saucy sun-flowers coquette with the sun At Littleton--at fair, auspicious Littleton!

_AT ENGLEWOOD ON AN AFTERNOON IN MAY_

At Englewood--at cool, shady Englewood! At Englewood to-day everything seems bright and good. Here thrifty orchards blossoming lavishly around Scatter their shell-like petals on the ground. Here fragrance-exhaling lilacs scent the breeze, And the wild-birds carol in the trees. Here are fresh, green gardens,--and between, the flash of tiny rills; And, beyond--behold--the everlasting hills! Here crowds of happy people continuously we meet, On the cars and in the street, And a social spirit everywhere Whispers,--“fellow traveler, abandon care”; “Oh, for one afternoon, at least, be gay!” “Enjoy sweet idleness, partner, while you may.”

_SEEKING OUR TWO LITTLE BROWN BOYS_

Tell me, oh, my sweetest dove, And ye watchful birdlings in the nest above, Have you not seen our two little Brown boys? Our two little _bad_ Brown boys? They have both run away in quest of new toys And now, now we are seeking--seeking in vain for our boys.

There’s the little boy Joy, and the little boy Love; They have both toddled off, new pleasures to prove; They are both much inclined for to rove, And our rest and our peace of mind thus they destroy, And now, now we can’t find neither bad boy. Hah, there--ye rogues! through the thick bushes creeping, At last, at last, me thinks I see them both peeping. Come then--come ye dear babes--but whenever again we shall get you, Run away, never, never more to-day, will we let you.

_TEARS_

“Needless tears.”--Tennyson.

A-pleasure seeking all my days, What use have I for churlish tears? Or sorrow’s dirge? Or Melancholia’s lays? Joy’s rosy foot-paths I would follow onward yet for years. Blossoms gay, and butterflies; Light and life--hope and high emprise! Rainbow tints allure my eyes! Spend not, spend not thy hours in weeping; Soon, soon in the grave we shall be sleeping.

Pensive stranger, banish sadness; Search the fields in quest of gladness; Seek in sunshine, seek in shadow,-- Joy is waiting in the meadow. Kindly faces, tempers sweet, Loving friends on life’s journey we shall meet.

Tourist, then,--traveler,--grief is madness; Tarry not with frenzy-chained Sadness. Hark! hark! In budding forests near Happy birds are singing clear; Nature’s heart is full of cheer. Spend not, spend not thy hours in weeping. With hope, with joy thy heart, thy care-constrained heart, it should be leaping.

_TO OUR LITTLE JOY-PRINCE--CHERUB DELIGHT_

Come! thou little rosy urchin; come, I pray thee. Sorrow’s hand no longer here shall delay thee. Down among the tall, green grasses swaying, Where the lambs and lambkins glad are playing, In meadows warm, where the lassies fair, and the laddies, are a Maying, In flower-decked fields we likewise should be straying. By still waters bright, Where the wild ducks curve in rapid flight, Basking in the warm sunshine; Drinking in a joy divine. In cool gardens, full of flowers, Sweeter than the famed Hercynian bowers; Happy here, we should while away life’s fleeting hours. On soft beds of fragrant ferns and roses, Where the Love god oft reposes, By the red-winged black-bird’s nest, Where some tired mortals so long to lie down and rest,-- Blest companions of the birds and bees,-- Here, shall not we fall asleep beneath the trees? Puck and Pan, they may come find us if they can. Or Fairy Mab, with cunning spying, Discover the lolling rushes, where we are lying. But that fretful little hunch-back Ogress Woman,--She, who ever prates of care and pain,-- She our hiding place shall seek in vain. Come, then, thou little rosy regent Prince of Peace and Pleasure, In fields and woods to-day, we shall squander many hours of joy and leisure.

_INTROVERSE RETROSPECTION_

’Mongst life’s sunny highlands I have strayed, Shunning Mammon’s vale of shade; And while wandering I’ve been pondering, And I feel, As onward toward the tomb I steal, That all our worldly toys, and troubles, are unreal. Riches is a doubtful chattel, Titles merely childish prattle; Sorrow is illogical, demoniacal dreaming. Joy and Hope alone are real--death is only but in seeming. For gladness, then--for better life we ever should be scheming. Fame holds forth for us a false, illusionary flower. Build, Folly! Build thy tower! Canst thou evade the inevitable hour? Toil, Pharoah, toil! Thy doom To build a pyramid--thy tomb!

_SUNDRY SWEETS_

Oh, oh, how I love to plant the tender tree! What tho’ it bear no fruits for me? Its shady boughs, its leafy greenery, Its balmy, budding youthful gladness Will cheer me when in age and sadness.

“Hah, there!” A nice little girl just sauntered by; I smiled at her, she smiled at me, And now we both are smiling, don’t you see?

Whoopla--ha! ha! What a picnic! A lady just kissed me at the train. (But it wasn’t meant for me!) “How strange!” you say, “how very queer?” (Oh, she mistook me for her hubby dear,) Who signaled her, and yelled in vain. Observing tourists thought he’d gone insane. Yes, I enjoyed it more than he, That kiss that wasn’t meant for me.

Now that I’ve made my little fortune, I have lots of fun,-- There’s not a thing I miss. I am so glad, I am so gay; If Psyche throw my love away, If I “fall out” with Chloris I will, I will be merry still. A smile, a smile,-- Have I not won a smile, A smile from charming little Doris?

_FELICITOUS RETROFLECTIONS_

Tho’ this life may have its many thousand ills And nameless woes--and the gait or the grind kills-- Yet with all this, “this life it is most jolly”; What folly to consort, then, with Care and Melancholy!

Petty troubles should not grieve thee, Of thy happy dreams bereave thee. Faint of heart--cark was a “quitter” ever. Undaunted cheer kept bravely on! Stop not to brood o’er failures--never,--never! Almost defeated “Trojans” have oft the battle won.

Sharpest thorns among red roses; Bitter rind sweet fruit encloses, And a pinching, pestering torment teaches this:-- Vanquished sorrow adds greater zest to bliss!

_LITTLE LOVE A-FISHING WENT_

On a hot summer day--alack the day! Little Love a-fishing went. To the “river cool,” he took his way, And there met Beauty gay,--by accident.

Of knotted twine, Love made a line, For a hook a pin he bent; And this “tackle,” he thought fine, That never cost him a red cent.

Beside the Platte the gleeful stripling sat, But when approaching Beauty he espied, He rose to fly--she snatched his hat; Then little Love fell down and cried.

Bold Beauty plucked him from the grass And held him in her tender arms. His pouting lips she tried to kiss; This “added much” to his alarms.

Ah, would I were that fisher-lad! Then Beauty gay, might have her way. What tears of joy would not I shed, Would she but snatch “my old white hat!” Would she come kindly, sweetly, kiss my fears away.

_AT MANITOU_

At Manitou--at delectable Manitou! Oh, oh, if I only just had a million or two I would build a cottage--a cottage at Manitou.