Poems — Themes and Context

here was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out, Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore."

Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. And, sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell,-- And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.

He weren't no saint,--but at jedgment I'd run my chance with Jim, 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him. He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing,-- And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain't a going to be too hard On a man that died for men.

I don't go much on religion, I never ain't had no show; But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, On the handful o' things I know. I don't pan out on the prophets And free-will, and that sort of thing,-- But I b'lieve in God and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along,-- No four-year-old in the county Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sassy, Always ready to swear and fight,-- And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket As I passed by Taggart's store; I went in for a jug of molasses And left the team at the door. They scared at something and started,-- I heard one little squall, And hell-to-split over the prairie Went team, Little Breeches and all.

Hell-to-split over the prairie! I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches, And sarched for 'em far and near. At last we struck hosses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat,--but of little Gabe No hide nor hair was found.

And here all hope soured on me, Of my fellow-critter's aid,-- I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed.

By this, the torches was played out, And me and Isrul Parr Went off for some wood to a sheepfold That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed Where they shut up the lambs at night. We looked in and seen them huddled thar, So warm and sleepy and white; And thar sot Little Breeches and chirped, As peart as ever you see, "I want a chaw of terbacker, And that's what's the matter of me."

How did he git thar? Angels. He could never have walked in that storm They jest scooped down and toted him To whar it was safe and warm. And I think that saving a little child, And fotching him to his own, Is a derned sight better business Than loafing around The Throne.

(Remarks of Sergeant Tilmon Joy to The White Man's Committee of Spunky Point, Illinois.)

I reckon I git your drift, gents,-- You 'low the boy sha'n't stay; This is a white man's country; You're Dimocrats, you say; And whereas, and seein', and wherefore, The times bein' all out o' j'int, The nigger has got to mosey From the limits o' Spunky P'int!

Le's reason the thing a minute: I'm an old-fashioned Dimocrat too, Though I laid my politics out o' the way For to keep till the war was through. But I come back here, allowin' To vote as I used to do, Though it gravels me like the devil to train Along o' sich fools as you.

Now dog my cats ef I kin see, In all the light of the day, What you've got to do with the question Ef Tim shill go or stay. And furder than that I give notice, Ef one of you tetches the boy, He kin check his trunks to a warmer clime Than he'll find in Illanoy,

Why, blame your hearts, jest hear me! You know that ungodly day When our left struck Vicksburg Heights, how ripped And torn and tattered we lay. When the rest retreated I stayed behind, Fur reasons sufficient to me,-- With a rib caved in, and a leg on a strike, I sprawled on that cursed glacee.

Lord! how the hot sun went for us, And br'iled and blistered and burned! How the Rebel bullets whizzed round us When a cuss in his death-grip turned! Till along toward dusk I seen a thing I couldn't believe for a spell: That nigger--that Tim--was a crawlin' to me Through that fire-proof, gilt-edged hell!

The Rebels seen him as quick as me, And the bullets buzzed like bees; But he jumped for me, and shouldered me, Though a shot brought him once to his knees; But he staggered up, and packed me off, With a dozen stumbles and falls, Till safe in our lines he drapped us both, His black hide riddled with balls.

So, my gentle gazelles, thar's my answer, And here stays Banty Tim: He trumped Death's ace for me that day, And I'm not goin' back on him! You may rezoloot till the cows come home But ef one of you tetches the boy, He'll wrastle his hash to-night in hell. Or my name's not Tilmon Joy!

The Mystery of Gilgal

The darkest, strangest mystery I ever read, or heern, or see, Is 'long of a drink at Taggart's Hall,-- Tom Taggart's of Gilgal.

I've heern the tale a thousand ways, But never could git through the maze That hangs around that queer day's doin's; But I'll tell the yarn to youans.

Tom Taggart stood behind his bar, The time was fall, the skies was fa'r, The neighbors round the counter drawed, And ca'mly drinked and jawed.

At last come Colonel Blood of Pike, And old Jedge Phinn, permiscus-like, And each, as he meandered in, Remarked, "A whisky-skin"

Tom mixed the beverage full and fa'r, And slammed it, smoking, on the bar. Some says three fingers, some says two,-- I'll leave the choice to you.

Phinn to the drink put forth his hand; Blood drawed his knife, with accent bland, "I ax yer parding, Mister Phinn-- Jest drap that whisky-skin."

No man high-toneder could be found Than old Jedge Phinn the country round. Says he, "Young man, the tribe of Phinns Knows their own whisky-skins!"

He went for his 'leven-inch bowie-knife:-- "I tries to foller a Christian life; But I'll drap a slice of liver or two, My bloomin' shrub, with you."

They carved in a way that all admired, Tell Blood drawed iron at last, and fired. It took Seth Bludso 'twixt the eyes, Which caused him great surprise.

Then coats went off, and all went in; Shots and bad language swelled the din; The short, sharp bark of Derringers, Like bull-pups, cheered the furse.

They piled the stiffs outside the door; They made, I reckon, a cord or more. Girls went that winter, as a rule, Alone to spellin'-school.

I've sarched in vain, from Dan to Beer- Sheba, to make this mystery clear; But I end with _hit_ as I did begin,-- WHO GOT THE WHISKY-SKIN?"

Ef the way a man lights out of this world Helps fix his heft for the other sp'ere, I reckon my old friend Golyer's Ben Will lay over lots of likelier men For one thing he done down here.

You didn't know Ben? He driv a stage On the line they called the Old Sou'-west; He wa'n't the best man that ever you seen, And he wa'n't so ungodly pizen mean,-- No better nor worse than the rest.

He was hard on women and rough on his friends; And he didn't have many, I'll let you know; He hated a dog and disgusted a cat, But he'd run off his legs for a motherless brat, And I guess there's many jess so.

I've seed my sheer of the run of things, I've hoofed it a many and many a miled, But I never seed nothing that could or can Jest git all the good from the heart of a man Like the hands of a little child.

Well! this young one I started to tell you about,-- His folks was all dead, I was fetchin' him through,-- He was just at the age that's loudest for boys, And he blowed such a horn with his sarchin' small voice, We called him "the Little Boy Blue."

He ketched a sight of Ben on the box, And you bet he bawled and kicked and howled, For to git 'long of Ben, and ride thar too; I tried to tell him it wouldn't do, When suddingly Golyer growled,

"What's the use of making the young one cry? Say, what's the use of being a fool? Sling the little one up here whar he can see, He won't git the snuffles a-ridin' with me,-- The night ain't any too cool."

The child hushed cryin' the minute he spoke; "Come up here, Major! don't let him slip." And jest as nice as a woman could do, He wrapped his blanket around them And was off in the crack of a whip.

We rattled along an hour or so, Till we heerd a yell on the still night air. Did you ever hear an Apache yell? Well, ye needn't want to, _this_ side of hell; There's nothing more devilish there.

Caught in the shower of lead and flint We felt the old stage stagger and plunge; Then we heerd the voice and the whip of Ben, As he gethered his critters up again, And tore away with a lunge.

The passengers laughed. "Old Ben's all right, He's druv five year and never was struck." "Now if _I_'d been thar, as sure as you live, They'd 'a' plugged me with holes as thick as _a_ sieve; It's the reg'lar Golyer luck."

Over hill and holler and ford and creek Jest like the hosses had wings, we tore; We got to Looney's, and Ben come in And laid down the baby and axed for his gin, And dropped in a heap on the floor.

Said he, "When they fired, I kivered the kid,-- Although I ain't pretty, I'm middlin' broad; And look! he ain't fazed by arrow nor ball,-- Thank God! my own carcase stopped them all." Then we seen his eye glaze, and his lower jaw fall,-- And he carried his thanks to God

The Pledge at Spunky Point

A Tale of Earnest Effort and Human Perfidy.

It's all very well for preaching But preachin' and practice don't gee: I've give the thing a fair trial, And you can't ring it in on me. So toddle along with your pledge, Squire, Ef that's what you want me to sign; Betwixt me and you, I've been thar, And I'll not take any in mine.

A year ago last Fo'th July A lot of the boys was here. We all got corned and signed the pledge For to drink no more that year. There was Tilman Joy and Sheriff McPhail And me and Abner Fry, And Shelby's boy Leviticus And the Golyers, Luke and Cy.

And we anteed up a hundred In the hands of Deacon Kedge For to be divided the follerin' Fo'th 'Mongst the boys that kep' the pledge. And we knowed each other so well, Squire, You may take my scalp for a fool, Ef every man when he signed his name Didn't feel cock-sure of the pool.

Fur a while it all went lovely; We put up a job next day Fur to make Joy b'lieve his wife was dead, And he went home middlin' gay; Then Abner Fry he killed a man And afore he was hung McPhail Jest bilked the widder outen her sheer By getting him slewed in jail.

But Chris'mas scooped the Sheriff, The egg-nogs gethered him in; And Shelby's boy Leviticus Was, New Year's, tight as sin; And along in March the Golyers Got so drunk that a fresh-biled owl Would 'a' looked 'long-side o' them two young men, Like a sober temperance fowl.

Four months alone I walked the chalk, I thought my heart would break; And all them boys a-slappin' my back And axin', "What'll you take?" I never slep' without dreamin' dreams Of Burbin, Peach, or Rye, But I chawed at my niggerhead and swore I'd rake that pool or die.

At last--the Fo'th--I humped myself Through chores and breakfast soon, Then scooted down to Taggarts' store-- For the pledge was off at noon; And all the boys was gethered thar, And each man hilt his glass-- Watchin' me and the clock quite solemn-like Fur to see the last minute pass.

The clock struck twelve! I raised the jug And took one lovin' pull I was holler clar from skull to boots, It seemed I couldn't git full. But I was roused by a fiendish laugh That might have raised the dead-- Them ornary sneaks had sot the clock A half an hour ahead!

"All right!" I squawked. "You've got me, Jest order your drinks agin, And we'll paddle up to the Deacon's And scoop the ante in." But when we got to Kedge's, What a sight was that we saw! The Deacon and Parson Skeeters In the tail of a game of Draw.

They had shook 'em the heft of the mornin', The Parson's luck was fa'r, And he raked, the minute we got thar, The last of our pool on a pa'r. So toddle along with your pledge, Squire, I 'low it's all very fine, But ez fur myself, I thank ye, I'll not take any in mine.

Sunrise in the Place de la Concorde

(Paris, _August_, 1865.)

I stand at the break of day In the Champs Elysées. The tremulous shafts of dawning As they shoot o'er the Tuileries early, Strike Luxor's cold gray spire, And wild in the light of the morning With their marble manes on fire, Ramp the white Horses of Marly.

But the Place of Concord lies Dead hushed 'neath the ashy skies. And the Cities sit in council With sleep in their wide stone eyes. I see the mystic plain Where the army of spectres slain In the Emperor's life-long war March on with unsounding tread To trumpets whose voice is dead. Their spectral chief still leads them,-- The ghostly flash of his sword Like a comet through mist shines far,-- And the noiseless host is poured, For the gendarme never heeds them, Up the long dim road where thundered The army of Italy onward Through the great pale Arch of the Star!

The spectre army fades Far up the glimmering hill, But, vaguely lingering still, A group of shuddering shades Infects the pallid air, Growing dimmer as day invades The hush of the dusky square. There is one that seems a King, As if the ghost of a Crown Still shadowed his jail-bleached hair; I can hear the guillotine ring, As its regicide note rang there, When he laid his tired life down And grew brave in his last despair. And a woman frail and fair Who weeps at leaving a world Of love and revel and sin In the vast Unknown to be hurled; (For life was wicked and sweet With kings at her small white feet!) And one, every inch a Queen, In life and in death a Queen, Whose blood baptized the place, In the days of madness and fear,-- Her shade has never a peer In majesty and grace.

Murdered and murderers swarm; Slayers that slew and were slain, Till the drenched place smoked with the rain That poured in a torrent warm,-- Till red as the Rider's of Edom Were splashed the white garments of Freedom With the wash of the horrible storm!

And Liberty's hands were not clean In the day of her pride unchained, Her royal hands were stained With the life of a King and Queen; And darker than that with the blood Of the nameless brave and good Whose blood in witness clings More damning than Queens' and Kings'.

Has she not paid it dearly? Chained, watching her chosen nation Grinding late and early In the mills of usurpation? Have not her holy tears Flowing through shameful years, Washed the stains from her tortured hands? We thought so when God's fresh breeze, Blowing over the sleeping lands, In 'Forty-Eight waked the world, And the Burgher-King was hurled From that palace behind the trees.

As Freedom with eyes aglow Smiled glad through her childbirth pain, How was the mother to know That her woe and travail were vain? A smirking servant smiled When she gave him her child to keep; Did she know he would strangle the child As it lay in his arms asleep?

Liberty's cruellest shame! She is stunned and speechless yet In her grief and bloody sweat Shall we make her trust her blame? The treasure of 'Forty-Eight A lurking jail-bird stole, She can but watch and wait As the swift sure seasons roll.

And when in God's good hour Comes the time of the brave and true, Freedom again shall rise With a blaze in her awful eyes That shall wither this robber-power As the sun now dries the dew. This Place shall roar with the voice Of the glad triumphant people, And the heavens be gay with the chimes Ringing with jubilant noise From every clamorous steeple The coming of better times. And the dawn of Freedom waking Shall fling its splendors far Like the day which now is breaking On the great pale Arch of the Star, And back o'er the town shall fly, While the joy-bells wild are ringing, To crown the Glory springing From the Column of July!

The Sphinx of the Tuileries

Out of the Latin Quarter I came to the lofty door Where the two marble Sphinxes guard The Pavilion de Flore. Two Cockneys stood by the gate, and one Observed, as they turned to go, "No wonder He likes that sort of thing,-- He's a Sphinx himself, you know."

I thought as I walked where the garden glowed In the sunset's level fire, Of the Charlatan whom the Frenchmen loathe And the Cockneys all admire. They call him a Sphinx,--it pleases him,-- And if we narrowly read, We will find some truth in the flunkey's praise, The man is a Sphinx indeed.

For the Sphinx with breast of woman And face so debonair Had the sleek false paws of a lion, That could furtively seize and tear. So far to the shoulders,--but if you took The Beast in reverse you would find The ignoble form of a craven cur Was all that lay behind.

She lived by giving to simple folk A silly riddle to read, And when they failed she drank their blood In cruel and ravenous greed. But at last came one who knew her word, And she perished in pain and shame,-- This bastard Sphinx leads the same base life And his end will be the same.

For an Oedipus-People is coming fast With swelled feet limping on, If they shout his true name once aloud His false foul power is gone. Afraid to fight and afraid to fly, He cowers in an abject shiver; The people will come to their own at last,-- God is not mocked forever.

The Surrender of Spain

Land of unconquered Pelayo! land of the Cid Campeador! Sea-girdled mother of men! Spain, name of glory and power; Cradle of world-grasping Emperors, grave of the reckless invader, How art thou fallen, my Spain! how art thou sunk at this hour!

Once thy magnanimous sons trod, victors, the portals of Asia, Once the Pacific waves rushed, joyful thy banners to see; For it was Trajan that carried the battle-flushed eagles to Dacia, Cortés that planted thy flag fast by the uttermost sea.

Has thou forgotten those days illumined with glory and honor, When the far isles of the sea thrilled to the tread of Castile? When every land under Heaven was flecked by the shade of thy banner,-- When every beam of the sun flashed on thy conquering steel?

Then through red fields of slaughter, through death and defeat and disaster, Still flared thy banner aloft, tattered, but free from a stain, Now to the upstart Savoyard thou bendest to beg for a master! How the red flush of her shame mars the proud beauty of Spain!