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    Idyllic Monologues Old and New World Verses
    Idyllic Monologues Old and New World Verses
    Idyllic Monologues Old and New World Verses
    Ebook173 pages1 hour

    Idyllic Monologues Old and New World Verses

    By Madison Julius Cawein

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 27, 2013
    Idyllic Monologues Old and New World Verses

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      Book preview

      Idyllic Monologues Old and New World Verses - Madison Julius Cawein

      The Project Gutenberg EBook of Idyllic Monologues, by Madison J. Cawein

      This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with

      almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or

      re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included

      with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: Idyllic Monologues

      Old and New World Verses

      Author: Madison J. Cawein

      Release Date: April 6, 2010 [EBook #31896]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES ***

      Produced by David Garcia, Carla Foust and the Online

      Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This

      file was produced from images generously made available

      by The Kentuckiana Digital Library)

      Transcriber's note

      Minor punctuation errors have been changed without notice. Printer errors have been changed and are indicated with a mouse-hover and listed at the end of this book.

      IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES

      Poems by Madison Cawein

      OLD AND NEW WORLD VERSES

      BY THE AUTHOR OF

      Undertones Garden of Dreams

      John P. Morton and Company

      Publishers—Louisville, Kentucky

      Copyrighted 1898

      BY MADISON CAWEIN

      TO

      MY FRIEND:

      R. E. LEE GIBSON

      This collection of poems is entirely new with the exception of three or four which appeared in two earlier volumes, published some ten years ago. The reprinted poems have been carefully re-written, and so changed throughout as to hardly bear any resemblance, except that of subject, to the original.

      CONTENTS

      FOREWORD.

      And one, perchance, will read and sigh:

      "What aimless songs! Why will he sing

      Of nature that drags out her woe

      Through wind and rain, and sun, and snow,

      From miserable spring to spring?"

      Then put me by.

      And one, perhaps, will read and say:

      "Why write of things across the sea;

      Of men and women, far and near,

      When we of things at home would hear—

      Well, who would call this poetry?"

      Then toss away.

      A hopeless task have we, meseems,

      At this late day; whom fate hath made

      Sad, bankrupt heirs of song; who, filled

      With kindred yearnings, try to build

      A tower like theirs, that will not fade,

      Out of our dreams.

      Only One Hundred and Fifty Copies Printed for Private Distribution.

      A Few Copies For Sale.

      IDYLLIC MONOLOGUES

      The Brothers

      Not far from here, it lies beyond

      That low-hilled belt of woods. We'll take

      This unused lane where brambles make

      A wall of twilight, and the blond

      Brier-roses pelt the path and flake

      The margin waters of a pond.

      This is its fence—or that which was

      Its fence once—now, rock rolled from rock,

      One tangle of the vine and dock,

      Where bloom the wild petunias;

      And this its gate, the iron-weeds block,

      Hot with the insects' dusty buzz.

      Two wooden posts, wherefrom has peeled

      The weather-crumbled paint, still rise;

      Gaunt things—that groan when someone tries

      The gate whose hinges, rust-congealed,

      Snarl open:—on each post still lies

      Its carven lion with a shield.

      We enter; and between great rows

      Of locusts winds a grass-grown road;

      And at its glimmering end,—o'erflowed

      With quiet light,—the white front shows

      Of an old mansion, grand and broad,

      With grave Colonial porticoes.

      Grown thick around it, dark and deep,

      The locust trees make one vast hush;

      Their brawny branches crowd and crush

      Its very casements, and o'ersweep

      Its rotting roofs; their tranquil rush

      Haunts all its spacious rooms with sleep.

      Still is it called The Locusts; though

      None lives here now. A tale's to tell

      Of some dark thing that here befell;

      A crime that happened years ago,

      When by its walls, with shot and shell,

      The war swept on and left it so.

      For one black night, within it, shame

      Made revel, while, all here about,

      With prayer or curse or battle-shout,

      Men died and homesteads leapt in flame:

      Then passed the conquering Northern rout,

      And left it silent and the same.

      Why should I speak of what has been?

      Or what dark part I played in all?

      Why ruin sits in porch and hall

      Where pride and gladness once were seen;

      And why beneath this lichened wall

      The grave of Margaret is green.

      Heart-broken Margaret! whose fate

      Was sadder yet than his who won

      Her hand—my brother Hamilton—

      Or mine, who learned to know too late;

      Who learned to know, when all was done,

      And nothing could exonerate.

      To expiate is still my lot,—

      And, like the Ancient Mariner,

      To show to others how things are

      And what I am, still helps me blot

      A little from that crime's red scar,

      That on my soul is branded hot.

      He was my only brother. She

      A sister of my brother's friend.

      They met, and married in the end.

      And I remember well when he

      Brought her rejoicing home, the trend

      Of war moved towards us sullenly.

      And scarce a year of wedlock when

      Its red arms took him from his bride.

      With lips by hers thrice sanctified

      He left to ride with Morgan's men.

      And I—I never could decide—

      Remained at home. It happened then.

      For days went by. And, oft delayed,

      A letter came of loving word

      Scrawled by some camp-fire, sabre-stirred,

      Or by a pine-knot's fitful aid,

      When in the saddle, armed and spurred

      And booted for some hurried raid.

      Then weeks went by. I do not know

      How long it was before there came,

      Blown from the North, the clarion fame

      Of Morgan, who, with blow on blow,

      Had drawn a line of blood and flame

      From Tennessee to Ohio.

      Then letters ceased; and days went on.

      No word from him. The war rolled back,

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