V. The Town Down the River   
22. Alma Mater   
     
HE knocked, and I beheld him at the door—      
A vision for the gods to verify.      
“What battered ancientry is this,” thought I,      
“And when, if ever, did we meet before?”      
But ask him as I might, I got no more           5   
For answer than a moaning and a cry:      
Too late to parley, but in time to die,      
He staggered, and lay shapeless on the floor.      
   
When had I known him? And what brought him here?      
Love, warning, malediction, hunger, fear?          10   
Surely I never thwarted such as he?—      
Again, what soiled obscurity was this:      
Out of what scum, and up from what abyss,      
Had they arrived—these rags of memory?

V. The Town Down the River   
23. Miniver Cheevy   
     
MINIVER CHEEVY, child of scorn,      
  Grew lean while he assailed the seasons;      
He wept that he was ever born,      
  And he had reasons.      
   
Miniver loved the days of old           5   
  When swords were bright and steeds were prancing;      
The vision of a warrior bold      
  Would set him dancing.      
   
Miniver sighed for what was not,      
  And dreamed, and rested from his labors;          10   
He dreamed of Thebes and Camelot,      
  And Priam’s neighbors.      
   
Miniver mourned the ripe renown      
  That made so many a name so fragrant;      
He mourned Romance, now on the town,          15   
  And Art, a vagrant.      
   
Miniver loved the Medici,      
  Albeit he had never seen one;      
He would have sinned incessantly      
  Could he have been one.          20   
   
Miniver cursed the commonplace      
  And eyed a khaki suit with loathing;      
He missed the mediaeval grace      
  Of iron clothing.      
   
Miniver scorned the gold he sought,          25   
  But sore annoyed was he without it;      
Miniver thought, and thought, and thought,      
  And thought about it.      
   
Miniver Cheevy, born too late,      
  Scratched his head and kept on thinking;          30   
Miniver coughed, and called it fate,      
  And kept on drinking.

V. The Town Down the River   
24. The Pilot   
     
FROM the Past and Unavailing      
Out of cloudland we are steering:      
After groping, after fearing,      
Into starlight we come trailing,      
And we find the stars are true.           5   
Still, O comrade, what of you?      
You are gone, but we are sailing,      
And the old ways are all new.      
   
For the Lost and Unreturning      
We have drifted, we have waited;          10   
Uncommanded and unrated,      
We have tossed and wandered, yearning      
For a charm that comes no more      
From the old lights by the shore:      
We have shamed ourselves in learning          15   
What you knew so long before.      
   
For the Breed of the Far-going      
Who are strangers, and all brothers,      
May forget no more than others      
Who looked seaward with eyes flowing.          20   
But are brothers to bewail      
One who fought so foul a gale?      
You have won beyond our knowing,      
You are gone, but yet we sail.

   
V. The Town Down the River   
25. Vickery’s Mountain   
     
BLUE in the west the mountain stands,      
  And through the long twilight      
Vickery sits with folded hands,      
  And Vickery’s eyes are bright.      
   
Bright, for he knows what no man else           5   
  On earth as yet may know:      
There’s a golden word that he never tells,      
  And a gift that he will not show.      
   
He dreams of honor and wealth and fame,      
  He smiles, and well he may;          10   
For to Vickery once a sick man came      
  Who did not go away.      
   
The day before the day to be,      
  “Vickery,” said the guest,      
“You know as you live what’s left of me—          15   
  And you shall know the rest.      
   
“You know as you live that I have come      
  To this we call the end.      
No doubt you have found me troublesome,      
  But you’ve also found a friend;          20   
   
“For we shall give and you shall take      
  The gold that is in view;      
The mountain there and I shall make      
  A golden man of you.      
   
“And you shall leave a friend behind          25   
  Who neither frets nor feels;      
And you shall move among your kind      
  With hundreds at your heels.      
   
“Now this that I have written here      
  Tells all that need be told;          30   
So, Vickery, take the way that’s clear.      
  And be a man of gold.”      
   
Vickery turned his eyes again      
  To the far mountain-side,      
And wept a tear for worthy men          35   
  Defeated and defied.      
   
Since then a crafty score of years      
  Have come, and they have gone;      
But Vickery counts no lost arrears:      
  He lingers and lives on.          40   
   
Blue in the west the mountain stands,      
  Familiar as a face.      
Blue, but Vickery knows what sands      
  Are golden at its base.      
   
He dreams and lives upon the day          45   
  When he shall walk with kings.      
Vickery smiles—and well he may.      
  The life-caged linnet sings.      
   
Vickery thinks the time will come      
  To go for what is his;          50   
But hovering, unseen hands at home      
  Will hold him where he is.      
   
There’s a golden word that he never tells      
  And a gift that he will not show.      
All to be given to some one else—          55   
  And Vickery not to know.

V. The Town Down the River   
26. Bon Voyage   
     
CHILD of a line accurst      
  And old as Troy,      
Bringer of best and worst      
  In wild alloy—      
Light, like a linnet first,           5   
  He sang for joy.      
   
Thrall to the gilded ease      
  Of every day,      
Mocker of all degrees      
  And always gay,          10   
Child of the Cyclades      
  And of Broadway—      
   
Laughing and half divine      
  The boy began,      
Drunk with a woodland wine          15   
  Thessalian:      
But there was rue to twine      
  The pipes of Pan.      
   
Therefore he skipped and flew      
  The more along,          20   
Vivid and always new      
  And always wrong,      
Knowing his only clew      
  A siren song.      
   
Careless of each and all          25   
  He gave and spent:      
Feast or a funeral      
  He laughed and went,      
Laughing to be so small      
  In the event.          30   
   
Told of his own deceit      
  By many a tongue,      
Flayed for his long defeat      
  By being young,      
Lured by the fateful sweet          35   
  Of songs unsung—      
   
Knowing it in his heart,      
  But knowing not      
The secret of an art      
  That few forgot,          40   
He played the twinkling part      
  That was his lot.      
   
And when the twinkle died,      
  As twinkles do,      
He pushed himself aside          45   
  And out of view:      
Out with the wind and tide,      
  Before we knew.

V. The Town Down the River   
27. The Companion   
     
LET him answer as he will,      
Or be lightsome as he may,      
Now nor after shall he say      
Worn-out words enough to kill,      
Or to lull down by their craft,           5   
Doubt, that was born yesterday,      
When he lied and when she laughed.      
   
Let him find another name      
For the starlight on the snow,      
Let him teach her till she know          10   
That all seasons are the same,      
And all sheltered ways are fair,—      
Still, wherever she may go,      
Doubt will have a dwelling there.

V. The Town Down the River   
28. Atherton’s Gambit   
     
THE MASTER played the bishop’s pawn,      
For jest, while Atherton looked on;      
The master played this way and that,      
And Atherton, amazed thereat,      
Said “Now I have a thing in view           5   
That will enlighten one or two,      
And make a difference or so      
In what it is they do not know.”      
   
The morning stars together sang      
And forth a mighty music rang—          10   
Not heard by many, save as told      
Again through magic manifold      
By such a few as have to play      
For others, in the Master’s way,      
The music that the Master made          15   
When all the morning stars obeyed.      
   
Atherton played the bishop’s pawn      
While more than one or two looked on;      
Atherton played this way and that,      
And many a friend, amused thereat,          20   
Went on about his business      
Nor cared for Atherton the less;      
A few stood longer by the game,      
With Atherton to them the same.      
   
The morning stars are singing still,          25   
To crown, to challenge, and to kill;      
And if perforce there falls a voice      
On pious ears that have no choice      
Except to urge an erring hand      
To wreak its homage on the land,          30   
Who of us that is worth his while      
Will, if he listen, more than smile?      
   
Who of us, being what he is,      
May scoff at others’ ecstasies?      
However we may shine to-day,          35   
More-shining ones are on the way;      
And so it were not wholly well      
To be at odds with Azrael,—      
Nor were it kind of any one      
To sing the end of Atherton.          40

V. The Town Down the River   
29. For a Dead Lady   
     
NO more with overflowing light      
Shall fill the eyes that now are faded,      
Nor shall another’s fringe with night      
Their woman-hidden world as they did.      
No more shall quiver down the days           5   
The flowing wonder of her ways,      
Whereof no language may requite      
The shifting and the many-shaded.      
The grace, divine, definitive,      
Clings only as a faint forestalling;          10   
The laugh that love could not forgive      
Is hushed, and answers to no calling;      
The forehead and the little ears      
Have gone where Saturn keeps the years;      
The breast where roses could not live          15   
Has done with rising and with falling.      
The beauty, shattered by the laws      
That have creation in their keeping,      
No longer trembles at applause,      
Or over children that are sleeping;          20   
And we who delve in beauty’s lore      
Know all that we have known before      
Of what inexorable cause      
Makes Time so vicious in his reaping.

V. The Town Down the River   
30. Two Gardens in Linndale   
     
TWO brothers, Oakes and Oliver,      
Two gentle men as ever were,      
Would roam no longer, but abide      
In Linndale, where their fathers died,      
And each would be a gardener.           5   
   
“Now first we fence the garden through,      
With this for me and that for you,”      
Said Oliver.—“Divine!” said Oakes,      
“And I, while I raise artichokes,      
Will do what I was born to do.”          10   
   
“But this is not the soil, you know,”      
Said Oliver, “to make them grow:      
The parent of us, who is dead,      
Compassionately shook his head      
Once on a time and told me so.”          15   
   
“I hear you, gentle Oliver,”      
Said Oakes, “and in your character      
I find as fair a thing indeed      
As ever bloomed and ran to seed      
Since Adam was a gardener.          20   
   
“Still, whatsoever I find there,      
Forgive me if I do not share      
The knowing gloom that you take on      
Of one who doubted and is done:      
For chemistry meets every prayer.”          25   
   
“Sometimes a rock will meet a plough,”      
Said Oliver; “but anyhow      
’Tis here we are, ’tis here we live,      
With each to take and each to give:      
There’s no room for a quarrel now.          30   
   
“I leave you in all gentleness      
To science and a ripe success.      
Now God be with you, brother Oakes,      
With you and with your artichokes:      
You have the vision, more or less.”          35   
   
“By fate, that gives to me no choice,      
I have the vision and the voice:      
Dear Oliver, believe in me,      
And we shall see what we shall see;      
Henceforward let us both rejoice.”          40   
   
“But first, while we have joy to spare      
We’ll plant a little here and there;      
And if you be not in the wrong,      
We’ll sing together such a song      
As no man yet sings anywhere.”          45   
   
They planted and with fruitful eyes      
Attended each his enterprise.      
“Now days will come and days will go,      
And many a way be found, we know,”      
Said Oakes, “and we shall sing, likewise.”          50   
   
“The days will go, the years will go,      
And many a song be sung, we know,”      
Said Oliver; “and if there be      
Good harvesting for you and me,      
Who cares if we sing loud or low?”          55   
   
They planted once, and twice, and thrice,      
Like amateurs in paradise;      
And every spring, fond, foiled, elate,      
Said Oakes, “We are in tune with Fate:      
One season longer will suffice.”          60   
   
Year after year ’twas all the same:      
With none to envy, none to blame,      
They lived along in innocence,      
Nor ever once forgot the fence,      
Till on a day the Stranger came.          65   
   
He came to greet them where they were,      
And he too was a Gardener:      
He stood between these gentle men,      
He stayed a little while, and then      
The land was all for Oliver.          70   
   
’Tis Oliver who tills alone      
Two gardens that are now his own;      
’Tis Oliver who sows and reaps      
And listens, while the other sleeps,      
For songs undreamed of and unknown.          75   
   
’Tis he, the gentle anchorite,      
Who listens for them day and night;      
But most he hears them in the dawn,      
When from his trees across the lawn      
Birds ring the chorus of the light.          80   
   
He cannot sing without the voice,      
But he may worship and rejoice      
For patience in him to remain,      
The chosen heir of age and pain,      
Instead of Oakes—who had no choice.          85   
   
’Tis Oliver who sits beside      
The other’s grave at eventide,      
And smokes, and wonders what new race      
Will have two gardens, by God’s grace,      
In Linndale, where their fathers died.          90   
   
And often, while he sits and smokes,      
He sees the ghost of gentle Oakes      
Uprooting, with a restless hand,      
Soft, shadowy flowers in a land      
Of asphodels and artichokes.          

V. The Town Down the River   
31. The Revealer   
     
(ROOSEVELT)


  He turned aside to see the carcase of the lion: and behold, there was a swarm of bees and honey in the carcase of the lion … And the men of the city said unto him, What is sweeter than honey? and what is stronger than a lion?—Judges, 14.

THE PALMS of Mammon have disowned      
The gift of our complacency;      
The bells of ages have intoned      
Again their rhythmic irony;      
And from the shadow, suddenly,           5   
’Mid echoes of decrepit rage,      
The seer of our necessity      
Confronts a Tyrian heritage.      
   
Equipped with unobscured intent      
He smiles with lions at the gate,          10   
Acknowledging the compliment      
Like one familiar with his fate;      
The lions, having time to wait,      
Perceive a small cloud in the skies,      
Whereon they look, disconsolate,          15   
With scared, reactionary eyes.      
   
A shadow falls upon the land,—      
They sniff, and they are like to roar;      
For they will never understand      
What they have never seen before.          20   
They march in order to the door,      
Not knowing the best thing to seek,      
Nor caring if the gods restore      
The lost composite of the Greek.      
   
The shadow fades, the light arrives,          25   
And ills that were concealed are seen;      
The combs of long-defended hives      
Now drip dishonored and unclean;      
No Nazarite or Nazarene      
Compels our questioning to prove          30   
The difference that is between      
Dead lions—or the sweet thereof.      
   
But not for lions, live or dead,      
Except as we are all as one,      
Is he the world’s accredited          35   
Revealer of what we have done;      
What You and I and Anderson      
Are still to do is his reward;      
If we go back when he is gone—      
There is an Angel with a Sword.          40   
   
He cannot close again the doors      
That now are shattered for our sake;      
He cannot answer for the floors      
We crowd on, or for walls that shake;      
He cannot wholly undertake          45   
The cure of our immunity;      
He cannot hold the stars, or make      
Of seven years a century.      
   
So Time will give us what we earn      
Who flaunt the handful for the whole,          50   
And leave us all that we may learn      
Who read the surface for the soul;      
And we’ll be steering to the goal,      
For we have said so to our sons:      
When we who ride can pay the toll,          55   
Time humors the far-seeing ones.      
   
Down to our nose’s very end      
We see, and are invincible,—      
Too vigilant to comprehend      
The scope of what we cannot sell;          60   
But while we seem to know as well      
As we know dollars, or our skins,      
The Titan may not always tell      
Just where the boundary begins.