Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

Woodrow Wilson

Albert Frederick Wilson

WE weep over the dead Lincoln;

We bring tears

To the pretty playhouse.

We bring tears

To make a pleasant holiday.

For we must have our tears—

Tears gently mingled with laughter

And the muted clarinets.

We bring tears

For our holiday;

We weep over the dead Lincoln.

Yea, we are a people chosen—

Young, mighty and glorious!

So!

If we would have tears,

We must have woe

From out some woeful land;

Or write it from an epitaph,

Making of it a sweet melancholy.

We would have tears!

Yea, this is no time for singing,

Or I should have voice

Beyond these penny-whistle tunes

Of Jack and Jill.

So I stand dumb

When they weep,

When they weep

Over the dead Lincoln.

But it is not because

I have not tried to sing.

Here in my New England hills,

With December on the pasture land,

I have walked all day

By the shores of Chimney Pond.

Yea, this is no time for singing.

For the white chill is on me,

And the black alder path is frozen.

The field-mouse scuttles

From the dried corn shock.

And on the new snow

Runs the trail

Of the liver-colored hound

That hunts all day

With toothless gums.

This is no time for singing.

And yet—

I cannot weep,

I cannot bring tears

To the dead Lincoln.

But if I could take my heart

From out this chill

I know full well

Where tears would flow.

We would have tears,

Gentle tears,

To make a pleasant holiday.

So?

Then come along with me,

And I shall find for you

A comedy as melancholy

As ever you could wish.

But you must bring

The muted clarinets.

I think it is an old Morality,

Like Everyman—

(I told you it was melancholy).

Sift through with muted clarinets!

My seat was so far back

I could not always get

The drift of it.

A curious play—

For no one knew who had the lines,

The players or the people.

And often it was just the chorus

With its burden—

A myriad host

Emptying from the shoulders

Of a myriad years,

Bringing each its myriad years.

Coming up—

Coming up from the unending valleys,

Singing:

“Hosanna!”

And “Hosanna!”

Singing, “Hosanna!”

To one who came.

I thought I knew him by his face,

I thought I knew him by his dress,

I thought I knew him by his walk

And all those old familiar gestures

Of his hand and head.

I’d seen him so

A thousand times or more,

Walking from his class-room

Down a quiet college green,

With the students playing base-ball

All about him.

No silken robes transfigured him,

No sandaled feet,

No crown of light about his brow.

I said:

“It must be that the author,

Needing to explain the plot,

Has brought him here to introduce

The action, and the time and place.”

And I think that he

Had thought so too;

For he did not seem to know

Just what to do,

Just what to say,

Just when to speak the lines

The text had given him—

And so be gone.

For they were singing:

“Hosanna!”

And they would not let him go.

How could he know

There came the ox-carts

Bringing up a cross?

But when his vision cleared,

And he could see down that long road

To where the sky-line closed—

I think he knew.

For then he turned—

He turned, and buttoned up his coat,

And started out to meet them.

In that still moment,

Some one tittered down the aisle.

And some one laughed!

And some one gave a loud guffaw!

Then came the cat-calls

Back and forth across the house.

Who was this gaunt buffoon

Who made a mockery

Of such a part?

Where were the old tragedians

Of the voice and hand?

Where the trappings of this noble board?

Where the rolling organ-tones of salutation?

Where the strut and posture?

Where the studied smile

Bending for the crown of thorns?

Where the riven chest,

So that all might see

The slowly breaking heart?

Oh, sift through with muted clarinets!

For then, he turned—

He turned, and buttoned up his coat,

And started out to meet them!

The little man beside me,

With blue, mirthful eyes,

Laughed out until his face was red,

Crying:

“The same old buncombe

We got from Barnum!

The same old buncombe

In a high silk hat!”

And bending to my ear

He whispered:

“They can’t even see the chalk marks

On his old tweed vest!”

But all the while,

That myriad host

From down the valleys

Singing:

“Buddha! Confucius! Mohammed! Christ!

Buddha! Confucius! Mohammed! Christ!”

No matter who laughed,

No matter who scorned.

“Buddha! Confucius! Mohammed! Christ!”

Until at last

The little man with mirthful eyes,

Wearying of his laughter,

Cried:

“If he be a Messiah,

Let him save himself!”

And thought the words were new!

But no one left

His red plush seat

To follow up the hill.

So, when at last

They came out from the play,

One said: “A comedy indeed!”

And one:

“Who wrote the travesty?”

And one:

“It doesn’t go to music!”

And one:

“It doesn’t go to singing!”

And one:

“You will not find it

Written on an epitaph!”

We bring tears

To the pretty playhouse;

We make a pleasant holiday,

We weep over the dead Lincoln.

But as for me!—

I think evermore

My feet shall follow

The trail of the liver-colored hound.