Textarchiv - John Jay Chapman

The Armistice

mrbot — Wed, 27 Dec 2017 21:10:04 +0000

When from a mighty storm far out at sea
Roll in the glassy and gigantic waves,—
Wreck-laden Tritons, bearing in their arms
The wastage of a world;—and o'er the scene
Rises the sun-god; and along the shore
People with uplift eyes await the fleet,
Or falling on their knees, stretch up their hands
To the restored serenity of heaven,
For in their hearts the storm is running still;
So we await our warships on the flood,
Brimming with laureled legions and the gleam
Of gun and helmet, and the tattered flags
That tinge the sea with crimson, telling of those
Left sleeping on the battlefields of France,
Or on the piney ridges of Lorraine
Holding the steeps for freedom. Shall we not
Take to our hearts the living and the dead
In one long, proud embrace upon the shore?

John Jay Chapman

1919

The Hudson

mrbot — Wed, 20 Dec 2017 21:10:04 +0000

Bathed in a dying light
The far out-stretching valley lies
Beneath the mingling veils of day and night;
Fruit trees and gardens, woodland and champaign,
Paths, lawns and labyrinths—a Paradise.
The mountains darken, and the clear
Black waters at their base appear
Sending a last bright message from the skies.
It floods the all-but-lost Elysian plain
Where knoll and bower
Shimmer and peep, till the soft twilight hour,—
To add the magic of a new surprise,—
Washes them into silver gloom again.

John Jay Chapman

1919

A War Wedding

mrbot — Tue, 07 Nov 2017 21:10:03 +0000

The dreamy earth is flooded o'er
With warm and hazy light,
September's latest boon, before
She feels the hoar frost in the night;
And, pausing with a sober frown,
Nips the first floweret from her summer crown.

But who are these upon the rising ground
Where the old graveyard guards the vale,
Who talk in whispers clustering round
The old stone church, where teams are found
With horses tethered to the rail,
And village lads and farmers at the gate?
Surely some funeral of state;—
So reverently they stand without a sound,
So decently they wait.

And now the organ mutters and a hymn
Floats in the elmtops. From the doors thrown wide,
Issue, as radiant as the seraphim,
A handsome lad in khaki and his bride.
And next behind the happy pair
The Captain-cousin and best man
Walks with a martial, business air,
Heading the merry-moving van
Of half-grown girls with ribboned hair,—
Brides-maids or sisters,—and a few
Odd, wholesome, savage boys;
(And if a waistcoat is askew
A mother adds a touch or two
To give the victim equipoise).

Neighbors mingle, chat and pass,
The father proud, the adoring friend,
The Dominie, the farmer's lass,—
The village life from end to end,—
With happiness on every face.
And something sacred and benign
Out of these faces seem to shine:
Some god is in the place!

Methinks I see him! One we used to know
Ere sorrow overspread the land,—
The god we met on every hand
And worshipped long ago.
Ah, mark him, there before the rest!
The youngster in the azure vest
And tunic white as snow.
See the late, tiny rosebuds round his brow!
Their ardent breath is whispering his name,
See on his forehead the clear pointed flame;
While from his torch the sparklets blow
Kindling all hearts that follow in his train.
It's Hymen, Hymen, Hymen, come again!

John Jay Chapman

1919

In Time of War

mrbot — Fri, 03 Nov 2017 21:10:05 +0000

Sorrow, that watches while the body sleeps,
Parted the curtains of the cruel dawn
And glided noiselessly to her sad seat
Beside my pillow.—"Art thou there," I muttered,
"Spirit of silent grief; mute prophetess
That, on the marble furrows of thy brow,
Wearest the print of wisdom and of peace?
Art thou still at my side, thou antique nurse
And sybil of the mind,—who easily
Enterest the prisons of humanity
With footfall soft, and walkest in the glooms
Where none save thee may come? Shield me to-day!
And, when the sun's insufferable finger
Moves o'er the wainscot, and his dreaded ray
Sears the unsheathèd soul, O mighty Spirit,
Darken mine eyes till night be come again!"

John Jay Chapman

1919

1914

mrbot — Tue, 31 Oct 2017 21:10:02 +0000

Alas, too much we loved the glittering wares
That art and education had devised
To charm the leisure of philosophers;
The thought, the passion have been undersized
In Europe's over-educated brain;
And while the savants attitudinized,
Excess of learning made their learning vain
Till Fate broke all the toys and cried,
Begin Again!

John Jay Chapman

1919

A Prayer

mrbot — Thu, 12 Oct 2017 21:10:02 +0000

O God when the heart is warmest,
And the head is clearest,
Give me to act:
To turn the purposes thou formest
Into fact.
O God, when what is dearest
Seems most dear,
And the path before lies straight,
With neither Chance nor Fate
In my career,—
Then let me act. The wicket gate
In sight, let me not wait, not wait.

We do not always fight.
There comes a dull
And anxious watching. After night
Follows dim dawn before the day is full.
But there's a time to speak, as to be dumb.
O God, when mine shall come,
And I put forth
My strength for blame or praise,
Blow Thou the fire in my heart's hearth
Into a blaze—
(Who kindled it but Thou?)
And let me feel upon that first of days
As I feel now.

John Jay Chapman

1919

Revery

mrbot — Wed, 11 Oct 2017 21:10:02 +0000

I have a garden,—weeds paradise call it;
The moles hold the paths in fee;
The wild creepers rave
O'er the flowers' grave,
O'er box-row and nodding pear-tree.
The heart-broken, moss-covered railings that wall it,
Have made an arbor for me;
And I lie in an angle
Of the dappled tangle
And dream of Energy.

John Jay Chapman

1919

Lines

mrbot — Fri, 22 Sep 2017 21:10:01 +0000

Again we gather here,
Beneath the aegis of a sacred name,
To hold our feast, and with our altar-flame
Signal the passage of the furtive year.
Alas, how small our gifts, how light appear
Our vows, our songs, the words that we declaim!
While o'er the tortured nations from afar
Rolls the hot breath of universal war.

Yet must I speak—Again we dedicate
Ourselves, our children and our country's fame
To Her from whom our earliest welcome came.
Once more—but now in arms—we kneel,
Like Joan of Arc in shining steel
A Sword to consecrate
To France, and to the Cause that makes her great!

And even while we hold our holiday
The Allied ranks in fierce array
Press on the foe like huntsman on the prey:
The Wild Boar of the North is brought to bay!

Hark, did you hear the triumph in the air?
Horns and halloos—a universal shout.
The hunters have him: he has turned about:
The Teuton beast is lurching toward his lair.
The boar is sorely wounded; but beware!
Strike, when you strike, to kill! For in his eye
Cunning and Hatred shine, a ghastly pair!
Which of these passions is the last to die,
When both are linked together by despair?

'Tis not alone the havoc; but his breath
Spreads desecration o'er mankind.
Beware lest in his gasp of death
The German leave behind
A sting to hurt the heart of man
Worse than his living fury can—
The poison of his mind.

When shall the shepherd sup in peace once more,
Or tend his trellis unafraid
While children play about the farmhouse door,
Or cows at even watch the river
Beneath the elm-tree's shade?
Is heart's ease gone forever?
Must there be newer anguish, endless strife?
Ah, huntsman draw the knife
That kills the creature at the core!
Plunge the bright truncheon and restore
The bloom to human life.

John Jay Chapman

1919

Autumn Dews

mrbot — Tue, 05 Sep 2017 21:10:02 +0000

Throw open the shutters, it's seven o'clock!
And impertinent crows take their flight at the shock;
Then dropping their breakfast, they scoff as they pass
O'er the blanket of dew that lies white on the grass.

The mists from the shoulders of hillsides are slipping;
The low Autumn sun burns the dew-drops alive;
And barberry-bushes with rubies are dripping,
And gardners are heaping dead leaves by the drive.

O haste to the forest!—the forest whose fingers
Are clasping dank, green, little jewels of lawn:
Perhaps in some shadowy clearing still lingers
The track of the hare and the flame of the dawn.

John Jay Chapman

1919

Retrospection

mrbot — Sat, 02 Sep 2017 21:10:02 +0000

When we all lived together
In the farm among the hills,
And the early summer weather
Had flushed the little rills;

And Jack and Tom were playing
Beside the open door,
And little Jane was maying
On the slanting meadow floor;

And mother clipped the trellis,
And father read his book
By the little attic window,—
So close above the brook:

How little did we reckon
Of ghosts that flit and pass,
Of fates that nod and beckon
In the shadows on the grass;

Of beauty soon deflowered,
Engulfed, and borne away,—
And youth that sinks devoured
In the chasm of a day!

Courageous and undaunted,
As in a golden haze
We lived a life enchanted,
Nor stopped to count the days.

We that were in the story
Saw not the magic light,
The pathos, and the glory
That shines on me to-night.

John Jay Chapman

1919