Just follow where the piper leads, With Love--the gypsy rover-- You’ll find the little barefoot joys You lost out in the clover. Singlehurst. THE WHITE PINE. ’Tis not the grace of yonder beach, Its crescent-curve and swing, Nor bastion-crags of Manomet Whose sarabands I sing. Mine be those woodland symphonies Of spirit-power divine, Like lullabies when evening wraps The old storm-beaten pine. Or, be it their defiant chords, When wintry hordes complain, While Triton thunders down the gale, The lightning in his train; And I would hymn their litanies, The incense on my breath, Like Alp-horn notes that echo on Oblivious of death. Plymouth, September 21, 1920. THE COLONIAL PIONEER. A soul that like a column white Survives the wind and rain, Immortal as the Infinite, Thy precepts shall remain While man shall reverence motherhood, Or galleons sail the seas, While Earth shall clothe thy mortal frame, Or leaves shall clothe the trees. E’en as a shaft of morning burns, Thy spirit, ever new, Shall symbol the Eternal mind, The Brave, the Good, the True. Knight of the Forum of the Dead, A hero of the past, Born of New England’s virgin soil, Lord of the Nation’s cast Our daily lot with common men, Of rectitude of heart, Give us the burdens of the world And help us act our part. And look! some oracle of time-- Some sorcerer of ooze and slime-- Has left a panoply most rare For lazy-footed night to wear, With girdle of a sombre dye, And hung it on a rock to dry, Where, flushed with slumber, drones a stream To charm some lonely mermaid’s dream. And this my heritage, more fair Than mosque that ever called to prayer A Moslem, bids me kneel and pray; These simple words are all I say-- “I’ve been with God an hour or two”-- A shadow tiptoes down the blue; And like a mother wraps the sea In stillness of eternity. Marshfield, August 16, 1920. THE OLD ROCKIN’ CHAIR. It tilts a little to the left, An’ wiggles here and there, It’s kind-o’ creaky in the j’ints, An’ ’taint plumb anywhere. But s’pose you hitch up to’rds the fire, There, try it ’rond this way; You’re got to git it joggin’ right, An’ when you’re tired, w-a-l-l, say, You’re comforted, you’re comforted, An’ rested thru an’ thru; Why, that old rocker’s heaven to me, But ’taint the same to you. I ain’t a-goin’ to tell you why, There ain’t no fairies here, I h’an’t hearn Annie Laurie sung For more nor fifty year. There’s folks what thinks they know “Ben Bolt,” An’ “Comin’ Thru’ the Rye,” An’ “Ride away to Boston town, To make a rabbit pie,” An’ “Twinkle, twinkle little star,” But you don’t know ’bout then, When “Jack the Giant Killer” lived, An’ Towser ’n’ Uncle Ben.