Songs, Merry and Sad [12]
her reins,
Up hill and down hill and over the plains,
To watch the slow mountains give back in the west,
To know the new reaches that wait every crest,
To hold, when she swerves, with a confident clutch,
And feel how she shivers and springs to the touch,
With the snow on her back and the sun in her face,
And nothing but time as a quarry to chase,
I should grip hard my teeth, and look where she led,
And brace myself stooping, and give her her head,
And urge her, and soothe her, and serve all her need,
And exult in the thunder and thrill of her speed.
Sundown
Hills, wrapped in gray, standing along the west;
Clouds, dimly lighted, gathering slowly;
The star of peace at watch above the crest --
Oh, holy, holy, holy!
We know, O Lord, so little what is best;
Wingless, we move so lowly;
But in thy calm all-knowledge let us rest --
Oh, holy, holy, holy!
At Sea
When the dim, tall sails of the ships were in motion,
Ghostly, and slow, and silent-shod,
We gazed where the dusk fled over the ocean,
A great gray hush, like the shadow of God.
The sky dome cut with its compass in sunder
A circle of sea from the darkened land, --
A circle of tremulous waste and wonder,
O'er which one groped with a childish hand.
The true stars came to their stations in heaven,
The false stars shivered deep down in the sea,
And the white crests went like monsters, driven
By winds that never would let them be,
And there, where the elements mingled and muttered,
We stood, each man with a lone dumb heart,
Full of the vastness that never was uttered
By symbol of words or by echo of art.
L'envoi
God willed, who never needed speech,
"Let all things be:"
And, lo, the starry firmament
And land and sea
And his first thought of life that lives
In you and me.
His circle of eternity
We see in part;
Our spirits are his breath, our hearts
Beat from his heart;
Hence we have played as little gods
And called it art.
Lacking his power, we shared his dream
Of perfect things;
Between the tents of hope and sweet
Rememberings
Have sat in ashes, but our souls
Went forth on wings.
Where life fell short of some desire
In you and me,
Feeling for beauty which our eyes
Could never see,
Behold, from out the void we willed
That it should be,
And sometimes dreamed our lisping songs
Of humanhood
Might voice his silent harmony
Of waste and wood,
And he, beholding his and ours,
Might find it good.
[End of original text.]
Notes:
John Charles McNeill was born in Scotland County, near Laurinburg,
North Carolina, on 26 July 1874, and died on 17 October 1907
(when he was 33 years old). He only produced this one volume before he died,
though he planned a second, which was published posthumously.
"Songs, Merry and Sad", first published in Charlotte in 1906,
went through at least five printings over more than 60 years.
(This text is taken from the very first edition.)
Both of McNeill's grandfathers came from Scotland.
McNeill attended Wake Forest College, where he received both
his Bachelor's and Master's degrees. In 1899-1900 he taught English
at Mercer University.
Some of his poems were published nationally as early as 1901.
More of his poems were published by `The Charlotte Observer' starting in 1903,
and in 1904 he joined its staff.
This etext was created by entering the text (manually) twice,
once from the first printing (1906) and once from the second printing
(no date), and comparing the two. There were some slight differences
in the two printings.
A portrait of John Charles McNeill faces the title page (p. 3)
in the second printing, but is absent in the first.
The first printing gives the publisher as Stone & Barringer Co.
and gives the date as 1906. The second printing gives the publisher
as Stone Publishing Co., and gives no date. Both were printed
in Charlotte, N.C.
One error was corrected (the second printing also corrected this
Up hill and down hill and over the plains,
To watch the slow mountains give back in the west,
To know the new reaches that wait every crest,
To hold, when she swerves, with a confident clutch,
And feel how she shivers and springs to the touch,
With the snow on her back and the sun in her face,
And nothing but time as a quarry to chase,
I should grip hard my teeth, and look where she led,
And brace myself stooping, and give her her head,
And urge her, and soothe her, and serve all her need,
And exult in the thunder and thrill of her speed.
Sundown
Hills, wrapped in gray, standing along the west;
Clouds, dimly lighted, gathering slowly;
The star of peace at watch above the crest --
Oh, holy, holy, holy!
We know, O Lord, so little what is best;
Wingless, we move so lowly;
But in thy calm all-knowledge let us rest --
Oh, holy, holy, holy!
At Sea
When the dim, tall sails of the ships were in motion,
Ghostly, and slow, and silent-shod,
We gazed where the dusk fled over the ocean,
A great gray hush, like the shadow of God.
The sky dome cut with its compass in sunder
A circle of sea from the darkened land, --
A circle of tremulous waste and wonder,
O'er which one groped with a childish hand.
The true stars came to their stations in heaven,
The false stars shivered deep down in the sea,
And the white crests went like monsters, driven
By winds that never would let them be,
And there, where the elements mingled and muttered,
We stood, each man with a lone dumb heart,
Full of the vastness that never was uttered
By symbol of words or by echo of art.
L'envoi
God willed, who never needed speech,
"Let all things be:"
And, lo, the starry firmament
And land and sea
And his first thought of life that lives
In you and me.
His circle of eternity
We see in part;
Our spirits are his breath, our hearts
Beat from his heart;
Hence we have played as little gods
And called it art.
Lacking his power, we shared his dream
Of perfect things;
Between the tents of hope and sweet
Rememberings
Have sat in ashes, but our souls
Went forth on wings.
Where life fell short of some desire
In you and me,
Feeling for beauty which our eyes
Could never see,
Behold, from out the void we willed
That it should be,
And sometimes dreamed our lisping songs
Of humanhood
Might voice his silent harmony
Of waste and wood,
And he, beholding his and ours,
Might find it good.
[End of original text.]
Notes:
John Charles McNeill was born in Scotland County, near Laurinburg,
North Carolina, on 26 July 1874, and died on 17 October 1907
(when he was 33 years old). He only produced this one volume before he died,
though he planned a second, which was published posthumously.
"Songs, Merry and Sad", first published in Charlotte in 1906,
went through at least five printings over more than 60 years.
(This text is taken from the very first edition.)
Both of McNeill's grandfathers came from Scotland.
McNeill attended Wake Forest College, where he received both
his Bachelor's and Master's degrees. In 1899-1900 he taught English
at Mercer University.
Some of his poems were published nationally as early as 1901.
More of his poems were published by `The Charlotte Observer' starting in 1903,
and in 1904 he joined its staff.
This etext was created by entering the text (manually) twice,
once from the first printing (1906) and once from the second printing
(no date), and comparing the two. There were some slight differences
in the two printings.
A portrait of John Charles McNeill faces the title page (p. 3)
in the second printing, but is absent in the first.
The first printing gives the publisher as Stone & Barringer Co.
and gives the date as 1906. The second printing gives the publisher
as Stone Publishing Co., and gives no date. Both were printed
in Charlotte, N.C.
One error was corrected (the second printing also corrected this