The Project Gutenberg EBook of How Salvator Won & Other Recitations, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license Title: How Salvator Won & Other Recitations Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox Release Date: April 23, 2020 [EBook #61902] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOW SALVATOR WON & OTHER *** Produced by Thierry Alberto, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) HOW SALVATOR WON {1} {2} I AND O T H E R R E C I T A T I O N S BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX Author of “Maurine,” “Poems of Passion,” “Poems of Pleasure,” “Mal Moulée,” “Adventures of Miss Volney,” “A Double Life,” Etc. New York EDGAR S. WERNER 1891 COPYRIGHT, 1891, BY EDGAR S. WERNER. PREFACE. AM constantly urged by readers and impersonators to furnish them with verses for recitation. In response to this ever-increasing demand I have selected, for this volume, the poems which seem suitable for such a purpose. In making my collection I have been obliged to use, not those which are among my best efforts in a literary or artistic sense, but those which contain the best dramatic possibilities for professionals. Several of the poems are among my earliest efforts, others were written expressly for this book. In “Meg’s Curse,” which has never before been in print, and in several others, I ignored all rules of art for the purpose of giving the public reader a better chance to exercise his elocutionary powers. E. W. W. CONTENTS. PAGE About May 132 After the Engagement 24 Answered 128 As You Go Through Life 105 Baby in the House, A 80 Babyland 71 Beautiful Blue Danube, The 120 Birth of the Opal, The 122 Breaking the Day in Two 95 Coming Man, The 143 Dell and I 135 Dick’s Family 147 Fable, A 48 Falling of Thrones, The 65 False 29 Fishing 73 Foolish Elm, The 82 Gethsemane 141 Giddy Girl, The 133 Girl’s Autumn Reverie, A 139 Gossips, The 13 Grandpa’s Christmas 20 {3} {4} {5} {6} Her Last Letter 67 His Youth 38 How Does Love Speak 103 How Salvator Won 9 Illogical 58 Kingdom of Love, The 34 Lady and the Dame, The 109 Man’s Repentance, A 145 Maniac, The 99 Married Coquette, A 111 Meg’s Curse 44 Memory’s River 106 Messenger, The 55 New Year Resolve 86 “Now I Lay Me” 54 Old Stage Queen, The 75 Peek-a-boo 63 Phantom Ball, The 32 Pin, A 92 Platonic 16 Plea, A 115 Princess’s Finger Nail, The 77 Rape of the Mist, The 97 Robin’s Mistake 84 Servian Legend, A 60 Sign-board, The 130 Solitude 18 Sounds From the Base-ball Field 124 Suicide, The 51 Summer Girl 117 Two Glasses, The 90 Two Sinners 42 Under the Sheet 36 Vanity Fair 137 Waltz-Quadrille, A 126 Wanted—a Little Girl 40 Watcher, The 27 Way of It, The 50 What Is Flirtation 102 What We Want 88 HOW SALVATOR WON. T HE gate was thrown open, I rode out alone, More proud than a monarch who sits on a throne. I am but a jockey, yet shout upon shout Went up from the people who watched me ride out; And the cheers that rang forth from that warm-hearted crowd, Were as earnest as those to which monarch e’er bowed. My heart thrilled with pleasure so keen it was pain {7} {8} {9} My heart thrilled with pleasure so keen it was pain As I patted my Salvator’s soft silken mane; And a sweet shiver shot from his hide to my hand As we passed by the multitude down to the stand. The great waves of cheering came billowing back, As the hoofs of brave Tenny rang swift down the track; And he stood there beside us, all bone and all muscle, Our noble opponent, well trained for the tussle That waited us there on the smooth, shining course. My Salvator, fair to the lovers of horse, As a beautiful woman is fair to man’s sight— Pure type of the thoroughbred, clean-limbed and bright,— Stood taking the plaudits as only his due, And nothing at all unexpected or new. And then, there before us the bright flag is spread, There’s a roar from the grand stand, and Tenny’s ahead; At the sound of the voices that shouted “a go!” He sprang like an arrow shot straight from the bow. I tighten the reins on Prince Charlie’s great son— He is off like a rocket, the race is begun. Half-way down the furlong, their heads are together, Scarce room ’twixt their noses to wedge in a feather; Past grand stand, and judges, in neck-to-neck strife, Ah, Salvator, boy! ’tis the race of your life. I press my knees closer, I coax him, I urge, I feel him go out with a leap and a surge; I see him creep on, inch by inch, stride by stride, While backward, still backward, falls Tenny beside. We are nearing the turn, the first quarter is past— ’Twixt leader and chaser the daylight is cast. The distance elongates, still Tenny sweeps on, As graceful and free-limbed and swift as a fawn; His awkwardness vanished, his muscles all strained— A noble opponent, well born and well trained. I glanced o’er my shoulder, ha! Tenny, the cost Of that one second’s flagging, will be—the race lost. One second’s weak yielding of courage and strength, And the daylight between us has doubled its length. The first mile is covered, the race is mine—no! For the blue blood of Tenny responds to a blow. He shoots through the air like a ball from a gun, And the two lengths between us are shortened to one. My heart is contracted, my throat feels a lump, For Tenny’s long neck is at Salvator’s rump; And now with new courage, grown bolder and bolder, I see him once more running shoulder to shoulder. With knees, hands and body I press my grand steed; I urge him, I coax him, I pray him to heed! Oh, Salvator! Salvator! list to my calls, For the blow of my whip will hurt both if it falls. There’s a roar from the crowd like the ocean in storm, As close to my saddle leaps Tenny’s great form, One more mighty plunge, and with knee, limb and hand, I lift my horse first by a nose past the stand. We are under the string now—the great race is done, And Salvator, Salvator, Salvator won! Cheer, hoar-headed patriarchs; cheer loud, I say: ’Tis the race of a century witnessed to-day! Though ye live twice the space that’s allotted to men Ye never will see such a grand race again. Let the shouts of the populace roar like the surf For Salvator, Salvator, king of the turf! He has broken the record of thirteen long years; He has won the first place in a vast line of peers. ’Twas a neck-to-neck contest, a grand, honest race, And even his enemies grant him his place. Down into the dust let old records be hurled, And hang out 2.05 in the gaze of the world. THE GOSSIPS. {10} {11} {12} {13} A ROSE in my garden, the sweetest and fairest, Was hanging her head through the long golden hours; And early one morning I saw her tears falling, And heard a low gossiping talk in the bowers. The yellow Nasturtium, a spinster all faded, Was telling a Lily what ailed the poor Rose: “That wild roving Bee who was hanging about her, Has jilted her squarely, as everyone knows. “I knew when he came, with his singing and sighing, His airs and his speeches so fine and so sweet, Just how it would end; but no one would believe me, For all were quite ready to fall at his feet.” “Indeed, you are wrong,” said the Lily-belle proudly; “I cared nothing for him, he called on me once, And would have come often, no doubt, if I’d asked him, But, though he was handsome, I thought him a dunce.” “Now, now, that’s not true,” cried the tall Oleander. “He has traveled and seen every flower that grows; And one who has supped in the garden of princes, We all might have known would not wed with the Rose.” “But wasn’t she proud when he showed her attention? And she let him caress her,” said sly Mignonette; “And I used to see it and blush for her folly, The silly thing thinks he will come to her yet.” “I thought he was splendid,” said pretty pert Larkspur, “So dark, and so grand with that gay cloak of gold; But he tried once to kiss me, the impudent fellow! And I got offended; I thought him too bold.” “Oh, fie!” laughed the Almond, “that does for a story. Though I hang down my head, yet I see all that goes; And I saw you reach out trying hard to detain him, But he just tapped your cheek and flew by to the Rose. “He cared nothing for her, he only was flirting To while away time, as I very well knew; So I turned a cold shoulder on all his advances, Because I was certain his heart was untrue.” “The Rose is served right for her folly in trusting An oily-tongued stranger,” quoth proud Columbine. “I knew what he was, and thought once I would warn her, But of course the affair was no business of mine.” “Oh, well,” cried the Peony, shrugging her shoulders, “I saw all along that the Bee was a flirt; But the Rose has been always so praised and so petted, I thought a good lesson would do her no hurt.” Just then came the sound of a love-song sung sweetly, I saw my proud Rose lifting up her bowed head; And the talk of the gossips was hushed in a moment, And the flowers all listened to hear what was said. And the dark, handsome Bee, with his cloak o’er his shoulder, Came swift through the sunlight and kissed the sad Rose, And whispered: “My darling, I’ve roved the world over, And you are the loveliest flower that grows.” PLATONIC. {14} {15} {16} I KNEW it the first of the summer, I knew it the same at the end, That you and your love were plighted; But couldn’t you be my friend? Couldn’t we sit in the twilight, Couldn’t we walk on the shore With only a pleasant friendship To bind us, and nothing more? There was not a word of folly Spoken between us two, Though we lingered oft in the garden Till the roses were wet with dew. We touched on a thousand subjects— The moon and the worlds above,— And our talk was tinctured with science, And everything else, save love. A wholly Platonic friendship You said I had proven to you Could bind a man and a woman The whole long season through, With never a thought of flirting, Though both were in their youth. What would you have said, my lady, If you had known the truth! What would you have done, I wonder, Had I gone on my knees to you And told you my passionate story, There in the dusk and the dew. My burning, burdensome story, Hidden and hushed so long— My story of hopeless loving— Say, would you have thought it wrong? But I fought with my heart and conquered, I hid my wound from sight; You were going away in the morning, And I said a calm good-night. But now when I sit in the twilight, Or when I walk by the sea That friendship, quite Platonic, Comes surging over me. And a passionate longing fills me For the roses, the dusk, the dew; For the beautiful summer vanished, For the moonlight walks—and you. SOLITUDE. {17} {18} L AUGH, and the world laughs with you; Weep, and you weep alone; For the sad old earth Must borrow its mirth, It has trouble enough of its own. Sing, and the hills will answer; Sigh, it is lost on the air; The echoes bound To a joyful sound, But shrink from voicing care. Rejoice, and men will seek you; Grieve, and they turn and go; They want full measure Of all your pleasure, But they do not want your woe. Be glad, and your friends are many; Be sad, and you lose them all; There are none to decline Your nectared wine, But alone you must drink life’s gall. Feast, and your halls are crowded; Fast, and the world goes by; Succeed and give, And it helps you live, But it cannot help you die. There is room in the halls of pleasure For a long and lordly train; But one by one We must all file on Through the narrow aisles of pain. GRANDPA’S CHRISTMAS. I N his great cushioned chair by the fender An old man sits dreaming to-night, His withered hands, licked by the tender, Warm rays of the red anthracite, Are folded before him, all listless; His dim eyes are fixed on the blaze, While over him sweeps the resistless Flood-tide of old days. He hears not the mirth in the hallway, He hears not the sounds of good cheer, That through the old homestead ring alway In the glad Christmas-time of the year. He heeds not the chime of sweet voices As the last gifts are hung on the tree. In a long-vanished day he rejoices— In his lost Used to be. He has gone back across dead Decembers To his childhood’s fair land of delight; And his mother’s sweet smile he remembers, As he hangs up his stocking at night. He remembers the dream-haunted slumber All broken and restless because Of the visions that came without number Of dear Santa Claus. Again, in his manhood’s beginning, He sees himself thrown on the world, And into the vortex of sinning By Pleasure’s strong arms he is hurled. He hears the sweet Christmas bells ringing, “Repent ye, repent ye, and pray;” But he joins with his comrades in singing A bacchanal lay. {19} {20} {21} Again he stands under the holly With a blushing face lifted to his; For love has been stronger than folly, And has turned him from vice unto bliss; And the whole world is lit with new glory As the sweet vows are uttered again, While the Christmas bells tell the old story Of peace unto men. Again, with his little brood ’round him, He sits by the fair mother-wife; He knows that the angels have crowned him With the truest, best riches of life; And the hearts of the children, untroubled, Are filled with the gay Christmas-tide; And the gifts for sweet Maudie are doubled, ’Tis her birthday, beside. Again,—ah, dear Jesus, have pity— He finds in the chill, waning day, That one has come home from the city— Frail Maudie, whom love led astray. She lies with her babe on her bosom— Half-hid by the snow’s fleecy spread; A bud and a poor trampled blossom— And both are quite dead. So fair and so fragile! just twenty— How mocking the bells sound to-night! She starved in this great land of plenty, When she tried to grope back to the light. Christ, are Thy disciples inhuman, Or only for men hast Thou died? No mercy is shown to a woman Who once steps aside. Again he leans over the shrouded Still form of the mother and wife; Very lonely the way seems, and clouded, As he looks down the vista of life. With the sweet Christmas chimes there is blended The knell for a life that is done, And he knows that his joys are all ended And his waiting begun. So long have the years been, so lonely, As he counts them by Christmases gone. “I am homesick,” he murmurs; “if only The Angel would lead the way on. I am cold, in this chill winter weather; Why, Maudie, dear, where have you been? And you, too, sweet wife—and together— O Christ, let me in.” The children ran in from the hallway, “Were you calling us, grandpa?” they said. Then shrank, with that fear that comes alway When young eyes look their first on the dead. The freedom so longed for is given. The children speak low and draw near: “Dear grandpa keeps Christmas in Heaven With grandma, this year.” AFTER THE ENGAGEMENT. {22} {23} {24} W ELL, Mabel, ’tis over and ended— The ball I wrote was to be; And oh! it was perfectly splendid — If you could have been here to see. I’ve a thousand things to write you That I know you are wanting to hear, And one, that is sure to delight you— I am wearing Joe’s diamond, my dear! Yes, mamma is quite ecstatic That I am engaged to Joe; She thinks I am rather erratic, And feared that I might say “no.” But, Mabel, I’m twenty-seven (Though nobody dreams it, dear), And a fortune like Joe’s isn’t given To lay at one’s feet each year. You know my old fancy for Harry— Or, at least, I am certain you guessed That it took all my sense not to marry And go with that fellow out west. But that was my very first season— And Harry was poor as could be, And mamma’s good practical reason Took all the romance out of me. She whisked me off over the ocean, And had me presented at court, And got me all out of the notion That ranch life out west was my forte. Of course I have never repented— I’m not such a goose of a thing; But after I had consented To Joe—and he gave me the ring— I felt such a queer sensation. I seemed to go into a trance, Away from the music’s pulsation, Away from the lights and the dance. And the wind o’er the wild prairie Seemed blowing strong and free, And it seemed not Joe, but Harry Who was standing there close to me. And the funniest feverish feeling Went up from my feet to my head, With little chills after it stealing— And my hands got as numb as the dead. A moment, and then it was over: The diamond blazed up in my eyes, And I saw in the face of my lover A questioning, strange surprise. Maybe ’twas the scent of the flowers, That heavy with fragrance bloomed near, But I didn’t feel natural for hours; It was odd now, wasn’t it, dear? Write soon to your fortunate Clara Who has carried the prize away, And say you’ll come on when I marry; I think it will happen in May. THE WATCHER. {25} {26} {27} “I THINK I hear the sound of horses’ feet Beating upon the graveled avenue. Go to the window that looks on the street, He would not let me die alone, I knew.” Back to the couch the patient watcher passed, And said: “It is the wailing of the blast.” She turned upon her couch and, seeming, slept, The long, dark lashes shadowing her cheek; And on and on the weary moments crept, When suddenly the watcher heard her speak: “I think I hear the sound of horses’ hoofs—” And answered, “ ’Tis the rain upon the roofs.” Unbroken silence, quiet, deep, profound. The restless sleeper turns: “How dark, how late! What is it that I hear—a trampling sound? I think there is a horseman at the gate.” The watcher turns away her eyes tear-blind: “It is the shutter beating in the wind.” The dread hours passed; the patient clock ticked on; The weary watcher moved not from her place. The gray dim shadows of the early dawn Caught sudden glory from the sleeper’s face. “He comes! my love! I knew he would!” she cried; And smiling sweetly in her slumbers, died. FALSE. {28} {29} F ALSE! Good God, I am dreaming! No, no, it never can be— You who are so true in seeming, You, false to your vows and me? My wife and my fair boy’s mother The star of my life—my queen— To yield herself to another Like some light Magdalene! Proofs! what are proofs—I defy them! They never can shake my trust; If you look in my face and deny them I will trample them into the dust. For whenever I read of the glory Of the realms of Paradise, I sought for the truth of the story And found it in your sweet eyes. Why, you are the shy young creature I wooed in her maiden grace; There was purity in each feature, And my heaven I found in your face And, “not only married but mated,” I would say in my pride and joy; And our hopes were all consummated When the angels gave us our boy. Now you could not blot that beginning So beautiful, pure and true, With a record of wicked sinning As a common woman might do. Look up in your old frank fashion, With your smile so free from art; And say that no guilty passion Has ever crept into your heart. How pallid you are, and you tremble! You are hiding your face from view! “Tho’ a sinner, you cannot dissemble”— My God! then the tale is true? True and the sun above us Shines on in the summer skies? And men say the angels love us, And that God is good and wise. Yet he lets a wanton thing like you Ruin my home and my name! Get out of my sight ere I strike you Dead in your shameless shame! No, no, I was wild, I was brutal; I would not take your life, For the efforts of death would be futile To wipe out the sin of a wife. Wife—why, that word has seemed sainted, I uttered it like a prayer. And now to think it is tainted— Christ! how much we can bear! “Slay you!” my boy’s stained mother— Nay, that would not punish, or save; A soul that has outraged another Finds no sudden peace in the grave. I will leave you here to remember The Eden that was your own, While on toward my life’s December I walk in the dark alone. THE PHANTOM BALL. {30} {31} {32} Y OU remember the hall on the corner? To-night as I walked down street I heard the sound of music, And the rhythmic beat and beat, In time to the pulsing measure Of lightly tripping feet. And I turned and entered the doorway— It was years since I had been there— Years, and life seemed altered: Pleasure had changed to care. But again I was hearing the music And watching the dancers fair. And then, as I stood and listened, The music lost its glee; And instead of the merry waltzers There were ghosts of the Used-to-be— Ghosts of the pleasure-seekers Who once had danced with me. Oh, ’twas a ghastly picture! Oh, ’twas a gruesome crowd! Each bearing a skull on his shoulder, Each trailing a long white shroud, As they whirled in the dance together, And the music shrieked aloud. As they danced, their dry bones rattled Like shutters in a blast; And they stared from eyeless sockets On me as they circled past; And the music that kept them whirling Was a funeral dirge played fast. Some of them wore their face-cloths, Others were rotted away. Some had mould on their garments, And some seemed dead but a day. Corpses all, but I knew them As friends, once blithe and gay. Beauty and strength and manhood— And this was the end of it all: Nothing but phantoms whirling In a ghastly skeleton ball. But the music ceased—and they vanished, And I came away from the hall. THE KINGDOM OF LOVE. {33} {34} I N the dawn of the day when the sea and the earth Reflected the sunrise above, I set forth with a heart full of courage and mirth To seek for the Kingdom of Love. I asked of a Poet I met on the way Which cross-road would lead me aright. And he said: “Follow me, and ere long you shall see Its glittering turrets of light.” And soon in the distance a city shone fair. “Look yonder,” he said; “how it gleams!” But alas! for the hopes that were doomed to despair, It was only the “Kingdom of Dreams.” Then the next man I asked was a gay Cavalier, And he said: “Follow me, follow me;” And with laughter and song we went speeding along By the shores of Life’s beautiful sea. Then we came to a valley more tropical far Than the wonderful vale of Cashmere, And I saw from a bower a face like a flower Smile out on the gay Cavalier. And he said: “We have come to humanity’s goal: Here love and delight are intense.” But alas and alas! for the hopes of my soul— It was only the “Kingdom of Sense.” As I journeyed more slowly I met on the road A coach with retainers behind. And they said: “Follow me, for our Lady’s abode Belongs in that realm, you will find.” ’Twas a grand dame of fashion, a newly-made bride, I followed, encouraged and bold; But my hopes died away like the last gleams of day, For we came to the “Kingdom of Gold.” At the door of a cottage I asked a fair maid. “I have heard of that realm,” she replied; “But my feet never roam from the ‘Kingdom of Home,’ So I know not the way,” and she sighed. I looked on the cottage; how restful it seemed! And the maid was as fair as a dove. Great light glorified my soul as I cried: “Why home is the ‘Kingdom of Love!’ ” UNDER THE SHEET. {35} {36} W HAT a terrible night! Does the Night, I wonder— The Night, with her black veil down to her feet Like an ordained nun, know what lies under That awful, motionless, snow-white sheet? The winds seem crazed, and, wildly howling, Over the sad earth blindly go. Do they and the dark clouds over them scowling, Do they dream or know? Why, here in the room, not a week or over— Tho’ it must be a week, not more than one— (I cannot reckon of late or discover When one day is ended or one begun), But here in this room we were laughing lightly, And glad was the measure our two hearts beat; And the royal face that was smiling so brightly Lies under that sheet. I know not why—it is strange and fearful, But I am afraid of her, lying there; She who was always so gay and cheerful, Lying so still with that stony stare: She who was so like some grand sultana, Fond of color and glow and heat, To lie there clothed in that awful manner In a stark white sheet. She who was made out of summer blisses, Tropical, beautiful, gracious, fair, To lie and stare at my fondest kisses— God! no wonder it whitens my hair. Shriek, oh, wind! for the world is lonely; Trail cloud-veil to the nun Night’s feet! For all that I prized in life is only A shape and a sheet. HIS YOUTH. {37} {38} “D YING? I am not dying. Are you mad? You think I need to ask for heavenly grace? I think you are a fiend, who would be glad To see me struggle in death’s cold embrace. “But, man, you lie! for I am strong—in truth Stronger than I have been in years; and soon I shall feel young again as in my youth, My glorious youth—life’s one great priceless boon. “O youth, youth, youth! O God, that golden time, When proud and glad I laughed the hours away. Why, there’s no sacrifice (perhaps no crime) I’d pause at, could it make me young to-day. “But I’m not old! I grew—just ill, somehow; Grew stiff of limb, and weak, and dim of sight. It was but sickness. I am better now, Oh, vastly better, ever since last night. “And I could weep warm floods of happy tears To think my strength is coming back at last, For I have dreamed of such an hour for years, As I lay thinking of my glorious past. “You shake your head? Why, man, if you were sane I’d strike you to my feet, I would, in truth. How dare you tell me that my hopes are vain? How dare you say I have outlived my youth? “ ‘In heaven I may regain it?’ Oh, be still! I want no heaven but what my glad youth gave. Its long, bright hours, its rapture and its thrill— O youth, youth, youth! it is my youth I crave. “There is no heaven! There’s nothing but a deep And yawning grave from which I shrink in fear. I am not sure of even rest or sleep; Perhaps we lie and think, as I have here. “Think, think, think, think, as we lie there and rot, And hear the young above us laugh in glee. How dare you say I’m dying! I am not. I would curse God if such a thing could be. “Why, see me stand! why, hear this strong, full breath— Dare you repeat that silly, base untruth?” A cry—a fall—the silence known as death Hushed his wild words. Well, has he found his youth? WANTED—A LITTLE GIRL. {39} {40}