Classic Poem

A Poem ON " T HE T ENNESSEE O RPHEUS "

In his school of " The Fiddle and Bow, "
He could teach every man in the world,
Who would learn how to rule.
His was no gladiatorial show,
By tears and kindness he ruled his democracy,
With never a wall flower, never an enemy.
With one bold fiddle, with a heart never cool,
Loving them all, serving them all,
Playing old tunes that conquered them all,
He brought his whole state to one violin school,
He brought his whole marvelling crowd
To one beautiful school.

On his birthday, he teaches his state to flower!
Unabashed orator, dropping his pearls!
To-day, he is shaking the butterflies' thrones!
Orpheus stirs up the squirrels to be barking;
Bee-hives are ringing their phones,
Wasps their razors are honing.
Good wheat ripens, and whistles and drones,
Cotton fields fiddle a tune to the sun,
Cornstalks rustle tassels and ears,
Spiders whirl round with misgivings and fears.
Bob Taylor is teaching his crowd to flower,
Shaking the butterflies' thrones!
There are pinch-faced people that snarl and deride,
For a singer trimphant defiles their pride.

Where are the hearts born to power,
My darlings,
Where are the hearts born to power?
You boys and girls
With the frolicsome manner,
From the first and second and third and fourth reader!
Will you lift your conquering Tennessee banner?
Oh, children, born of McGuffey's old reader,
With your new little brothers and sisters,
Will you heed the prophecies,
Mellow and rare,
Of the governing fiddle of Governor Taylor,
As he rocks in his blue rocking-chair,
As he rocks in his blue rocking-chair?

Oh, his giant chair of sky and dreams
Of the Great Smoky Mountains and East County Streams,
Tennessee clover and Tennessee rain,
Mixed with natural laughter and pain,
While Taylor's birthday comes 'round, comes 'round,
As he rocks in his blue rocking-chair, my darlings,
As he rocks in his blue rocking-chair!
As he lends a new splendor to log-cabin hearthstones,
Till the oceans reicho his violin tones,
Oh, where are the hearts born to power,
My darlings,
Oh, where are the hearts born to power?

Who has the wings of the eagle?
Who has the wings of the lark?
Who has the wings of the owlet
As he dives through the twilight and dark?
Who will fly in dance time, in the springtime,
To the Money-Musk of Governor Bob,
As he shouts the new war cry of spring at its height,
And his fiddle gives forth a sweet sob?
As he sits on a cloud in the moonlight,
As he shakes up the world and its bones,
As he shakes up the nations that lie in their ashes,
And his bow sweeps the stars and the zones, my darlings,
And his bow sweeps the poles and the zones?

There are pinch-faced people that snarl and deride,
For a singer triumphant defiles their pride.

But now let us go to each county seat,
Where the old county fairs make the harvest complete,
And friend meets friend with pride.
In the merry-go-round where we will ride
To the music of the far stars' hum,
And the music of the hearth-crickets' drum,
And the tunes of Governor Bob, that will never end,
In the merry-go-round that we will make,
Many queer things we will undertake,
While the children will break ambrosial cake,
Bears will bring us honey-bread,
And the turkeys bring us honey-bread.

In the merry-go-round that we will make,
The cricket will chirp, the bee will hum,
The cricket will chirp, the bee will hum,
While the spokes of the merry-go-round go round.
A world-wide merry-go-round we will make,
With a tall elm tree for the central stake,
(While the spokes of the merry-go-round go round!)
The lark will cry the world awake,
The lark will cry the world awake.
Kind hearts will cry the world awake.

And now let us tell just the same child story —
In other terms, and with other glory.

While to-day's young children group around us, clap their pudgy hands,
And tell each other tales of beasts of distant lands,
And tell each other stories of sheiks and desert sands,
While they rock in big Grand Rapids chairs, varnished hard and slick,
Let flames of his birthday fiddle, coming nearer, make them quiver,
Let flames of the Governor's fiddle
Light each spirit's candlewick.
Let there be repeated visions
Of this man in every cabin,
The statesman, the soul's visitor, the mystical vote getter.
Now, just before Taylor finds " you and me,
Behold a young fairy called Tennessee, "
Come to set souls free.
She stands on the nation's hearthstones,
In the homes of millions, debating —
And there for the presence of Taylor waiting,
And chattering there with our tiniest children
As they watch for our man at the window sills,
Stories of hunters and trappers relating,
Martha Washington parties, and Jackson quadrilles.

She is crowned with three burning Tennessee stars,
Her soul is Jackson and Taylor and Boone,
The white far-flaming soul of the West,
For Tennessee once was the world's Wild West,
And is still, in secret, the world's Wild West.
With the eyes of the dawn and the gesture of pride,
And a fairy's heart in her childish side,
A heart for magic — a heart for music,
A heart that will not be denied.
Now Taylor's birthday comes 'round, comes 'round.
He is rocking now, and swaying, and playing,
In this, the millennial hour.
And his fiddle, speaking with tongues, keeps saying,
" Behold, the young beauty, called: " Tennessee." "

Obeying the fiddler's merry command,
Tennessee,
In the shining form of a child,
Holds out her white hand.
Then a village Apocalypse indeed!
Taylor's news films of the future,
His merry Orphic games for his every dreaming creature,
Set to the Dixie tunes of " Kingdom Come, "
Tunes for stubborn souls,
No longer blind or dumb.

Threads of incense,
Then log cabins come,
Then Red Indian council halls,
Toys of the past,
Tossed up through the sky's blue walls,
And then,
From the white palm there,
Those toys, and those threads of smoke, become the world's World's Fair,
That floats, to merry robin notes,
And goes up, in shining power and authority and worth,
Till there a university of man's whole soul has birth,
From old McGuffey's reader style,
From toy-shop style, and play-room style, and baby Christmas mirth,
Spreading in terrible splendor, conquering the sad earth,
Spreading out like a Maytime field,
Coming down like an angel's misty shield,
A fair of the secret spirit, of the proud heart's comforter!

From the fairy comes a cry:
From that strange child comes a cry:
" Our pride is eternal, a tree no worm can kill —
It is older than the old oak trees, deathless like the sky. "

And we go with the dream World's Fair,
We walk on its strange wide streets —
And the nation is the child and the child is the nation,
With pride in noble toys —
With the same firm, quick heartbeats —
Old toys grown great, now built anew —
Hilltop sunrise battlements set against the blue —
Set in cloudy streets of giant blue-ridge pines,
Where every kind of dewy flower vine shines.
And yet some childish towers have great pink ribbon bows,
And big bisque dolls,
And Indian dolls
Hold up some mighty roofs in pillared rows.
And jewelled city flags wave high,
And toy-shop mayors bow the knee
To those flags, unstained and wildflower sweet,
And the pouring crowds, set free.

Yet the fiddle cries in majesty of our nation's good and ill,
Great brains work greatly, with a will,
And the trees of pride no worm can kill
Grow stronger still.
While some wireless from Aldeberan
Rolls down from on high —
How democracy has swept the farthest stars —
Broken up Aldeberan's prison bars,
And the shout shakes and thrills
The nation's new-born, dream-born toy,
The Tinselled Oak Tree, priest of Truth,
And the new-born, dream-born toy,
Tinselled Mulberry, priest of Youth,
And the new-born, dream-born toy,
The Amaranth-Apple Tree,
White as the foam of the jasper-sea,
Priest of the Holy Spirit's grace.
And the new-born Golden-Rain-Tree,
Tinselled priest, at our honeyed feast,
Priest of the future Human race,
On our soul-paths set with fantasy,
Where the children of our hearthstones
Find the proud toys of democracy,
Find Majesty and Alchemy,
While Orpheus plays his fiddle there.

And look, there are Maypoles in a row,
And baskets pouring out strange flowers
For all the crowds that pass,
And tiny fairy Maypoles
And roller-skating rinks,
For all the squealing infant class,
In the nation that shall be,
Beginning with this lover —
Of innocent small children,
Beginning with this fiddler
And his fairy Tennessee —
On the borders of our prairies,
Our Middle-Western sea.

And our highest art will come in this Hereafter.
And in all the parks so gay
Sad young Shellys, learning laughter,
Amid High-school yells, and college yells, and adventure yells,
Weird Confederate yells, weird Union yells,
In scandalous music, whispered, hissing, drumming,
While above the skylark flying machines
Of all man's future humming!
Playthings of the fancies of young Shellys that shall be,
And their little brothers and sisters,
And the pouring crowds set free,
By the conqueror of death —
By the great Orpheus fiddler, and his fairy Tennessee.

Oh, the pinch-faced people still think we are drunk,
With this pearl-dropping orator's fair,
With this sky-painting orator's fair.
They call it " the old Buncombe county bunk, "
Deriding our village Apocalypse there,
Our old Happy Valley fair,
Turned to a world's World's Fair,
Though there are the glories of all creation,
Thoughts, from every ultimate nation,
Though the birds and the beasts are there —
Changed from the whimsies of first creation,
To things majestic from Revelation: —
Still, the pinch-faced people think we are drunk,
Curse us, and think we are drunk.

And now let us tell just the same child story —
In other terms, and with other glory.

Obeying the fiddler's command,
Tennessee in the shining form of a child
Holds out her white hand.
From her magic palm, strange doll books come,
Toys tossed up through the wide sky's walls,
They turn to boys' " dime libraries, "
They turn to girls' doll whimsies,
Snark-hunting paper flimsies,
They turn to children's Christmas books,
Alice-in-Wonderland looking-glass books,
And Pilgrim's Progress allegory books,
Singing bolder words as their leaves spread more and more
And up into the sky the flocks of beauty pour —
The flags of imagination on the page of the soul's sky,
Each gorgeous new day's print goes by.

And as the full years sweep along
Each old man reads his patriarch tome,
In the light of his dear hearth home,
And each child follows his new toy book
Though it flies across the world,
For always it returns
To his home-town hearthstone towers and bowers,
And childhood's wildflower banners unfurled.
So, each child keeps his soul alone,
As he keeps his ballot still his own,
True to the stars that gave him birth —
And the dreams he found in the wide earth —
To the Orpheus, to the fiddler and his fairy Tennessee,
And the pouring crowds, set free.

The night rolls 'round, stars light the land.
Obeying the fiddler's command,
Tennessee in the shining form of a child
Holds out her white hand.

And now let us tell just the same child story,
In other terms, and with other glory.
Now, hear the cry of all the nations,
Hear the cry of the generations,
Egypt to Utopia,
The hieroglyphic parallel written on the sky —
Following all the way —
The cry of the sun by day,
The cry of the stars by night,
The cry of the deep, deep earth,
The cry of the deep, deep earth.

She holds out her white hand —
From the incense, from the fairy palm,
From the wild cry in the air
White temples and pavilions there
From Adam's day to Kingdom Come,
Tossed up through the great sky's walls,
Petals before a humming wind,
And we watch them spread their delicate eaves
Amid quivering leaves —
Altars — then cathedrals,
Go up in long progression,
Growing greater,
Killing the gloom,
Till we see the white procession
All future forms of holy faith
Stand still and take possession
Of our nation that shall be,
Tremendous white Cathedral ships,
On our Middle-Western Sea,
Whose waves are fields of cotton, corn and wheat,
Orchard paths and boulevards
And pouring crowds, set free,
By the Orpheus, the fiddler, the conqueror of Death,
And his fairy, Tennessee.
And now let us tell just the same child story,
In other terms, and with other glory.

Oh, where are the child souls,
With the singers' pride,
Who will wake, refusing defeat and death,
Returning perpetually from the grave,
Generation on generation?
Where are the furious wills of the nation?
Oh, where are the hearts born to power?
" Oh, who is there among us, the true and the tried,
Who will stand by his colors, who is on the Lord's side? "
Who will rise each century, shout once again,
Who will wake in hot faith
With our cavalcade ride?
Send up their American souls from the grave,
And go forth in glory, aspiring,
Breathing springtime breath and noonday fire,
Armed with doll beauty perilous,
Armed with child glory marvellous,
Armed with Southern poems delirious,
Armed with grass daggers
They found in the ground,
Armed with old shields they dug up in the sky,
By the Archangel Mountains high —
Armed with long swords like the young crescent moon —
Oh, who is there among us, the true and the tried,
Who will ride against Death and his endless cruelty,
However his legions conspire?
Who will ride against all grown-up foes of Democracy?
" To-morrow, to-morrow, " their marvelous tune —
" To-morrow, " their marvelous cry of desire —
Going forth with pouring armies
Of the deathless young and gay,
Driving Death forever from the way.

Yes, who will sing in the follies of Heaven
To the Taylor-born Tennessee tune?
Who will follow the child Tennessee
Armed with soul-swords like the young crescent moon?
Who will follow her through the twilight,
Or in the morning, by the bright light,
Armed by her music, shouting her fame,
As she rides down the future with her boys all white flame,
As she rides down the future with her girls all white fire?
Just in time to stop the charges
Of Death and all his hosts
That turn at last to beaten ghost.

As she shouts down a thousand long years, my darlings
Magic to-morrow the best of her tune,
Magic to-morrow her cry of desire. . . .
Her troops dressed in white for the spirits' delight,
She will stand in her stirrups a Torch of White Light,
The fairy child, Tennessee,
The soul of us, hope of us, helper and tyrant,
On her Pegasus horse of thunder and snow,
'Round the merry-go-round she will go.

We dream we will make a merry-go-round,
While Taylor's birthday comes 'round, comes 'round,
A beautiful toy while the daisies laugh —
A picnic place for Taylor's sake
And his lovers, and little brothers and sisters. . . .

We dream we will build a merry-go-round.
Whose root is a flame in the ancient ground,
Whose flagpole is a tree to the sky,
A merry-go-round ten centuries high.
In the merry-go-round that we will make —
Of these Dixie thoughts of Kingdom Come,
In the merry-go-round that we will make —
The cricket will chirp, the bee will hum,
The cricket will chirp, the bee will hum,
The lark will cry the world awake,
Governor Taylor will govern the song,
Ten centuries will sweep along —
And the prairies and mountains will whirl around,
The prairies will whirl around, around.

In the merry-go-round that we will make —
The lark will cry the world awake,
Kind hearts will cry the world awake.
Toys will be men, dolls will be men,
And our sages and saints good dolls again.
Each painted reindeer will be a chum.
Not a single dingo or dog will be dumb.
And the horses will not be horses of wood,
Nor iron nor ivory, nor jewel nor jade,
Not hobby-horses whose paint will fade,
But Pegasus ponies on parade,
But Pegasus ponies on parade,
Whose hoofs are of ice, and whose wings are of fire.
White horses of Hope and the Spirit's desire,
White horses of Hope and the Spirit's desire —
On our horses of fire and thunder and snow
'Round the merry-go-round we will go,
'Round the merry-go-round we will go.