Part 12

Nor the cots and hamlets that know no more Than a shriek and a flash and a flying roar;

But, bearing her tidings, she trembles and throbs, And laughs in her throat, and quivers and sobs;

And the fire in her heart is a red core of heat, That drives like a passion through forest and street,

Till she sees the ships in their harbor at rest, And sniffs at the trail to the end of her quest.

If I were the driver who handles 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.

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.