Socrates in Camden

A PILGRIM from beyond the seas,
Seeking some shrine where shrines are few,
I found the latter Socrates,
Greek to the core, yet Yankee too;
Feeble, for he was growing old,
Yet fearless, self-contained, and bold,
Rough as a seaman who has driven
Long years before the winds of Heaven,
I found him, with the blue skies o'er him,
And, figuratively, knelt before him!
Then gript the hand that long had lain
Tenderly in the palm of Death,
Saw the sweet eyes that still maintain
Calm star-like watch o'er things of breath,
And as the dear voice gave its greeting
My heart was troubled unaware
With love and awe that hush'd its beating
And pride that darken' d into prayer.

This man affirmed his disbelief
In all the gods, but Belial mainly:
Nature he loved, but Man in chief,
And what Man is, he uttered plainly!
Like Socrates, he mixed with men
At the street corner, rough and ready,
Christ-like he sought the Magdalen.

Lifting his hat, as to a lady;

No thing that breathes, however small,
Found him unloving or rebelling;
The shamble and the hospital
Familiar were as his own dwelling;
Then trumpet-like his voice proclaimed
The naked Adam unashamed,
The triumpu of the Body, through
The sun-like Soul that keeps it true,
The triumph of the Soul, whereby
The Body lives, and cannot die.
The world was shocked, and Boston screaming
Cover' d her face, and cried ' For shame! '
Gross, hankering, mystically dreaming,
The good grey Poet went and came;
But when the dark hour loomed at last,
And, lighted by the fiery levin,
Man grappled man m conflict vast,
While Christendom gazed on aghast,
Through the great battlefield he pass'd
With finger pointing up to Heaven.
Socrates? Nay, more like that Other
Who walked upon the stormy Sea,
He brought, while brother wounded brother,
The anointing nard of charity!

But when the cruel strife was ended*
Uprose the Elders, mob-attended,
Saying, ' This Socrates, it seems,
Denies Olympus and blasphemes;
Offends, moreover, 'gainst the Schools
Who teach great Belial's moral rules,
Sins against Boston and the Law
That keeps the coteries in awe,
And altogether for his swagger
Deserves the hemlock cup or dagger! '
So said so done! The Pharisees
Called up the guard and gave directions —
The prison opened — Socrates
Was left therein to his reflections!

A full score years have passed, and still
The good grey Bard still loafs and lingers;
The social poison could not kill,
Though stirred by literary fingers —
He sipped it, smiled, and put it by,
Despite the scandal and the cry;
But when, the Pharisees commanding,
They rushed to end him with the sword,
They saw, beside the poet standing,
A radiant Angel of the Lord.

A hemlock cup? Yes, there it lies,
Close to thy hand, old friend, this minute!
With gentle twinkle of the eyes
You mark the muddy liquid in it:
For the grave rulers of the City,
Who sent it, you have only pity;
For those who mixed it, made it green
With misconception, spite, and spleen,
You feel no thrill of scornful fret,
But only kindness and regret.
'Twas Emerson, some folk affirm,
Who passed it round with shrug shoulder —
Good soul, he worshipped Time and Term,
Instead of Pan, as he grew older!
And Boston snubbed thee? Walt, true heart
Time ever brings about revenges —
Just glance that way before we part
And note the memorable changes.

There, in the ' hub ' of all creation,
Where Margaret Fuller, 'ere she mated,
Flirted with seers of reputation
And all the ' isms ' cultivated,
Where still brisk Holmes cuts learned caper
With buckles on knee-breeches fine,
The sweet man-milliners and drapers,
Howells and James, put up their sign.
And there the modern Misses find
The wares most suited to their mind —
French fashions, farthingales delightful,
Frills white as snow for ladies' wear;
Nothing old-fashioned, fast, or frightful,
Is dealt in by this dainty pair!
The stuff they sell to man or woman
May in itself be poor or common,
Coarsest of serge or veriest sacking,
But they can trick it in a trice,
So that no element is lacking
To render it extremely nice.
'Ladies! ' they murmur, with a smile,
'We pride ourselves upon our style!
Our cutter is a paragon
Match'd only by our fitter-on;
Bring what material you like,
We'll treat it in a way to strike,
Turn your old satins, and embellish
Last season's hats with feathers swellish!
In short, weave miracles of clothing
By genius out of next to nothing,
And charge the very lowest prices
For all our daintiest devices.

We know,' they add, with smirk and bow,
'Some of you like old-fashioned clothes —
The Emersonian homespun (now
Absurd as Whitman's or Thoreau's),
Or even, still absurder, seek
Poor Shakespeare's fashion quite antique,
Fit only, with its stiff brocades,
For vulgar frumps and country maids;
Could Shakespeare, poor old fellow, please
With such a cut as this — chemise?
The woof he used was strongly woven,
But surely, now, his taste was shocking?
Compare our silk hose, much approven,
With Dickens' clumsy worsted stocking!
We please the dames and gain the daughters
With neat inventions of our own,
Replace George Eliot's learned garters
With our suspenders silken-sewn;
While in an annex to the shop,
Our customers will find, quite handy,
The toothsome bun and lollipop
And superfine molasses candy! '
The busy pair! How well they patter,
Disposing of their slender matter;
The girls adore, instead of loathing,
These laureates of underclothing,
Delight their soul's attire to model
On the last style of mollycoddle,
Eked out with sickly importations
From France, that naughtiest of nations!
Dapper they are, and neatly dressed,
Insidious, tempting folks to buy goods,
But mere man-milliners at best
Vending the flimsiest of dry goods;
Trash in their flimsy window setting,
And tricking up to catch the eye
Such clothes as spoil with the first wetting
From the free rains of yonder sky!

Daintily passing by their shop,
Sometimes, when it is cloudless weather,
Aldrich, a literary fop,
In trim tight boots of patent leather,
Strolls to the quiet street, where he saw
Sun-freckled Marjorie play at see-saw,
And bending o'er her hammock, kisses
That sweetest, shadowiest of misses!
His languid gait, his dudish drawl,
His fopdom, we forgive them all,
For her dear sake of his creating,
Fairer than girls of flesh and blood,

Who, never loving, never mating,
Swings in eternal Maidenhood!

Now I conjure thee, best of Bards,
Scatter thy wisdom Bostonwards!
Tell Howells, who with fingers taper
Measures the matron and the maid,
God never meant him for a draper—
Strip off his coat, give him a spade!
His muscles and his style may harden
If he digs hard in Adam's garden,
Or follows Dudley Warner flying
Where Adirondack eagles soar,
Or chums with some brown savage, lying
With Stoddard on a South-sea shore.
Tell James to burn his continental
Library of the Detrimental,
And climb a hill, or take a header
Into the briny, billowy seas,
Or find some strapping Muse and wed her,
Instead of simpering at teas!
How should the Titaness of nations,
Whose flag o'er half a world unfurls,
Sit listening to the sibilations
Of shopmen twittering to girls?
She sees the blue skies bend above her,
She feels the throb of hearts that love her,
She hears the torrent and the thunder,
The clouds above, the waters under,
She knows her destiny is shaping
Beyond the dreams of Linendraping!
She craves a band of Bards with voices
To echo her when she rejoices,
To sing her sorrows and to capture
The Homeric music of her rapture!
She hears the good grey Poet only
Sing, priestly-vestured, prophet-eyed,
And on his spirit tails the lonely
Light of her splendour and her pride. . .,
Poet divine, strong soul of fire,
Alive with love and love's desire,
Whose strength is as the Clouds, whose song
Is as the Waters deep and strong,
W;hose spirit, like a flag unfurled,
Proclaims the freedom of the World,
What gifts of grace and joy have come
Out of thy gentle martyrdom!
A pilgrim from afar, I bring
Homage from some who love thee well — >
Ah, may the feeble song I sing
Make summer music in thy cell!

The noblest head 'neath western skies,
The tenderest heart, the clearest eyes,
Are thine, my Socrates, whose fate
Is beautifully desolate!

As deep as Hell, as high as Heaven,
Thy wisdom hath this lesson given,
When all the gods that reign' d and reign
Have fallen like leaves and left no sign,
The god-like Man shall still remain
To prove Humanity divine!