Erratic Musings Poem by Alexander Anderson

Alone. For Jack has gone away,
To hide his head in proofs and letters;
And left me here to spend the day
Inside, like many of my betters.
Outside the gusts of wind and rain
And whirling leaves are something frightful;
And, for a fellow who would fain
Go out, the prospect's not delightful.


Just at the window, where I sit,
I see a row of trees that mutter,
'You can't get out to stroll a bit—
You're better far behind the shutter.'
I hear their speech, and, full of wrath
To see my wished-for projects stranding,
Leap up, then take a sudden path
To where I see the bookcase standing.


Insult on insult! Let me note,
Why, hang it! at the first stray venture,
Is Jerome's 'Three Men in a Boat'—
I cannot make a fourth and enter.
What use to read in silly books,
Of skies with not a cloud remaining,
Of waving grass and shady nooks,
When all the time you hear it raining?


I'll try another. Worse and worse—
'Familiar Wild Flowers,' in five volumes,
Enough to make a poet curse
In classic style 'gods, men, and columns.'
The very title conjures up
Sweet glens and hills all clad with heather,
And tiny glades where fairies sup,
And trip their minuets together!


The fairies! Are they still alive,
Those tender, little, sportive creatures,
Who in sweet flowers were wont to dive,
Or show from thence their happy features?
Or when the moon hung broad and low,
And when the dew was at its sweetest,
Danced, all their little hearts aglow,
To see which one would do it neatest.


Alas! I own with many a sigh
This iron time's a bad adviser.
The world has flung its playthings by—
But, tell me, is it any wiser?
Gone all those tender little things,
And in their place are lots of knowledge,
But knowledge has its frets and stings,
And wonder dies when sent to college.


I wish they would come back again,
Those merry, green-clad Lilliputians;
That something else were in our brain
Than scientific dry confusions;
That all the world would go to sleep
And dream again of early childhood,
Of fairies, flowers, and things that steep
Their lives in dew within the wildwood.


But vain such wish. This planet reels
To some great purpose deep within it;
And we have only faith in wheels,
That roar and crash their mile a minute.
Nay more, we have outdone the girth
Puck talked about; above and under
We belt a whisper round the earth
And smile if any one should wonder.


If we do this, yet think it slow,
The future must be still more braving;
And with the wand of Prospero
Compel far greater by its waving.
But I forget my present theme,
Which was, I think, of books and weather,
Somehow I dreamt, and, in that dream,
As usual jumbled things together.


Well, here I have another row—
I thought so, just the usual novels;
And here's a set that tell you how
Men rose to palaces from hovels.
Of course these books are kindly put,
And may be read as well as others;
But give me Thoreau's Walden hut,
And take your palace with its bothers.


Here, travels into distant lands—
Their very titles bring up pictures
Of rolling plains, and swarthy bands
Intent on predatory strictures.
I see them gay in paint and plume,
You call it picturesque and striking;
It may be all that you presume,
But—well, it does not suit my liking.


And yet there was—there was a time
Long years ago (I need not mention
How many) ere I thought of rhyme,
Or bored the muse with my attention.
I felt my head and bosom glow
With visions of the noble savage,
Made dreadful arrows for a bow,
And stalked about to slay or ravage.


My speech—to suit the life I led—
Was full of all the Red Man's phrases,
I spoke of gory scalps, and led
A band of braves through hidden places.
My face was painted red and blue;
All this of course was very shocking,
It lasted for a year or two,
And then I changed to 'Leather-Stocking.'


I put my bow and arrows past,
With feelings that I scarce could stifle,
But I grew half resigned at last,
When I had in their place a rifle.
I made it from a grand design,
A weapon of my own creation;
A little rough, but it was mine,
And shot well—in imagination.


I had my 'happy hunting ground,'
A strip of wood, where, free from neighbours,
I strove for weeks within its bound
To mimic all that Trapper's labours.
I had my trophies rich and rare,
I hid them like some needy squatter;
But how they came, and what they were,
I cannot tell, nor does it matter.


For this, and many another mood
That came and took up steady lodgment,
I blame not Cooper, as I should,
Though looking back with sober judgment.
He filled my head and heart with men
Who had the open sky for cover;
The woods lay open to their ken,
And Nature—each was still her lover.


They laid their ear to mother earth,
They heard her great heart soundly beating;
The forests, thousand-voiced in mirth,
Waved their green arms and gave them greeting.
They took that mood each season brings,
And stood so close to Nature's being
That she—she showed them deeper things,
And they grew wiser by the seeing.


A sort of pagan life I grant,
But still it was a life worth living;
Each day but brought its simple want,
And little that might cause misgiving.
The scent of woods was all around;
They lay down not exactly wealthy;
But rose up strong of limb and sound,
Firm hand, keen eye, and very healthy.


Now, this was finer far, you see,
Than being cooped in roaring cities,
Where each one lets the other be,
And hurries on and no one pities.
I sometimes think in all the strife,
Our likes and dislikes, as at present,
A strong dash of a wilder life
Would be considered not unpleasant.


In vain. The world must have its way
To mould and build each constitution;
And so with us. No good can stay
The silent wheels of evolution.
There is no change but change. We grow
From each to each, and slowly linking
Ourselves to what it brings, though slow
Reach higher planes of life and thinking.


But I have wandered from the track—
A trick with bards whom thought immerses—
But now I ought to hurry back
And lift the thread of former verses.
Digression is a fearful thing,
One always ought to keep the highway;
But somehow poets when they sing
Are always sure to take a bye-way.


Books? That was it, and books that told
Of men now sunk, as sinks a taper
When night is closing round—but hold,
There's sunshine falling on the paper.
Thank heaven! At last the cloudy wall
Is past; and now for one hour's walking,
And just as well, for, after all,
I may have bored you with my talking.