COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 91 ^oet anil ||ts ^ongs* .^x>e^^^^ 91 ^oet ant ^i& ^ongs: BEING A MEMOIR OF / Russell Powell Jacoby AND A SELECTION OF HIS BEST POEMS. EDITED BV OLIVER HUCKEL. 3^ BALTIMORE ; JOHN S. BRIDGES & CO. •A-VVO COPIES «£Cc,iv o. .. Library or Cougcegfe ®f«ee of tbe MAR 17 1^00 ^^i,^ (Z, Tic . vT/ f ^J, e^ S ■Vb Copies of this book may be ordered from John S. Bridges & Co,, 15 South Charles St., Baltimore. Postpaid, $1.50. V^ oo Copyright, 1900, By OLIVER HUCKEL. ^ CONTENTS. r r» I Portrait Facing Frontispage -** Memorial Poem — Dr. Thomas Dufin English A Tribute — " The Newark Evening News," ^ Memoir — Rev. Oliver Huckel Memorial Sonnet — Mr. IVm. Hooper Howells An Appreciation — Mr. Henry Abbott Steel II 13 15 27 29 POEMS. The Message of the Carpenter 35 Labor in Chains 41 The Fortress of a Lie 43 Mars 45 The Great Poet 47 On the Seas 51 Now to the City's Thirsty Lips 52 Lincoln (Sonnet) 59 Grant (Sonnet) 60 The Last Victory (Sonnet) 62 Sir Moses Montefiori (Sonnet) 63 Greely's Return 64 Black Ben 67 Who Loves 70 The Song of Songs 72 At the Theatre 74 Love and Selfishness 75 My World 76 Dear One of Mine (Song) 77 St. Valentine's Day 78 My Love (Her Portrait) 81 The Wild Flowers 82 Mother Erin Speaks 84 Farewell to Erin 86 A Frind ofthe Family 88 On the St. Lawrence 97 The Hopeful Lover 98 November 99 Christmas Day (A Hymn) loi New Year's Day 103 New Year's Song 104 Woman's Prescience (Sonnet) 107 High Ideals (Sonnet) 108 The Minstrel's Song 109 Baldur the Good iii The Legend of Tannhauser ii6 The Vision of Judas Maccabeus 130 How Few Are the Days 136 Our Hope Thou Hast Been 139 How Still the Night 143 When This Man Died 147 RUSSELL POWELL JACOBY. {Memorial Poem.) Pulseless the heart that throbbed with joy or woe, When good or ill to others round him came ; And never from his brain the thoughts shall flow Which bade so fair to build their owner's fame. Gone is the genial smile which gave delight, The frank expression on that honest face, Silent the pen that urged the cause of right. Voiceless the utterance never out of place. I miss his presence in my daily walk, I miss the kindly pressure of his hand, I miss his pleasant unpresuming talk, The gentle mood that could at need command. And yet I cannot think him dead, it seems As though he travels for surcease of care ; I see him in the night time in my dreams, A figure that on waking lingers there. He lives, and so we keep his memory green, He will return, or we to him shall go. And thus we wend our way with placid mein, For we shall meet again — that much we know. Let kindred earth his lifeless form enclose. Place at his head to mark the spot a stone ; Plant roses on the grave — he loved the rose, — Then leave him to his slumber long and lone. — Thomas Dunn English. Newark, N. J., Feb. 6th, 1900. A TRIBUTE. " The best gifts of heart and of mind were happily blended in him ; .... a clear, rich intellect, ever logical and ever busy, and an industry and an earnestness that were an inspiration to those whose good fortune it was to be his associates and com- rades. His strong mentality was balanced by a gentle spirituality that placed him apart. His unselfishness was complete ; he was kind and gen- erous, and his natural, unaffected, unobstrusive presence was ever radiating a gentle glow of hope and cheer where hope and cheer were needed most. To his friends he was a constant delight ; to his associates his taking off is a bereavement, indeed, but one that flowers with the sweetest memories." — From an Editorial in " The Evening News,'" Newark, N. J., October 20, i8gg. iWetnotr. One whose life was absolutely pure and true, whose purposes were continually high and noble, whose deeds were generous and heroic, and whose soul was full of music and radiant with strength and beauty, comes close to us in this volume. It is a revelation, meagre but uplifting, of a heart worth knowing, and a life worth loving. And a friend who knew him closely and loved him well, writes these memorial words as a glad privilege and a happy labor of love. These were the brief facts of his life. Russell Powell Jacoby was born July 22nd, 1862, at the village of Flourtown, in Montgomery County, just outside of Philadelphia. He was educated in the schools of Spring- field township and later in Philadelphia, and graduated at the Central High School in 1881. One of his noblest poems, " The Legend of Tannhauser," was given as i6 Russell Powell Jacoby his part at the commencement exercises of that year. Immediately he became connected with The Times of Philadelphia, with which he remained for two years or more. Then, with the idea of studying law, he took a position upon The Evening Telegraph in order that he might have more time to devote to his studies. But he ultimately abandoned that purpose and on special offers went to Newark, New Jersey, in 1883, in connection with Mr. Henry Abbott Steel, to establish a new paper, The Neiuark Evening News. He was city editor of that paper from the start, and later managing editor, and was about to be made editor-in-chief when his health failed and the end came. The Evening News was a success from the first, and to that work he gave his whole energy and strength of mind and body. He married Miss Rebecca Cooper, of Newark, in 1897, and to them was born one little daughter, Margaret. The first indications of Mr. Jacoby's serious illness occurred in the summer of 1899, and in September, on the advice of his physician, he went to Canon City, Colorado, hoping that the climate would be beneficial. But he grew rapidly worse, and died on October ig, in his thirty-eighthth year, at the house of a friend, Mr. Clark Cooper, of Canon City. Mrs. Jacoby was with him at the end. Russell Powell Jacoby. 17 The funeral took place at his native place, Flour- town. The services were held in the First Presbyterian Church, and were conducted by Rev. A. W. Long, the pastor of the church, assisted by Rev. Oliver Huckel, of Baltimore, who made the memorial address. A large number of friends were present from Newark, New York, Brooklyn, Philadelphia and Baltimore, and the entire population of the community gathered to render their lact tribute of respect and affection. At sunset-time, on this perfect October day, the body of Russell Powell Jacoby was laid to rest in the quiet cemetery under the shadow of the church. These are the outline facts. But how much between ! What a noble fellow he was ! One of God's noble- men ! He was always my hero since first I knew him, from the time when we were schoolboys together. He was my Sir Galahad, " whose strength was as the strength of ten because his heart was pure." He was so valiant and knightly in thought and deed, — so noble in face, so pure in life, so generous of heart, so brilliant in mind, so true and lofty in spirit ! His heart was brimming full with pleasantness. It was always such joy to be with him, such a bath in God's sunshine of cheeriness to spend an hour with him ! i8 Russell Powell Jacoby. And how bright and original he was in his way of seeing things and putting things ! There was a con- stant wit and wisdom that bubbled over from the foun- tain of a full heart and mind. And how affectionate he was, and how generous ! He was the very soul of generosity. He would do anything for a friend, even imperil his own interests or impoverish his own means. And he was so faithful and true ! He was abso- lutely honest and ingenuous. His character was crys- tal clear, beautiful through and through. There was never a meanness or dishonesty. His nature seemed incapable of such things. His business threw him into contact with all sorts and conditions of men, but he was always the soul of courtesy and honor. He was a man who could be absolutely trusted. He inspired unswerving confidence and reliance. He was practical and painstaking ; he was an enor- mous worker ; he wore himself out by his incessant work. His death was doubtless due to overwork, caus- ing nervous exhaustion, then a severe cold in that weak condition, followed by pulmonary troubles and compli- cations. He was an incessant worker in the hardest and most practical lines. It is a wonder that in the midst of his Russell Powell Jacoby. ig taxing business interests, he could find heart or time for devotion to the muse. But such opportunities came because they must come, — they were a part of his na- ture. In spite of his practical capacity, he was essen- tially a poet. He loved poetry and made it his dream and his delight. He began to compose verses when he was only three years old, and all his life he was devoted to it. His last day on earth was full of it, — new thoughts, old quotations and the gestures of scanning. Indeed his whole life was a poem. He looked the poet — spirituelle and yet strong in countenance. He was Byronic in beauty in his young manhood or better yet with his good German blood, he was a perfect Saxon type of fair and strong manhood. He had a Greek head and finely chiselled features like the youthful Hermes of Olympia. It was genuine poetry that he wrote. It had the right ring to it. His gifts as a poet were of singularly rare and pure qual- ity. His first ambitious poem, "The Legend of Tann- hauser," caused him to be heralded as a dawning gen- ius. At the time that he delivered this poem at Asso- ciation Hall, Philadelphia, he was 19 years old, and a prominent paper said of him, — "Mr. Jacoby is tall in stature, and flexible and graceful in form, with a fine, earnest, intellectual yet ingenuous face, and a voice full 20 Russell Powell Jacoby. of poetic suavity," and of his poem — " It reveals a de- gree of verbal facility, and a maturity of feeling and ob- servation which promise great things, as the powers of the author find more adequate development." He wrote humorous poetry bright and sparkhng ; memor- ial verses full of pathos and beauty, and much religious poetry, fresh and strong in treatment. Everything that he touched in verse was touched to beauty. And yet, with all his gifts and graces, he was so modest, so deferential to the opinions of others, so shrinking from ostentation, so beautifully courteous to everybody and in everything ! I think that he never had an enemy. Everybody liked him. He was a uni- versal favorite in his school-days, — a most genial com- panion and a brilliant student. And the same happy and enthusiastic nature was maintained to the last and made friends for him everywhere. He was deeply interested in social reform and hear- tily espoused the cause of the workingman. The poem Labor in Chains is typical of his feeling. He was fond of William Morris, both as literary artist and prac- tical socialist, was an admirer of the spirit and work of Henry George, and was a contributor to John Swin- ton's Paper. Of his religious life, I may also say a word, for I Russell Powell Jacoby. 21 knew his inner spirit perhaps as well as any one, for he was to me a heart-friend, and we talked together often and unreservedly of the deepest things of life, death and eternity. His conception of Christianity was very simple. He always emphasized the practical aspects, as in The Message of the Carpenter. His religious thinking as he grew more mature became less tradi- tional and conventional, but always was vitally true and close to the spirit of the gospel. He was deeply in- terested in Tolstoi's religious doctrines. But always he had a rich spiritual nature, a rare insight into divine things and the deepest reverence. Something of this must be put to inheritance. His father's ancestors were members of the Schwenkfelder community, one of the societies of German mystics, like the Mennonites, Dunk- ards, Amish and Moravians who came early to Penn- sylvania for religious freedom, and his mother, of the Heydrick family, was of a distinctly religious and poetic temperament. Much of his love of poetry was a direct gift from her fine nature. His poems are full of the flowerings of a beautiful religious spirit. And his life was as noble as his verse. The last book that he sent me was Bishop Andrewe's Private Devotions, a book of prayers and meditations that had pleased him by its simplicity and beauty. He 22 Russell Powell Jacoby. was as good a man as I ever knew, — so thoroughly sin- cere, true, honest, pure and heroic. He wore the white flower of a blameless life. I grow enthusiastic as I think of his nobleness, and I thank God for him. He lived a noble life, he kept a clean record, he was faithful to all his trusts, and he has left us a brilliant and unblemished and lovable memory. He was taken in the plenitude and glory of his life, and will always live within our memories in the strength and nobleness of his youth, never old or decrepit, but always aureoled with beautiful immortal youth. His last conscious words were "Good-night, dear love" to his loving and faithful wife. It was a last liv- ing good-night, until the eternal morning, — until the day breaks and the shadows flee away. During his last days on earth he scarcely knew those around him. He seemed to be living in another world. It was not the past that he was remembering and rehearsing, but he was looking forward into the future. He spoke of fighting the last fight — " play well your part, quit you like men." He knew that he was in his last fight, the fight with death, but he was brave and valiant to the last. He spoke of climbing the high Alps as if to catch Russell Powell Jacoby. 2j vision of the wide expanse. Was it not a premonition of the opening glory of the vision of heavenly things unfolding before his eyes ? He spoke of those that go down to the sea in ships. Might it not be the thought of embarking on the great ocean of eternity ? His thoughts were beautiful and noble to the last. His career was so full of usefulness. So many were looking to him with eager expectancy, as, year by year, he fulfilled his splendid promise in larger ways. So many looked to him for comfort and strength. He had everything to live for, — bright and vigorous youth, great usefulness, brilliant success in his chosen pro- fession, a family who loved him, a noble wife, a darling child and hosts of warm friends. But suddenly his splendid career was stopped, and all was still. His life was like a letter with the first few sentences written, then the pen dropped, — never to be taken up again. His life was like a burst of music heard for a few minutes only as the great ocean steamer moves away into the mid-stream and into the fog as it starts out on its long voyage on the great deep. But he has left to us fragrant memories of a noble life, and some glimpses into his mind and heart in a 24 Russell Powell Jacoby. few prose writings, and some hundred or more poems which beautifully reveal the man. His prose work was largely devoted to special and editorial articles on current topics, and has not been collected or preserved. But several very clever fairy- stories by him were printed in various periodicals. One was called " The Sword Invincible " ; another, " Oisin, the Last of the Feni " ; another, " The Sad Court of Klowdes " ; which are, in their way, most unique romances ; and among his papers was found a vigorous drama, outlined, but only partially completed, with the scene laid in Revolutionary days in Phila- delphia, called " Wedded by Lot." One trait must not be forgotten that was in evidence throughout his life, — a deep love for Ireland, and the literature and lore of Ireland. His father was the owner of iron mines at Flourtown ; many of his own days and holidays were spent in the mines, and his early association with the miners, some of them good loyal Irishmen, doubtless had its effect in interesting him in their land and lore. He was of German ancestry on both sides, but noth- ing German appealed to him so deeply as the cause and the character of the land of Erin. He loved the Irish poets and the Irish legends. He was a master of Irish Rtcssell Powell Jacoby. 25 dialect, and when he married he chose for his wife a native of the North of Ireland, of good old Belfast Presbyterian stock. One of his earlier poems called A Frind of the Family is an illustration of his consum- mate art of Irish story-telling, and some of the latter poems, like On the St. Lawrence, Mother Erin Speaks, The Wild Flowers and Farewell to Erin, — poems writ- ten to his wife, — show that the same bubbling fountain of wit and grace and beauty had its happy source in a passionate love of Ireland. The poems that are presented in this volume are the best fifty selected from a hundred or more that he left in portfolios and scrap-books. He had begun to write early, and much of his earlier work showed brilliancy and promise, but lacked the maturity of his later years. The arrangement of the poems given here is not chro- nological, but in groups that seem to have some relation. The selection was made with the single thought — What would he care to have preserved and made public ? I know how fastidious he was in this matter. What is given in this volume is principally his maturer verse written in his last ten years, with here and there a speci- men of his earlier verse. Such poems as Mars, The Great Poet and The Message of the Carpenter are among his very latest 26 Russell Powell Jacoby. work, and certainly are among his strongest and best. His gifts were constantly ripening and maturing. And the best that is now preserved is but a prophecy of the strong and splendid work that might yet have been done had he been spared to fulfill the rich promise of his young manhood. The sweetest passages of Tennyson's In Memoriam, written for a friend like this, come to me as I think of this great loss. Milton's Lycidas and Shelley's Adonais are also appropriate tributes to him, for he was one of that heavenly choir of spirits consecrate and pure. Shelley the poet died young. Keats the poet died young. They were masters. This was a younger brother, a minor brother, but true and exquisitely fine and noble in thought and expression. He belonged to their noble company, and loved them. Oliver Huckel. Baltimore, lo February, 1900. RUSSELL POWELL JACOBY. {Memorial Sonnet.) God rest thee, loyal spirit, gone too soon ; But not in vain thy work, thy life so true ; Our ways seem brighter, thinking, friend, of you And that high courage which dispelled the gloom From many a darkling hour, and gave us room To see through clouds the everlasting blue ; Out of the flagon which now brims with rue We make a vase where tender flowers may bloom. If, as they say, that fittest souls alone Survive and enter the immortal rest. Thy fate is well assured. Anigh the throne Already thou art numbered with the blest ; There, where the loving, self-forgetting are. Thy mantle shows the radiance of a star. — Wtn. Hooper Howells. Newark, October 20, 1899. an appreciation. This is an attempt to realize the charm of a sunny life. It is an essay to catch the gleam of a luminous mind. It is a venture to present the grace of an all-too-brief career spent in the hurly-burly of the strenuous life of the closing years of the nineteenth century. Russell Powell Jacoby left school, while still young, to take up the work of a newspaper maker. He began at the beginning, and worked and won his way to the uppermost rounds of the journalistic ladder. The characteristics of the boy foreshadowed the man. He strove diligently and with a light heart. He was a fine example of both intellect and industry. It was his nature to be doing, just as it was his nature to share the misfortunes of his friends. He could no more resist the doing of an appreciated duty than he could resist the welling sympathy for those " submerged " members of society who brought their wants, their JO Russell Powell Jacoby. woes and their follies to his attention. And the num- ber of these was not small. His left hand was never permitted to know of the benefactions of his right. No one ever knew of the dispensations of this sturdy worker and gentle dreamer. He worked with a song in his heart ; while he was up and doing and singing, he dreamed constantly of the dawn of a new day, when the want and the misery of the masses would be miti- gated. He rarely advanced his social theories in his writings. He urged them with splendid earnestness in his conversations. On the other hand, his religious nature is revealed in his writings, although in his conversations he seldom discussed religious points. He was naturally religious, just as he was naturally generous and naturally refined. These qualities were innate. The influence which Mr. Jacoby's personality exerted on his friends and associates was pronounced. His gentle spirit diffused a warmth that affected all who came in contact with him. This was not the conse- quence of an abounding flow of animal spirits ; his personal equation was a blithesome geniality. Yet his delicate good nature was yoked with a high manly courage. When it came to grappling with the false and the unworthy, what a fight he could make ! When Russell Powell Jacoby. ji Sham intruded its smug face, and smirking Pretense ambled to the front clothed in the livery of Truth, he was a champion that never tired of doing his share of the work of upholding the cause of Right. In him were united the spirit of the poet and the temper of the knight. How naturally the unrestrained pen drifts from dis- passionate memorial into the lines of superlative enco- mium ! Such is the tribute which the bereaved heart pays to tender memory. But in this attempt to appre- ciate the character of Russell Powell Jacoby, it would be superfluous to indulge the license of the panygerist. A gentle individuality given over to industry ; a man whose goodness increased with his years ; a poet whose song was of hope and of peace ; a friend whose friendship endured all tests ; a gentleman who realized in his thoughts and his conduct the ideal of that too rare chivalrous class ; a Christian whose creed was bound by no narrow limits, — the plain telling of the virtues of this man, a modest attempt to depict the charm of his personality, is a more fitting memorial than the most fluent tribute of the panegyrist possibly could be. Henry Abbott Steel, Philadelphia, February 8, 1900. ^oems THE MESSAGE OF THE CARPENTER. Once to a man unlearned and poor, a lofty thought there came, That service, love and kindliness we owe to all the same ; That when we look on them that sin and suffer we should see The warrant to our brotherhood in their humanity. Not from the sages of the past, though some had wisely taught The way to good and happiness by Duty's path, he sought ; But simply, with the noblest thought that Love's sweet name we call. He gave his service, life and heart not unto one but all. ^6 The Message of the Carpenter. This man was young in years, and yet was old enough to know Our love and joy and grief (It brings him near to think it so.) His gentle creed he even may have learned at cruel cost. Oh ! mystery of love and death ! Perhaps have loved and lost. It was a time when all the lands were cursed by force and greed, When cruel men oppressed the poor and fattened on their need ; When schismatics with bitter zeal and fierce fanatic pride Strode heedless of the misery that to dumb Heaven cried, When revelled at the palace board, ambition, lust and hate, The Message of the Carpenter. jy While, famine, grim and hollow-eyed, crouched cursing at the gate. It was a time whose spirit spoke in thirst for power and gains, A day of masters and of slaves, of scourges, swords and chains. There came a day when in his heart that thought so fiercely burned, He knew the call to speak it forth, and from his bench he turned, To bear his message unto men, and some when they received, Beheld its beauty and its truth, and followed and believed. It was no tangled scheme he wove, no labored system planned, ^8 The Message of the Carpenter. He spoke the words of love and hope that all might understand : That wiser far than they that strive for power, fame or wealth, Are they who find delight in sweet forgetfulness of self ; That pleasure loud as duty calls on every man to bless His brother with unfailing care and tender kindliness. Yet though he spake : " Resist not ill," with stern indig- nant eyes He turned on them that robbed the poor or fed their faith on lies. And so his foes were fierce and strong, and still the wrath increased. Of bigot and of usurer, of ruler and of priest. They feared the doctrine that he taught. They felt with quaking hearts The Message of the Carpenter. jp The trembling of their ancient law, their temples and their marts. But, constant to his message still, he bore it far and wide, And though he knew their hate and power was yet unterrified. What marvel that in holy zeal he felt his thought divine And in the face of God beheld his own compassion shine ? So clear that though when death was near in shame and agony, " My God ! My God ! " he cried," " Oh why hast thou forsaken me ? " Yet at the end assurance came, and confident in prayer, His sinking soul was undismayed, — the Father's arms were there. 40 The Message of the Carpenter. But many who have heard his word, its message still despise, They call him holy, just and pure. They do not think him wise. The love that was to him a joy and duty plain and real, They hold a vision and a dream, a distant dim ideal. Their lives are set on other lines, they strive for other ends, And yet with life's discordant notes, strange music sometimes blends. And then they feel within their hearts the truth for which he died, That love is all in all : and then — They straightway turn aside To seek for hidden mysteries in all his kindly deeds. And darken all his loving words with legends and with creeds. LABOR IN CHAINS. He stands before the rich and great, Like captive Samson bUnd and bound, And winds his mighty arms around The lofty pillars of the State. From lips of brass and hearts of stone. Around him slaves and masters raise Their songs of worship, fear and praise, To Mammon perched on Dagon's throne. He hears, and all his pulses thrill — Not to the measure of their song — To memories of want and wrong And toiling in the prison mill. ^2 Labor in Chains. Oh, hope deferred and longing vain ! Oh, gyved limbs that once were free ! Oh, scarred eyes that may not see ! Oh, breaking heart and reeling brain ! All careless of his misery, Or mocking him, the rulers stand. — Will no man take him by the hand And lead him forth and set him free ? THE FORTRESS OF A LIE. Though men to build a fortress for a lie Should toil like Titans for a thousand years, Cement its walls with ashes, blood and tears, And raise its frowning ramparts mountain high, Vain were the task. To set the people free Some knightly hero should at last arise, And drag their idol forth before their eyes In all its naked vile deformity. Ah, foolish builders that lay stone on stone In cunning masonry in Error's wall ! Ye do but build the ruin of the fall When these high towers shall be overthrown. 44 The Fortress of a Lie. And vainly ye your trusted guards do set To vigil keep o'er your unhallowed hold Giant Terror, Avarice, in proof of gold, And Superstition on the parapet. In Error's hall runs riot high and fast They mock at misery, they sneer at hate, — But hark ! An awful summons at the gate ! Aye hark ! 'Tis Truth's avenging trumpet's blast. MARS. I On that red wanderer of the ebon seas The students gazed, and to their cunning store Of truth and speculation, more and more They added by laborious degrees. Yet still unsolved its greater mysteries Remained. What life is on that luminous shore ? What love ? What knowledge ? What quick fancies soar To seek our earth ? What keen anxieties And longings may for us have signals planned ? " These things," the students said, " unfathomed are, And men shall never know nor understand." Meantime a baby at the light afar Snatched quickly, and as he unclosed his hand Much marvelled that he had not caught the star. 46 Mars. II But one weak woman — she that died last night, So worn with pain, that even God's behest We thought could bring no better boon than rest To her — fared forth in strong exultant flight On wings of peace, and did at last alight On that fair world. She tarried in her quest Of brighter realms, and said : " It showeth best The love of God that in the first delight Wherewith the soul to its new freedom springs, Exploring the illimitable spaces, It hath no long and lonely wanderings, But close to earth finds pleasant resting places, So near that all unwearied are my wings, And I can still behold my loved ones' faces." THE GREAT POET. When the great Poet, he Who crowned shall be Through countless aeons still the king Of them that sing, Shall at the last appear upon the earth, To make its riven harmonies complete, Will we his worth Behold, and strew the laurel at his feet ? Or will his song for years On heedless ears Fall vain as seed from sower's hands On desert lands ? Will fame for him throw wide her temple's gate ? Or will he vainly beat against the bars, Lone, desolate. The lordly spirit that would scale the stars ? ? The Great Poet. Rather shall this thing be His destiny : Not fame nor lowliness his fate, His portion, hate. The world, in craft of age and crown of pride, Hath ever its old spirit. In its youth It crucified The prophets and the Prince of Peace and Truth. To it his living word Shall be a sword. For truth his vehement desire, A plague of fire. For state, and law, and custom, fame and mart Shall feel his scourge, till men cry out in rage Against his art. And this shall be the story of his age : — " The blind receive their sight — And curse the light. The Great Poet. 4g And deaf men hear — and in reply For silence cry. The halt whose palsied limbs are stirred Cry out in pain. The coward makes acclaim, ' Oh fatal word That turned my cool and tranquil blood to flame.' " From them that bite the dust For Power's lust Kings trembling on their lofty thrones Hear shrieks and groans. The rich, when riot rules the feast, Hear, still and small, yet terrible, the cry Of 'een the least Who toil on hungered and a hungered die." Then laws that ruled above The law of love, Old forms with dust of ages gray. Pass slow away. ^o The Great Poet. Sure as the sea's resistless tides Doth swell the power that makes the song sublime, Till freedom rides A conqueror along the ranks of Time. Old chains and fetters break, With Truth awake. In vain black Error's armies fight Against the light. What matter though the Poet toil in tears And die ere harvest glory crown the field ? A thousand years Shall reapers gather in the golden yield. ON THE SEAS. On the waves there be boats that glide, Fragile toys of the wind and tide, And mighty ships that seem to be Floating fortresses of the sea. Yet, sometimes when the heavens frown, The stoutest barks of them all go down. And, dancing over the waves in sport. The skiff of the fisher makes the port. So it is with the fleets that sail Hope's broad billow on fortune's gale. Some built for cargoes rich and rare, Some with little of toil or care. Often into the port of fate, Only the skiffs bring home their freight. And the murmured dirge of wind and seas. Swells for our sunken argosies. NOW TO THE THIRSTY CITY'S EAGER LIPS. [Written on the occasion of the opening of the new water supply for the city of Newark, N. J.] Now to the Thirsty City's eager lips Is pressed a draught as pure and sweet As a fair maiden sips ; When on a summer day her idly wandering feet Bear her to some lone dell, where murmurings Of mountain springs Make music to wild flowers ; And, shaping of her hollowed palms a cup, She dips them in the grateful little stream, And gathers up Its gift, that from her rosy fingers showers In drops that like white scattered jewels gleam. Now to the Thirsty City's Eager Lips. jj It was not so — Not such light, random, easy conquest gained The treasure guerdon of Pequannock's rills. Men for the stream built prisons in the hills. Its might they chained. And balking its endeavor to be free, They bade it grow For nobler service, higher destiny. Across the valleys where uncounted days, Wending their devious ways. The brook and river wandered aimlessly, Men reared their mighty bulwarks saying : "Here Thy restless current stay and do our will." Then slowly grew two placid lakes, until One climbed its prison wall, Adown the deep Rock-riven gorge to leap With thunderous call, As if to give that other captive cheer, — §4 Now to the Thirsty City's Eager Lips. That slave, so fierce in love of liberty, That through the very rock on which were laid Its deep foundations of captivity, Its waters made Their cunning labyrinthian way ; At length In sunlight at the great wall's foot to play, And mock their scheming jailers' skill and strength. And then are blent Escaped waters, spirits turbulent Of storms that bent on rugged hills and bleak. With those that men release From the twin Bastiles' gates, Bidding them go in peace. And the far city seek That for their coming waits. Swiftly the waters glide. River and brook are met, Now to the Thirsty City's Eager Lips. 55 Meadows on either side. Tempted awhile to rest, May not the stream forget Whither its way is set ? Nay ; now, with swifter pace Beating its eager breast On the grim stones that He Full in its course, It enters the Place of the Hills, And is off on its race ; Gathering force From the rills That up on the mountain hear The message of courage and cheer Of its song, As it lashes itself to spray Beating the boulders. They long. With its strength to rejoice, To share in the fray. 5<5 Now to the Thirsty City's Eager Lips. They hasten each from his home, Crying with tinkhng voice To the river below : " We come ! Oh ! a part let us bear In the game of strife you play. Cool is the spring's retreat, The peace of the mountain is there, But the joy of battle is sweet ! " So that stream flows Between great hills where nature set her seal Of desolation and of loneliness, And ever grows Its power to cheer, to comfort and to bless. And where the waters eddy, foam and reel In the alembic of their turbulence More lustrous purity in strife they find. And now the last great barrier ! Behind That lake the jewel of the landscape Hes, Now to the Thirsty City's Eager Lips. ^j Before the crystal cataract, and thence That dark and mighty gallery of steel Through which the blind and captive waters feel Their way : now climb the steep To some tall hill to rise ; Now plunge into the valley, now o'erleap Some kindred stream ; now burrow deep Beneath another, — till at last, The journey past. They, bursting from those miles of night Into the light. Crowd the great pitchers with exultant speed, Wherein the city stores The waters that she pours To fill the vessels of her children's need. Welcome, oh, living spring ! Nature's sweet child, Gracious and undefiled. Smiling and gay ! 5