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Class JPS^aS^^g 
 Book__.ttJ5'T(y3L 
 
 Copyright N^_._i%4^ 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
VAGOUS VERSE 
 
 BY 
 
 R.' L. C. WHITE 
 
 Ego me illorum dederim quibus esse poetas 
 Excerpam numero 
 
 Horace 
 
 PRIVATELY PRINTED 
 1904 
 
THK t!SHAi*Y or 
 
 
 Copyright, 1903, by R. L. C. White 
 
 PRESS OF 
 
 BRANDON PRINTING COMPANY 
 
 N ASH V ILLE 
 
T O 
 
 CHARLES H. BRANDON 
 
 A FRIEND IN ALL 
 
 KINDS OF WEATHER 
 
NOTE 
 
 This is an explanation, not an apology. 
 
 Of the verses which are here gathered together, some have 
 been reprinted from the various periodicals in which they orig- 
 inally appeared, while a few now attain for the first time the 
 dignity of type. That they have been made into a book at all 
 is due to the insistence of friends of the author, and contrary 
 to his own judgment. The volume is not "published" in the 
 technical or trade signification of that term ; but, as will be seen 
 on the title-page, is privately printed, being intended solely for 
 the behoof of the friends to whose partiality it owes its existence, 
 and to gratify their expressed desire to preserve in permanent 
 form verses which have met their approbation. Of the general 
 public the author takes as little thought as the general public 
 doubtless takes of him : "The lions did n't give a dern for Dan'el, 
 and Dan'el did n't give a dern for the lions." 
 
 As no professional critic can honestly come by a copy of this 
 book, any printed criticism of it must necessarily be a crass im- 
 pertinence. 
 
 Nashville, January, 1^04. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 A Ballade of Making Cake 88 
 
 A Ballad of the Wheel 47 
 
 A Birthday Talk with Horace 103 
 
 A Casual Calendar ....... 113 
 
 Acephalous 56 
 
 A Charade . 64 
 
 A Feat of Feet 100 
 
 A Gray Day 75 
 
 A Love of Long Ago 42 
 
 An Enigma • • 55 
 
 Angela's Lisp ........ 81 
 
 An Object Lesson 99 
 
 Apart 74 
 
 A Pluvial Dithyramb 106 
 
 April Showers loi 
 
 A Recipe . 54 
 
 A Toast 51 
 
 At the Circus 90 
 
 A Wilcoxian Experiment ...... 102 
 
 Barrier 67 
 
 Bones" 27 
 
 But One 63 
 
 Carrier's Christmas Address 9 
 
 Celeste 76 
 
 Chacun a Son Gout 30 
 
 Circus Time 118 
 
 D. D 119 
 
 Disillusion 73 
 
 Her Smile 70 
 
 Hic Jacet 53 
 
 Inscriptions 52 
 
 7 
 
Jessie 78 
 
 Kicked 98 
 
 Largesse 86 
 
 Lilies of the Valley 59 
 
 Memorial Ode 32 
 
 Metempscychosis 68 
 
 "Mrs. Malapkop" 29 
 
 "My Lady Nicotine" 109 
 
 " Nunc Bibimus " 87 
 
 One Perfect Day 60 
 
 On the Willow Road 57 
 
 Ornithological 117 
 
 The Country Editor 12 
 
 The Eternal Interrogative iii 
 
 The Gift of God 79 
 
 The New Ithuriel .21 
 
 The Sex 39 
 
 The South to the Autocrat 25 
 
 The Trooper's Oath 44 
 
 The Widow 97 
 
 Third Person Singular 95 
 
 Three Words 72 
 
 To a Little Mick 84 
 
 To AN ex-Love 92 
 
 To Araminta 83 
 
 To a Sweet Saint 85 
 
 To Both of You 82 
 
 To Mary on Earth 71 
 
 You 62 
 
 Your Fortune 69 
 
 Your Picture 65 
 
VAGOUS VERSE 
 
 CARRIER'S CHRISTMAS ADDRESS 
 
 December 25, 1868 
 
 OLOWLY pale the constellations, shimmers faint the stellar sheen, 
 ^ Flecked with pearl and silver glints the early dawn crepusculine, 
 Fade the opal clouds and vanish, disappears the lucent mist, 
 Quick the orient, iridescent, gleams with gold and amethyst. 
 
 Flaming up the east, the splendrous sun, serene and still, looks down 
 On the soft and silent snow-sheet ermining the tranquil town; 
 Touched by the Ithuriel spear-point glancing in each gilded ray, 
 Shadows melt, and so, resplendent, dawns another Christmas Day. 
 
 Christmas comes — the year, senescent, falters, drops his sceptre, dies — 
 Glacial gleams the mausoleum where in cerement-snow he lies; 
 Time allows no interregnum in the royal cyclic line: 
 'Sixty-eight's tiara graces quick the brow of 'Sixty-nine. 
 
 Christmas comes, a bright memento of that starry morning when 
 Seraph voices hymned, harmonious, "Peace on earth, good will to men!" 
 Ave ! ave ! lo pcBan! — so we hail it from afar, 
 Christmas, harbinger of gladness — Christmas, Christ's blest avatar! 
 
 No Cleofas am I, truly — from no house, for my behoof. 
 
 Does a kindly Asmodeus lift the sight-obscuring roof — 
 
 Yet, without or art or magic, 't is an easy task to say 
 
 What the scenes which are enacted underneath each roof today. 
 
Early as the gray of morning gives sufficient light to see, 
 Open-eyed the joyous children spring from bed in noisy glee, 
 Little fingers tingling, little hearts with hope and pleasure thrilled. 
 Eager to inspect the stockings generous Santa Claus has filled. 
 
 Ah ! what tender, tender memories strew the pathway of the past ! 
 Ah ! what shattered idols witness Time a rude iconoclast ! 
 Ah ! with what reluctant fondness do our lingering footsteps pause, 
 As we leave the magic kingdom of our childhood's Santa Claus! 
 
 Crowds of joyous-hearted children soon are filling store and street. 
 
 Interchanging salutations with the friends they chance to meet — 
 
 Sure, misanthropy's fell shadow from a cynic's soul would lift, 
 
 Could he hear their gleeful greetings : "Merry Christmas !" "Christmas gift !" 
 
 Now, beneath the genial roof-tree, friends and welcomed guests appear. 
 Ranged around the Christmas table laden high with Christmas cheer ; 
 Of the scene content and happiness the ruling spirits seem, 
 Care is banished to Boeotia — jocund humor reigns supreme. 
 
 When they gather round the yule-log, sparkling on the glowing hearth, 
 Then there comes a shade of sadness, quieting the careless mirth ; 
 Comes the thought of one beloved, one dear face and form not there — 
 Comes uncalled, but not vmwelcome — for there is a vacant chair. 
 
 Vacant now, since he who filled it, when his duty bade him go. 
 Leal of heart and strong of spirit, went to meet his country's foe; 
 Vacant, for his form is lying calm beneath the verdured sod. 
 And his patriot soul is resting in the bosom of his God ! 
 
 Cypress sombre for the memory of the dead who died in vain : 
 Love and laurel for the hero, scarred but safe, at home again ; 
 
 lo 
 
War has left its traces on him, but he still has voice to tell 
 
 How the plume of Forrest floated, how the sword of Jackson fell! 
 
 How the cavaliers of Morgan, hilt to hilt and hand to hand. 
 Met and routed the invaders of our sunny southern land; 
 How the crimson star-cross banner, streaming o'er the battle-flood. 
 Gleamed an oriflamme of glory, till, subdued, it sank in blood. 
 
 Lo! in occidental splendor sinks the sun adown the west; 
 Night appears, an empress regnant, in her star-gemmed sables dressed; 
 Slowly pales the crumbling yule-log, grown cinerulent and gray — 
 So, with gathering shadows circled, dies another Christmas Day. 
 
THE COUNTRY EDITOR 
 
 Extracts from a poem read before 
 the Tennessee Press Association, 
 February 3, 1870 
 
 T]^RSr, when the sultry summer sun poured down 
 
 -■-• Jiis fiercest beams on this devoted town, 
 
 And everything was hot and dull and dry, 
 
 An august body met — though 't was July; 
 
 A noble band of martyrs they, in truth ; 
 
 Knights of the pen — some errant knights, forsooth, 
 
 But men of mettle all (type metal), who. 
 
 To honor loyal and to virtue true. 
 
 When duty called, could lay a lance in rest. 
 
 And tilt a tourney with the very best — 
 
 Called '^^members of the press" to ears polite, 
 
 By hoi polloi "ink-slingers" were they hight. 
 
 They came — these magnates from the east and west, 
 
 These "wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best," 
 
 They met in state; and Boyers took the chair — 
 
 What beauty blent with grace presided there ! 
 
 They talked — and talked "like brave men, long and well," 
 
 And so at last in this way it befell 
 
 That one poetic, meek-eyed youth arose. 
 
 And scorning the dull trammels of mere prose, 
 
 Asked, "Is n't it pitiful 
 
 That near a whole city full. 
 Not to say state full, of editors we 've got, 
 
 And alas for the hiatus 
 
 In the divine afUatus, 
 There is n't a poet in the blasted lot !" 
 
Then this youth, slenderly 
 
 Fashioned and tenderly, 
 Delicate, azure-eyed, young and so fair. 
 
 Speaking thus, lingers, 
 
 Running his fingers. 
 Jewelled and white, through his perfumed hair. 
 
 Smoothing his tresses. 
 
 While wonderment guesses, 
 "Have the Muses no place in the Tennessee press? 
 
 Have we no brother, 
 
 Somewhere or other, 
 Who can get up some kind of a rhyming address?" 
 
 And now begins the Iliad of my woes, 
 For here a certain "heavy man" arose ; 
 
 "As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form. 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm"- 
 So he the solemn silence boldly broke. 
 Lifted his awful form, and swelled and spoke : 
 
 "No poets, quotha! I repel the charge! 
 Our stock of that utensil 's amply large. 
 Sir, 't is related that the first white man 
 Who stepped upon the soil of Michigan 
 Exclaimed, when he beheld on every hand 
 Tlie many beauties of that lovely land, 
 In Latin (of the canine dialect) 
 The following words, or words to that effect : 
 'If you are on the hunt for first class ground. 
 You'd best stop here, and take a look around' ; — 
 So, in the language of that pioneer, 
 'Si queris' poets, 'circunispicc' here !" 
 
 13 
 
And, challenged thus, of course they looked around, 
 But — need I say it — ne'er a poet found. 
 In all that crowd of genius-gifted men, 
 Those potent wielders of the potent pen, 
 Those Samsons of the press, newspaper "Tritons 
 Among the minnows," intellectual Titans 
 (Not tight 'uns — mayhap that came afterwards). 
 Those aces of the journalistic cards. 
 Who swayed at will the minds of countless readers 
 In pungent paragraphs and heavy leaders. 
 Among them all, alas ! there was n't one 
 Could write a line of verse, saving, alone, 
 The "heavy man." His call none of the Muses, 
 However shy or willful, e'er refuses ; 
 Beneath his skillful and accustomed rule 
 His Pegasus is patient as a mule; 
 His name will "sound adown the distant ages," 
 The laureate of countless album pages ! 
 But he was coy, and would not be persuaded. 
 And hid his blushing face, and so evaded 
 The curious gaze — "indeed, he really could n't" — 
 And, whispering, "I will ne'er consent," he would n't! 
 
 To make the story short, the general voice 
 Centered at last on me — 't was "Hobson's choice" ! 
 For, though no touch of Mount Parnassus' fire 
 Hath been vouchsafed to my poor, broken lute, 
 Its chords dissevered, musicless and mute. 
 Bearing no kinship to Apollo's lyre — 
 And though my Pegasus — a sorry beast — 
 Is scarce a quarter-nag, to say the least, 
 
 14 
 
Ill-fed, unkempt and slow as any snail, 
 
 With countless cockle-burs in mane and tail, 
 
 With every equine ill in him combined, 
 
 Spavined, string-halted, broken-winded, blind — 
 
 Although my verse could not in truth be worse, 
 
 Being not poetry but the re-verse — 
 
 Though the machine from which in former times 
 
 I ground a few disjointed, halting rhymes 
 
 Upon occasion, is of late, I fear. 
 
 Rusty, unoiled and sadly out of gear — 
 
 Nathless, of all the journalistic guild 
 
 I am alone in rhyming not unskilled. 
 
 And so, perforce, to this strange dignity aspire : 
 
 Of all the editorial corps the only lyre ! 
 
 This being thus, they chose me there, nem. con.. 
 
 Preferring even half a loaf to none. 
 
 Or deeming even prosy rhyme to be 
 
 Better than prose — /line illce lack-rhyme-ce. 
 
 It is no easy berth, I must confess : 
 
 Poet in ordinary to The Press, 
 
 Rhymer-in-Chief — Verse Generalissimo — 
 
 My "blushing honors" very heavy grow. 
 
 But, let me say, all persiflage aside, 
 
 I take the trust with diffidence and pride-^ 
 
 Pride that my honored brethren of the quill, 
 
 The craft for whom, through good report and ill, 
 
 The warmest pulses of my bosom beat. 
 
 Whose lot is mine, in victory or defeat, 
 
 Deem me not all unworthy to appear 
 
 Their representative tonight and here ; 
 
 15 
 
And double diffidence — for that, although, 
 Ere that the god of day begins to glow. 
 The shimmering stars mayhap attract the sight, 
 When he appears, in radiant glory bright, 
 And midway in the orbed sky aspires. 
 They, modest, "pale their uneffectual fires" : 
 And so might even I have hoped, perchance, 
 To gain at least a transitory glance. 
 Perhaps a kindly glance — but, ah ! too soon 
 Appears the sun in bright, effulgent noon ! 
 How can I hope for aught but pity — I, 
 A feeble star — when suns are in the sky? 
 
 Vouchsafe assistance now. Genius of Brass ! 
 I sing the Country Editor — alas ! 
 The times are fallen ill indeed, tliat fate 
 Grant such a theme no nobler laureate! 
 
 Notice the adjective — I sing alone 
 
 The country editor; although, I own, 
 
 I'd like to join another's praise with his: 
 
 The editor of the metropolis ! 
 
 But, ah ! his wreath another hand must twine — 
 
 Such flight 's too grand for feeble wings like mine ; 
 
 Small boats must keep near shore, or be undone, 
 
 And Icarus may not approach the sun ! 
 
 And so, unsung by me must be his praises, 
 
 His virtues, charms, accomplishments and graces. 
 
 i6 
 
So, rapidly to other themes I pass : 
 Behold the country editors en masse! 
 As they convened in solemn state today, 
 "The lively, the severe, the grave, the gay," 
 A motley crew it was, in very sooth — 
 Gray hairs and middle age and callow youth; 
 A few old stagers — veteran pioneers 
 Who blazed the path for us of later years, 
 Relics of golden days that are no more, 
 Of "coon" and "rooster," 'Forty and 'Forty-four, 
 Who bore their poke-stalk lances with the rest. 
 Or skyed their caps for Harry of the West, 
 Whose battle-cry rang clarion-like and clear 
 Through the whole state, from Shelby to Sevier! 
 Long may their faces in our midst be seen. 
 And, when they die, Lord, keep their memory green ! 
 
 And one there was, the oldest of them all — 
 
 His age, in fact, was quite apocryphal ; 
 
 A "jour" while yet the steam-press was unknown, 
 
 He 'd put in type the death of Washington; 
 
 Among the craft 't was the belief of some 
 
 That he at least was "here when C'lumbus come !" 
 
 And others yet, of faith still more sublime, 
 
 Held a tradition of an earlier time, 
 
 When, in his younger days he had been "bossed" 
 
 As junior devil by Gutenberg and Faust! 
 However true or false that be, we may not know or care, 
 But every printer here, I 'm sure, will join me in the prayer 
 That the summer sun may gently shine above his honored head, 
 And many autumns wane before his course of life is sped, 
 
 17 
 
And his stout old heart resist the frosts of many another winter — 
 God bless and keep the dear "old man" — the oldest living printer! 
 
 The genus "country editor," unblest 
 With specie, has its species, like the rest; 
 Of these, suffice it that I mention two. 
 As specimens: the pseudo and the true. 
 
 And first the pseudo editors — alack ! 
 
 The curs that curse the journalistic pack! 
 
 If our profession have a Nemesis, 
 
 Surely she concentrates her wrath in this, 
 
 When, fellest, foulest, cruellest device. 
 
 She spawns that wretched thing, the editorial fice! 
 
 No words of mine may fittingly express 
 
 The scorn I bear the Ishmael of the press — 
 
 The venomous caitifT who employs his pen 
 
 To rant, and lie, and slander gentlemen; 
 
 And who in his malignant self contains 
 
 All of Thersites' spleen without Thersites' brains! 
 
 Take up his sheet — touch pitch and be defiled — 
 
 See grammar murdered, rhetoric run wild, 
 
 Passion incited, decency decried, 
 
 Wisdom contemned, and party deified! 
 
 Behold invective supersede debate. 
 
 Instead of argument read billingsgate. 
 
 See defamation courtesy supplant. 
 
 And, seeking reason, be supplied with rant! 
 
Let none suppose, since journals so abound, 
 That real editors are frequent found ; 
 In journalism the scripture rule holds true: 
 'The called are many, but the chosen, few"; 
 They err who fancy editing a trade — 
 The genuine editor is "born, not made." 
 Let me describe him, if perhaps I may. 
 As he exists in Tennessee today — 
 The sketch is crude and rough, and yet, I trust. 
 Since it is drawn from life, at least 't is just: 
 In mind well-balanced, and in judgment shrewd, 
 Ready to comprehend, prompt to conclude, 
 Fertile in resource, able to adapt 
 Means to the end desired, facile and apt 
 At seeing men and things in their true light. 
 Firm in belief, and competent to write 
 A ready reason lucidly therefor. 
 Such is the genuine, true, born editor; 
 Whose mind, unswayed by prejudice, can see 
 Some little merit in an enemy ; 
 Who, holding truth of all the virtues chief, 
 Detests a slanderer as he does a thief — 
 Being in briefer terms, precisely what 
 The mangy journalistic cur is not ! 
 You '11 find him in his office — busy, of course, 
 For he is busy constantly, perforce. 
 Being oft-times publisher, and frequently 
 By stress of circumstance required to be 
 Pressman, compositor and mailing clerk, 
 And sometimes devil in a rush of work. 
 
 19 
 
And then for him to live at all, 't is clear, 
 He must be something of a financier; 
 His greenbacks are not over plentiful, 
 Since, in accordance with the general rule. 
 The country editor must print the news, 
 Agree with each subscriber's special views, 
 Write well on every subject in creation, 
 From crops and weather up to education ; 
 Support with all the ardor of his nature. 
 Some jack-leg lawyer for the legislature. 
 Print callow rhymes on "love" ad infinitum, 
 For every miss who has a mind to write 'em, 
 With puffs ad lib. — and be content to edit. 
 Publish and mail his paper on a credit! 
 
 Where'er or what my future lot may be. 
 Whatever fate may have in store for me. 
 Nor length of time, nor intervening space, 
 Nor weal, nor woe, nor aught can e'er efface 
 This recollection — it will ever be 
 The choicest treasure left to memory — 
 How that my honored brethren of the quill. 
 The craft for whom, through good report or ill, 
 The warmest pulses of my bosom beat. 
 Whose lot is mine in victory or defeat. 
 Deemed me not all unworthy to appear 
 Their representative tonight and here — 
 The color-bearer, even for a time, 
 Of truth's own valiant body-guard sublime. 
 The consecrated champions of the free: 
 The genuine country editors of Tennessee. 
 
 20 
 
THE NEW ITHURIEL 
 
 Read before the Tennessee 
 
 Press Association, 
 
 June 12, 1874 
 
 1 
 
 jC^RST, imparadised in Eden's bosky depths of bowered shade, 
 ^ Hand in hand our primal parents through its garden-reaches strayed, 
 Verdurous mead before them stretching, flowery fragrance in the air. 
 Guileless of all thought of evil — innocent and happy pair I 
 
 Now, the sun, serene and splendrous, drops adown the Occident; 
 Now, with stars like gleaming gems the arching azure is besprent ; 
 Now, the argent moon, full-orbed, slowly climbs the silent skies. 
 Pallid, placid, peaceful, looking down on night in Paradise. 
 
 Touching, as with lucent pencil, leafy holt and heath and bower. 
 Shimmering silvery splendor softly over tree and vine and flower. 
 Glinting o'er the gliding beck, which, purling through the stilly air, 
 Gently, with its rythmic cadence, lullabies the sleeping pair. 
 
 Bend the tendrilled vines above them, stirred by Eden's vesper breeze, 
 Sway the tender leaves and slender branches of the virid trees; 
 Underneath a fragrant bower, cool, sequestered, shadowed dense. 
 Rest they, benisoned with peace and garmented with innocence. 
 
 Mayhap, while celestial songsters choir their epithalamy. 
 
 Comes a vision, bright, elysian, of felicity to be — 
 
 Of a future fair and sinless, aureoled with happiness — 
 
 Of another being which their heaven-joined lives and loves shall bless — 
 
 Of the dim, far-reaching ages, yet within the womb of time — 
 Of a people heaven-appointed to a destiny sublime — 
 
Of a teeming world whose thronging millions, many-tongued, shall trace 
 Lineage from them, the primogenial parents of the race. 
 
 Lo! the wily Tempter, foul and fell of purpose, enters in, 
 
 Seeking if he haply may entice their innocence to sin ; 
 
 Now behold him, all his devilish arts essaying to deceive, 
 
 Masked in guise of humble seeming, "squat close at the ear of Eve." 
 
 Quickly from the courts celestial, where, in serried ranks' array, 
 Phalanxed "youth of heaven" the glory of supernal power display. 
 At the bidding of his chieftain, to oppose the Prince of Hell, 
 Comes the "strong and subtle spirit," armor-clad Ithuriel. 
 
 Comes, as comes the flashing meteor, when it cleaves the cope of heaven- 
 Comes, as comes the winged lightning, when the central blue is riven — 
 Comes — and Satan recognizing, thrills with fiendish rage and fear. 
 For within his hand Ithuriel holds his talismanic spear — 
 
 Spear endued with latent virtues of celestial temper such 
 That no falsehood undiscovered may abide its magic touch. 
 But revealed uncouth, repulsive, stripped of its seductive guise. 
 Counterfeiting truth no longer, from its potent presence flies. 
 
 II 
 
 Such the myth Miltonic. Friends, I rede ye, heed ye well its teaching. 
 For its silver holds a golden lesson, wonderful, far-reaching; 
 Unto you, as with the sigil of some God-commissioned angel. 
 Bringing, in this later time, a new and glorious evangel. 
 
 Unto you, my comrades, cometh the celestial revelation: 
 
 Truth is yours — to you committed is its care and conservation; 
 
Take the trust with reverent joyance — look you that you guard it well — 
 Each a heaven-appointed champion — each a new Ithuriel. 
 
 This the age of fraud and fiction — right contemned and truth decried, 
 Error followed, reverenced — flaunting falsehood worshipped, deified; 
 This the age when sham and shoddy, wrong, venality and vice 
 Flourish and wax fat, and law is quoted at a market price ! 
 
 This the age when peculation, cursed fruit of greed of gain. 
 Carnivals in high positions, tainting thousands with its stain; 
 This the age in which is witnessed the omnipotence of gold, 
 This the age when men and office openly are bought and sold! 
 
 Yet was never day so darksome but it brightened ere 't was done; 
 Never yet was cloud so sable but behind it shone the sun; 
 Never yet, in all the ages, since the Prince of Darkness fell, 
 Hath there been a falsehood but encountered its Ithuriel. 
 
 So, the age of antique fable finds its parallel in this; 
 
 So, the falsehood of the present finds a present Nemesis ; 
 
 So, of Truth a valorous champion comes our modern age to bless — 
 
 Tireless, fearless, fervent, faithful, free — behold it in the Press! 
 
 Aye, the press — ordained of heaven in this later day to be 
 Pharos of down-trodden peoples, avatar of Liberty — 
 For the fell phalanx of Falsehood knowing lenity nor ruth. 
 Waging, chivalrous and valiant, warfare for the cause of Truth. 
 
 Truth is potent — nay, omnipotent — and may not know decay; 
 'God's eternal years are hers," and God's own hand confirms her sway; 
 Truth is changeless and immortal, vivid with perennial youth — 
 Hail ! unconquerable goddess — hail ! divine, almighty Truth i 
 
 23 
 
Comrades mine, behold your goddess, born in heaven and heaven-appointed, 
 Apotheosized of God, with his celestial chrism anointed, 
 Crowned and sceptred, royal, bright — supernal bays her brow entwining, 
 And the haloed light of heaven along her radiant pathway shining! 
 
 Never beautifuller mistress smiled on plumed paladin, 
 
 Lealer subjects knelt obeisant never to a lovelier queen — 
 
 She to you a sovereign regnant, laurelled, loved, of lieges chiefest: 
 
 You to her defenders, champions, of her children alderliefest. 
 
 Thus, to you, my comrades, cometh the celestial revelation: 
 Truth is yours — to you committed is its care and conservation; 
 This the charge to you entrusted — guard it faithfully and well — 
 Each of Truth the chosen champion — each a new Ithuriel. 
 
 24 
 
THE SOUTH TO THE AUTOCRAT 
 
 For the celebration of the seventieth 
 anniversary of the birth of Oliver 
 Wendell Holmes, 1879 
 
 /Browned with the crown of serene old age, 
 ^ While your bosom thrills and your pulse is stirred 
 By the greetings voiced to singer and sage, 
 The southland proffers an added word. 
 
 And it comes to you warm from a warmer zone — 
 
 For the miles that stretch between friend and friend 
 
 Are but an intangible telephone. 
 
 With a throbbing heart at either end. 
 
 Over hastening leagues the invisibl'e wires 
 
 Quicken and quiver their whole length through 
 
 With a message that reverent love inspires 
 And bears from the soul of the south to you. 
 
 For not in the heart of the nearer north — 
 
 Though it hardly needs that we tell you that — 
 
 Does loyaller homage bourgeon forth 
 Than glows in ours for the Autocrat. 
 
 Through all of the fair and far expanse 
 Of the realm you rule by a right divine 
 
 No voice of "rebel" hath utterance. 
 
 No Mason and Dixon have drawn a line. 
 
 For the haloed pen that the world reveres — 
 The sceptre wherewith you sway us all — 
 
 25 
 
Held, through the bitter and bloody years, 
 For the stricken south no drop of gall. 
 
 And though for the nation's perilled life 
 Its point gleamed constant and vigorous, 
 
 When an end had come of the woful strife. 
 It voiced but pity, not hate, for us. 
 
 And so, while tributes of loyal love 
 From a nearer clime already heard 
 
 The fervent force of its fealty prove, 
 
 The south adds a cordial and grateful word. 
 
 26 
 
BONES" 
 
 Read before the National Fertiliser Manu- 
 facturers' Association, at Nashville, 
 November 19, 1895 
 
 T/ NOWLEDGE of bones a doctor must possess — 
 
 He'd be a poor apology without it; 
 The theme 's a very dry one, I confess — 
 
 But I '11 proceed, and "make no bones" about it. 
 
 "Dry as a bone" : the simile 's not bad, 
 
 Applied to gentlemen of your vocation — 
 So, being, like my subject, dry, I 'm glad 
 To see you 're not averse to irrigation. 
 
 The ancient prophet to the dry bones preached, 
 And so was able back to life to win them; 
 
 Success like this with bones you have not reached, 
 
 Although I 'm told you 've found some profit in them. 
 
 But you work miracles : with magic skill, 
 
 A few dry bones, some rocks, a little acid — 
 
 And lo! in every vale, on every hill. 
 
 The golden grain smiles plentiful and placid. 
 
 Upon life's stage each one must play a part; 
 
 Each, small or great, perforce must be an actor: 
 This one with evil, this with kindly art, 
 
 This one a curse, and this a benefactor. 
 
 And you are benefactors; you may claim 
 
 To be the farmer's best friends and advisers, 
 
 27 
 
Making, with real philanthropic aim, 
 Pro bono publico, bone fertilizers. 
 
 And heroes; not in war's ungentle art, 
 
 But in trade's fierce and difficult arena. 
 Each plays, as best he may, a Bony-part — 
 
 Some gain success, and some gain St. Helena ! 
 
 The wise old maxim taught us, long ago, 
 How great a meed of gratitude is owing 
 
 To him who makes two blades of grass to grow 
 Where only one, before he came, was growing. 
 
 How much more, then, of praise this southland owes 
 To you, the modern era's wonder-makers. 
 
 Who make our "deserts blossom as the rose," 
 And change to fertile fields our barren acres. 
 
 Welcome! Our latch-string's out — no need of knocks; 
 
 The town is yours, from basement up to attic ; 
 We call it, as you know, "City of Rocks" — 
 
 We 've Hmestone, sandstone, granite — and phosphatic. 
 
 We 're glad to see you — glad to have you share 
 With us this fair land's all unstinted bounty; 
 
 Welcome! thrice welcome! here and everywhere. 
 To town and state — including "Lincoln county" ! 
 
 28 
 
MRS. MALAPROP" 
 
 Ob. 31 August, 1897 
 
 QHALL laurel crown the genius that essays 
 ^ Tribute of tears from pity to beguile, 
 And scanter or less verdant be the bays 
 
 Vouchsafed the equal art which makes us smile? 
 
 Not hers to wear beneath the tragic mask 
 
 The sombre visage of Melpomene: 
 She sought instead the more congenial task. 
 
 And chose Thalia's joyous self to be. 
 
 Divinely dowered, it was hers to know 
 The potent charm by Art to Nature lent: 
 
 She came upon the scene ; she spoke ; and lo ! 
 The hours were filled with measureless content, 
 
 And boundless laughter — happy he who laughs 
 
 Rather than he whose sole thought is to preach — 
 
 What "nice derangement," hers, "of epitaphs"; 
 What placid carnage of the parts of speech. 
 
 Exit. Secure forever is her fame, 
 
 Her niche in Art's great Pantheon achieved; 
 
 And men, hereafter, when they speak her name. 
 Shall say, The world was brighter that she lived! 
 
 29 
 
CHACUN A SON GOUT 
 
 Read at a "possum supper" tendered to 
 the American Federation of Labor, 
 Nashville, December i6, 1897 
 
 n^HE heathen gods were a jolly lot, and had gay old symposia, 
 -*■ Their tipple it was nectar, and their staple dish ambrosia; 
 The ancient Romans also were, as history avouches 
 And well we ken, as trenchermen, assuredly no slouches; 
 They searched the water, earth and air for things that might be edible, 
 And on their tables spent such sums as seem almost incredible ; 
 Stewed lampreys, brains of nightingales and such like other oddities. 
 And peacocks' tongues en papillotes, were quite well known commodities. 
 
 With truffles fresh from Perigord the French will gladly busy 'em. 
 
 And pate de foies gras to them is absolute elysium ; 
 
 Burly John Bull to nothing less will bring his haughty mouth down 
 
 Than "the roast beef of old England" or the juicy, grass-fed Southdown; 
 
 The German with Limburger is content — and odorifical — 
 
 And Sawney with his haggis is serenely beatifical ; 
 
 Give Pat a "wee drap," and he cares for nothing else than praties. 
 
 And Taffy sees in toasted cheese how fair his earthly fate is. 
 
 But when you strike this land of ours, than all lands far more glorious. 
 
 To list complete things good to eat you '11 find a task laborious ; 
 
 In pumpkin pie is the Maine supply that makes the Yankee prosperous, 
 
 While Boston intellect in beans discovers needed phosphorus; 
 
 And at the capital you '11 find — it hardly needs to pen it, or 
 
 To give it vocal utterance — that scarcely any Senator 
 
 Will worry over Cuba or for silver seem to care a pin, 
 
 If you '11 give him canvas-back enough and fill him up with terrapin. 
 
 30 
 
Rhyme as we may — ad libitum — to the initial rhyme and back, 
 
 From mythical ambrosia to contemporary diamond-back, 
 
 Borrow the harps of all the bards, from Swinburne's to CatuUus's, 
 
 Rehearse the menus of all feasts, to Sam Ward's from Lucullus's — 
 
 Right sure we are you '11 nothing find worthy of even mention 
 
 Beside the dish to which we wish your carefullest attention. 
 
 Prepare ! Make ready ! Keep the line steady ! Now, altogether ! Waiters, 
 
 Quick as you can, supply each man with ample possum and taters. 
 
 31 
 
MEMORIAL ODE 
 
 Read at the Decoration Day services of 
 Lotus Lodge, No. 20, Knights of Pythias, 
 Lebanon, Tenn., June 11, 1899 
 
 IT ERE, 
 
 "'-"'■ In the high zenith of the year, 
 
 Unto this tranquil bivouac of the dead, 
 
 Where all about are spread. 
 Silent, serene and still, the "low, green tents 
 Whose curtains never outward swing," 
 
 Tribute today we bring 
 Of love and memory and reverence. 
 Our dead are here : this consecrated ground 
 Holds sacred ashes — there, the lowly mound 
 
 Where the lush grass of June 
 Spreads its green tablet, uninscribed and dumb, 
 And daisies blow, and summer zephyrs hum 
 An unvoiced requiem ; yonder, a shaft 
 
 Whereon deft handicraft 
 Has carved the names of them who all too soon 
 
 Went from among us — these, our best. 
 Our bravest and our dearest comrades, lie, 
 Arched by the azure of the silent sky, 
 
 Forevermore at rest. 
 
 II 
 
 Not with the noisy bugle's blatant blare, 
 Rending the shuddering air; 
 
 Not with the sudden thunder of the drum. 
 Unto this spot we come; 
 
 32 
 
Rather, with bated breath, 
 
 Here, where the reaper Death 
 Hath garnered up his sheaves year after year. 
 
 Uncovered, mute, we stand, 
 
 A vow-united band, 
 And drop a sprig of myrtle and a tear. 
 
 HI 
 
 Of old, from contact with the mother Earth 
 
 That gave him birth, 
 Antseus gained new strength for life's turmoil : 
 So I from scenes and comrades far away 
 
 Have come, today. 
 To touch once more my native Pythian soil. 
 If from the duty here we may 
 A moment turn away. 
 Vouchsafe a backward glance 
 Over the far expanse 
 Where four-and-twenty years, like milestones, lie 
 Along the road whereon walks Memory, 
 
 Unto a day agone — 
 A day of hope and doubt commingled^ — when, 
 With unskilled hands, a few leal-hearted men 
 
 Laid a foundation stone. 
 Slowly, at first, the superstructure rose, 
 'Mid prayers of friends and jeers of jealous foes 
 And prophecies of ill ; 
 Slowly it rose, until. 
 Nurtured and guarded well, at length 
 With growing years it grew in strength 
 
 33 
 
And symmetry — that faithful few 
 Had "builded better than they knew." 
 
 IV 
 The patient . hands 
 That piled the pyramids against the sky 
 Have long since crumbled into dust : 
 Their work still stands 
 In silent, undecaying majesty, 
 Sublime, secure — 
 While Time itself endures, it must 
 And will endure. 
 The builders of our Pythian Parthenon 
 Pass, one by one, into the voiceless void : 
 The work which their untiring skill employed 
 Shall, through the coming years, live on and on. 
 
 V 
 Here in your midst this temple stands. 
 The product of mere finite hands, 
 And yet, by Heaven's benignant favor blest, 
 Of infinite capacity for good : 
 Broad, deep and solid, its foundations rest 
 Upon the rock of Human Brotherhood ! 
 Three corners hath this temple — from them rise. 
 
 In perfect symmetry. 
 To meet the benison of smiling skies, 
 
 Symbolic columns three: 
 A myrtled shaft of shining sapphire here, 
 There one of topaz, flawless and sincere, 
 Gleaming like gold under the ardent sun, 
 
 34 
 
And yonder, at the farthest corner, one 
 Whose heart of fire the ruddy fervor shows 
 That in the ruby's regal radiance glows ; 
 Between, broad walls of massive grandeur rise. 
 Set in the cement of fraternity, 
 Equal in strength and symmetry and size, 
 As all who enter there must equal be; 
 While from the dome which arches overhead 
 A tapering spire upsprings to meet the sky, 
 And from its summit floats fair, free and high. 
 The bannered beauty of the blue and gold and red ! 
 Its crystal windows glitter in the light, 
 
 As on them falls 
 The splendid sunshine of prosperity; 
 Unnumbered voices, sounding far and free. 
 
 Throughout its halls. 
 In joyous anthems loyally unite; 
 
 Upon its triple altar rests. 
 
 Guarded with reverential awe. 
 
 The volume whose divine behests 
 Make up our Book of Law ; 
 While over all a mystic odor steals. 
 
 Which, redolent with fragrance rare. 
 The ambient air perfumes. 
 And to the seeking neophyte reveals 
 
 The inner sanctuary where 
 The Sacred Lotus blooms. 
 
 VI 
 Of them who builded, some, alas ! are gone — 
 Unused their armor hangs upon the wall, 
 
 35 
 
Mute are their voices in our castle hall, 
 No more the echoes of their footsteps fall 
 
 Our listening ears upon; 
 The places that once knew them shall not know 
 Their faces or their forms again; and yet 
 They still are with us — we who loved them so 
 Do not forget. 
 
 VII 
 
 They did not live in vain, 
 Although the sepulchres that hide their dust, 
 These, and their memories, a sacred trust, 
 Alone remain. 
 Keep we the trust with care — 
 Enshrining in our hearts each honored name. 
 And guarding with a loving zeal the fame 
 Naught may impair. 
 Garland their graves with flowers — 
 With laurel, for the glory it imparts. 
 And cypress, for the fate that stilled their hearts 
 And shadowed ours ; 
 Strew roses where they lie — 
 Their fragrance and their bloom are quickly fled, 
 But the remembrance of our Pythian dead 
 Can never die! 
 
 VIII 
 As, from abysses fathomless and far, 
 The light of worlds which, though long quenched and dead, 
 Unto our sight lustrous and living are. 
 Still on our earth is shed, 
 
 36 
 
So, stars which from the Pythian galaxy 
 In dark edipse have vanished from our sight, 
 From the far ether of the upper sky 
 Still shed unfading light. 
 
 IX 
 
 Once, from the keeping of a dark-eyed maid 
 Of the far Orient — so poets tell — 
 Snapping its slender silken fetters, strayed 
 
 Her favorite gazelle. 
 Through the long hours of the long afternoon, 
 She traced its footprints on the emerald grass 
 In fond and futile search, till, all too soon, 
 The sombre shadows lengthened, and alas! 
 The lost was yet unfound; the evening fell. 
 And still, with persevering love, she traced 
 The prints, fast growing dim and half-effaced 
 Which marked the wanderings of her gazelle. 
 Now, when at last there is no light to aid 
 Her further following, the little maid 
 Amid the roses sits her down and weeps ; 
 And, as she mourns, through the still air there creeps 
 A strange, sweet, subtle odor, and she knows 
 That her lost favorite, in passing by, 
 Has crushed with vagrant foot a fallen rose. 
 Till it has given forth that fragrant sigh! 
 
 Her eager pulses thrill. 
 
 New hopes her bosom fill. 
 
 She hastens on, until 
 Success rewards her persevering quest — 
 
 37 
 
There, in a little sylvan glade, 
 Whereto its errant steps have strayed. 
 Its lips with crimson roses red, 
 Its couch with fair white lilies spread, 
 Starshine from blue skies overhead 
 Upon its tranquil slumber shed, 
 She finds her lost gazelle safely at rest. 
 
 X 
 
 So may we trace the steps of our lost friends 
 By the fair perfume of each gentle deed 
 
 Which marks the path they trod; 
 So may we, when our destiny shall lead 
 Our final footsteps where our pathway ends. 
 
 Find them at last with God! 
 
 38 
 
THE SEX 
 
 Read before the Tennessee Woman's 
 Press Club, at Nashville, 
 December 5, 1899 
 
 "O woman, in our hours of ease, 
 Uncertain, coy and hard to please"; — Scott. 
 
 "But seen more oft, familiar with her face, 
 We first endure, then pity, then embrace." — Pope. 
 
 NO single bard could such a subject treat, 
 And so I have invoked the aid of two; 
 But two nor yet two hundred could complete 
 
 The catalog I fain would offer you — 
 The graces, virtues, charms, approach infinity 
 Which go to make up feminine divinity. 
 
 From that far time when bright Apollo's lyre 
 Caught the divine afflatus from the skies, 
 
 To modern poetlings whose souls suspire 
 
 In pale sweet sonnets to their mistress' eyes, 
 
 Woman hath keyed the lutes of all the ages, 
 
 Enraptured kings, and turned the heads of sages. 
 
 (Speaking of lyres — in a parenthesis 
 
 Let me prefer just here a small request 
 For your consideration. It is this: 
 
 I pray you do not flippantly suggest. 
 Although, perchance, you 're certain that you know it. 
 That there's a liar wherever there's a poet!) 
 
 "Enraptured kings," I said— bear witness she 
 Who for divertisement of Herod danced, 
 
 39 
 
And footed it so pleasingly that he 
 
 Granted the monstrous claim which she advanced — 
 No feat than this more swift appears nor larger : 
 She got a-head of John upon a charger ! 
 
 Recall the song that erst old Homer sang: 
 Achilles' wrath, and Hector overthrown ; 
 
 These "woes unnumbered," you remember, sprang 
 From one fair woman's loveliness alone — 
 
 A dame who (begging pardon of the ladies) 
 
 Was Helen Troy, and everywhere raised Hades ! 
 
 Reread your Virgil — young ^neas see 
 
 Sailing away from Carthage and the queen ; 
 
 And hear him later wail in misery, 
 When separating oceans intervene — 
 
 Small wonder that in agony he cried, "O, 
 
 Would she had lived, and would that I had Dido !" 
 
 But the mere mention of the shining names 
 
 Which Dante, Chaucer, Shakspeare, Byron writ 
 
 Upon the bead-roll of illustrious dames. 
 
 Time and your patience would not here permit — 
 
 No list of fame, you know ere I begin it. 
 
 Or good or ill, but hath a woman in it. 
 
 All hail ! then, woman ; or, let woman reign. 
 Or blow, or any other thing she please; 
 
 To her all kinds of weather appertain — 
 
 Sometimes she warms us, sometimes she can freeze ; 
 
 But here 's her health, however we address her — 
 
 Wife, mother, sister, sweetheart, friend — God bless her! 
 
 40 
 
Her love is erring man's supremest crown, 
 Her ministrations all his cares beguile, 
 
 Darkness itself grows darker with her frown, 
 
 And God's own sunshine brightens in her smile ; 
 
 Man's haven and his heaven his sorest need in — 
 
 Through her he lost, through her regains, his Eden. 
 
 Again, here 's to her, in whatever sphere 
 Of silken ease or struggle and turmoil ; 
 
 Whether of high-born princesses the peer. 
 Or walking in the way of daily toil. 
 
 Daughter of opulence, or child of labor, 
 
 Wielding a sceptre or perchance a Faber. 
 
 Tradition tells that when the first white man, 
 
 Breaking a pathway through the pathless west, 
 Set foot upon the soil of Michigan, 
 
 And viewed the scene in Nature's beauties dressed- 
 'Si queris," to his mates repeated twice he, 
 'Peninsulmn auienani, cir cuius pice!" 
 
 And thus do I, to each invited guest 
 
 Whom kindly courtesy hath gathered here, 
 
 Exclaim, in plainer English than expressed 
 The meaning of the old time pioneer: 
 
 If you seek wit and wisdom to astound you. 
 
 Behold the Press Club Women all around you! 
 
 41 
 
A LOVE OF LONG AGO 
 
 For the Jewish Ladies' Bazaar, 
 Nashville, December, 190 1 
 
 T ONG, long ago, ere I had grown 
 ^ Sedate and somewhat stout, and prudent- 
 How long, I do not care to own. 
 
 Except 't was when I was a student — 
 I fell in love, as young men will, 
 
 For this of all at some time true is, 
 Though I had been exempt until 
 
 I met that lovely little Jewess. 
 
 And she loved me — at least she swore 
 
 She did unless her heart deceived her ; 
 And I, unlearned in lovers' lore. 
 
 Looking into her eyes, believed her; 
 I raved about her raven hair, 
 
 Her vermeil cheeks, in each a dimple, 
 Her eyes — ah! she was very fair. 
 
 And I, alas ! was very simple. 
 
 Our diverse creeds did not affect 
 
 Our love, though they could never tally : 
 She was of the "most straitest sect," 
 
 And I a Christian — nominally ; 
 Dogma could hold no dread for me, 
 
 Nor tenet my attachment sever, 
 I cared not what her faith might be, 
 
 If she 'd have faith in me forever ! 
 
 42 
 
My love, I vowed, already strong, 
 
 Would grow with time only the stronger; 
 Jacob for Rachel waited long, 
 
 I 'd wait for her as long — or longer ; 
 And often I 'd quote poetry — 
 
 'T is queer how Cupid will serve men so — 
 I 'd call her "Jessica," and she 
 
 Sometimes would call me her "Lorenzo." 
 
 Ah me! it was too bright to last — 
 
 Perhaps 't was only youthful folly, 
 And yet, when I recall the past. 
 
 It has a tinge of melancholy; 
 We quarrelled, parted, went our ways, 
 
 For I was proud, while she was thrifty, 
 And she was wed, ere many days, 
 
 To a rich broker over fifty. 
 
 Eheti! since then 't is many a year — 
 
 To think how many makes me pensive — 
 Enough — my random rhyme, I fear. 
 
 Has grown already too extensive; 
 Then let the finis of this scrawl 
 
 Be homage leal with my complete heart 
 To Jewish maids and matrons all. 
 
 In memory of my Jewish sweetheart. 
 
 43 
 
THE TROOPER'S OATH 
 
 A ballad of the camp Hre 
 
 TT 7E had ridden far and fast that day, and at the set of sun, 
 ^^ We camped full fifty miles from where our journey had begun; 
 But of fatigue and weariness little that night recked we, 
 For we knew that ere the morrow passed we 'd cross the Tennessee. 
 
 A wild, weird group it was that lay around the blazing fire: 
 A score of hardy-looking men in dingy gray attire, 
 Each one of whom upon his form some token bore of war, 
 This one the mark of a minie-ball, that one a sabre scar. 
 
 But of the troop there was one who stood apart from all the rest, 
 ?Iis arms in moody silence crossed, his head sunk on his breast ; 
 Our careless mirth he did not seem to heed or e'en to hear. 
 Hut he stood, as if to guard the camp, a sentinel-statue there. 
 
 "Comrade !" a trooper gaily cries, "why do you stand aloof, 
 As if upon our merriment you looked in mute reproof? 
 Come, take a hand at cards, and try a taste of this canteen, 
 'T will cheer your heart and warm your blood this chilly night, I ween !' 
 
 The soldier gave a sudden start — his brow grew black as night — 
 
 He clenched his hands, and from his eyes there gleamed a lurid light; 
 
 Then speedily his brow relaxed^ — a tear stood in his eye, 
 
 And, as he neared the wondering group, he answered, with a sigh: 
 
 "You ask me why from all your games and glee I stand apart — 
 Ah! friends for mirth and merriment tonight I have no heart; 
 Three years ago this very night a solemn oath I swore — 
 An oath which I have kept thus far, and will keep evermore! 
 
 44 
 
"I had a peaceful, happy home, in dear old Tennessee, 
 Where first I lisped my infant prayers at a sainted mother's knee, 
 Where I always met a look of love from a gray-haired father's eyes. 
 And an angel sister made the place an eartlily Paradise. 
 
 "I left that happy spot one morn, three years ago today ; 
 At set of sun with eager steps I traced my homeward way — 
 
 God ! my aching brain grows wild as the horrid tale I tell, 
 
 And my throbbing bosom seems on fire with the very flames of hell ! 
 
 "Where I had left a stately home, I found a smoking pile, 
 And the corpse of my father met my sight, instead of my mother's smile 
 And while in speechless horror there amid the scene I stood, 
 A maniac sister's vacant laugh curdled my very blood ! 
 
 "To hear instead of her sweet voice, those dull, unmeaning tones, 
 My heart stood still — the marrow seemed to freeze within my bones — 
 
 1 know not what I did — for God in mercy let me swoon. 
 And when I woke to consciousness the maniac girl was gone. 
 
 "I drew a cross upon my breast with finger dipped in gore. 
 And, gazing on my father's corpse, a solemn oath I swore, 
 By day and night, though fire and flood my progress should impede, 
 To hunt the demons to the death that did the damning deed ! 
 
 "How I have kept that sacred vow you know who know me best — 
 And can you wonder, friends, that gall and hatred fill my breast ; 
 And while your faces, homeward turned, glow with a joyous light, 
 That gloomy memories of the past should fill my soul tonight?" 
 
 A year and more has passed since then — that noble breast is cold, 
 And stilled for aye that gallant heart, so generous, true and bold; 
 
 45 
 
Our comrade's earthly strife is done — beneath the verdant sod 
 His manly form is resting now — his soul has gone to God ! 
 
 But there 's wailing in New England, and there 's weeping in the west, 
 And not alone does Dixie mourn her bravest and her best; 
 For throughout the sunny southern land there 's many a grave, I trow, 
 To tell how fearfully and well the trooper kept his vow ! 
 
 46 
 
A BALLAD OF THE WHEEL 
 
 'pHE Governor strode his chamber floor, and haggard was his face: 
 "■- "On me and on the commonwealth indelible disgrace," 
 He cried, "will fall, a shameful pall, forevermore to lie, 
 If I permit this fell deed done, and an innocent man to die !" 
 
 The case indeed was grievous, for a wretch who died that day 
 
 Confessed, ere yet his guilty soul quitted its guilty clay. 
 
 With many a writhing of remorse and many a woful pang, 
 
 The crime for which a fair-faced youth had been condemned to hang. 
 
 And the hour of doom was coming fast — ah ! coming all too soon — 
 For it was on the stroke of nine, and he was to die at noon ; 
 The wires were down by stress of storm, the bridge at the river too — 
 No telegram could reach the place, no train in time get through. 
 
 The Governor strode his chamber floor — his bitter thought found speech : 
 "No horse was ever foaled the spot in three scant hours could reach; 
 Gladly, God knows, I would interpose, but 't is fifty miles away. 
 While I stand idle and helpless here — the boy must die today!" 
 
 Upspake a black-eyed maiden, then — the Governor's only child — 
 Her voice was clear and steady, albeit soft and mild: 
 "There is no need, my father, that this guiltless youth should die — 
 The message there is in your hand: the messenger is — I!" 
 
 "My daughter, you?" The Governor looked upon her with amaze; 
 Calmly and with a smile she met the wonder in his gaze — 
 There was no tremor in her tone, no quailing in her eye : 
 
 "I'll risk my own life rather than an innocent man should die !" 
 
 47 
 
She snatched the paper from his hand ; quickly across the floor 
 She ran to where a glittering wheel was standing at the door ; 
 An instant, and with agile grace she sprang into the seat, 
 And ere any there could hinder, she was flying down the street ! 
 
 Now, God be with you, glorious girl, and keep you from all harm ! 
 Give courage to your woman's heart, strength to your woman's arm, 
 And send attendant angels to cheer and guard and guide. 
 And smooth the way whereon this day for a human life you ride ! 
 
 Along the city's asphalt now flashes the flying wheel, 
 Staunch and true in every inch of wood and burnished steel ; 
 And now along the open road, and the faithful wheel holds good, 
 Staunch and true in every inch of burnished steel and wood. 
 
 Never a shaft from archer's bow on course more swerveless flew ; 
 Never a swallow in its flight more swiftly cleft the blue — 
 It seems, as onward still it speeds, a thing of sentient life, 
 With human hopes and human fears and human longings rife. 
 
 The weary miles stretch out before, the miles stretch out behind. 
 As onward sweeps the wheel with speed resistless as the wind ; 
 Each mile-stone is a monolith of triumph on the way — 
 Surely no rider ever rode as rides this girl today ! 
 
 Now, more than half the distance passed, and not a moment lost, 
 An angry river brawls in front, unwilling to be crossed ; 
 And where the bridge once stood she sees, almost of hope bereft. 
 Spanning the stream from bank to bank, a single girder left ! 
 
 She is her father's daughter, with her father's dauntless soul. 
 Which never peril could deter nor fear of death control ; 
 
Her father's spirit nerves her heart and sparkles in her eye, 
 As she resolves to cross the stream, or, failing that, to die! 
 
 A moment to inspect her wheel, a moment then to pray, 
 
 And now, God guard her ! she begins her hazardous essay : 
 
 Silent and swift, as though on air, her good wheel seems to glide — 
 
 Now she 's midway ; and now, thank God ! safe on the other side ! 
 
 Merrily, merrily spins the wheel, merrily shines the sun. 
 And blithe the heart of the maid as when her journey was begun ; 
 And now the pace begins to tell — what wonder? full two score 
 Of weary miles behind her lie, and ten yet lie before. 
 
 But no fear of failure chills her heart or overcasts her brow : 
 She willed to be triumphant then, she wills to triumph now ; 
 The knowledge that a human life depends on her today 
 Nerves her afresh with newer strength as she flies along the way. 
 
 Hark ! what is that portentous sound which falls upon her ear. 
 Blanching hope's ensign on her cheek to the pale flag of fear ? 
 Her heart stands still, her pallid lips murmur, "Too late ! too late !" 
 Twelve strokes upon the village clock have told the knell of fate 1 
 
 Now speed thee, speed thee, maiden ; speed thee as never before ! 
 Sure the good steel of thy trusty wheel will bear thee one mile more — 
 O Christ ! it were a grievous thing the boy should die this day, 
 With sweet life speeding to him, and only a mile away ! 
 
 He stands upon the scaffold now ; they give him time to pray ; 
 And now the fatal sable cap shuts out the light of day ; 
 And now they leave him there alone, upon the gibbet high — 
 A black and ghastly silhouette against the placid sky! 
 
 49 
 
Hark ! what is that commotion on the outskirts of the crowd ? 
 Hark! what is that — that magic word — that some one cries aloud? 
 Each bends his ear to Hsten now — each stares as if in doubt — 
 And then their voices blend and swell in one vast, mighty shout. 
 
 For, through a lane of living men against each other massed, 
 
 A fair young girl rides painfully, but eagerly and fast: 
 
 She waves a paper above her head, as if in mute appeal, 
 
 Whispers "Reprieve !" with bloodless lips, and falls fainting from the wheel ! 
 
 Gladly the kindly sheriff has removed the sable cap. 
 
 And led the rescued boy away, far from the fatal trap — 
 
 With streaming eyes, in glad surprise, the mother clasps her son. 
 
 And the maiden, pale but smiling, knows her victory is won ! 
 
 50 
 
A TOAST 
 
 A70U 'VE toasted all your lady-loves in gallant, courtly phrases, 
 ^ And chaunted songs melodiously to celebrate their praises ; 
 Each of you spoke most fluently — and, as in bounden duty, 
 The lady of your love was named o'er all "the Queen of Beauty," 
 And eloquence and poesy seemed like a charm thrown o'er you. 
 As with a glowing cheek you told the love your lady bore you ; 
 To all your toasts right willingly I 've quaffed the sparkling wine. 
 And now fill up each brimming cup to this lady love of mine : 
 
 Your mistresses in face and form, perchance, than mine are fairer — 
 
 The lady of my love has charms more permanent and rarer; 
 
 For they are of the mind and heart — and intellectual graces 
 
 Will last when fleeting time has marred the charms of forms and faces ; 
 
 Her eye, once bright as those whose beams you 've sung, is dimmed with care, 
 
 And age has sprinkled silver threads throughout her ebon hair: 
 
 But to my loving look that hair a crown of glory seems. 
 
 And that dimmed eye always on me with fond affection beams. 
 
 The love which you have sung is but an evanescent flame, 
 'T will vanish with the lapse of time, or only live in name — 
 The love which unto me she bears is pure as angels own. 
 When they Jehovah's praises hymn around the great white throne ! 
 And time will only cause her love with brighter flame to glow — 
 Fill up your cups, and you the name of this paragon shall know : 
 In careless tones I would not speak the name unto another — 
 With brow uncovered reverently I give the toast: My Mother! 
 
 51 
 
INSCRIPTIONS 
 
 IN SIDNEY LANIER's POEMS 
 
 'I'^HE singer whose few songs are printed here 
 "*■ Fell in his prime, unnoticed by the rude, 
 Ignoble and unthinking multitude; 
 The note he sang, ethereally clear. 
 Was far too subtle for the vulgar ear 
 Of most who heard — and yet the muse he wooed 
 His wondrous harp with fire divine endued, 
 Unquenched, unquenchable — such was Lanier! 
 Time will be kinder : on the scroll of fame. 
 Where names of the great singers are enrolled, 
 Posterity shall find his shining name, 
 Writ high and large in characters of gold. 
 And with united voices cry, "Behold!" 
 And hail him Laureate with glad acclaim. 
 
 IN THE "rUBAIYYAT" OF OMAR KHAYYAM 
 
 Old Omar, many hundred years ago, 
 Employed the magic of his muse to show 
 
 How friendship, unaffected and sincere. 
 Is the chief earthly blessing that we know. 
 
 If I, perchance, to so much may pretend. 
 This volume of his verses let me send, 
 
 A token of the joyous Christmas time, 
 To you, my friend — if I may call you friend. 
 
 IN HENRY TIMROD's POEMS 
 
 Here 's a singer whose songs have in many a heart 
 
 Aforetime made music divine — 
 And so I now proffer this work of his art 
 
 To one who makes music in mine. 
 
 52 
 
HIC JACET 
 
 TT 7HEN, disencumbered of its cerement flesh, 
 ^^ My spirit finds — what, who shall dare to guess? 
 It may be life, it may be nothingness — 
 If one alone shall keep my memory fresh, 
 
 'T will be enough; no need the sculptor's art 
 For vain laudation, marble-carved, to task ; 
 No need of shaft or fane — I only ask 
 The mausoleum of a loving heart. 
 And, for the rest, if one should seek the place 
 Where, through the changing seasons, I shall keep 
 The endless silence of my dreamless sleep, 
 Let him for epitaph this sentence trace 
 Upon the simple stone that marks the spot: 
 
 "He lived, loved, suffered, died — and was forgot!" 
 
 53 
 
A RECIPE 
 
 TO cook a sonnet: Like good Mistress Glasse, 
 "First, catch your" theme — or you may borrow one — 
 'T is not material which. This being done, 
 Select your rhymes — in market now, alas! 
 There are no fresh ones : so it comes to pass 
 You must perforce take shop-worn goods or none ; 
 Choose short, fat round ones, taking care to shun 
 Those of the long-necked, many- jointed class. 
 You need but few ; and, having given them place 
 As here set forth, fill in each vacant space 
 With good iambics. Attic salt upon it 
 Will give the whole an appetizing zest. 
 As for the fire, Promethean is the best. 
 Bake quickly and serve hot— and there 's your sonnet ! 
 
 54 
 
AN ENIGMA 
 
 I^ENSE, rigid, to tlie utmost stretched, am I, 
 •*■ And then, mayhap, to softest music die; 
 Headless, I follow where fair maidens lead, 
 Or fly across the land with lightning speed; 
 Cut off my head again, and field and plain 
 Yield joyously to my benignant reign; 
 Once more beheaded, and thus smaller grown, 
 I am what every Scotchman calls his own; 
 Take one more letter off — although, no doubt, 
 I have it not, yet I am not without ; 
 Put out my eye — and, by some curious art, 
 I less than nothing am, of nothing merely part ! 
 
 55 
 
ACEPHALOUS 
 
 ENTIRE, with sound the air I fill ; 
 My head cut off, I 'm not yet still 
 Cut off again, unruly boys 
 By me are moved to mournful noise; 
 Once more cut oft', and grateful I 
 In total silence drop and die; 
 Another letter now purloin, 
 And strictest silence I enjoin ; 
 But, if beheaded once again, 
 In softest whisper I remain. 
 
 5^ 
 
ON THE WILLOW ROAD 
 
 TN our hearts pulsating lightly, 
 In the sky above us, brightly 
 Golden sunshine glowed, 
 Darling, as we rode together 
 Through the pleasant autumn weather. 
 On the Willow Road. 
 
 In those dear eyes' azure splendor. 
 In that face, so trustful, tender. 
 
 How the love-light showed — 
 Ah ! the mesh they wove around me ; 
 Ah ! the spell wherewith they bound me. 
 
 On the Willow Road. 
 
 Though the silence was unbroken. 
 Though no whispered word was spoken, 
 
 Love's unwritten code 
 All the blissful secret taught me, 
 All the rapturous knowledge brought me, 
 
 On the Willow Road. 
 
 Did you, could you, ever doubt me? 
 Was there cause, dear one, about me 
 
 Evil to forbode, 
 That I, bending there above you, 
 Did not say in words, "I love you," 
 
 On the Willow Road? 
 
 Love you? Sure, no love completer, 
 Rarer, fonder, stronger, sweeter, 
 Ever was bestowed ; 
 
 57 
 
Ah ! you could not fail to feel it — - 
 Did not every look reveal it, 
 On the Willow Road? 
 
 Would that parting should come never — 
 Would that you and I, forever, 
 
 While the sunshine glowed, 
 Through the pleasant autumn weather 
 Side by side might ride together 
 
 On the Willow Road. 
 
 58 
 
LILIES OF THE VALLEY 
 
 A FAIREST of all the flowers that blow, 
 ^^ Go to her now, and whisper low : 
 'We come from one who loves you so 
 No words, no words can serve to show !" 
 
 It may be within the snowy lace 
 That veils her bosom's perfect grace 
 You '11 gain, for all too brief a space, 
 A happy, happy resting place. 
 
 Poor little lilies, beware, beware ! 
 No flower with her may risk compare — 
 You '11 find your couch more pure and fair, 
 And die, ah! die with envy there! 
 
 59 
 
ONE PERFECT DAY 
 
 T IKE one sweet rose within a wilderness, 
 •^ Like one soft star upon a clouded way. 
 Sometimes there comes, all memory to bless, 
 One perfect day. 
 
 A day with recollection intertwined. 
 
 And, in the inner temple of the heart. 
 Held as a holy thing, revered, enshrined. 
 And set apart. 
 
 Too sweet to last, too bright almost to be — 
 
 Alas! the happiest hours make briefest stay— 
 
 An iron fate, relenting, gave to me 
 One perfect day. 
 
 No glow of sunshine in the leaden sky. 
 No springtime glory in the murky air. 
 
 No song of birds nor bloom of flowers — yet I, 
 I did not care. 
 
 For you were with me — in your eyes I found 
 A light that never yet in sunshine lay. 
 
 And your dear voice was music's sweetest sound, 
 That perfect day. 
 
 The past is past — so much at least secured. 
 May we not frame a happy horoscope ? 
 
 The present holds the light of love assured, 
 The future, hope, 
 
 60 
 
The wilderness may bloom for you and me, 
 The stars illumine an unclouded way, 
 
 And, somehow, somewhere, all the future be 
 One perfect day. 
 
 'TT'ISS him for me." Thus, I am told, you sent it- 
 -*■*■ But sometimes messengers make curious slips; 
 And so I shall not quite believe you meant it 
 Until I have it straight from your oivn lips! 
 
 6i 
 
YOU 
 
 A70U say it is wrong to love you — then 
 •^ It is wrong for the summer stars to glow, 
 For the birds to sing in the jocund spring, 
 
 And the fair-hued flowers to blow : — 
 Nay, the birds must sing when the springtime comes, 
 
 And the stars must shine when the sky is blue. 
 The flowers must bloom in their rare perfume, 
 
 And I must — I must love you. 
 
 Chide me not, then, but rather yourself — 
 
 Yours is the fault, if fault there be, 
 Yours is the blame to have set aflame 
 
 Forever the soul of me: — 
 Ah ! were you another, I should not care 
 
 How red were your lips nor your eyes how blue — 
 I should not be thrall, nor love you at all. 
 
 If you — if you were not 5^ou. 
 
 But I see the charm of your radiant face. 
 
 And I hear the melody of your voice. 
 And the light that lies in your love-lit eyes 
 
 Makes the heart of my heart rejoice : — 
 Tell me no more of right and wrong. 
 
 For love is love, and the truth is true, 
 And I only know that I love you so 
 
 Because — because you are you. 
 
 62 
 
BUT ONE 
 
 UNNUMBERED constellations gem the sky, 
 Besprent with lucent spheres that flame afar, 
 And yet, night after night, upgazing, I 
 See but one star. 
 
 With careless step and eyes that do not see, 
 I walk where every perfect blossom blows — 
 
 In Flora's fragrant treasury, for me 
 There 's but one rose. 
 
 Not all the laden barques of all the earth. 
 
 Where'er their treasure-seeking sails they furl. 
 
 Find gems to equal in its priceless worth 
 My single pearl. 
 
 The perfect pearl, precious beyond compare. 
 The single star illumining the blue. 
 
 The one fair rose, than all the rest more fair — 
 Each is but you. 
 
 63 
 
w 
 
 A CHARADE 
 
 HEN from two words combined a third is made, 
 Like "in" and "tent," from which we get "intent,' 
 The puzzle-makers call it a charade, 
 
 And therein deftly hide the word that 's meant — 
 So, for the nonce, be this my avocation, 
 With tender thought of you for inspiration. 
 
 My first is what you are: no woman lives 
 To whom the word more fittingly applies 
 
 Than you, to whom benignant Nature gives 
 The every charm that in perfection lies. 
 
 And serves to show, in its ensphered completeness. 
 
 The witchery of your supernal sweetness. 
 
 My second is a part of me — a shrine 
 
 In which your image, aureoled and fair, 
 
 Regal and regnant, diademmed, divine. 
 
 Shines ever and finds constant incense there; 
 
 Where every thought and instinct and emotion 
 
 Yields to its queen its loyallest devotion. 
 
 My iirst and second make my zvhole — a word 
 Wherein all sounds of joyance are defined. 
 
 The sigh of zephyr and the song of bird. 
 
 And all the music of the spheres combined — 
 
 The word of words wherewith I dare to name you. 
 
 And your sweet grace, my lady, lets me claim you. 
 
 64 
 
YOUR PICTURE 
 
 npO hours unheeded the swift minutes grew, 
 -*■ The rosy hours, all radiant winged, have flown, 
 And in the midnight's silence here alone, 
 I sit in dreamy mood and think of you. 
 
 The lambent lamplight gleams soft, mellow, clear, 
 Throwing fantastic shadow-shapes around. 
 While I, wrapped in a reverie profound. 
 Give rein to fancy, and believe you here. 
 
 And so you are — not only in my heart. 
 Wherein your image holds a constant seat, 
 But present in the lovely counterfeit 
 Made almost living by the aid of art. 
 
 An unknown glory seems to gild the place 
 Wherein I am ; my careless, unkempt room 
 Seems aureoled with light, filled with perfume. 
 As I sit here and look upon your face. 
 
 Without, the stars beam from a sky benign. 
 Studding with sparkling gems the bending blue — 
 I see a radiance purer and more true 
 In the dear eyes that look up into mine. 
 
 What wonder that I gaze entranced? I see 
 A brow where truth has fixed her signet well, 
 Lips that Hymettus might not parallel — 
 The loveliest face on all the earth to me. 
 
 65 
 
They named the wonder-working art aright 
 Which makes the sunbeam prisoner, to trace 
 On sentient paper faithfully the face, 
 Enduring, photographed, "inscribed with Hght." 
 
 And yet there is small need of any art 
 To aid remembrance, dear one, of your face- 
 Long as my life endures, 't will keep its place. 
 Inscribed in light upon my inmost heart! 
 
 66 
 
BARRIER 
 
 "DETWEEN him and the Virgin throned on high 
 ^^ The earthly devotee perforce must feel 
 There is a barrier wide as all the sky — 
 
 Yet may he not, with faith and fervent zeal, 
 In adoration kneel? 
 
 To the deep vault where constellations blaze 
 And planets in their orbits wheel afar, 
 
 The lowly learner turns his raptured gaze — 
 No space may blur, no depth of distance bar 
 His vision of a star. 
 
 The desert nomad, famished, faint and spent. 
 May view the mirage of a sparkling spring; 
 
 The pallid prisoner, in stone walls pent. 
 
 May see through iron bars a gleaming wing, 
 And hear the sky-lark sing. 
 
 So you and I, alas ! have learned too late 
 Of the abyss forlorn between us cast 
 
 By the inexorable hand of fate — 
 
 And yet, there is no chasm so deep or vast 
 Love may not bridge at last. 
 
 67 
 
METEMPSCYCHOSIS 
 
 TT7HEN I come back, 
 
 After a hundred or a thousand years 
 Of purgatorial penance, to resume 
 Habiliments of flesh, I do not know 
 Wherewith I shall be clad — I do not know • 
 What race, what form, what features shall be mine, 
 When I come back. 
 
 When you are sent. 
 
 After a little time or long in bliss. 
 
 To bless and brighten this dull earth again, 
 
 I do not know in what divine disguise 
 
 Your spirit will be held — I do not know 
 
 Through what pure eyes your purer soul will shine, 
 
 When you come back. 
 
 But this I know — 
 
 In whichsoever of the hemispheres. 
 
 On whatsoever continent or isle 
 
 Near or remote, accessible or hid. 
 
 In crowded city or in desert waste. 
 
 Where'er you are, there I shall find you out ; 
 
 My eager soul will know your soul again, 
 
 And we shall love each other as of yore, 
 
 When we come back. 
 
 68 
 
YOUR FORTUNE 
 
 \ ND so you wish your fortune told ? 
 ^*^ All ! dear one, would I had the telHng, 
 And would that I the power might hold 
 
 Of destiny for you compelling! 
 Your future, if this power were mine, 
 
 Should be a pathway all unclouded, 
 Where always blandest suns should shine 
 
 O'er days by no dark shadows shrouded. 
 Sweetheart, to you the flight of time 
 
 Should bring no evil to distress you — 
 In spring's sweet days, in summer's prime, 
 'Mid autumn's haze, 'mid winter's rime. 
 
 The gentlest zephyrs should caress you; 
 The softest blue of tender skies 
 
 Should arch its benison above you, 
 With me to gaze into your eyes. 
 
 And always, always, always love you ! 
 
 69 
 
HER SMILE 
 
 SHE smiled upon me— though that smile, perchance, 
 Were such as on a hind she would bestow 
 In gentle-heartedness, a mantling glow 
 Crimsoned my cheek beneath her casual glance; 
 My throbbing heart betokened her advance. 
 As sounding drums in some triumphal show 
 Tell that a conqueror comes ; with a strange throe, 
 Half pain, half joy, as though some magic lance, 
 Which healed in wounding, had transfixed my breast. 
 My heart bowed to its queen ; at once was given 
 The love of years, and all my soul confessed 
 The power 'gainst which so long its pride had striven. 
 And with serene and perfect bliss was blessed, 
 While earth, lit by her smile, seemed nearer heaven ! 
 
 7^ 
 
TO MARY ON EARTH 
 
 An old, old song it was I read tonight, 
 -^^^ Wherein the sorrow of a hundred years 
 Survives, ennobled by a poet's tears. 
 And made immortal by the aureoled light 
 Of genius shed upon it; yet, despite 
 The plaintive melancholy which appears 
 In every line, and changelessly inheres 
 Its heart within, it made my own heart bright: 
 "To Mary in heaven" he wrote — reading, I thought 
 Upon an earthly Mary, in whose eyes, 
 Lustrous with love for me, is Paradise, 
 All other Edens undesired, unsought; 
 Knowing or asking no supremer bliss, 
 My only heaven is where my Mary is. 
 
 71 
 
THREE WORDS 
 
 Written in atiswcr to a 
 challenge to imitate 
 Poe's "A Valentine." 
 
 I WRITE at your behest, although it be, 
 O lady fair, what you already know — 
 An open book to you, the heart of me 
 
 You Ve read with understanding long ago ; 
 Hence, 't is for your divertisement alone 
 
 Fondly within these lines I have concealed 
 Three words, in whose significance is shown 
 What now unto you is again revealed. 
 
 72 
 
DISILLUSION 
 
 T SET an image, once, within a shrine, 
 -•• And thought it perfect gold, until, one day, 
 Chance tested it, and what I thought divine 
 Proved common clay. 
 
 How does it come that, alway, fate decrees 
 Some rift to mar the music of the lute — 
 
 To change the apples of Hesperides 
 To Dead Sea fruit? 
 
 That there should be a canker in the rose 
 
 Wherewith the joyous June glads us so much ; 
 
 That the bright bubbles errant fancy blows 
 Melt at a touch ! 
 
 We see a gleam through darkling mists afar, 
 
 And fondly whisper to ourselves, "We know"- 
 
 Alas ! we find, in what we thought a star, 
 A rushlight's glow. 
 
 The image that I set within a shrine, 
 
 And prized as perfect gold, in one brief day 
 
 Hath lost its lustre — what I deemed divine 
 Is only clay. 
 
 73 
 
THERE were mirth and music and laughter light, 
 And the cheerful room was warm and bright, 
 But a fair young maiden stole away. 
 And knelt for a moment alone to pray: 
 Gently bowing her beautiful head, 
 "God bless my darling !" was all she said. 
 
 By a cheerless grate, in a dreary room, 
 A man sat alone in the thickening gloom; 
 His face wore a troubled look the while. 
 But there came to his lips a tender smile, 
 And for a moment bowing his head, 
 "God bless my darling!" he softly said. 
 
 74 
 
A GRAY DAY 
 
 T AM lonely, despondent, ill, 
 -^ And all the unsmiling sky- 
 Is cheerless and gray and chill, 
 And the whole world is awry. 
 
 Ah, dear, what would I not give, 
 Just for a little while 
 
 To hear your voice and lo live 
 In the sunlight of your smile! 
 
 ?5 
 
CELESTE 
 
 'T^ WAS prophetic light was shed 
 ■*■ Brightly o'er your baby head, 
 When the formula was said 
 
 Which expressed 
 What the nature was to be 
 Of one sweet, cherubic, wee 
 Bit of femininity — 
 Celeste. 
 
 Even then they must have known 
 What you 'd be when you were grown, 
 And they named you, we must own. 
 
 As was best; 
 Surely there were whisperings 
 Of a rose without the stings. 
 Of an angel minus wings — 
 
 Celeste. 
 
 Some celestial source supplies 
 The refulgent light that lies 
 In the splendor of your eyes, 
 
 I protest; 
 And the radiance of your smile 
 Might an anchorite beguile 
 To adoring you the while. 
 
 Celeste. 
 
 Hearts unnumbered, I opine. 
 Have been laid before your shrine, 
 
 76 
 
Yet I do not offer mine 
 
 With the rest; 
 Wliat the reason is, you know; 
 'T is not mine now to bestow, 
 For you took it long ago. 
 
 Celeste ! 
 
 n 
 
JESSIE 
 
 TN the dim, distant days of the tourney and tilt, 
 -*■ Of lance and of cross-bow and swords hilt to hilt, 
 When, eager and blithesome, a knight of the court 
 Rode gaily afield for his favorite sport. 
 The falcon whose flight he desired to repress 
 Was bound to his wrist and held fast by a jess. 
 
 The old days are vanished, the gay knights are dead, 
 
 And the sky-seeking falcons forever are fled ; 
 
 Yet a singular chance has ordained that the name 
 
 Of the bond that then bound and now binds is the same — 
 
 Though the Jess that we know, by her innocent arts 
 
 Holds captive at pleasure not falcons but hearts. 
 
 78 
 
THE GIFT OF GOD 
 
 WHENAS I started forth to fare, 
 Unsandalled were my feet and torn, 
 And eke my scalloped scrip was bare. 
 
 My staff with long-time usance worn, 
 Unkempt my garb, uncoifed my head, 
 
 Nathless all resolute I held 
 My way along the road that led 
 Up to the purple hills of Eld. 
 
 "What seekest thou?" quoth one I met, 
 
 As upward on my way I went. 
 Unfaltering, in sooth, but yet 
 
 With toil and dolour nigh forspent; 
 I made reply : "This irking way 
 
 For many moilsome days I 've trod, 
 All avid, if I haply may. 
 
 To gain at last the gift of God." 
 
 Eftsoons he questioned me amain: 
 
 "What feat of high emprise, forsooth, 
 Hast thou achieved, this gift to gain, 
 What deed of lenity and ruth?" 
 "Nay, not by actions such as these," 
 Quoth I, "we may aspire to ope 
 The treasury of God: its keys 
 Are faith, humility and hope." 
 
 Then fared I forward; and meseemed 
 All sombrous shadows were dispelled 
 
 79 
 
By the supernal light that streamed 
 From out the nearer hills of Eld, 
 
 And writ this blazonry: "Rejoice! 
 Brief is the way thou hast to plod 
 
 To see the face and hear the voice 
 Of Theodosia, 'gift of God.' " 
 
 80 
 
ANGELA'S LISP 
 
 After seeing a favorite actress 
 in a lisping part 
 
 WE thought, forsooth, we knew them all- 
 The graces and the gentle arts 
 Wherewith she wins our willing hearts, 
 And holds them smilingly in thrall ; 
 But there was yet a joy deferred, 
 An added charm still to disclose, 
 A subtler perfume of the rose, 
 We did not know until we heard 
 Angela's lisp. 
 
 Like as a sunlit streamlet's flow. 
 Within a casual eddy pent. 
 By some unseen impediment. 
 Is momently more soft and low — 
 Caught in the eddy of her lips. 
 Sounds are no longer sibillant, 
 . But so our eager ears enchant. 
 There is no music may eclipse 
 Angela's lisp. 
 
 8i 
 
TO BOTH OF YOU 
 
 ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!) 
 Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
 And saw within the moonhght in his room, 
 Making it rich, and Hke a hly in bloom, 
 An angel writing in a book of gold." — 
 Such the poetic legend Leigh Hunt told; 
 But I, more fortunate than old Abou 
 With but a single angel — thanks to you. 
 Can see, by day and night, within my room, 
 The flowers you sent me constantly in bloom ; 
 And then — a vision than Abou's more fair — 
 Can close my eyes and see two angels there. 
 
 82 
 
TO ARAMINTA 
 
 'np IS said that the gods, once, of nectar being tired, 
 ■*■ Begged Hebe for them to devise a new drink, 
 And she, by a sudden idea inspired. 
 
 Culled a handful of mint from a rivulet's brink, 
 Then mingled pure spirit with crystalline water, 
 
 And, calling a bee from the heart of a tulip. 
 She mixed with the compound the sweets that he brought her, 
 
 Crowned the whole with a snowball, and dubbed it "mint julep." 
 
 The gods were delighted, vowed the drink beat creation. 
 
 And Bacchus swore roundly, by Venus's two lips, 
 That thenceforth forever Hebe's sole occupation 
 
 Should be the perpetual mixing of juleps! 
 In the future, when Cupid and Hymen shall cast 
 
 O'er your horizon a roseate tint. 
 And orange-flower fetters shall bind you at last. 
 
 In some good fellow's julep may you be the "Mint." 
 
 83 
 
TO A LITTLE MICK 
 
 JULY the Fourth is well enough for those who like a noise, 
 And the average American Thanksgiving Day enjoys, 
 While Christmas is of holidays the keystone of the arch, 
 But none of these is in it with the Seventeenth of March. 
 
 Upon G. Washington there were, we all agree, no flies, 
 The Pilgrim Fathers were all right, some folks assert, likewise. 
 And Santa Claus, he is the boss, as all of us admit. 
 But when you strike Saint Patrick, begorrah, he is It! 
 
 "God loves the Irish," so they say — and I believe it true — 
 And faith, if I might make a choice, I 'd "love the Irish" too — 
 To-wit, an Irish colleen, jolly and plump and arch. 
 Who sends a green necktie to me each Seventeenth of March. 
 
 I wear it, and am proud of it wherever it is seen. 
 Although it is, I must confess, superlatively green; 
 I wear it for the giver's sake, who not only is a "peach," 
 But is in my regard "the only pebble on the beach." 
 
 Here 's to you, then, mavourneen ! It 's Christmas — let 's be jolly, 
 And mix a sprig of shamrock with the mistletoe and holly; 
 Let cold winds blow, 'mid ice and snow, or torrid summers parch, 
 I 'm wid you, ayther Christmas or the Siventeenth of Mar-r-rch ! 
 
 84 
 
TO A SWEET SAINT 
 
 YOU bear a saint's name, and I 've called you so — 
 Besides, I think you good enough to be one — 
 I know how good they 're said to be, although 
 
 I own I 've never had the luck to see one ; 
 And I 'm a sinner : it is very sad 
 
 On such a day to make such frank confession — 
 And yet my heart would not be half so bad 
 
 If you 'd turn Satan out and take possession ; 
 It is your Christian duty, on this day. 
 
 To help as best you may each weak beginner, 
 For while you are allowed, the scriptures say, 
 
 To hate the sin, yet you must love the sinner! 
 
 85 
 
LARGESSE 
 
 WORDS are such futile things, and meaningless, 
 Ofttimes, alas ! when needed to reveal 
 Unto another fully what we feel, 
 That we feel most what least we may express. 
 
 Nathless, a nature poor, uncultured, rude. 
 Wherein nor gentle arts nor graces shine. 
 Haply may sometimes prove itself, like mine, 
 Pauper in words but rich in gratitude. 
 
 This for the gracious courtesy which sends 
 Across the stretch of separating space 
 The pictured benefaction of your face, 
 As largesse to the poorest of your friends. 
 
 86 
 
NUNC BIBIMUS" 
 
 T/'OUR health you bid me drink, O lady fair, 
 -'■ "Even if in buttermilk" I have to drink it : 
 Obedience shall be my instant care. 
 
 Nor an unpleasant duty do I think it — 
 Plain, ordinary water would content me. 
 Quaffed from the handsome goblet you have sent me. 
 
 Aye, let its contents be whate'er they will — 
 
 Or aqueous or lacteal or vinous, 
 Or spirits bubbling from the woodland still. 
 
 Or the pale amber tipple of Gambrinus — 
 I care not what the drink vouchsafed to me be, 
 Knowing the beaker comes direct from Hebe ! 
 
 87 
 
A BALLADE OF MAKING CAKE 
 
 TTTHEN Kate makes cake, 
 '^'^ O the summer breeze blows lightliest, 
 And the jocund sun shines brightUest, 
 
 For her sweet sake, 
 And the little birds they sing to her, 
 And the little bees they wing to her, 
 Their choicest stores to bring to her, 
 
 When Kate makes cake. 
 
 Ah! her sparkling eyes, how bright they are, 
 And her sleeveless arms, how white they are. 
 
 While she doth take 
 Each appropriate ingredient — , 
 To the rules, as is expedient. 
 She is properly obedient. 
 
 When Kate makes cake. 
 
 Sure, the gods in their symposia 
 Of such delicate ambrosia 
 
 Did ne'er partake; 
 And the process, ah! how neat it is, 
 And the product, ah! how sweet it is. 
 The enjoyment, how complete it is, 
 
 When Kate makes cake. 
 
 As, all unseen, I gaze on her, 
 To bestow what meed of praise on her 
 Mere words may make, 
 
I hear the birds as they sing to her, 
 And see the bees as they wing to her, 
 All their choicest sweets to bring to her, 
 When Kate makes cake. 
 
 'T^HE past may cast a shadow which shall dim 
 -■■ The sunshine of the present with regret ; 
 But hope, undying, angel-voiced will hymn: 
 The past is past — the future cometh yet. 
 
 89 
 
AT THE CIRCUS 
 
 T SAW her at the circus. Since I had seen her last, 
 -*■ Old Tempus had been fugit-'mg — almost three years had passed, 
 And both had changed — while care had left some traces on my brow. 
 She led by the hand a little boy nearly big enough to plough ! 
 
 I saw her as she entered — she passed me in the crowd, 
 Passed on and never noticed me, though I raised my hat and bowed. 
 Passed on, and near to where I stood, she and her boy sat down. 
 And soon I heard her laughing at the sallies of the clown. 
 
 His sallies had no charm for me — no Sallie that I knew 
 Could rouse such feelings in me as her Christian name could do; 
 She 'd changed her surname since we met, and — I sigh to write the line- 
 In giving up her father's name, she had n't taken mine! 
 
 For another fellow came upon the scene who was, alas! 
 
 More highly-metalled than I was, for he had gold — and brass; 
 
 And as I could only count my coins, like rupees, by the lac. 
 
 She took him and his bags of gold, and then gave me the sack. 
 
 And when I spoke reproachfully of her inconstancy. 
 
 And vowed, however she might change, she 'd find no change in me. 
 
 She laughingly replied that I ought not to think it strange 
 
 That she did n"'t want a husband who 'd be always out of change ! 
 
 The circus failed to please me, for I did n't see a thing 
 But what recalled the fall I got that memorable spring. 
 When cruel fate decreed that I, by Cupid's arrow smitten. 
 Should seek to win a lady's hand and only get — a mitten. 
 
 90 
 
A bare-backed horse without a bridle galloped round and round ; 
 At once between his case and mine a parallel I found — 
 But not a perfect parallel — one point it did n't hit, 
 For, though I had no bridal, yet I certainly got bit ! 
 
 I turned for consolation to listen to the band, 
 
 And the man that played on the big brass horn appeared to understand, 
 
 For he tooted as he had never done before since he was born, 
 
 And so, seeking consolation, I found it — in a horn ! 
 
 I left her at the circus, for I went before the close — 
 
 And, suggested by having seen her, this solemn thought arose : 
 
 How very many instances there are in which we see 
 
 Cupid compelled to ground his arms before cupidity ; 
 
 And in almost every case in which a woman is concerned, 
 Her love, as by a Midas-touch, at once to gold is turned. 
 Thus daily giving to the world another evidence 
 That dollars are superior a hundred-fold to sense ! 
 
 91 
 
TO AN EX -LOVE 
 
 \ ND so you 've sent my letters back. 
 ^^ Thanks — but I really did not need them, 
 And, if I wanted to, I lack 
 
 Just now the leisure to reread them; 
 Excuse me if I 'm impolite — 
 
 It is n't pleasant to make strictures — 
 But was it through mere oversight 
 
 You did n't send the books and pictures? 
 
 Unfounded surely are my fears — 
 
 I should indeed be most regretful 
 To think that to advancing years 
 
 Is due the fact you 've grown forgetful ; 
 And yet, one of my minor griefs 
 
 Is that you 've kept a little locket 
 That cost me twenty plunks at Stief's, 
 
 Which I might use again — or hock it. 
 
 As to the letters, now, I should 
 
 Not care if some one were to swipe them, 
 Though once I thought them very good — 
 
 So did the girl who used to type them ; 
 She was a girl of tact and sense 
 
 Who never asked me useless questions. 
 Though from her own experience 
 
 She made some excellent suggestions. 
 
 Ah ! was it but two years ago 
 
 This coming winter that I met you, 
 
 92 
 
And told you that I loved you so, 
 And never, never could forget you? 
 
 Do not, I beg, reproach me now — 
 I think I thought I loved you dearly; 
 
 I am not fickle — that I vow — 
 
 Let's say that I am facile merely. 
 
 There is no calendar, alack! 
 
 To accurately gauge the feelings; 
 To count time by the almanac 
 
 Is only safe in business dealings; 
 Two years, sometimes, may seem like ten- 
 
 I state the fact with due contrition — 
 And one must needs be wiser when 
 
 He 's had, like me, two years' tuition ! 
 
 A wise saw says : "Off with the old 
 
 Before you 're on with any new one !" 
 And one must with the maxim hold 
 
 Who deems it, as I do, a true one; 
 In my own case I know, of course, 
 
 How quickly ends an old connection 
 When struck by the expulsive force 
 
 Exerted by a new affection. 
 
 'T was at the recent horse show, where, 
 When the whole push was congregated, 
 
 I went, one night; I saw her there. 
 And promptly I capitulated; 
 
 'T would overtax my powers of speech. 
 Which are at times a trifle hazy, 
 
 93 
 
To picture her — but she 's a peach, 
 A darling, and likewise a daisy. 
 
 I 'm satisfied, and so is she — 
 
 She is too honest to deceive me — 
 And I should like for you to be 
 
 Contented also, pray believe me ; 
 "Ofif with the old, on with the new," 
 
 An ancient adage and a true one — 
 You 've lost the old : if I were you, 
 
 I'd capture — if I could — a new one 
 
 ENVOI 
 
 In v/orldly goods, you know, I 'm poor. 
 And nearly always shy in pocket: 
 
 I need just now a gage d' amour — 
 
 I wish you would return that locket! 
 
 94 
 
THIRD PERSON SINGULAR 
 
 I^HE sunshine of a perfect June 
 ■"• Flooded with gold the room I sat in, 
 When Polly came, that afternoon, 
 To do her daily task in Latin. 
 (Outside, a music-throated bird 
 
 Upon a swaying vine was swinging, 
 And all the listening air was stirred 
 
 With the glad wonder of his singing.) 
 
 "Begin," I said — perchance the tone 
 
 In which I spoke was somewhat crusty — 
 "It seems of late that you have grown 
 
 In conjugation rather rusty." 
 (Outside, the sympathetic bird, 
 
 Still on the honeysuckle swinging. 
 Sang sweetly, but I thought I heard 
 
 A note of protest in his singing.) 
 
 "Now, then: 'Amo—l love,' " I said; 
 
 She smiled — "I never would have guessed it; 
 But then" — she bent her sunny head — 
 
 "I'm very glad that you've confessed it !" 
 (Outside, the bird — a mocking bird — 
 
 Upon his tendrilled perch still swinging, 
 Sang gaily, and I feared I heard 
 
 A note of laughter in his singing.) 
 
 "Proceed: '^;;za.y— thou lovest.' " "O," 
 
 Laughing, she cried, "how did you know it? 
 
 95 
 
I'm very sure you can not know, 
 
 Because I've tried hard not to show it," 
 (Outside, the persevering bird, 
 
 Upon his vine-wreathed vantage swinging, 
 Sang on, and I beheved I heard 
 A note of question in his singing.) 
 
 'Aniat — he loves' — third person — so — 
 
 Go on — you seem loath to begin it." 
 She blushed, and said, "You ought to know 
 
 That there is no third person in it!" 
 (Outside, then, from his perch the bird 
 
 Flew swift, and left the vine still swinging, 
 And, as he sped, I knew I heard 
 
 A note of triumph in his singing.) 
 
 96 
 
THE WIDOW 
 
 T) LACK-ROBED, sedate, demure — and yet withal 
 -"-^ There was a roguish twinkle in her eye 
 That did not quite suggest the bier and pall; 
 
 And so, emboldened — there was no one by — 
 I pleaded for a kiss — a single kiss; 
 
 Surely, I argued, 't would be only right 
 She should vouchsafe so small a boon as this — 
 
 A widow's mite. 
 
 In vain I pleaded — she would not consent ; 
 
 She was surprised I should insult her thus; 
 She had done nothing, she was confident, 
 
 That I should think she was so frivolous; 
 She was not used to being treated so; 
 
 'T was a poor way her friendship to requite ; 
 She never granted liberties — although 
 
 Some widows might. 
 
 But though she stormed, I deemed her wrath assumed — 
 
 She was, I thought, quite too demonstrative ; 
 And so, with reckless daring, I presumed 
 
 Boldly to take what she refused to give. 
 No word she spoke — quick as the lightning streak 
 
 Her hand she raised — that hand so small and white— 
 And then I felt upon my tingling cheek 
 
 The widow's might ! 
 
 97 
 
KICKED 
 
 OHE 'S as fair as the vision which innocence sees, 
 
 •^ In its ang-el-watched slumbers all peacefully dreaming, 
 
 Her voice is as sweet as the rose-scented breeze. 
 
 And her eyes are like stars in their diamond-like gleaming; 
 The sun-sparkle sprinkles its gold through her hair, 
 
 And the peach-bloom has given its tint to her cheek; 
 To find such another, so peerlessly rare, 
 
 Throughout the wide world all in vain you would seek — 
 But she kicked me! 
 
 Yet I worship her still, and in fond adoration, 
 
 I of?er the incense of love at her shrine; 
 Though I dare not e'er hope for a dearer relation, 
 
 And I know I may never on earth call her mine. 
 Though my suit was rejected with lofty disdain, 
 
 I never can teach my fond spirit to hate her, 
 And my heart will forever her image retain, 
 
 With the permanent print of a No. 2 gaiter, 
 Where she kicked me. 
 
 98 
 
AN OBJECT LESSON 
 
 To a young lady -who asked, 
 "What constitutes a fas- 
 cinating ivoman?" 
 
 "A FASCINATING woman"? I incline 
 ^^ To the belief that what you ask of me 
 A not too easy task may prove to be, 
 Forsooth, for such an awkward pen as mine. 
 How shall an untaught neophyte combine 
 The words and phrases wherein one may see 
 Solution of so great a mystery, 
 And so the secret readily divine? 
 Certes, I can not name the charms which go 
 To make a fascinating woman — so 
 In such emergency it comes to pass 
 That, wanting words to tell you what she is, 
 In lieu of portraiture, I offer this — 
 I do commend you to your looking-glass! 
 
 99 
 
A FEAT OF FEET 
 
 \T 7ITHIN a private box I sat beside 
 * * A Boston maiden, statdy and precise, 
 And saw Signora Vermicelli glide 
 
 Across the stage ; and then, with wondering eyes, 
 I saw her grasp her skirts with motion quick — 
 
 I saw a wicked twinkle in her eye — 
 And then I saw La Vermicelli kick, 
 
 Right — left — I am afraid to say how high. 
 Thrilled with the rest by the amazing sight, 
 
 I turned unto the damsel by my side, 
 Who gave no sign of wonder or delight, 
 
 And, "Heavens ! did you see that feat ?" I cried ; 
 Whereto this Boston maiden, prim and neat, 
 Replied, "Excuse me, sir — I saw those feet!" 
 
APRIL SHOWERS 
 
 T IFE can 't be always sunlight, love, 
 *^ Nor April always blue; 
 Sometimes we face fair skies above, 
 Sometimes a shower or two. 
 
 Oh, Life and April have dark hours 
 That soon grow glad again; 
 
 So say not, dear, because it showers, 
 That Life is always rain. 
 
 — Newspaper poet. 
 
 Yes, love, sometimes the rain will fall, 
 
 However blue the sky — 
 Still, if it never rained at all. 
 
 It would be awful dry. 
 
 But showers are not so very tough 
 As this sweet bard complains, 
 
 Provided that he knows enough 
 To come in when it rains ! 
 
 lOl 
 
A WILCOXIAN EXPERIMENT 
 
 TT7ARM with the winds of the sensuous south, 
 * * Damp with the spray of the scented sea, 
 With the dew of the dusk on her red-curved mouth, 
 As I swooned and sank in the dust-deep drouth, 
 Came the hthe-hmbed Lihth, smiHng, to me. 
 
 The languorous Hght in her aniline eye. 
 
 Like the lightning gleam on the glooming cloud 
 That dusks and darkens the summer sky, 
 Thrilled me and filled me, as quickly I 
 
 Sprang forward to meet her. She spake aloud : 
 
 "Kingliest of men," her red lips said — 
 
 And I knew at once that she must mean me — 
 "The crown that shall crown thy regal head, 
 Hyacinthine-sweet and ringletted. 
 
 Is the love of thy love-lorn Lilith. See?" 
 
 Over the purpling peaks of the dawn, 
 
 Where heather, besprent with diamond dew, 
 Tinted and tufted the lush green lawn, 
 Fleetly she fled as the dappled fawn; 
 
 She smiled as she went — and I went too! 
 
A BIRTHDAY TALK WITH HORACE 
 
 Eheu fugaces, Postume, Postume, 
 Labuntur anni, nee pietas moram 
 Rugis et instanti senectae 
 Afferet indomitaeque morti. 
 
 — Od., ii, xiv 
 
 \ LAS ! you 're right, my oldtime college chum, 
 ^^ Sage and sententious Q. Horatius Flaccus: 
 Labuntur anni, and gray hairs will come, 
 
 And age and rheumatism likewise attack us ; 
 Nor art nor care their progress can delay — 
 I know, for I am fifty-nine today ! 
 
 Now that my glass, that all too candid friend, 
 With brutal frankness gives you confirmation, 
 
 To moram rugis I shall not pretend. 
 
 But scan my face with proper resignation: 
 
 Of wrinkles there are very few on mine. 
 
 Today, although today I 'm fifty-nine. 
 
 Eheu fugaces! Threescore, minus one — 
 
 And yet, through summers' heat and winters' rigor, 
 
 My race with perseverance has been run. 
 My course been held with unabated vigor, 
 
 The milestones passed with joyance on the way. 
 
 Reaching the nine-and-fiftieth today. 
 
 You did not reach so many — yet, I swear, 
 
 You had a gorgeous time, you gay old classic! 
 
 Your taste in female loveliness was rare, 
 And likewise in Falernian and Massic: 
 
 103 
 
What boots it, then, O long-dead friend of mine. 
 That all your years did not count fifty-nine? 
 
 We count not time by years. Dum vivimus — 
 A wise old maxim, though you did not say it ; 
 
 But Carpe diem you did give to us, 
 And we who are philosophers obey it: 
 
 If I 'd not gathered rosebuds by the way, 
 
 1 might be dead, not fifty-nine, today! 
 
 How did you come to write an ode so dour — 
 
 Book two, ode fourteen, is the one in question — 
 
 Was Lalage unkind, the wine too sour, 
 
 Or had stewed lampreys given you indigestion? 
 
 My taste for cates (and Kates), my gust for wine, 
 
 Are still acute — and I am fifty-nine. 
 
 In many a joyous primrose path I 've strayed. 
 
 Through pleasaunce walked, in leafy covert hunted, 
 
 Soft sunshine gilded all the hay I made, 
 The while fugaces anni still labunt-ed; 
 
 I could not stop them, so I gave them sway, 
 
 And thus I reckon fifty-nine today. 
 
 'T is foolish to grow old — the fount of youth. 
 Although the sturdy Spaniard failed to gain it, 
 
 Is the eternal heritage, in sooth. 
 
 Of him who wills unchanging to retain it: 
 
 'T is an elixir, potent and divine. 
 
 To keep one young, though he be fifty-nine. 
 
 104 
 
Vale, my old-young friend. Where'er you be, 
 I trust you have agreeable employment. 
 
 The pleasantest of pleasant company, 
 To furnish you perpetual enjoyment ; 
 
 And, maugre what biographers may say, 
 
 I 'm sure you 're less than fifty-nine today. 
 
 ENVOI 
 
 Eheu fugaces — well, just let 'em fly, 
 
 Likewise, I care not if lahuntur anni; 
 
 To clip their wings no mortal need to try, 
 
 So do n't ask me to do the job — how can I? 
 
 The flight of years is no concern of mine, 
 
 So long as I am young at fifty-nine. 
 
 i05 
 
A PLUVIAL DITHYRAMB 
 
 Written on a bridge over a mountain 
 stream, during a vacation tramp in 
 Western North Carolina 
 
 T IKE Goldsmith's lone and lonely traveller, 
 ■*^ "Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow," 
 Far from the madding crowd's annoying stir, 
 
 While rolls the restless river far below, 
 I sit upon this damp old bridge and think 
 How very much I 'd like to have a drink ! 
 
 Not from the river — such a draught, indeed, 
 Were far too frigid for my cold condition ; 
 
 Saint Paul himself did not extend, we read. 
 To stomach-medicine his prohibition — 
 
 And so vouchsafe, O Ceres, from thy bounty 
 
 A generous quuntum suif. of "Lincoln county." 
 
 So near and yet so far! the blue smoke curls 
 Above the humble cabin where, anon. 
 
 Heedless of me, my friends — the caitiff churls !- 
 Will pull the corn-cob from the demijohn. 
 
 And, as they guzzle there in godless glee. 
 
 Will leave the world to dryness and to me. 
 
 Dryness within — 't is wet enough without: 
 Much like the Ancient Mariner, I think, 
 
 I find there 's water, water all about. 
 And not a drop of anything to drink; 
 
 Great wind-blown sheets of rain fill all the sky. 
 
 The stream is full — eheu ! so am not I ! 
 
 io6 
 
And here I sit, Marius-like, amid 
 
 The ruins of this Carthaginian bridge, 
 
 Wooing the Muse, who still keeps coyly hid 
 Among the pines and other trees indig- 
 
 Enous to her fuliginous retreat — 
 
 I hope Marius had a drier seat! 
 
 I came to write a poem for the maid 
 
 Whose large and generous welcome was so sweet- 
 A grateful sonnet, erewhile to be laid 
 
 In homage at her large and generous feet, 
 Magenta-stockinged — but the hope is vain: 
 How can a man write verses in the rain? 
 
 Here goes once more: O beauteous mountain maid! 
 
 dryad, naiad, nymph, rolled into one, 
 Sporting like "Amaryllis in the shade," 
 
 Or glancing 'twixt the sunshine and the sun. 
 In gay, glad, giddy, girlsome glee— alack! 
 There goes a large, cold raindrop down my back ! 
 
 "Dryad," said I? Nay, anything but them— 
 
 1 call to mind the Carolina sages 
 Whose luminous, omniscient apothegm 
 
 Will gild with glory all the coming ages, 
 And make without disguise the frank admission: 
 I really could not stand a dry-ad-dition ! 
 
 Is hfe worth living longer? There, below, 
 The river rages, all thirst for blood ; 
 
 107 
 
Dare I, despite its cruel-gleaming flow, 
 
 Leap, Cassius-like, into the angry flood, 
 And be "a dem'd, damp, moist, unpleasant body"? 
 Not now— I think I'll go and try to find a toddy! 
 
 npHERE once was a rapid young broker, 
 
 Who sat in a swift game of poker; 
 Four aces he had, but they got him in bad — 
 They had rung in a deck with the joker! 
 
 io8 
 
MY LADY NICOTINE 
 
 "Xl 7HEN first the rising god of day 
 ^^ Has tinged the orient sky with blushes, 
 And when his last departing ray 
 
 Paints all the west with purple flushes ; 
 When darkness has enwrapped the globe, 
 
 And lingering day has fled before it, 
 And night has donned her sable robe 
 
 And sprinkled stars like jewels o'er it; 
 A glittering coronet of pearls, 
 
 When beauty on her brow has bound it. 
 And beauty's face, with sunny curls 
 
 Wreathed like an aureole around it — 
 All these, no doubt, are fair to see. 
 
 And yet, shall I be counted duller 
 Because it gives more joy to me 
 
 To watch my meerschaum slowly color? 
 
 Sweet is the morning's earliest breeze, 
 
 When every nectar-draught comes laden 
 With perfume through the budding trees. 
 
 And sweet the vermeil lips of maiden, 
 Like rose-leaves steeped in fragrant wine. 
 
 When, blessedest of earthly blisses. 
 Around her form your arm you twine, 
 
 And taste the joy of love's first kisses; 
 Sweet are the spoils the searching bee 
 
 Finds hidden in far springtime bowers. 
 And humming-birds drink eagerly 
 
 From the lush depths of summer flowers; 
 
 109 
 
Nor bird nor bee such joyance sips 
 Froni out the heart of rose unclosing, 
 
 As I, what time between my lips 
 
 My amber mouthpiece is reposing. 
 
 How varied are the flowers found 
 
 In nature's great conservatory — 
 Here mignonette bedecks the ground, 
 
 There climbs the purple morning-glory; 
 The modest violet shuns the light, 
 
 Seeking escape from note or praises, 
 While hyacinths enchant the sight, 
 
 And all the earth is strewn with daisies ; 
 The honeysuckle scents the air, 
 
 As to the spring its heart uncloses, 
 Carnations freshest fragrance bear, 
 
 And every breeze is rich with roses; 
 And yet no flower, however rare. 
 
 In garden close or wildwood vagrance, 
 In perfect perfume may compare 
 
 With good tobacco's peerless fragrance! 
 
 no 
 
THE ETERNAL INTERROGATIVE 
 
 AH! through the tenebrific way 
 "*^ To stellar space, 
 What vague, aberrant labyrinths 
 
 Our footsteps trace; 
 "Wherefore ?" we ask — the vacuous air 
 Repeats the cry; 
 Echo remote reverberates, 
 
 And answers, "Why?" 
 
 'Mid gloom nigrescent and profound 
 
 We blindly grope ; 
 We reach the portal but to find 
 
 It will not ope; 
 We stand and yearn — malefic Fate 
 
 Vouchsafes to us 
 No key sesamic: she is not 
 
 Clavigerous. 
 
 The sky is ubertiferous 
 
 With nitent stars — 
 We gaze and wonder can there be 
 
 People on Mars; 
 Through hirsute strata brumal winds 
 
 Incessant blow — 
 We ask them whence and whither, but 
 
 They do not know. 
 
 -^ons ago, the pyramids 
 Skyward arose, 
 
 III 
 
But who erected them, or why, 
 
 Nobody knows; 
 For ages on the desert sands 
 
 The Sphinx has sat, 
 But ere she took her present seat. 
 
 Where was she at? 
 
 In vain, in vain, w€ ask ourselves, 
 
 "Why is this so?" 
 In vain, in vain, we weirdly wail, 
 
 And seek to know ; 
 Ah! from Cognition's plenal fount 
 
 We may not sup — 
 Why sempitemally enquire? 
 
 Let 's give it up. 
 
 112 
 
A CASUAL CALENDAR 
 
 JANUARY 
 
 n^HE youth about now feels a sad diminution 
 -*■ Of the virtue and strength of his good resolution, 
 And, now that the novelty 's partially worn off, 
 Is tempted to wish that he never had sworn off. 
 
 FEBRUARY 
 
 A lively young bluebird 
 
 Began for to sing 
 In the cheerfullest manner — 
 
 He thought it was spring; 
 When a stray zephyr struck him, 
 
 Song, feathers and all. 
 And he dropped from the tree-top. 
 
 He knew it was fall! 
 
 MARCH 
 
 Good and ill, by a natural law, are arrayed 
 
 In a way that the mind of the thoughtless amazes: 
 
 The same wind that plays pranks with the skirts of the maid 
 Blows dust in the eyes of the young man who gazes. 
 
 APRIL 
 
 In the spring the gentle sere- 
 Naders tinkle their guitars. 
 
 Making for fair maidens merry 
 Music underneath the stars; 
 
 Then, next day, the gentle sere- 
 Naders not so jolly are, 
 
 For a fellow can 't be merry. 
 Toying with the soft catarrh! 
 
 "3 
 
MAY 
 
 In the spring a livelier iris on the burnished glass doth glint; 
 In the spring the young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of mint 
 
 Juleps. 
 
 JUNE 
 
 'T was at the picnic's festive scene — 
 
 They sat beneath the spreading shade: 
 A handsome and devoted youth 
 And a romantic rural maid; 
 "The woods are vocal," she remarked 
 
 To her companion tete-a-tete — 
 He smiled, and scratched, and made reply: 
 "That is to say, ar-tick-u-late !" 
 
 JULY 
 
 The belles and beaus now hie away 
 To sylvan shades, thus for a day 
 Escaping, if perchance they may, 
 
 The dusty town's increased caloric; 
 Their thirst with lemonade they slake, 
 Their fill of guileless joy they take, 
 And eke of melons, cream and cake, 
 
 And — subsequently — paregoric. 
 
 AUGUST 
 
 No object, now, we dare aver, 
 Attracts such notice as the ther- 
 
 Mometer ; 
 Our eyes are scarcely taken from 
 The figures marked on the thermom- 
 
 Eter; 
 
 114 
 
Whene'er we look, we 're sure to see 
 The slowly rising thermome- 
 Ter! 
 
 SEPTEMBER 
 
 Now, for babbling brooks and sunny days 
 
 The city fishermen fondly wish; 
 They go, they stay, and then they come back, 
 
 And lie about the size of their fish. 
 
 OCTOBER 
 
 Now, before See him now, 
 
 Appears the sun At set of sun. 
 
 See the hunter Coming back 
 
 With his gun. With dog and gun; 
 
 Game-bag pendent, Nary a bird 
 
 Dog at heels — His bag conceals — 
 
 O how proud O how cheap 
 
 The hunter feels! The hunter feels! 
 
 NOVEMBER 
 
 Give thanks — let kindly thoughts, today. 
 
 Towards all, supplant severity — 
 Although, at dinner-time, you may 
 
 Indulge in some oysterity ! 
 
 DECEMBER 
 
 The wise man, approaching the end of the year, 
 When the season of mirth and of feasting is near, 
 Endeavors to keep in his mind firmly fixed 
 The thought that one sometimes will get his saints mixed ; 
 
 "5 
 
He has found, as through Hfe he has plodded along, 
 That nature is weak and temptation is strong, 
 And that one, by what seems a curious trick, 
 Expecting Saint Nicholas, raises Old Nick! 
 
 TT7HY worry yourself and so needlessly labor 
 
 To pluck a small mote from the eye of your neighbor, 
 When everyone sees, with derision and laughter, 
 A beam in your eye big enough for a rafter? 
 
 ii6 
 
ORNITHOLOGICAL 
 
 11 IDAS VON GELD and his new-won bride, 
 
 On a sunny and summery afternoon, 
 Strolled down the Avenue side by side — 
 'T was just at the wane of the honeymoon. 
 
 They were another December and May, 
 For she was Hssome and young and fair, 
 
 While he, God wot, was decrepit and gray, 
 But a many-times-over millionaire. 
 
 As they strolled along, with sometimes a stop, 
 Brightening the way with loving words, 
 
 They came to a little corner shop 
 
 Which bore the legend, "All kinds of birds." 
 
 'Ah!" said von Geld, with a beaming face, 
 
 "The very thing — let us go in here; 
 Do you know we have n't a bird on the place? 
 I really must buy you one, my dear. 
 
 'What shall it be, sweet — a cockatoo, 
 
 Canary or oriole or turtle dove. 
 Mocking-bird, chaffinch? I leave it to you. 
 
 But we must have a bird in the house, my love." 
 
 The wise young bride slowly shook her head- - 
 This, you '11 remember, was in New York — 
 'I do n't care for any of these," she said; 
 
 "I believe — I would rather — it would be — a stork !" 
 
 117 
 
CIRCUS TIME 
 
 'T^ WAS an aged darky, wrinkled and bent, 
 "*■ That slowly along the sidewalk went; 
 His clothing showed many a grievous tear, 
 And his huge black feet were totally bare. 
 
 "Why do n't you buy some shoes ?" one said, 
 Whom he chanced to meet; he shook his head- 
 
 " Why, I can 't afford it, marster, you know : 
 I 'm savin' my money to go to de show !" 
 
 iiS 
 
D. D. 
 
 A70U 'RE a bad, bad man," she gently said 
 ■*■ To the guileless youth at her side; 
 But he shook his soft and scented head, 
 And the terrible charge denied. 
 
 Then, still more gently, the maiden said: 
 "I do n't wish you to think me rude, 
 But an ancient saw I long ago read 
 Bids us 'Give the devil his dude' !" 
 
 119 
 
"/ sang a song of the Queen Rose o' the May, 
 And fondly fancied it would live alway: 
 Ah! only one remembered — intertwined 
 With the flower of Love, 't ivas in her heart enshrined: 
 
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