I'M nrTuTii Class _B.i3_5^1 Book _jd_a^.5JZ.4:__ Copyright N" COPVRIGHT DEPOSrr BY CLIFFORD PHILLIPS PRIVATELY PRINTED PHILADELPHIA. PA. 1913 CorVRIOHT, 10 1 ^ 1!Y CLU'TORl") riiiLLirs All rights reserved WICKFRSIIAM rRINTlNG CO., LANCASrUK, I'A. OCI.A.S5 1 141 DEDICATION The world can well dispense with a book of rhymes written by the average versifier. There seems no real necessity for a book like this: its author — who is hardly entitled to be classed among the average versifiers — does wrong, no doubt, in issuing it. Yet these rhymes are not actually intended for the world at large, but only, nu- merically speaking, for an insignificant portion of it — the volume, in fact, having been designed for the writer's own amusement and the amasement also of a few, a very few of his most patient and most friendly acquaintances. Such being the case, the remarks made here need not take on too apologetical a turn. But one in a preface mast not be unduly discursive. So now for the dedication. Dedication! Is it necessary? To whom should it be? Here comes trouble. When an amateur in the literary line writes a book, particularly a book of poetry, it is customary to dedicate it to somebody ; he who has compiled for publication this volume of (alleged) poems experiences a difficulty in ob- serving such a cu.stom. In the course of more than fifty years — having passed, some time ago, the half-century mark on life's way — the writer has made some friends and possibly some enemies; at first he could scarcely tell to which one in the former or to which one in the latter class he might with the greater propriety inscribe the comparatively few productions of his mase that seemed from certain associations, rather than from any sup- posed merits, to be worth presenting. IV DEDICATION. A friend (not a deadly foe, as would naturally be sur- mised) once advised the writer to bring out his verses in book form; the writer, however, is alone responsible for this publication, it is not his intention to shift the blame on any one else ; but that kindly friend's well-meant and unforgotten advice (though very likely it would not have been followed had it conflicted with the writer's purpose) suggested a way out of the dedicatory quandary. To this one, then, who once showed a passing interest in his effu- sions, it seems somewhat suitable to dedicate a collection of rhymes intended for distribution among those of the writer's acquaintances and friends likeliest, in his opin- ion, to take an interest in at least a few of the perhaps too many rhythmical compositions that have been gath- ered. And so this book of verses, composed in some of the infrequent leisure intervals of a more or less busy exist- ence, extending over a period of time commencing with the year 1874 and closing with this of 1912, is dedicated to the one who first suggested it — that is, to Maud. Philadelphia, December 31, 1912. CONTENTS PAGE Dedication Dedicatory Verses 19 In the Starlight. Published in " Fireside Companion," Janu- ary 22, 1877 21 One Day. Written in 1877 21 Remembrance. Published in " Munro's Girls and Boys of America," February 10, 1877 22 At Early Morning Time. " The Boomerang," July, 1885 . . 23 Retrospection. " Munro's Girls and Boys of America," Feb- ruary 17, 1877 24 The Lament of a Village Poet. Written in 1876 24 Free Agency 26 I've ever Loved. Published in " Odd Fellows' Siftings," May, 1886 27 Factory Life. Written in 1877 29 Dolly's Album. Written in 1876 29 Dolly's Holly. Written in 1876 31 My Doings. Written in 1883 32 Discreet 34 A Mild Homily on Drink 34 Stars. Published in "The Orpheum News," Feb. 17, 1908. 35 Art. [An inspirational poem.] 36 Florabella Fontaine 37 Flossie Friskoe 38 Considerate 39 Queen of the Corps de Ballet 40 Uncommunicative 40 Actor McGrane. Published in " The Orpheum News," Oct. 19, 1908 41 A Question. Published in " The Orpheum News," March 30, 1908 42 Our Erstwhile Friends 43 An Appointment 43 Vaudeville 44 An Averment 45 VI CONTENTS. PAGE Beyond Control 46 The Rejuvenescence of An Illinois Peach 46 Atlantic City. Published in " Public Ledger," July 23, 1912. 48 Opportunity 48 St. Valentine. Published February 12, 1902 * 49 A Name 49 To the Day's Enthroned Saint. Published February 13, 1906. 50 Memories 50 A Needed Girl 51 Themic Variety 5 1 Two Souls 52 Boldness 52 Adaline 53 A Bold Declaration. Published February 14, 1907 53 This Day 54 Fate's Book 54 Her Smile 54 Summer in Town. Published July 11, 1907 55 Handicapped. Published April 7, igo8 56 An Interruption. Published October 3, 1908 57 A Billion. Published March 13, 1908 58 Clotilda. Published September 28, 1904 58 Woman. Published November 7, 1906 59 Vulnerable Man. Published October 24, 1906 59 Men's Hearts 60 Her Heart 61 Sustaining a Reputation 61 An Invitation. Written in 1900 62 A Strange Mystery 62 I'll Sigh at Times. Written in 1898 63 Indetermination 64 A Sensible Girl 64 A Poet's Theme 65 My Age 67 A Good Excuse 68 Tell Me 69 O Supposing ! 69 * Most of the verses printed heretofore originally appeared in " The Evening Bul- letin " of Philadelphia. CONTENTS. Vll PAGE Night's Witching Hour 69 Break of Day 69 A Challenge 69 Not a Fatal Malady. Published December 4, 1907 70 Stay 70 Unutterable Love 71 Unuttered Thoughts 71 " What's In a Name ? 72 The Bachelor's Side Of It. Published June 29, 1904 73 Danger 73 An Elderly Bachelor's Chances 74 Bestirring One's Self 75 Epistolic Dissonance. Written in 1876 76 Poetry. Published May 16, 1907 78 Jane Brown 79 Sadie Austin 80 Friend Ferdinand 81 A Lesson 83 The Right Bait 84 Repartee 84 Practice. Published August 2, 1909 85 Imagination. Published December 21, 1909 86 A Foolish Question 86 Forebodings 87 My Finish 87 On The Beach 88 At The Shore 89 'Tween Sales 90 In Doubt. Published December 5, 1904 90 The Wooing Of It 91 A Plain Statement 92 Diplomacy 92 True Valor 92 Something Learned 93 Curbstone Musings. [A purposeful poem.] Written in 1884. 94 Fawcett's Tree 96 Dreams. Published October 14, 1910 97 The Ship of State 97 A Mystery 98 The Friday Evening Reading Club. Written in May, 1883 . . 99 vm CONTENTS. PAGE The Task. Written in October, 1883 103 Platonic Friendship. Published November 17, 1904 no Aeronautics Ill To-morrow in Regarding Love. Written in 191 1 112 Nineteen-Six. Published December 27, 1906 114 Outdoors 114 The Parting and The Coming Guest. Published Dec. 31, 1909. 115 Spring. Published April 2, 1908 I15 Springtime. Published April 4, 1905 116 A New World 116 Spring's Reign 117 A Spring Day 118 A Broken Resolution. Published May 6, 1909 I18 Maybelle. Published September 16, 1903 119 Beside the Sea. Published November 10, 1902 119 A Memory. Published March 10, 1908 120 A Day Recalled 121 To Dorothy 122 Childhood 123 In a City Square 124 Rittenhouse Square 125 Minor Mishaps 126 Riches 127 Life's Hours 127 A Little Critic 128 Our Outing 129 Chums 129 The Lesson. Published in "Public Ledger," Aug. 19, 1911... 131 Happiness 132 Silent Speech. Published October 2, 1907 132 Some Day 133 Awaiting Her Coming 133 The Earth I34 A Deathless Song 134 A Cheering Thought 135 Foreordained 135 Heaven's Gift 136 A Woman's Heart 136 Summer I37 CONTENTS. IX PAGE Where Love Bides Not, Antoinette 137 The Voice I'll Never Hear Again 138 Sometime. Published July 13, 1909 138 The Lake. Published October 16, 1902 139 Love. Published January 20, 1905 139 A Fisher Maiden. Published October 8, 1903 140 A Premeditated Theft. Published July 21, 1910 140 Christmas Time. Published December 23, 1903 141 Faint Heart. Published December 20, 1905 141 The Enigma of Life 142 Amid The Gloom. Published December 4, 1902 142 Vain Regrets. Published November 3, 1905 143 When Time is Dead. Published January 23, 1906 143 Meditations of a Bookkeeper. Published February 27, 1907. 144 Her Song. Published February 12, 1901 145 Amid The Crowd 145 Alice. Published April 25, 1908 146 When Alice Sings. Published January 12, 1903 147 Enforced Silence. Written in 1884 148 Loquacity 149 Louise. Written in 1883 150 When We Meet 151 Sweet Sue. Published October 31, 1904 151 A Modern Juliet. Published June 24, 1907 152 They Who Love. Published November 12, 1907 152 Ode to a Bee. Published June 4, 1908 IS3 Rumors. Published September 8, 1909 154 Not Alone. Published December 8, 1908 155 A Violet. Published January 19, 1909 156 Unforgotten 157 Rhyme's Recompense. Published February 26, 1910 158 Farewell. Published May 26, 1910 159 Proximity 159 Beauty 160 Woman's Constancy 161 Filial Love 162 Show 162 Longings. Published May 28, 1909 163 The Sea. Published December 3, 1909 163 Shakespeare. Published March 18, 1910 164 X CONTENTS. PAGE Unknown as Yet 164 Won 165 A Sonnet 165 Winter. Written in December, igii 166 Love's Day. Written in December, 19 11 166 In Jersey. Published October 13, 1909 167 A Life's History 167 Why Need One Care ? 168 My Poems 168 Frankness 169 By The Lake 169 Little Sue 171 Autumn. Published October 20, 1903 172 Summer Days 172 That Morning 1 73 Susanna. Part of this published December i, 1908 174 A Fall 176 To Nellie 177 Friends 177 She Sang. Written in 1898 178 No Longer Young 180 Love a Bar to Success 181 The Stimulus of Love 181 Past Dreams Recalled 181 The Belle of The Season. Written in 1898 182 Joy 187 AcROSTiCAL Section. — Pages 188 to 215 inclusive. On Life's Highway 188 If in the Days to Come 188 My Ideal 189 A Dark-haired Divinity 189 April 190 May Day 190 Bereft ,. 191 By the Balustrade 191 The Desolated Manse 192 L'Envoi 192 Day Dreams 193 CONTENTS. XI PAGE The Ocean 193 Lasting Love 194 Christmas Day 194 This Life 195 To Those Who Wait 19S A Phantasy 196 The Girls 196 An Acrostical Adventurer 197 Dream Knowledge 197 A Modern Rosalind. Published in " The Orpheum News," December 23, 1907 198 A Twilight Reverie 198 Love's Quandary 199 We Poor Men 200 A Spinster. Written in 1876 200 My Heart's Secret 201 An Apparition 202 'Neath Lowering Skies 202 A Whispered Promise 203 An Undaunted Spirit 203 Lora 204 That Heart of Mine 204 A Dream 205 Nota Bene 205 A Plea for Cheerfulness. Written in May, 1897 206 Ask Not Her Name 206 A Vision 207 A Lost Letter Restored. Written in 1899 208 Maple Hall. Written July 15, 1C75 208 A Valentine Offering. Written in 1879 209 Juno's Swans. Written in 1903 209 In Youth's Bright Time. Written in 1880 210 A Twilight Retrospect. Written January i, 1876 210 A Sunset on Corson's Inlet. Written September 8, 1910 211 Sand Castles 212 The Boy 212 The Girl 212 One Year Ago 213 The Days That Were 213 Sonnet 214 XU CONTENTS. PAGE Hope's Star 214 Votes for Women 215 Marching On 215 A Dangerous Pilgrim 216 My Maryland 216 Finale 216 Esthetics 216 Impromptu Lines 217 In Restraint of Flight 217 The Past 218 The Future. Published September 17, 1902 218 Life's Road. Published February 23, 1904 218 Fancy. Published February 10, 1909 219 Air Castles 219 Optimism. Published March 17, 1909 220 A Lost World 220 Hope 221 Fate. Published August 20, 1909 221 The Poets 222 Knowledge 222 Poet's Progress. Published March 29, 1909 223 Pragmatic Psychology 223 Parnassus. Published June 15, 1909 224 A Poet's Soul. Published July 20, 1910 224 Finale 225 The Lady of Bethayres 225 Day Dreaming 226 No Quarrel 226 The Pursuit of Happiness 227 An Early Call 227 A Cheering Afterthought 227 Ambition 228 Hopes, Dreams and Prayers 229 Calumny. Published December 5, 1906 229 Prelude 230 Hell 231 We Saints 235 My Choice 235 A Soul 236 Why Worry ? 236 CONTENTS. XIU PAGE The Vast Majodty 237 Immortality 237 Hell Again 238 Man, or Conditional Immortality 238 Spirit Seekers 238 Spiritualism 239 Unheeded Advice 240 Dietetics, A Lenten Thesis 241 Political Parsons 242 Preachers, Police and Politics 243 My Heaven. Published April 9, 1909 244 Thoughts. Published December 28, 1906 245 My Spirit's Flight. Published February 13, 1903 245 Death. Published January 12, 1904 246 A Prospective Ride 247 Sure Things. Published February 7, 1910 247 Faith. Published March 20, 1906 248 Elegiac Lines 248 Despondency 249 Dead Friends 249 A Puzzled Will. Published March 6, 1907 250 Life. Published May 18, 1909 250 Rest. Published January 13, 1909 251 This Life 251 Human Fortitude 252 Benevolence. Published February 20, 1906 252 Dissimulation. Published December 26, 1908 253 God's Children 253 Lines in Reply to Ella Wheeler Wilcox's " A Query ". Pub- lished July 29, 1908 254 The Dead 254 A Divinity. Published April 26, 1909 255 Life's Battle 255 Jewelry 256 A Gem 257 Jewels 258 The Music of Other Days 260 With Nature. Published February 13, 1906 260 Outside The Gates. Published February 27, 1905 261 Lilies 261 XIV CONTENTS. PAGE Nearing The End 262 Love or Fear ? 262 Living Again 262 Seems Queer 263 Life's Uncertainty 263 If I Were Told 264 Shall We E'er Know? 264 My Fiftieth Birthday 265 Encouragement 265 Why Wait? 265 Right Living 266 No More of Death 266 Individualism Versus Socialism 267 Modern Religious Cults. Published May 9, 1910 267 The Wicked World 268 Duty's Call 269 Some Day I'll Knov/ 269 Concerning Creation. Published November 3, 1910 270 Forgiveness 270 Proselyting (with Postcript) 271 Sect Enthusiasts 273 Beatification Rites. Published in " Friend's Intelligencer," June 5, 1909 275 No Joke. Published November 15, 1909 275 The Higher Criticism 276 Toleration 276 Divorce 277 Man's Part (with Envoy) 277 Achieving Greatness 278 Life's Ways 278 Turning Over a New Leaf 279 Sowing and Reaping 279 Conversions 280 The Smoker's Church 281 Rhyme's Inefficacy 282 Posterity 283 The Redeemed 284 A Socialist 285 Humanity 286 Abolishing Life's Evils 286 CONTENTS. XV PAGE Socialism and Anarchism 287 Liberty 2C2 Necessities 202 Buying Foreign Titles 293 Probabilities of Another Life 204 Religion and Science ^n. ... -^^4 Arbitration 2Qe Old Thoughts 2q6 Some Reflections. Published September 21, 1909 297 Assassins 207 Wealth !.'"!!! ^ ^ !!'''"' 298 Success 299 War. In a letter to "Public Ledger," published June 23, 191 1. 300 An Armed Peace. In a letter to " Public Ledger," published June 27, 1911 3QQ The Carmen's Strike. Published March 31, 1910 301 My Name is Piatt ,03 John E. Reyburn ,04 A Strike ,-,- 3^5 A Veracious Narrative ^^5 Woman Suffrage. In a letter ta "Public Ledger," published November 3, 1912 ,07 An Unimportant Matter ,07 Resourceful Woman ,08 To Miss Margaret ,qq Doing It 211 England and the United States 314 Yelpers -.. ^ 314 Dreamy Drones ,ji. Good Intentions ,ji- A Letter. Published November 6, 1909 316 My Ship 218 Ghostly Visitors ,j8 Flightiness ,10 Fame's Instability ,10 The Baconian Theory -2x9 Friends All Friends 320 Annette. Written in 1900 321 Recovered ,22 I Won't Tell Her Name ^323 XVI CONTENTS. PAGE An Afternoon's Stroll. Written in 1902 326 Pinafore Revised 328 Art's Artifices 330 Partnership Prospects 351 Injustice 332 My Beau 333 A Cautious Man 336 What's The Use ! 336 Stanzas Sent Strokes' Seed Store. Written December 31, 1909. 337 Rebuffed 340 A Nautical Twist 340 Jersey Fairs 341 Lines to E. W. W 342 Lines to A. L. T 342 Was It Wrong ? 342 My Artistic Soul. Published in " The Orpheum News," December 30, 1907 343 Love's Sacrifice 343 What Love Can Do 343 A Woman's Ideal Man 344 Solicitous Inquiries 344 That Sweetheart of Mine 34S Fair Flossie 345 Girls 346 A Considerate Man 346 Milton 346 Some Simple Stanzas Sent Sarah Slimcoe 347 Opera Passes 34^ Vague Vaporings 349 At the Lunch Counter 349 A True Tale 350 Moralizing 351 Diverse Views 352 Strange 352 A Lost Thought 353 Supplied 353 The Non-Essentiality of Thought in the Construction of Poetry 353 Guilty or Not Guilty ? 354 'Twas Never Meant 354 CONTENTS. XVn PAGE A Warning 355 A Tribute to Women 355 Eternity 356 I Do Not Know 356 Foolishness 356 To A. L. T. of " The Bulletin " 357 The Mind 357 A Cold World 358 An Optimist 358 Some Paraphrastical Lines 359 Anticipation 359 Tol-Rol-Lol-Loo 360 Politeness Pays 360 Preaching and Practicing 361 Practical Philosophy 362 Plainly Perceptible 362 Polar Polemics 363 Peary's Pre-eminence 364 Personified Perfection 364 Prefatorial Pleasantry. Written September 10, igio 365 Philadelphia's Poetical Police. Written in May, 1910 370 Pugilistic Pictures 373 Precipitous Praise 374 Dope 374 Barbarians 375 About A Bout 376 The Colored Race. Published September 2, 1910 377 On the Bleachers 379 A Physician of the Modern School 379 Syracuse Seminarians 380 Blondes and Brunettes 381 A Joy We All Might Know 381 Youth's Aspirations 382 A Tribute to Lord Alfred Tennyson 3S2 News 383 Our Dorothy 384 She's Back! 385 Youth 386 Life's Evening 386 A Grandson's Tribute to his Grandmother 387 XVlll CONTENTS. PAGE The Academy 389 These Days 389 Solution of a Chess Problem. Written April 20, 1880 390 A Poem in Prose. Published October 12, 1909 391 Adam's Excoriation of Poets and their Productions 393 An Answer. This and the Adam letter were both published in July, 1905 393 Not Obligatory 395 Astuteness 395 A Silent Harp 396 Just Deserts 396 Needs and Wants 397 Poesy's Essentials 397 The Pen 397 Insufficient Space 39^ Miss * * * * * 398 Deferred Laurels 39^ Hat Hanging Harpies 399 Hilarious Happenings 399 Hazardous Heights 399 Humorists 400 The Reality of the Unreal 4°° Prologue 401 Gwendolen McKnett 402 A Model Man. Written in 1898 468 No Mourning 4^5 Seedsmen and Poets 4^5 Uncommitted Sins. Written in 191 1 486 Time to Stop. Written in 1912 4^7 An Autobiographical Sketch. Written in 1912 488 Last Lines ' 4^9 DEDICATORY VERSES. I never was a poet, though There was, dear Maud, a time When I allowed my thoughts to flow In unrestricted rhyme. Foolish ? Well, yes : and really, Maud, I should know better now — Now when so many years have scored Their traces on my brow. When I first imitated " Keats ", And imprudently soared In Poesy's realms (of all rash feats The very rashest, Maud,) I was, as you may well suppose, A juvenile : one who Deemed his ideas too great for prose, Hence only verse would do. Yes, I was young and life seemed fair ; I sang because, forsooth, One must whose heart is free from care, As all hearts are in youth. And so I sang, and oft I sought The Muse's aid, and she (Though rhyming scarcely seemed my forte) At times was kind to me. 20 DEDICATORY VERSES. Yes, Maud, I sang ; as well one might Who has no cause for tears. In youth's glad morning hearts are light : Grief comes in later years. My verses very likely bored Those who perused them then : Surely I should know better, Maud, Than to offend again. But yet this night my fancy strays Back to youth's time : I find The vagrant verses of past days Still linger in my mind. Those days I wooed the Muse ! Ah ! Maud, If I just write a few Of the old rhymes in memory stored. And dedicate to you The little book containing them, I'm sure that no one in The wide world will my act condemn : Though foolish, 'tis no sin. While memory retains her seat Within my brain, while my Heart throbs I'll not forget those sweet Friendships of days gone by. So, Maud, to you, where'er you are, I dedicate this night The book of rhymes that you in far Off days told me to write. IN THE STARLIGHT. 21 Beneath the stars that shone o'erhead We strolled, a fair young maid and I, Unheedful where our footsteps led, Unheeding time that glided by. We talked the while, yet seemed to stray O'er topics of a careless kind ; Although a deeper subject lay, As yet untold, within my mind. Howe'er the twinkling stars above Seemed urging me, as on we strolled, To ope my mind ; I did — and love, That old, old tale again was told. Oh, happy walk ! Oh, happy night ! When love thus plighted troth f ore'er : Though long since then Time's sped his flight. Yet still to me that maid is fair. ONE DAY. Thoughts of commingled joy and pain Were better lost : Bright scenes long past, though sweet to gain, Do, when they cost An aching void, a heart's remorse, A mind's unrest. Embitter life which memory's loss Might else make blest. And yet could I bid thought expire, I am not sure That I would exercise that power : No, I'd endure 22 REMEMBRANCE. Its racking pains, so that I may Again live o'er One day (O ! such a happy day) I knew of yore. REMEMBRANCE. Years blunt the probe of sorrow's dart, Whilst charms more dear They oft to pleasures past impart; Therefore why fear To enter Memory's mine, and there The past review. Dwelling o'er scenes, some dark, some fair, That once we knew? Although with joys that memory Wakes in the mind — Joys whose endeared remembrance we A solace find — There blendeth many a scene of pain, Yet, Oh ! when all Life's fairest portion we regain, The cost, how small ! Who would not bear the cost to move 'Mong joys of old. To see those whom they once did love. And have unfold Before their gaze the past, restored In sweet entire? Oh! is there aught that could afford A pleasure higher? AT EARLY MORNING TIME. 23 At early morning time upon the street This maiden passes by : I know her not, Yet in her keeping she my heart has got — This maid so gentle-mannered and so sweet. In summer's heat, in winter's fiercest snows, In days that are most beautiful and clear, Through all the changeful seasons of the year, Along the same oft traversed way she goes. We all do have our duties ; hers may be Within some still, close room to work throughout The hours of each day. O true and stout Must be, fair girl, that heart which beats in thee. Beyond the city now the hills are green With nature's richest touch ; but I prefer The stifling town, for here I may see her — A joy not found in any country scene. And thou, O gentle fellow-worker, thou Art cheerful through these long mid-summer days. Youth's hopes are thine ; and all may know who gaze Upon thy face that thou art happy now. And so I note each morning on the street This cheerful maiden pass. I know her not, Yet in her keeping she my heart has got — This maid so gentle-mannered and so sweet. 24 RETROSPECTION. 'Midst tangled weeds that o'er life's way have grown, There glimmer scenes of gladness we have known ; The paths whereon our footsteps trod they mark, Guiding us like beacons in the dark. Oh ! happy spots, how brightly do they gleam ! Their memories seeming like a pleasant dream. As they, unto our mind's perspective eye, Reveal undimm'd the joys of days gone by. The lapse of time, with all* its griefs, can ne'er The memory of those happy scenes impair. Ah ! no ; it seems that each succeeding year Their clear remembrance renders still more clear. Like fresh oasis on a barren waste, 'T is sweet to near them, and 't is sweet to taste Their joys again, and once again stray o'er The pleasant paths we trod in years before. THE LAMENT OF A VILLAGE POET. " Uneasy lies the head " — I quote Shakespeare — " That wears a crown " ; and I may add also Uneasy lie the heads of all men here Who have won fame, a fact I'll try to show. To illustrate, I'll simply take myself : For (though no laurel wreath my head doth crown) I have achieved a name, although not pelf. Within the precincts of our rural town. I have been styled a Poet, and where'er I chance to go I'm known by that name: When I am out the people point and stare At me, some even jeer — and this is Fame ! THE LAMENT OF A VILLAGE POET. 25 Well, it may be a fame most high, and yet I gladly would consent to be less great : The day I first wrote poetry I regret: The costs of greatness I have learned to hate. The costs of greatness are severe, and O ! In my case they are even more, for I'm Expected by most all the girls I know To spend my days in doing nought but rhyme. How oft when at my tasks I hear the sound Of voices in the sunny fields anear — Free, happy voices, whilst alas ! I'm bound A prisoner within my sanctum drear. The girls they care not for the brain that reels From application by the midnight oil, They care not how the Poet lives or feels. They think not of his unrequited toil ; His fevered forehead and his sunken eyes, His threadbare garments and his scanty purse, His isolation, and his long-drawn sighs Are heeded not: they care but for his versc.^ There is no scrap-book in the town but that Has some effusion from my taxed brain, Of which there's quite a number written at The cost of many a sleepless night of pain. And if, at her request, I write Mame White More than I do Sal Brown, I but incur Miss Brown's displeasure, who will cut or slight Me when again I meet or speak to her. * " They," as the writer has since found, do not care even for his verse. This poem, it should be noted, was composed at a very early period of the author's " career ". 26 FREE AGENCY. Then when I really wish to send a line To some new friend, 't is like to happen she Will misconstrue my innocent design, And slight me too for my temerity. In this way I have ofttimes met disdain From one that else might have become a friend ; Yes, I have lost more than I e'er can gain By the effusions that in fear I've penned. Yet, launched forth on my course, I cannot pause Nor turn me from my thorny path of gloom: I must obey harsh Fate's exacting laws Until I reach the goal — the cold, cold Tomb. Written in 1876. FREE AGENCY. Are we at liberty — we sons Of earth — to act or else keep still As suits us, or automatons Obeying a diviner will? I hold that, in a moral sense. We all may act just as we please ; Though we must take the consequence If we outrage law's stern decrees. If wrong, I'm willing to amend These views of mine : theology. On which this question seems to trend, Is something too abstruse for me. I sometimes think we are not free. Oft when my brain is fagged and just Needs rest, a something urges me To rhyme — to rhyme. And rhyme I must ! Written in 1911. I'VE NEVER LOVED. 27 I've never loved, ah me! But whyfore sigh? A lover is not free From pain, and I — Thus being heartwhole — can Much better stand Those trials that meet man On every hand. Untrammeled by the links Of a love's chain, Life prizes are, methinks, Less hard to gain. And yet at times I'm moved To sigh : well, this Loving and being loved Perhaps is bliss. Poets do tell us so ; It must be true. Really, I'd like to know What 't is to woo : What 't is to woo, to win, To wed — to move Henceforth 'mong scenes wherein Abideth love. To love, to love ! Well, it — As 1 may say — May be most exquisite, And I some day 28 I'VE NEVER LOVED. Might know more than I do At present of The sweets belonging to This thing called love. Ah yes ! sometime, somewhere, On some glad day, By some one who is fair, I somehow may Be taught that passion grand — Be taught to know A lover's rapture, and A lover's woe. And yet, and yet instead Of blessings which A perfect love doth shed On poor and rich, It may through life be mine Alone to go. Well, well, need I repine If this be so? But it were better not To speculate On what might be ; our lot Is ruled by fate. Ah yes, one's destiny Is fixed I fear : " There's a divinity," So says Shakespeare, " That shapes our ends, rough-hew Them how we will." Our destiny, 'tis true. We must fulfill. FACTORY LIFE. 29 Working away The live-long day, Breathing the stifling air, Only to leave The task when eve Closes the day of care : And then, used up. Go home and sup, Then sleep — sweet balm — until A new day breaks On earth, and wakes The toiler of the mill. Each day this scene, This dull routine. Relieved by no bright spot : No hope's glad ray Lighting a way Unto a happier lot. DOLLY'S ALBUM. I sit my desk before. And with much pleasure o'er These leaves I look : For many wishes kind. Expressed by friends, I find Within this book. And now, Miss Dolly, I To write in verse shall try My best : although To worthiness like thine These humble lines of mine Cannot, I know, 30 dolly's album. Full justice do. Yet, Dolly, It were indeed a folly Even to dream That I, or any man, In prose or poetry can Take as a theme Thy charming self, and to His subject matter do Full justice : still — Though by no means a bard — I will my brains rack hard Some leaves to fill With rh5niie ; for thou dost ask Me to attempt this task, And how could I Thee anything refuse? So I'll invoke the Muse. Come, Muse, deny Me nothing, as I — more Than any time before — Do need thy aid : For now my thoughts are of A maid whom many love — A fair young maid. And thou, Miss Dolly, art That maid, and in my heart The wish most dear Is that futurity May have bright scenes for thee : Yes, may life here. dolly's holly. 31 As now, be blest always With glad and sunny days. But to an end I now shall draw these rhymes, Hoping thou wilt sometimes On me, thy friend. Bestow a thought. And now Farewell. Ah ! Dolly, how Reluctantly The parting word I pen: Yet all must feel sad when They part from thee. Still hope doth make less sad The parting. While I had Far rather dwell More o'er these rhymes, I know It cannot be, and so — A last farewell. DOLLY'S HOLLY. I thank thee much, kind Dolly, For that bright crimson holly Thou gavest me : It will, I fully know. Wherever I may go. Bring thoughts of thee. 'Tis emblematic of Peace and good-will and love Prevailing here Now among men : yes, it Is precious — that bright bit Of Christmas cheer. 32 MY DOINGS. As expressed in a letter to Miss E.A .P. in August of 1883. Throughout the day I toil hard at the store : My " toil " consists in standing at the door And helping to support, as one might say, Those pillars each side of the store's door-way : I, in supporting them, support myself ; A pleasant way methinks of gaining pelf. At eve I gaze the bath-room window out To see if Mrs. Kreutzer is about : Yon lamp-post's glare on Newbold avenue Ofttimes her willowy form brings into view. Yet seldom, ah ! too seldom do I hear Those dulcet tones the boys so greatly fear ; That woman, " nursed in affluence " when young. Seems to have bridled her discursive tongue. And so, regretfully, I close the sash, And soon uptownwards stroll I for a mash ; But baffled in this quest, as oft I am, I, Kreutzer-like, breathe forth a quiet " damn ". Yet I am not unhappy, for next door Are Galwick's girls, who warble o'er and o'er Those soulful songs of sentimental kind. And this is pleasing to my tortured mind. They sing of violets that are so sweet, And " Baby's Empty Cradle " they repeat. For hours I have list, with joy and pride. To their eternal " Gliding down the tide ". They sing to have their " Graves kept green ", and I With this request would wish much to comply. I need a change — a change of air: [I here Mean air of music, not the atmosphere.] E'en give me William with his " Peek-a-boo ", Or his " O'Reilley " — even that would do. MY DOINGS. 33 Ah yes ! more change in tunes would crown my bliss, Noi would more change in money come amiss. But Philadelphia has its own delights, The sun shines here in days, the moon at nights. Although we have no lake nor mountains, still Some hills have we: (for instance — " Cherry Hill ".) You have a " bar " at which you justice do ; We also have our bars, aye ! not a few. And so we manage here to jog along ; Although we make of life no " grand, sweet song ", Yet does it matter? Surely hearts may break E'en 'mid those peaceful hills by Crystal Lake. A wretch by care oppressed, go where he may, Cannot from Sorrow's grasp e'er break away. The end's the same, a little mound of earth Will cover those whose hearts now swell with mirth As well as those whose portion here below Is that of grief and agonizing woe. My view of death is this— but hold : excuse This mos* lugubrious turning of my muse. I meant to rattle off a careless strain, Nor thought to touch on things that might give pain. Let Joy prevail : let Pleasure hold control, And shed an ecstasy within each soul. Let happy scenes greet our eyes as we Peer into that unknown futurity. And now, in closing, I would fain express My wishes for your future happiness. So fare-you-well. Write soon and tell me how Things are progressing at " Friend Phinny's " now. 34 DISCREET. Last evening at the club I said A good thing which I'll now repeat. I — er — no, this book might be read. So I shall have to be " discreet ". A bard and clubman should suppress Sometimes his fervent tendencies : Hence I'll now try, I can't do less, To observe the proprieties. A MILD HOMILY ON DRINK. {In which the writer temperately considers the question so as not to displease any likely reader of his book.) Some men when seized with thirst go in Saloons, whose doors are open wide ; They drink beer, whiskey, rum and gin Until their thirst is satisfied. They have a right, a legal right (No moral right, I sometimes think,) To patronize morn, r.oon and night The bar, and fill themselves with drink. These bar-room patrons may not thank Me if I say aught against them ; They may call me a " temperance crank " If I their drinking ways condemn. Therefore, though I can not commend The habit of strong drink, yet those Addicted to it why offend? 'T will do no good ; so I shall close. STARS. 35 OR A Soulful Soliloquy Suddenly Squelched. " 'T is midnight : a glorious star Scintillates in the heavens afar. Like a star I — hie ! — feel As homeward I reel, For I've sinned till late — hie! — at a bar. " With infinite yearning I peer Into space. Leaning silently here Against the lamp-post At this corner, I'm most Overcome by emotion — and beer. " How beautiful now appears Mars ! Athwart night's dark sky his — hie ! — bars Of "—Here with a billy A cop knocked him silly, Which caused him to see some more stars. Not of stars histrionic which we On Chestnut street frequently see — No, I sing not of them ; 'Tis those orbs that begem The blue sky that just now enthrill me. But yet in the zenith ablaze There's a star on which I oft gaze That reminds me, it seems. Of a bright star which beams At " The Chestnut " in various plays. 36 ART. These two stars, I am well aware, Are strangely alike : both are fair, Both are brilliant ; but O ! They're so distant, and so I'm o'erwhelmed with grief and despair. ART. Inspired by those gifted Goddesses of Burlesque — Miss Flossie Friskoe and Miss Dollie de Laine. I worship Art, and to her Fane I very often go : There to enthuse o'er a de Lains, Likewise o'er a Friskoe. I list to music's sweetest strains ; My heart a rapture knows. I'm thankful for the world's de Laines, And for the world's Friskoes. A knowledge of chaste art one gains When towards the zenith those Toes point — the toes of our de Laines And those of our Friskoes. Those sturdy, supple, speedy toes ! Night's gem-decked sky contains No stars as bright as our Friskoes, As fair as our de Laines. Fill these girls' slippers with champagne Until they overflew : I drink your health, dear Doll de Laine — Yours too, fair Floss Friskoe. FLORABELLE FONTAINE. 37 To art's exponents much we owe. I scarcely can refrain From idolizing Floss Friskoe, Adoring Doll de Laine. Art, though, concerns me — not, ah no ! The artists. It were vain To think of fairest Floss Friskoe, Or of dear Doll de Laine. That scintillating starry twain Care not for me, I know. Farewell, farewell, dear Doll de Laine. Farewell, fair Floss Friskoe. To Art — to Art alone I pay My homage. I infer None can object in any way To my adoring — her. FLORABELLE FONTAINE. Gleeful gallery gods get gayer ; graver guys — good graybeards— growing Fairly faint from following Flora's favorite fantastic flights. She — sweet seraph — sprightly stepping, swiftly swirling, some- times showing Dainty diaphanous drapery dudes deem divine delights. Beautiful, bewitching being, briskly bounding, brightly beaming; Such seductive, suave, soul-stirring smiles spectators seldom see. Dear, delightful, daring danseuse, never in my deepest dreaming During dark, despairing days did dandier darlings dance for me. 38 FLOSSIE FRISKOE. As I light from my auto the guys Round the door of " The Stratford " look wise; They seem somehow to know That 'tis Flossie Friskoe With whom I would fain fraternize. I enter the general cafe ; Having dined in my leisurely way, I next light a cigar, Drink her health at the bar. Then my chauffeur whirls me to the play. To " The Gaieties " I of course go; My seat's on the aisle, the first row. I step out 'tween the acts (I am stating plain facts) To drink healths to fair Flossie Friskoe. I am bald — I confess it ; therefore When the famed seven-veil ballet corps Do their turn on the stage, I, in spite of my age, Shriek with joy till my throat becomes sore. My passion for art is intense. True art moves me deeply, and hence In the maddening whirl Of a short-skirted girl The pi ^asure I feel is immense. At the close of the dance, I should state, I find I must needs lubricate That strained larynx of mine; This I do with some wine Chased by whiskey, the which I take straight. FLOSSIE FRISKOE. 59 Plays deeply affect me, and so On reaching home after the show I'm obliged to be led By my valet to bed, Where I dream of sweet Flossie Friskoe. I rise about ten the next day, Take a bath, read critiques on the play; Having braced myself by Several " Manhattans ", I Then lunch, then — Ah ! the matinee. A bachelor's life such as mine Is not a bad thing, I opine ; Wine, woman and song To beguile it. What ! wrong To be swayed by this thrice-blest combine? L'envoi. Life's a mystery. Let Fortune frown Upon me, Fll not be cast down. I never shall grow Pessimistic, I know. While Flossie remains in the town. CONSIDERATE. Men's views differ greatly, and hence Wlien I on a subject commence Which seems delicate, I Draw it mild. I would die R:)ther than give a reader offense. 40 QUEEN OF THE CORPS DE BALLET. 'Tis good to see this gloriously graceful girl gyrating In terpsichorean twirlings to the timbrel's tuneful strain; Fond, foolish, fleeting fancies fill my mind when fascinating Flossie Friskoe's fairy feet flit, as it were, across my brain. O Flossie ! Flossie Friskoe ! dearest girl, there's no denying That you're a first-class thoroughbred : no fact can be more plain. Beyond a doubt, angelic one, you could, without half trying, My devoutest adoration very speedily obtain. Queen of the ballet. Queen also of that fond heart within me, It storms, and I am wet clean through : the show, I know, is o'er. Why not come forth? O ! can it be that you don't care to win me? If I, love, really thought so I'd drop dead at this stage door. Dead ! Ah, my life's star, heaven knows I would for you die gladly : I love you more than I dare tell, though lacking none in nerve. Your imaged form, shrined in my heart, I worship O! so madly: I would that I could praise you in the manner you deserve. Your myriad charms I can't resist. Gad! I am badly smitten: At last I've learned what love is, something I ne'er knew before. Will that love be returned some day? Or shall I get the mitten? I tremble when I think what Fate may have for me in store. UNCOMMUNICATIVE. I firse met her, I won't say who, On Ches — but I shall not say where. I told her — no, it would not do To state just here what I said there. We dined at the Ritz-Carl — no, I Shall mention not the place ; but when We parted we said we — but why Tell when and where we'll meet again? ACTOR McGRANE. 41 I cannot very well refrain From saying that 't is quite A joy for me to know McGrane Is now an Orpheum light. McGrane will prove a drawing card ; He is an actor true; I saw him oft at " The Girard ", Also at the " Bijou ". He's strong, artistic — just the sort Of Thespian one likes. I once saw E. L. Davenport Portray the brutal Sikes : I witnessed our favorite More recently sustain The same role : both stars made a hit, But I preferred McGrane. He by his art thrills our heartchords; Ah ! no one, I maintain, Can tread with truer grace the boards Than Thomas J. McGrane. I prophesy a future bright: Wealth, fame, too, for this most Accomplished histrionic light Whom I propose to toast. Come, fill them up full to the brim; Drink deep, aye, till you drain Your glasses dry in toasting him — The genial McGrane. Long life, sound health, friends ever true, A long and prosperous reign Upon the stage — these we wish you, Friend Thomas J. McGrane. 42 A QUESTION. Respectfully asked one of the members of the Orpheum Company. Tell me, Lottie, have you ever Been in love? Come, why so mute? Let me know. I'm told you're clever, And they do say you're — a beaut. I don't doubt it — ah ! I know it. Cleverness and beauty are Gifts that well might thrill a poet Who discerns them in a star. I'm no bard : I show this clearly; But the question is not of One's poetic skill : 't is merely If Lot ever was in love. I'm not moved by — O ! believe me, — Idle curiosity In this matter : it would grieve me If Lot thought so ill of me. Does she love? That is the query, Not if she is loved : Ah, no ! Lovers ! Why, their vows must weary Very often Lot Briscoe. I myself, a man of forty, A staid bachelor, have at times Felt inclined — O! was it nau"htv? — To indite the girl some rhymes. I have watched with admiration Her love scenes: they make one feel There's back of the simulation Something that is strong and real. AN APPOINTMENT. 43 Something grand and sweet and mighty; 'Tis the love that some hearts know. Love, aye ! such as row glows brightly In the heart of Lot Briscoe. From her eyes love's light is beaming. Could that kindly glow illume My sad life : nay, I am dreaming — Vainly dreaming 'mid the gloom. OUR ERSTWHILE FRIENDS. A toast now to our erstwhile friends, to those fair stars, so gifted. Whose pictures we no longer see framed at the theatre door : Though the Josephines, the Evelyns and the Lillians have drifted From town, they still in our hearts dwell— they'll dwell there evermore. AN APPOINTMENT. She promised to meet him at eight. Still when Nate made the date a long wait Was before him he feared. At ten Kate appeared, Exclaiming "dear me ! am I late?" " Yes, Kate, somewhat late," replied Nate. " And yet fate I would hate to berate. I instinctively knew That at a rendezvous You'd be late— this is straight, let me state." " The play now is over, no doubt ; But meet me to-morrow about Three o'clock in the day, To attend the night's play: We might then get there ere the show's out." 44 VAUDEVILLE. I'm fond of moving-picture shows ; I watch with pleasure every scene The wizard's apparatus throws Upon the taut-drawn muslin screen. Mountains and vales, fields, swaying trees, Great cities in which men are pent, The free, vast ocean — on all these I gaze with a rapt wonderment. When one can not in person go Where nature's fair scenes are, it's nice To sit then in a picture show And view them at so small a price. I'm fond also of vaudeville; Some things therein I can't resist ; I'm always glad to know I will See a first-class ventriloquist. But songs well rendered seem to please Me more than any other thing; I love to hear old melodies Sung by those who know how to sing. An educated pig or horse, A cultured ape, a well-trained flea, Or dog or seal — each is a source Of interest and joy to me. A monologuist's rattling wit. Musicians who perform on all Known instruments, a black-face skit. Contortionists — such things ne'er pall. I like a graceful dancing act ; The acrobats give me a thrill ; A playlet I enjoy. In fact, I'm very fond of vaudeville. AN AVERMENT. ' 43 I feel most kindly to those who Display such grace and cleverness In their especial acts, and to The artists all I wish success. They are painstaking, one and all ; Some are not perfect, yet why look For faults? I've ne'er felt moved to call (I'm glad to say this) " Get the hook". AN AVERMENT. A poem inspired by and dedicated to Miss Friskoe. Business affairs And other cares Knocked out, methought, the spell that she Had o'er me cast In seasons past. But that spell " will not down ", I see. On pleasure bent, Last night I went To see the play ; in it I saw Lottie Friskoe, And lo! (yes, "lo") The old spell held me as of yore. It sways me still, And ever will While stars — but is this hyperbole? Nay, nay : it is The truth, I wis. I cannot lie, upon my soul. When I aver. Therefore, that her Smiles fan [this line sounds well] anew Hope's flickering glow, Lottie Friskoe Knows the averment is quite true. 46 BEYOND CONTROL. To write like this To Lottie Fris- Koe is an easy thing to do. A bard has got A snap when Lot- Tie is the one whom he writes to. There are some themes Which, so it seems, Poets are rather loath to drop ; When I write of Some one I love I find it difficult to stop. An ed-i-tor Must not, therefore, Try to dam (up) a poet's soul. I'm not profane, I but maintain That poets are beyond control. THE REJUVENESCENCE OF AN ILLINOIS PEACH. Miss Dubois, whose girth was too great, Decided to emaciate Herself, so to speak ; Hence for more than a week She fasted to reduce her weight. She wanted to leave Illinois And star in burlesque. Miss Dubois Knew, though, that men are Not much stuck on a star Of superfluous avoirdupois. THE REJUVENESCENCE OF AN ILLINOIS PEACH. 47 She was forty, yet fair for all that; In her twenties she had appeared at A Bowery hall. She said, at this call Of the wild, " I'll get rid of my fat ". When my embonpoint is less in Evidence, then — ah! then I'll begin Practicing the old glides. Curves, and serpentine slides. Wait ! I'll soon be sufficiently thin. Yes, said she, when my adipose parts Are toned down by my drastic arts, I'll again whirl in tights Behind the footlights, And again dance my way in men's hearts. So for nine days she lived upon nought But air ; she obtained what she sought — That is, a slim waist, Which was much to her taste. She stars now at a seaside resort. In short tinseled skirts, which display So well her rare form, this fair fay These days dances and sings, And does other thinccs On the boards, in a most fetching way. I ne'er, I may add, miss a chance Of seeing this now slim sylph dance. Oft on her agile limb And ankle so trim I bestow a — er — well, casual glance. In an office one gets no fresh air; To the sea, therefore, I'll soon repair. The Illinois Peach In a joint near the beach Does her stunts. I'll spend all my time there. 48 ATLANTIC CITY. The seashore ! O what pleasures are Found there ! My greatest joy, I think, Is to lean up against th's bar, And smoke and chev/ and talk and drink. It's usually too hot for me On the boardwalk ; I find this beer Saloon more cool ; when by the sea I spend most all of my time here. Fans run by electricity Put ocean breezes on the blink : Hence in this place, when by the sea, I lounge, and smoke, and chew, and drink. Its nam.e? No, in books 't is unwise To insert " ads " : true poets shrink From this ; so I'll not advertise The place where I smoke, chew and drink. O ! smoking, chew'ng, drinking — three Of life's most rare joys; what a boon To man is this blest trinity, Whose praise I sing in this — hie — sloon. OPPORTUNITY. We're told that Opportunity Knocks at all doors : I rather think That I the day she called on me Must have stepped out to take a drink. When she sought, though, an interview With me I may not at the time Have heard her knocking, be'ng too Busy — too busy writing rhyme. And she will not repeat her call ! My chance I lost. Was it the Muse — My love for her — that caused my fall? Or was it my love for the booze? I loved too well : 'twas indiscreet, As I now know. Alas ! I might Have the whole world now at my feet If I had only acted right. ST. VALENTINE. 49 Ah ! dearest Saint, A licart, though faint, May this glad day, without restraint, Its fondest secret tell. Plence I opine The right is mine To forward now a valentine To one whom I love well. I love her. Yes, I must confess 1 love her. I can not say less, Nor yet can I say more. Indeed, indeed, There is no need; I've said more here — for her to read — Than I e'er said before. A NAME. I hear your name. And into flame Glows the old love — the love that came To me one day In flowery May, When I met you upon life's way. Though time, dear Maud, With lines has scored My brow, your name vibrates a chord In my heart, for Within its core You live as in the days of yore. 50 TO THE DAY'S ENTHRONED SAINT. On this, thy day, most hearts, St. Valentine, Incline to love ; my own sad heart also Shares in the season's joy. Ah me ! I know So fair — so dear a maid ; and it is mine, As one who worshipeth at Beauty's shrine. Life's fondest wish in simple verse to show. Not they, O gracious Saint, who truly owe Allegiance to that sacred cause of thine Methinks can scorn a tale that love hath told: And therefore she, whom I do hold so dear, May to my story lend a kindly ear Nor feel the while that I have been too bold. This day, this happy day, one may unfold The secrets of the heart without a fear. 1906. MEMORIES. Called up by a re-perusal, after the lapse pf years, of the sonnet-valentine in luliose depths {not very profound depths) the writer has liidden a cer- tain name of an, at that time, uncertain friend. He knew not (Ah! how could he know!) When he wrote that verse long, long ago, That between its lines he Would in later days see The name of a friend — not a foe. Friends are precious, and those whom we meet In the world make our lives seem more sweet. Yes, 'tis friends that one needs, As I learned when " in seeds ". Ah! I had one — once — on Market street 1 The writer, though, does not intend To muse now o'er rhymes he once penned, But he's glad to behold In this valentine old The name — not of a foe, but a friend. May, 19 1 2. A NEEDED GIRL. 51 This day confers prerogatives, And hence I might Now to the dearest girl that lives Some lines indite. I love her : 't would be strange indeed If I did not. She is the very girl I need To bless my lot. Without her I could not endure This life on earth ; For it would then be, I am sure, Of little worth. On hearing these plain truths will she My suit decline? I need her so. I trust she'll be My valentine. THEMIC VARIETY. One should not on a single string Continuously play, And therefore e'en from such a thing As love I sometimes stray. By doing so I'm apt to light On a theme I know more About ; in which case readers might Not find me such a bore. But I'm most partial, I confess, To love ; yet of all themes It is the one with which I'm less Acquainted, so it seems. 52 TWO SOULS. My soul adores, St. Valentine, A certain maid : O ! may I not dispatch a rhythmic line To her, good Saint, this day? No other maiden is so fair, So sweet, so dear as she. Will such a creature ever care In any way for me ? Perhaps she may : oft has a maid Been won by Poesy's art. Come then, O Muse, lend me thy aid To win this fair one's heart. O ! with Promethean fire fill My o'erwrought mind : endow Me with the power to enthrill That soul so tranquil now. BOLDNESS. A tyro's ignorance may be Rightly regarded as sublime; 'Tis this kind of sublimity That I possess when I write rhyme. It is my unacquaintanceship, And not familiarity, With love which causes me to dip So often in that mystery. An ignorance that is profound Emboldens one ; great poets tread With reverent awe Love's holy ground: I stroll thereon without a dread. ADALINE. 53 Come, fairest Adaline, And be forever mine. Grant me my soul's request, and with a kiss Seal the sweet compact of A never-dying love That is to crown our lives with heaven's bliss. That heart of mine ne'er knew Love's strange, sweet thrill till you Aroused it by your charms, dear Adaline: It now lies at your feet. And O ! 't will cease to beat If vou disdain it as a valentine. A BOLD DECLARATION. I don't exaggerate The least bit when I state Boldly upon this page that I love Grace; In fact, for her I feel An adoration real — An adoration time can ne'er efface. Love wins love, so they say ; If this be true, some day My love for Grace will be returned, and then- Yes, then I'll find life worth The living, for on earth I'll surely be the happiest of men. 54 THIS DAY. Evening is drawing near. Before the day is done I wish to tell some one Why it has seemed so dear. Yes, I fain would disclose, Ere in the glowing west The sun sinks to his rest. The love that my heart knows. To her I now convey That love. Shall it be mine To gain, St. Valentine, Her's in return — this day? FATE'S BOOK. In Fate's book it is recorded Love shall triumph. Ah! if so, Then my love for her, I know, Will not long go unrewarded. HER SMILE. I hold, (though I may not be right — There have been times when I was wrong), That, as a rule, the smiles which light Up a fair face deserve a song. And that is why I write these lines. Her kindly, rare, sweet, lingering. Dear smile from out the past now shines On me, and I've just got to sing ! SUMMER IN TOWN. 55 {After — a long zvay after — T. Buchanan Read.) The shutters of That house above Our alley, where resides my love, Are closed : the sight Unnerves me quite; It casts upon my life a blight. I am bereft ; My heart is cleft. Marie, alas ! the town has left. Her folks and she Will by the sea The summer spend. O woe is me! I saw them go; It grieved me, though I durst not my emotion show. My grief I tried By smiles to hide. I could much easier have sighed. But now as I Pass slowly by Her darkened home I loudly sigh. When no one's near I need not fear To heave a sigh or drop a tear. O ! happy sea To have Marie Sojourn these days so near to thee; To have her stroll Where thy waves roll Must thrill thy ever throbbing soul. 56 HANDICAPPED. , I sadly pore My ledger o'er While Marie lingers at the shore. At night I go Down town to blow The froth off beers to drown my woe. Yes, my Marie Is by the sea, Drifting perchance far, far from me. My heart doth bleed. O ! I have need To — to apologize to Read. HANDICAPPED. 'Gad ! if rhymes could only win her. Then this girl, this saint divine, Would, as sure as I'm a sinner. Very soon be wholly mine. But rhymes cut r.c ice when laying Siege to hearts: rocks and not rhyme (I know well what I am saying) Win a woman every time. Still a title is a wonder, And were I a belted earl. Without rocks or rhymes, by thunder, I could gain that angel girl. As Bradstreet my name ignores so, As I wear no ducal crown. This fair saint my heart adores so Will most likely turn me down. AN INTERRUPTION. 5? You, most beauteous luminary, Shall, while earthly life is mine, Occupy, as 'twere, the shrine In my warm heart's sanctuary. I am glad that you are willing Thus to throw yourself into My arms outstretched, Icve, for you. 'Tis romantic, aye ! and thrilling. By the door the trolleys clatter. What care we, though, for their jar? Worlds might crash anear or far, But to us, now, 'twould not matter. This is not a cause for wonder. Whyfore heed these weird alarms? Thus encircled in my arms. Naught can e'er tear us asunder. Life is strange — we meet, we part here. How inscrutable is Fate! Death ! Can it e'er separate Our two selves pressed heart to heart here? Hark! Dost hear? The bell, the bell, dear! Dinner's ready: break away. What, a kidney stew to-day? Good ! I hope they've done it well, dear. 58 A BILLION. Clctilda, were you to allow Me on your lips to press — Or even on your cheek or brow — A billion, more or less, Of kisses, I would set about The task forthwith : although A lifetime it would take no doubt The kisses to bestow. When I think of a billion sweets (It is a goodly store) That heart of mine, Clotilda, beats As it did ne'er before. CLOTILDA. I held her yesternight within these arms, And on her rose-hued lips I pressed, ye gods! Full many a kiss. But O ! her myriad charms Were better told by laureated bards. Aye, let the poets sing as ne'er before : Clotilda claims their homage ; at her shrine Now may earth's gifted sons of song outpour Their surcharged hearts in melody divine. I am, alas ! no poet, else I might Expatiate in verses on her charms. Sufficeth it to say that yesternight I kissed and held Clotilda in these arms! WOMAN. 59 Was the first sinner not A woman? Can you blot That striking fact from life's historic page? Has she not, through all time, Shared in the deeds of crime Performed by mortals on the world's broad stage? But woman, ne'ertheless Is fair, and we who press To our warm hearts the fairest of the sex, Should doubt not that truth lies In her bright-beaming eyes. Why should obtrusive doubts our souls perplex? If woman has destroyed Our peace by having toyed With our fond hearts, what matters it? Although Sore-stricken, we may live. Live ! Ah ! then we'll forgive The one who dealt the devastating blow. VULNERABLE MAN. For years a man may walk Life's road, and he may talk With women, and their friendship cultivate; Through all love holds, it seems, Aloof, and so he deems Love powerless his will to dominate. But O ! there comes a day When he meets on his way A certain maid whose smiles on him alight, And straightway to his heart Hurtles a fiery dart. And he — the man — is vanquished by love's might. 60 MEN'S HEARTS. I ventured upon Christmas Day To send her just a little spray Of mistletoe : Along with it — but why impart The fact that with it went my heart To Miss Simcoe? Perhaps, however, she divined That 'mongst those tender leaves was twined A heart. If so, Did it the value of that bit Of green enhance? What mattered it To Miss Simcoe? Hearts! What are they? Men's hearts I mean. Mere toys for Beauty's use I ween ; Fate's spoils I trow. Enclosed in billets-doux, such things The ladened postman daily brings To Miss Simcoe. Sometime perchance the mail may bring To her a toy, and on the thing She will bestow More care than is her wont. Love may Yet its all-conquering force display To Miss Simcoe. But O ! not mine, not mine, not mine It is to strike the spark divine, And make it glow. Within that now unruffled breast. Bringing love's joy and love's unrest To Miss Simcoe. HER HEART. 61 The heart that she possesses is Not adamant — not quite, I wis. Had I the " dough " I'd soon make an impression there. Nay, nay : this thought is most unfair To Miss Simcoe. In striving for her heart and hand A multi-billionaire would stand No better show Than others. Worth and true love may Find (here's some hope for me) a way To Miss Simcoe. Yet in love's quest how would I fare When pitted 'gainst a billionaire? I do not know. I might some disadvantage slight Be under. To find out I'll write To Miss Simcoe. SUSTAINING A REPUTATION. An event of a recent date Is really worth telling — but why So weird an occurrence narrate? If I do they'll think that I lie. My record for ve-rac-i-ty Must not be endangered, hence I On certain occasions should be Real silent else they'll think I lie. If one remains silent one Avill Be deemed most veracious: I'll try To be taciturn. If I'm still Who — who, then, can say that I lie? 62 AN INVITATION. Addressed to Miss D. and the tivo Miss R's. Maud is a wit, this " aint no lie " : In fact, in this great city There's not another girl whom I Consider quite as witty. That " mot " of hers, whilst she and Net Were waiting for a trolley, Was really great — but yet, but yet It made me melancholy : For it implied that I was quite A wily kind of sinner, Who would not in good faith invite A friend or two to dinner. Well, well. To show I was sincere When I addressed our lady, Let me extend to her right here, Also to Net and Sadie, An invitation to partake Of various kinds of victuals. So name the day when we shall make A trip to Friend Doolittle's. A STRANGE MYSTERY. Of course I am minus a wife, Not having had in all my life A single sweetheart. Love has stood apart From me in the world's bitter strife. And yet (here's a strange mystery!) I know what love is! Hope tells me That love — this divine Gift — is to be mine Some day, when my soul will be free. I'LL SIGH AT TIMES. 63 Written on the eve of Miss Mack's departure from toiun. Farewell, Miss Mack. I'll wish you back, For without you there'll be a lack Of joy, I fear; And I shall sigh At times, and I Perhaps — ah yes ! perhaps I'll die Without you here. At any rate, My grief is great. 'Tis useless, though, to rail at fate : Hence I intend To banish care. I shan't despair, For I again may see my fair And sweet young friend. So fare you well; I dare not tell The thoughts that now within me dwell. I can but say That 'mid my woe Hope's star shall glow; Thus I'll be comforted, I know, When you're away. Of course I grieve To see you leave. And, as I mentioned, I shall heave A sigh or two ; But I'll not die — That is, if my Poor verses gain a kind reply Some day from you. 64 INDETERMINATION. This world's a bright one — yes, and I Am happy ; often I ask why It is that I extract Such joy from life. Well, it may be Because I'm single. Possibly It is due to that fact. I'm glad, sometimes, that I'm alive. How fortunate 'tis to derive Life's maximum of good And mmimum of ill ! How true It is that this glad state is due Wholly to bachelorhood. Surely, I'm happy; yes, quite so. That is I am not sad. O no ! Blest is the single life. Yes, yes ; and to-night when I see Her I'll — no, yes, ask her to be My — er — well yes, my wife! A SENSIBLE GIRL. He asked her if she'd be his bride, She begged him for time to decide. I'd like greatly to wed. But one must not, she said, Seem too anxious to have the knot tied. You're perfectly right ; yes, my dear, A modest maid must not appear Too precipitous; so Take twelve months — O ! my no, Let's wed now : whyfore waste a whole year? A POET'S THEME. 65 O! what in rhythmic manner may I touch upon? What seems The likeliest topic ? Tell me, pray — There are so many themes. Hate? Surely not. Love? Well, love wears A comelier face ; although I'm scarcely "up" in heart affairs, As doubtless some folks know. I have a smattering knowledge of Theft, penury and crime ; But really, when it comes to love I'm nonplussed every time. Yet Love's a thief— he steals one's heart : Love makes one poor at times: Love plays a most conspicuous part In many tragic crimes. Love comes at first like zephyrs soft- Zephyrs that turn, alack ! To wild cyclonic whirlwinds oft. With dread death in their track. This I have learned not from my own Experience ; I go To cold statistics, which alone Have taught me all I know. Yes, o'er statistics I have pored, Yet of Love's ambient flame I know but little. 'T would afford Me joy should some one name An easier theme. What fills the bill? Death? Drunkenness? Despair? Or shall I tackle love, that will Be thought by some more fair. 66 A POET^S THEME. Love let it be ; yet Love's draught may Intoxicate, and there Is death ofttimes where Love holds sway; And lovers may despair. Thus love embraces all of ill, And all of good as well : It has a heaven, and one will Observe it has a hell. Alas ! that one in youth's bright morn Should find life not all joy; That " there's no rose without a thorn ", No bliss without alloy : That friends may prove unkind, that much " Which glitters is not gold ", That there, alas ! is even such A thing as love turned cold. These truths, however sad, must be Learned either soon or late ; And forewarned is forearmed, you see, Against an adverse fate. I've learned perhaps a thing or two Unknown in callovir days. My pleasures now may be more few, But then in various ways I'm recompensed : life still I find Is worth the living: yes. One's not bereft, when friends are kind. Of every happiness. And if I ever build such things As airy castles, or List sometimes to the songs Hope sings Whilst o'er my books I pore. Who may object? E'en if of love Hope sings I'll list : for why May I not know the rapture of That feeling ere I die? MY AGE. 67 Dedicated to the five young ladies ivho on one occasion so inac- curately guessed the number of years the writer may be said to have lived. Some say I'm more than thirty-four, While others say I'm less ; And so it goes, nobody knows. They can but only guess. The maidens five cannot arrive At my age it appears. Unless I state my natal date. They can't compute my years. But I propose now to disclose My age : 'tis best I'm told Not to deny the fact that I Am growing somewhat old. Well, let me say 'twas on the day That I Miss Z first saw When life for me began, you see : Hence my years number four. Four years ago I met her, so Just that long it appears I've lived. Yes, yes ! I must confess My age is just four years. O bliss supreme ! My life's a dream ! I know what 'tis to love ! For this divine joy which is mine I thank the gods above. The mortal who (this is most true) Loves not can not be said To live ; but O ! don't ask me, though, How long I have been dead. Who is Miss Z will doubtless be The question now. Well, well, She's sweet and fair, has golden hair: Her name — no, I won't tell. 68 A GOOD EXCUSE. Time that is given o'er To rhyming is ill spent ; The world wants something more Than studied sentiment. There may be no excuse For handing out in times As hard as these such loose And vain and careless rhymes. I am full well aware That life is sad. I would Lighten the gloom and care In men's minds if I could. It seems a brutal thing. Yes, almost like a crime. When men are suffering. To write light frothy rhyme. 'T were glorious to be A benefactor to The race ; but some things " we " Poet's can't really do. Bards lack the where-with-all To be philanthropists ; And yet to duty's call A true bard always lists. I am in one respect A bard — slim is my purse. But this does not reflect t On my heart or my verse. My heart is right, and though My rhymes are vague and loose, Yet they are harmless ; so I have a good excuse. Rhymes, although careless, may Bring cheer sometimes to one ; ■ If my lines do, who'll say That I a wrong have done ? TELL ME. 69 If beneath the mistletoe I should meet you, Miss Pitcoe, Would a kiss be apropos? Prithee tell me, Miss Pitcoe. O SUPPOSING! O ! supposing that it chances I should see you, fair Miss Frances, 'Neath the Yuletide's mystic branches, What then might I do, Miss Frances? NIGHT'S WITCHING HOUR. I see as night's mid hour advances A star — the one that most enhances Heaven's beauty above : It reminds me so of My life's guiding star, which is — Frances. BREAK OF DAY. The night has departed, and lo ! The orient heavens now glow With the radiant hues Of a new morning, whose Beauty calls to my mind — Miss Pitcoe. A CHALLENGE. Do I not love impartially and well? Study the four short poems placed above, Two to each star. I challenge men to tell Which of those stars I the more truly love. 70 NOT A FATAL MALADY. Daily this girl doth occupy My thoughts ; of her at night I dream ; I can't well work now ; I Have lost my appetite. These probably are symptoms of The master passion, though I ne'er had much to do with love, Hence how am I to know? I judge, however, that I'm in Love's fierce throes, so to speak; Else why is it I grow so thin. So pale, and O, so weak? Heart-bred complaints, though, seldom do Cause death; statistics prove That men succumb, but rarely to The ravages of love. I may survive. 'Tis Shakespeare who Says, " Men have died " (that's so) " And worms have eaten them " (how true) " But not for love " — Ah, no. STAY. I would that contention and strife And doubts and heartaches were less rife. I want peace — not love, no : Love distracts one, and so It is peace — peace I want in this life. Peace, peace! But there is none, I fear: Not while you, of all women, are here. Yet with all its unrest, Love, yes, love may be best. So stay with me, stay with me, dear ! UNUTTERABLE LOVE. 71 Could I but spread my heart before her eyes, So she might know the love a-seething there, My soul would then sing in the happy skies, And not, as now, pine here in sheer despair. If only — no, the realizing of A dream so blest can ne'er, alas ! be mine ; I cannot adequately tell my love; My mute harp sheds no melody divine. I'm told, and I'm inclined to think it so. That those who struggle in the grasp of some O'ermastering passion lose their usual flow Of oral language and become as diunb. Sometimes I almost wish I loved her less ; I then could speak with more assurance of My adoration. I am, I confess, A victim of unutterable love. UNUTTERED THOUGHTS. My thoughts seem not unfrequently To verge on the sublime, Yet I lack the ability To utter them in rhyme. 'T would add to the world's happiness If, in befitting verse, The wealth of thoughts that I possess I could sometimes disburse. But this I cannot do, and so The world must roll along As best it may ; I'd like to, though. Just help it with a song. 72 "WHAT'S IN A NAME?" The girl that I love 1 call Rose ; I do so, as everyone knows, Because that is her name ; I'd as lief call her " Mame " Were she so baptized, I suppose. If it were allowable here To quote the immortal Shakespeare, I'd say " What's in a name ! " Call a girl Rose or Mame — What you will — she is none the less dear. Mame or Rose, Kate or Blanch, Grace or Pearl, Madge or May — ah ! a girl is a girl For all that. None need fear Thus to paraphrase here Burns's line. He who fears is a churl. It is clearly apparent that my Regard for the fair sex is high; That I am partial to The specimens who Are youthful I will not deny. A poet's heart, everyone knows. With love for some woman o'erflows — Burns loved Mary ; Shakespeare In his youth held most dear Ann Hathaway ; I adore Rose ! Great Dante loved Beatrice well, As for Petrarch — ah ! his sonnets tell How hopeless, how long, How vain, yet how strong Was that love he through life could not quell. We all have our Lauras no doubt. A hopeless love is not without Its use. Is love wrong Which gives birth to a song The world could not well do without? THE BACHELOR'S SIDE OF IT. 73 When a fellow has reached forty, And has never married, ought he Heed those self-established censors who condemn the single life? They scold the bachelors freely. These critics do, but really. What right have they to carp because a man takes not a wife? They say that all should marry — Every Tom and Dick and Harry. If any can't afford to, why, it matters not a jot. A man who weds not, they say, Is selfish; well, but may they Not err in this? Are men who wed less selfish? I think not Let me state here most briefly Why men marry. It is chiefly For love — the worthiest motive ; wealth and station, too, some seet. All look for joy in mating. Which is proper ; but stop prating About how selfish men are who from matrimony keep. I'm fond of life. I love it ; I like all there is of it. Men, women, children, birds and flowers — I like all these. Ah yes! I also like the jingle Of gold. And I am single. To be a Benedict the wherewithal one should possess. DANGER. Bumptious bachelors better beware. By blandishment blooming blondes bear Away from men their Foolish hearts, and hence where Women are we men ought to take care. 74 AN ELDERLY BACHELOR'S CHANCES OR LOVE'S FUTURE POSSIBILITIES. From me 'twould be folly to seek New facts about love, for I can Impart none; I have, so to speak, Been ever a womanless man. I once thought — 'twas when I was young — I could fathom Love's sighs, smiles and fears, Its joys and its griefs; but I've sung Not of such things for many long years. In youth I believed that I knew How to love. No, my heart is not stone ; In Love's cause it might have proved true, Yet I walk along life's way — alone. A womanless man. Yes, ah yes ! And yet, though with life I'm near done, I feel even now I possess The power of loving — some one. Perhaps, yes, perhaps I'll be given A chance to partake some day of Love's sweets. Ah ! I may meet in heaven One who'll love me and whom I shall love. Love's coming delights ! O, how dear They are ! No, my heart is not stone, Else it could not be stirred by Hope's cheer. As I pass through life's last scenes — alone. BESTIRRING ONE'S SELF. 75 My life has been so humdrum, so Barren of valiant deeds of late. In order to please Blanche, I know I should do something truly great. I fancied that she looked askance At me last night ; when I called she Was reading an oldtime romance, Whose hero she described to me. She's fond of heroines, but dotes Much more on heroes, so she states : Their noble sentiments she quotes. A villain she just fairly hates. Most kindly is that heart of hers ; Its sympathies she can't control; Griefs of fictitious characters Disturb her sympathetic soul. The novel, in which Blanche was so Absorbed when I arrived, had for Its hero one whom she had no Doubt she could worship and adore. He was her ideal, so she said — This creature of a writer's brain. She wept o'er his woes, the tears shed By her fell on the book like rain. She dwelt, till I got up to go. Upon his virtues. It was late When I departed. This hero I feel constrained to imitate. Yes, if I do not soon bestir Myself, Blanche may think I am weak ; I must, to win a smile from her. Create a furore, so to speak. Our Longfellow says that a man Should " be a hero in the strife ". This gentle bard thinks no one can Succeed who lives the simple life. I've got to do some stirring act — Something heroic to retain Fair Blanche's favor ; though, in fact, My efforts may be wholly vain. 76 EPISTOLIC DISSONANCE. Despite the confession I made you, Despite my behavior so mild, Despite sundry compliments paid you, You yet, in a way that is wild, Impugn my last statement, which I, dear, Reiterate now as the truth. Why you e'en assert that I lie, dear, With rashness peculiar to youth. In your needless frenzy you blindly. Without any semblance of shame. Revive a dispute that I kindly Had sworn no more to rename. 1 hus in your anger proceeding. At times verging on the profane, You lash the poor heart that lies bleeding From your pitiless satiric strain. At times your remarks are real witty, And elegant language you use, Yet language devoid of all pity Its charms, in a measure, doth lose. There is in my heart's depths a chord, dear. That would in a sweet unison Tune with love if you but afford, dear, A reason — ah yes ! only one. Love, though, you would try to demolish, That chord you would fain have unstrung. And Truth — that pure jewel — abolish. And with grief a heart you'd have wrung. EPISTOLIC DISSONANCE. ^^ O base is the one that could do so ! This deed I consider most vile. It shocks me to think, dear, that you so Admire — or seem to — such guile. Tenacious as those ties may be, dear. That bind us yet they can't withhold. Nor sarcastic epistles to me, dear, — For you are (on paper) quite bold — Restrain me through fear from replying To your last epistle, wherein You intimate that I am lying. And style my " confess " as " too thin ". At a disadvantage you take me; You knew I had promised to let Peace bide in my heart, though you make me My kind resolution regret. However, I'll not be incited To anger ; though much I've forborne, I'll treat the last note you indited With dignified coolness and scorn. I'll put a restraint on my ire : I'll leave it for time to show you How false is your charge of satire — How wrongly my note you construe. Though flagrant has been your transgression Yet time, dear, might make you more wise : 'T will prove how sincere 's the confession Which you call a " shallow disguise ". The scales that adhere to your eyes, dear, Can not remain there very long. You surely must soon realize, dear, How greatly you are in the wrong. 78 POETRY. You will, doubtless, in your next letter Acknowledge how hasty you've been, And promise henceforth to act better And strive my affection to win. Postscript. When reading the above, Which I wrote out of love, I trust you'll not proceed with fierce asperity To crush me with your store Of esoteric lore. And satirize me with your old severity. O ! for the nonce I pray That you will not give way To wild outbursts of passion that avail not. Let Reason hold control O'er your young, reckless soul, And then methinks your arguments shall fail not. POETRY. " There is a pleasure in poetic pains Which only poets know." — Cowper. Whenever I essay to write In verse it seems I get A bad headache ; and yet, despite My sufferings, I let My fancy range. I find it hard My soul's flight to restrain. The joy such flights afford a bard Is not unmixed with pain. In this art, though, I must maintain There is a special need For us who write to stand the strain. Oh, think of those who read ! JANE BROWN. 79 Jane Brown came, so to speak, into My life when I was twenty-one. When youth meets youth beside the blue Sea a romance is oft begun. This proved to be the very case With us whilst recreating at The shore ; before I left the place We were engaged— no doubt of that. Jane was just eighteen, slim and tall. Her eyes were bright and deeply blue, Her nose retrousse, her waist small, Her hair was of a Titian hue. We loved — O how we loved ! we two, Beside the happy summer sea. My time was up before I knew ; The ten days passed so speedily. Perhaps when wooing on that shore I too exuberantly spoke ; I told Jane I had skads galore. The fact was I was nearly broke. When next we met it was in town ; Somehow the girl I was to wed Learned that I worked ; and so Miss Bro>\-n, Without compunction, cut me dead. I managed to survive the blow ; That chapter of my life is closed. Of late I have been thinking, though, Of Jane to whom I once proposed. 80 SADIE AUSTIN. Prithee bring to me my lyre. O ! an axixious world has long Looked for an inspired song; I'll now sing it, or expire. Woman, thou art (mark my nerve here) Heaven's latest, not least though, Gift to man: this is, you know, A Miltonian thought I serve here. Women are, I'm proud to shout this. Almost angels. Ah! I feel There is one who is the real Thing — that's Sadie. Who can doubt this? Were my wandering soul e'er lost in The immensity of space. Its way homeward it could trace By thy bright smiles, Sadie Austin. I should state that I'm addressing The sex in a general way. Though Sade moves me most to say : — Thou, O woman, art a blessing. If from Manayunk to Boston Girls were banished, would life be Worth the living? Not for me. What were life without Miss Austin? Life would be without my Sadie's Smiles a veritable — well, I had better not say " hell " ; No, I'll simply call it hades. FRIEND FERDINAND. 81 'Tis my heart that I'm revealing In these lines I'm getting off. Who can read them and then scoff? Surely no one of deep feeling. Go, efface the stars that made the Heavens yesternight so fair ; Blot the sun out, but don't tear From my heart the form of Sadie. FRIEND FERDINAND. {A study in psychology.) Ferdie, my friend, stood on the curb, Enwrapped in thought was he; It seemed a pity to disturb His quiet reverie. But I was seeking knowledge, so I asked him to explain Just why it was that people go In-doors when it doth rain. He corrugated then his brow, And, after quite a pause. Exclaimed " Ah yes ! I have it now — To psychologic laws " I turn for the solution of This seeming mystery. And now like death, like life, like love, It all is clear to me : " Psychology explains, dear sir. The whyfore of the why. That is to say, most folks prefer To keep their garments dry : 82 FRIEND FERDINAND. " Hence "— " Stop," cried I, "a great light breaks In on my muddled brain, I see now why a person takes To shelter in the rain: " It is, ah yes ! because that he Desires to keep dry." " Just so," said Ferdinand, " but we Do not." He winked his eye. "O Ferdie! your philosophy Is sound ; I feel I ought To thank you, for you've given me This night much food for thought. " How, how can I repay? " Again My dear friend Ferdie cast On me a subtle glance, and then — Yes, I " caught on " at last. " Do you object to being ' soaked ' ?" I asked, and with a grin He answered — " no." He knew I joked, And so we two went in. We two went in — I won't say where, But we went in all right; And many moral topics there We touched upon that night. We grew most eloquent at times; In fact, between the drinks We — no, I'd better stop these rhymes : I've said enough methinks. A LESSON. 83 Mary, you are looking splendid. A mere handshake — nothing more ! Say, what are those red lips for? O! for what were they intended? Shall I know their sweetness ever? Tell me, O ! do tell me this. Let me know, too, what's a kiss. You might teach me : you're so clever. Fray, be my delineator — My osculatory guide. Mary, Fate hath long denied Me so fair a demonstrator. Show me how to go about it. Must my arm surround your waist? All right : good ! I like the taste Of these kisses. Do you doubt it? There's no world as fair as this, Nor as happy. Ah! 'tis so Because now I've learned to know From your lips just what a kiss is. Wait an instant, my arm's slipping ; I shall hold you tighter — thus. What if I your ringlets muss When Joy's rosiest wine we're sipping ! In well doing one can't weary, So they say, and, truth to tell, I am doing very well. Tired? What a foolish query! S4 REPARTEE. Come, another : don't be chary. In this there is nothing wrong. Just one more, one sweet and — long. Yes, I rather like this, Mary. Must we part now? What's the hurry? Well, goodby, goodby, goodby. I could do this till I die. Yes, I'll call again, don't worry. THE RIGHT BAIT. When I had my " little pile ", When I basked in Fortune's smile, 'Twas then I wooed and then I won my Kate. Now I've lost my all, and she Has, alas ! rejected me. Fool that I was to go and speculate ! " Cheer up, old chap," I'm told, " Though your girl has, like your gold, " Gone where the woodbines twine, rail not 'gainst fate ; " Still in the sea one ought " To find good fish uncaught." True, but you see I now have not the bait. REPARTEE. Give me a penny and then I Will tell my thoughts — what do you say? No, no ; your thoughts ; was her reply, Are not worth, sir, such an outlay. You may be right, I answered. Yes, As a rule, my thoughts are, 't is true, Not worth a cent; now they're worth less; I've just been thinking, dear, of you. PRACTICE. 85 Practice makes perfect." Yes, but I The axiom would qualify Somewhat ; If it were true, then I would be A famous poet, which, you see, I'm not. When a mere child I lisped in rhyme, So I've been at it now sometime. O dear! Of late I've felt I never will Be quite as world-renowned as Bill Shakespeare. I've practiced and have tried as hard Perhaps as Stratford's noted bard To gain The approbation of men in This world ; my efforts, though, have been In vain. Once with some verses I essayed To win the favor of a maid. How rash ! She was my world — too high I aimed ; She read my verses, then exclaimed : " What trash ! " This criticism seemed unkind. Yet, though it brought unto my mind Distress, It taught me one most useful thing — That practice does not always bring Success. S6 IMAGINATION. Assuredly imagination fills A human want ; hvundrum indeed would be Existence here without that which instills Into all lives a little gayety. Wherefore, then, is the wrong in living in A fancied world, peopled by souls that glow With kindliness — a world where one may win That love for which the heart doth hunger so„ Nor is it wrong to prate, as some do, of Things one ne'er knew or may know ; I myself Do frequently expatiate on love ; I'm apt also to dwell on fame and wealth. Yet the fact is that I with all such things Am unfamiliar; still I'm not dismayed. A rhymer manages to rhyme who brings Imagination freely to his aid. Were poets barred (I surely mean no pun) From exercising in their art divine Fancy's rare gift, the world then would have none Of Shakespeare's lines and few, but few af mine! A FOOLISH QUESTION. Have I e'er loved? Most certainly. A man of fifty must have done At times some loving. Why ask me This question? 'Tis a foolish one. Yes, I have loved ; but whether they Who in past days my fancy caught Ever returned my love — but nay. About such details I'll say naught. FOREBODINGS. 87 In youth my hopes were high ; 'twas then I sought The favor of the Muse, and life seemed sweet ; I dreamt of love, of fame, of wealth; methought The world before long would be at my feet. I've striven hard through many lonely years To gain the honors youth conceived ; but now My mind is sore perplexed, for it appears Those honors have eluded me somehow. The Muse heeds not my passionate appeal ; My most vociferous calls she fails to hear ; And consequently some concern I feel Respecting my poetical career. I almost fear the world will never care To laud me very highly if at all. I'm gradually beginning to despair, Now since the Muse responds not to my call. MY FINISH. I've wooed her in a way that seemed to me No mortal girl could possibly withstand; Yet, spite of my impetuosity, I have thus far failed to secure her hand. Yes, this fair girl — the fairest of them all — To my appeals has seemed of late to turn A deafened ear. I totter to my fall ; My ultimate extinction I discern. 88 ON THE BEACH. I knew not if her hair was light Or dark, or if 'twas brown or red ; To keep it dry she had, drawn tight. An oil-skin cap upon her head. Her face I saw — she had blue eyes ; I saw her shapely amis ; I saw Her other shapely limbs likewise. A bloomer bathing-suit she wore. 'O A natty swimming garment, none Too cumbersome: her shoulders — bare And spray-splashed — glistened in the smi. I saw most all else but her hair. I saw her forehead — not those locks Which crowned the same : I saw her nose, And mouth, and chin ; she wore no socks. And so I saw her dimpled toes. She wore a smile and not much more. But one in summer must get near To nature; when on Jersey's shore One has to show good form, 'tis clear. Her beauteous curves could not escape Detection ; 'twere those tresses of Hers that lay hidden — not her shape, For her suit fitted like a glove. I saw a great deal of that fair Young girl, yes, a great deal that day. And yet the color of her hair I know not, I regret to say. Still, though unable to behold Her crowning glory, should I feel Cast down? Nay, I'm somewhat consoled: I saw, as I've said, a great deal ! AT THE SHORE. 89 We met by chance, 'Twas on the pier; Her artless glance Drew me anear ; Ere I keeled o'er In that strange faint There at the shore, This fair young saint I bowed, and ere We knew it, we Were talking there Most earnestly. We talked and sipped Cool drinks, the while My heart was gripped By her sweet smile. Her smile likewise My dazed brain seemed To hypnotize ; I slept and dreamed. I woke with pain ; Folks 'round me jeered; My watch and chain Had disappeared. Some one also Had swiped my purse. Rough? Yes, but O! What was far worse. Drew close to tell, With tenderness, Her name as well As her address. Then, whilst her low Voice sounded sweet, I fell, as though Dead, at her feet. Where now is she? Ah! I infer They who robbed me Have kidnapped her. When I lay dead To the world they Then spirited My love away. My dream of bliss, Alas ! is o'er. I meant on this Health-giving shore The lady of Those smiles so kind, My new, true love, I could not find. A week to stay; I left there, "broke", The second day. It was no joke. My lost one ! Where Is she? To my Sad soul's cry there Comes no reply. 90 'TWEEN SALES. Behind the far End counter, where The bargains are In ribbons rare, I stand; and oft 'Tween sales, ah me! I hear the soft Sound of the sea. And so I grieve And sigh sometimes. And, 'tween sales, weave Clandestine rhymes About a shore On which waves dash — Er — yeSj, three for Ten cents. Thanks. Cash! IN DOUBT. O, to be loved ! and, O, to love ! And I would like to know Which of the two confers more of Real joy and which more woe. I love, but reciprocity Therein may not, look you, Be mine : hence loving causes me A poignant pang or two. And so, as one might well infer, I wish to ascertain Whether my joy, if loved by her. Would be devoid of pain. THE WOOING OF IT. VI Last night I called upon Louise ; About the hour of nine I threw myself down on my knees, And asked her to be mine. The proffered honor she declined ; A speedy death seemed my Only recourse ; I changed my mind, I was too young to die. And so, strange as it may appear, I did not last night blow Out my poor brains. I still live here In this sad world below. My life, of course, is blighted, yet I need not quite despond, I know a very nice brunette, Yes, nicer than the blonde. This haughty blonde who rudely threw Me down but yesternight Is not the only maiden who Lives on the earth — not quite. A man in courting must, indeed, Be philosophic; when With the first girl you don't succeed, Call elsewhere — try again. " There are as good fish in the sea As e'er were caught," they say ; And if I persevere, ah me ! I may land one some day. 92 A PLAIN STATEMENT. No man is perfect ; very few- Women are absolutely so. This statement which I make is true ; I'm more frank than chivalrous though. But I am, and have ever been, A stickler for truth ; that's why A woman I may never win : I cannot flatter — cannot lie. DIPLOMACY. Are women angels? I don't know; Perhaps they are ; quite often, sir, [With mental reservation, though,] I speak of them as if they were. When we write verses or propose A woman's health those doubts w^hich most Perplex us we need not disclose. Why spoil a rhyme or mar a toast? I, diplomatically, call Women angelic ; while I know They are not saints, that is, not all, Still it seems best to call them so. Men cannot be too fulsome when Upon the fair they lavish praise. Brave words, not deeds, enable men To win a woman nowadays. TRUE VALOR. When I meet a guy on the street Who calls me a bleary deadbeat. Do I tell him he lies? Yes, if he's half my size. I'm fearless, but not indiscreet. SOMETHING LEARNED. 93 Should critics style my poems crude, Should connoisseurs of verse conclude That I am no — er — well, no prude, I'd feel but slight surprise. 'Tis true, I call a spade a spade ; Since Thursday night last, when I played That game of cards, I've been afraid To call one otherwise. On that most fateful round that night I held both bowers, left and right, And clubs were trumps, which pleased me quite ; The stakes were high, not low. My spirits, too, were high ; we all Were feeling fine; each one could call For what he wanted ; a high ball I had, some beers also. I held three spades, one of the same I — not without a sense of shame — Tried hard to pass off in the game As a club, but they saw Me thus finessing ; they arose And swatted me ; they bruised my nose, And blacked my eye, and tore my clothes, And kicked me on the floor. In life I've had my ups and downs. More downs than ups though ; yes, Fate's frowns And crosses, not her smiles and crowns, Have been mine; still I've made Some progress in the world. Ah, who Has failed to learn a thing or two In life's stern strife? I've learnt, look you, To call a spade a spade. 94 CURBSTONE MUSINGS. A PURPOSEFUL POEM. The purpose being the reconciliation of two young ladies who un- fortunately have differed over an inconsequential matter. 'Tis hot — red hot, and I am sitting Upon the curb in front our door ; Though such a seat is unbefitting One dealing in poetic lore. Yet, as I said, 'tis hot, and so I Fain some pleasant nook would seek; And here, where gutter zephyrs blow, I Am quite happy, so to speak. But not alone the gutter breezes Cause me such perfect bliss of mind ; 'Tis memory that ofttimes pleases More than those joys of carnal kind. And now, far more than balmy airs do, Memory my mind doth cheer : All sorrows, griefs, all pains and cares do (Happy riddance!) disappear: And many a pleasant, fleeting hour Far in the past I think me of : Living them o'er by memory's power With these two fair young maids I love. The one a blonde of figure slight, yet Well proportioned is the dame ; The other equally as bright, yet Of a somewhat larger frame. Their names — ah ! I cannot express them Without feeling quite a thrill : Friends familiarly address them Oftentimes as Ann and Lill. CURBSTONE MUSINGS. 95 Each one is O ! so sweetly utter, Their minds with knowledge, too, are fiU'd ; The slight maid sets my heart aflutter No less than she of larger build. And yet it grieves me — grieves me greatly To think that now those two should be Estranged, when their young hearts so lately Glowed warm with love's serenity. But yesterday the ties that bound them Seemed of such durability: Now in the storm that swirls around them How insecure they seem to be. Are those ties to be rent asunder ! Is love to hatred thus to change ! Ah, on the curb I sit and wonder : Such things I deem as passing strange. Alas ! that love's pure spark should die out, That friendship should to hatred grow. In agony I almost cry out; I feel such sudden ruptures so. Shall those maids ever be as strangers? Shall they drift more and more apart? Ah ! time, that works so many changes, May reunite each severed heart. Yes, as the years pass onward, they will Learn to forgive and to forget. Pleasant it is to think some day will See those maidens dear friends yet. A lifetime passed without forgiving ! Two hearts seared by the fires of hate ! Who, 'mid these mundane scenes are living, Can calmly such things contemplate? 96 fawcett's tree. It cannot be, and thus I know the Reconciliation grand Shall come : all indications show the Happy day is near at hand. One feels it in the air. The twitter Of the birds on Fawcett's tree Foretells to me, the curbstone sitter, That love triumphant soon will be. Knowing, therefore, those two shall meet and Bosom friends be as before, I'll now forsake my curbstone seat and To an end these verses draw. So fare thee well, O ! maiden slender. And thou whose form is not so frail. Within my heart that passion tender For both those maids shall e'er prevail. And though at Crystal Lake friend Lill is, Distance can ne'er make her less dear : And though friend Ann at far Bushkill is, I love as if she now were here. FAWCETT'S TREE. {Written twenty-seven years after Curbstone Musings.) How often in the ample shade Of Fawcett's tree I've sat and wooed The Muse, while on the boughs that swayed Above me the birds billed and cooed. By ruthless hands that tree has been Uprooted — that old maple tree, Which flourished so and blossomed in The days that were so dear to me. DREAMS. 97 One oft is disappointed when In the possession of A wished-for object ; let me, then, But dream of her I love. Let me lie in the shade of this Tall and umbrageous fir And dream, just dream. O ! it is bliss To dream, to dream — of her ! Delusions ! Well, if dreams be so. What then? Ah! I prefer To hug delusions rather — no, I'd rather, much, hug her. THE SHIP OF STATE OR VOTES FOR WOMEN. If woman be given a vote, The Ship of State, we're told, will float With more grace on life's seas. Is there need, though, in these Days for woman to mati any boat? The idea my mind somewhat shocks. Why should womankind shed her frocks And don sailor togs? Is our Ship in the fogs. And foundering now on the rocks? The hand which once rocked to and fro A babe's cradle is, as we know, Losing its kindly grip On the same. Does the ship Need that guiding hand now? Maybe so. 98 A MYSTERY. i " In sooth I know not why I am so sad." — Shakespeare. I'm sad. Why? I don't know. I'm in the best of health; There are no debts I owe ; I've a fair store of wealth. I dance, am fond of balls ; I should be happy quite; The clubs and music halls Are my chief haunts at night. I golf, play bridge, I mote ; I've hosts of friends, no foes. I'm in the swim; I dote On horse and canine shows. Pleasure by night and day I strenuously woo; Why, then, O ! tell me, pray, Do I at times feel blue? My appetite is good; The girl I love loves me ; The day is bright. Why should I so unhappy be ? My spirits should be high Instead of being low. Yes, I am sad ; but why, I really do not know. Why, at times, do we sigh When suffering no pain? This is a problem I, For one, can not explain. THE FRIDAY EVENING READING CLUB. 99 To each and every fair member thereof this poem is respectfully dedicated. I am no bard (it needs not this confession To prove the fact) and yet should I to-night Invoke the Muse, would it be a transgression ! How would The Club view my poetic flight ; What would those learnt members say, I wonder, If for a theme their club I were to choose? Alas, what doubts and fears I labor under ! P rhaps I had'nt ought to call the Muse. However, I shall try the rhythmic racket : Despite my fears, in Poesy's realms I'll soar. [Though I should state here, in a sort of bracket, That I'm no poet, as I said before.] Yet would " The Club " — a theme so grandly thrilling — Excite the prosiest mind ; and so, perchance. If the dear members of that club are willing To scan these lines, they might repay a glance. The Club — The Reading Club ! O how I love it ! I love it for my sisters' sake, and yet Those other fellows' sisters who are of it Cause me to love it none the less, you bet. Methinks this club, devoted so to reading. Would captivate all hearts as it hath mine ; [But here, e'er further in these lines proceeding, I'd say that rhyming is not in my line.] The Club I love — let me this fact state clearly — Not solely as an institution, for Each individual member I love dearly : Each individual member I adore. 100 THE READING CLUB. And I would in a reverential manner Breathe, as it were, their sweet baptismal names : I would begin with Lillian and Anna, The appellations of two charming dames. They — these two maidens — are associated With my life's brightest joys ; had I the skill Of versifying (which I've not, as stated,) I would immortalize both Ann and Lill. Anna and Lill ! O ! I have many reasons For liking them. He who does not revere Anna and Lillian " is fit for treasons, And stratagems, and spoils " — to quote Shakespeare. Man is too weak to withstand Beauty's power. My heart was whole, and free, and happy till I met — O fatal day ! O fatal hour ! Those sirens of The Club — Anna and Lill. The next name, and I don't know a sublimer, Is Em'ly ; it for sweetness takes the cake. [At this juncture I should say that as a rhymer I would doubtless be considered a mistake.] I breathe the name of Minnie now — a good one. Christian names my friend Fitzpatrick cannot change : And it is better so, for really would one Desire that dear name to e'er sound strange? I whisper next — not without realizing Its beauty and its grace — the name of Lou. That I should like this name is not surprising. Knowing its fair possessor as I do. Next Fannie, meaning free, claims my attention : No name with more of tenderness is fraught. [Perhaps 'twere well to casually mention ITiat writing poetry can't be called my forte.] THE READING CLUB. 101 The name of Helen follows. Ah ! without it No galaxy of names would be complete ; The pleasant memories that cling about it Endear to me this name so truly sweet. To me the name has ever seemed symbolic Of chivalry, of beauty, love and joy. Adown the vista of past years historic I gaze and see that Helen fair of Troy. Now Cometh Jeanie : 'tis a name delightsome, And I express it with a thrill of bliss. Were I a poet — which I'm not — I'd write some Most stunning sonnets to a name like this. Now, heart of mine, whyfore so quickly beatest? Ah ! thou hast reason, for I breathe the name Of Mary. Peerless name ! three of the sweetest Members in The Club possess this same. Next— Kate ! " Kate of Kate-Hall, my super-dainty Kate." Mamie too, a very worthy mate. O ! at life's end, 'mid crashing worlds, I'll faintly Breathe, ere I fall, those loved names — Mame and Kate ! And now comes Alice. Alice ! Poets, maybe, Might on this sweetest name in Christendom Do justice if they try; but I, fair lady, Dare not presume on Poesy's harp to thrum. I must be silent ; poets may aspire To reign with gods whilst I creep on earth's plain; I cannot wholly stifle, though, the fire Which smoulders in my heart and soul and brain. Sometime, fair Alice, those now smouldering embers In my soul may, when I pronounce your name, Too fiercely glow ; 'twill shock The Club's fair members. Perhaps, to watch my soul dissolve in flame. 102 THE READING CLUB. With Rose and Eve * my list of names is ended. What other club a nobler list can show? [Here I'd remark that nature ne'er intended Me for a poet, as my friends well know.] I lack, 'mongst other things, that power of blending My burning thoughts in verse. Ye gods ! what grand And eloquent effusions I'd be sending The Club did I the poet's art command. Then, favored of the Muse, I could be singing The praises of The Club in worthy strains : Then would I know the rapture felt in winging One's flight in Fancy's limitless domains. Then sweeter songs from my heart would be welling Than mortals e'er yet heard : my spirit soon Would know an ecstasy beyond all telling : My soul from an excess of joy would swoon. An exaltation in its throes would hold me : Aye ! and a love, no mythologic god E'er understood, would evermore enfold me Were I but that which I'l ne'er be — a bard. No, 'tis not mine, alas ! to sing the praises Of that dear club. Let happier poets weave Its noble deeds into immortal phrases : Let others speak those names I dare but breathe. Let abler pens record for future ages The Club's high aims, the conquests it has made. Its readings of the poets and the sages. Its balls, its pic-nics and its — Lemonade. * This may be said to be something of a problem poem. Among the various names appearing in the lines are those of the writer's two sisters ; the problem is to find these two names. THE TASK. 103 [N. B. — Not Cowper's.] I sing the Ringlet. I who lately sang The Lily and the Rose, and touched with fear The tuneful chords, and with a trembling hand, Escaped — but not unscathed — from that rash flight, Now seek excitement in another theme ; The theme is great, and great also and grand The occasion — for fair Ann commands the song. — Cowper, slightly changed. Dearest maid. To my aid I do now call the Muse. Bard ne'er had Theme more glad Than the one I shall choose : For I'll dwell, Annabelle, On the power which lies In thy small Ring, that all Who behold it would prize. From thy hand The gold band Was received, and I swear By the said Hand, fair maid, Of thy ring to take care. Yes, I'll cling To the ring Thou hast kindly loaned me : When away Its bright ray Will recall thoughts of thee. 104 THE TASK. Of thy ring E'en a king Might justly be vain : As for me, Ann, I see It were much to attain. While to sing Of thy ring Where'er I may go Will, without Any doubt, Be the best joy I'll know. At the store As I pore Over musty accounts — As in sad Mood I add Up my ledger amounts. From my book I shall look [When the " boss " is not near] To delight In the sight Of that ringlet so dear. On the street. Too, most sweet Will be those thoughts that spring To my mind As I find Time to gaze at the ring. And also I shall know A joy full and profound In home's dear Atmosphere, Where such peace doth abound : There — yes, there As I wear Thy bright jewel, to me Life will seem As a dream Full of deep ecstasy. Though I roam Far from home, Though I traverse the sea. Yet thy ring Oft will bring Pleasant mem'ries to me. Grief or woe I'll not know Whilst the gem I retain, In its bright Rays of light Lurks a charm for all pain. And despair And dull care That charm will dispel. There is joy. No alloy. In this ring from a belle. Dangers all That befall One in life I'll not fear While possessed Of this blessed Golden ring, Anna dear. Pearls or gold. Wealth untold. All the treasures of earth Are, of course. But as dross To thy ring's precious worth. THE TASK. 105 E'en a star, That afar Lights the by-ways of space, Would in shame Hide its flame Should thy ring meet its face. Ah, sweet one, Should the sun Be destroyed, and no more On this sphere Cast its clear Radiant beams as before, I would not Care a jot, No indeed : very soon The dark gloom I'd illume With the brightness of noon. What I'd take Thus to make Good the harm that was done Would be thy Ring, which I Deem more bright than the sun. Time may fly, Days glide by. Ages cycle away, Death lay low All I know, Kingdoms fall to decay, Yet, my friend. Naught can tend To induce me, I trow, E'er to fling 'Way thy ring Which is so treasured now. There's a spell, Annabelle, In the jewel, whose power Will control My rapt soul Until life's latest hour. Yet, indeed, There's no need To extol that dear loan. Who would not Treasure what On thy finger once shone ? Breathes a man, My dear Ann, So phlegmatic and cold Who, unmoved, Could that loved Golden object behold? Does thy hand Miss that grand Sparkling gem that I hold? Art thou much Grieved that such A rare circlet of gold Is now mine And not thine? O ! how generous of thee Thus to loan Me thine own Ring. What honor for me ! Should harsh fate Separate Us in far future days, If we two Must pursue Through this life different ways, 106 THE TASK. Still to me Memory Will past pleasures restore : 'Twill disclose To me those Days when I thy ring wore. Thus a balm That shall calm My wild spirit I'll find In those rich Pleasures which Mem'ry brings to the mind. But perhaps Time's long lapse From thy happier mind May efface Ev'ry trace Of such thoughts as this kind. Yes, dear girl, 'Mid the whirl Of that life thou shalt know. Amid the Gayety Of its pomp and its show. Scenes of past Days shall fast From thy mind be removed. Nor wilt thou Think of how Olden friends have once loved. Ah, around Thee'll be found Newer friends who may tell Tales that will Thy mind fill With strange thoughts, Annabelle. And yet through All these new Scenes that life doth unfold Thou may'st yet Not forget Those warm friendships of old- O ! how few Friendships true Are in human hearts born : Ofttimes I With a sigh Hear those vows falsely sworiu Love, too, finds In men's minds, When serene are the skies. An abode, But grief's load Soon doth sever its ties. Ah, methinks The gold links Of a Love's binding chain Would outlast The worst blast That may mark sorrow's reign^ Nor no dim Thoughts of him Whom that ring once made glad Will thy joy E'er destroy — Will thy mind e'er make sad. Yet true hearts Play their parts In life's drama : one reads In these late Days of great Men, and their noble deeds. THE TASK. 107 Life ! Ah me, Mystery Of unsolved mysteries. A frail barque In the dark, Drifting on unknown seas. Life, dear friend. Soon shall end : This probation of ours Will before Long be o'er : Therefore those fleeting hours Which, dear Ann, Make the span Of our lives here below, We should by All means try To improve as they go. We, in fact, Should so act On this world's transient stage As to feel O'er us steal No regrets in old age. My poor muse Please excuse : And yet poor, still the thought That my verse Might be worse Is with happiness fraught. That would tell, Annabelle, In an adequate way, What the heart Would impart? Language cannot portray All that I Feel as my Pen this paper glides o'er. Ah ! what deep Longings sleep Now within my heart's core. Still I feel As I reel Off these lines that 'twere best I should keep. So to speak, A most strict outlook, lest One shall trace On my face Something that might reveal Feelings that I am at So much pain to conceal. Now, though poor, I assure Thee my rhymes are sincere : Yet I send Them, kind friend, With much trembling and fear. Yet how can Any man With a subject so grand Hope to do Justice ? Who Could find words at command O! if I By and by Wealth and power and fame Only could Gain, it would Then be m)^ dearest aim 108 THE TASK. To outpour My heart's lore In poesy divine : Then, fore'er Free from care, O what joys would be mine? Then I'd soar Evermore In the realms of the sky, And would string Thy dear ring On the clouds floating by. And where waves Dash through caves On a storm-beaten shore, And the rocks Quake with shocks From the thunder's loud roar, I would dwell — Knowing well That forebodings of harm Would depart From my heart Whilst I cling to that charm. Oft with Love In a grove I'd while the bright hours : Or would play All the day In Flora's fair bowers. I v/ould like Much to strike On a fair Eskimo. But a " mash" Might be rash In that region of snow. Therefore I, Ann, would hie Me to balmier lands : I would dwell For a spell On Sahara's hot sands ; Or, with pride. On the wide Ocean's bosom I'd sail In a shell That no swell Of the awfulest gale Could upset : For ne'er yet Any talisman was owned Near so sure As this pure Golden band I was loaned. In his skiff Then "Friend Cliff" On old ocean would sport ; And to isles, Distant miles, Would quite often resort. To the lone Northern zone With my " Mizpah " I'd haste : For a change I would range O'er that ice-covered waste. On the blue Billows— Whew— ! My soul would on the brine Throb and beat, Anna sweet. With a rapture divine. THE TASK. 109 I, afloat In my boat On the wild boundless seas, Would sometimes Sail to climes Afar distant from these. But such bliss I in this "Vale of tears" shall ne'er know; 'Twere a dream Too supreme To be realized so. Yet not long I among Stranger folks would remain : I would yearn To return To fair Anna again. I would miss The calm bliss Which thy presence doth give Without thee I would be, Love, unable to live. So my stanch Craft I'd launch Once again on the main. And ne'er pause Till the shores Of my own land I'd gain. And each night I would write Of the wonders I'd see, And I'd fail Not to mail My accounts, sweet, to thee. For, Anna, How can a Poor fellow like me Gain so great An estate? No, it never may be ! Life, alas ! I must pass Amid sorrow and gloom. But Death's sting Soon will bring Me the peace of the tomb. But for thee May joys be. O ! may Fate's fingers fair Wreathe a bright Crown of light Round thy ri?ig-\ets of hair. May thy feet Tread the sweet Paths of Duty and Truth : Then wilt thou, E'er as now. Keep the charms of thy youth. Then perchance Thou wouldst glance On the poems I'd send, And e'en praise My poor lays. And e'en style me thy friend. And at last When life's fast Fading scenes are all o'er. There awaits Through those gates To that bright farther shore 110 PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP. A world of Purest love Whose delights are for thee ; Thy life there In that fair Land eternal shall be. Though aware That thou'lt tear Or consign to the fire These fond rhymes Which at times I have tuned to my lyre, Still I fain Thou wouldst deign To peruse them before Thou shalt lay Them away On Oblivion's shore. Yet if these Stanzas please [Though rhyme's not in my line] I, dear Ann, Really can Have no cause to repine. Au revoir. I'm near o'er With these verse lines so brief : I suppose When I close 'Twill afford thee relief. So I'll bore Thee no more. But will — with thy leave — Only ask That "The Task" Thou wilt kindly receive. PLATONIC FRIENDSHIP. When a friendship termed platonic Turns to love then one may be Sure that Cupid (the sardonic Little rogue) smiles knowingly. Those philosophers reputed To be so profoimdly smart Must perforce defer to Cupid In all matters of the heart. Thou, O Cupid, through the ages Hast o'erruled our destinies — Those heart theories of the sages Are the merest vagaries. AERONAUTICS. Ill I like to read about those daring manbirds and their flights ; The altitude to which they aviate fills me with awe. The Harmons, and the Brookins, and the Drexels, and the Wrights, In the airy space above us certainly know how to soar. O ! how exhilarating to the body, mind and soul It must be to leave the earth awhile, to watch it fade from view. While in a magic vehicle, o'er which we have control, To mount and dip and speed and drift far off in heaven's blue. To revel thus among the fleecy clouds far beyond where The birds, whose flights we envied once, dare never, never go, Is to realize a rapture and an ecstasy more rare Than ever yet was dreamt of on the care-filled earth below. But earth exacts a toll from those who take a skyward trip ; A life she sometimes calls for from the daring and the brave ; She asked this of bold Johnstone and he calmly took the dip Down, down, into her bosom, where he now rests — in a grave. TO-MORROW. To-morrow the sunbeams will fall, Most likely, on land and on sea; But it is not certain at all If those beams will fall upon me. Not certain to fall, I should say, On my living form : but these lines Are doleful. One ought to be gay While on his live clav the sun shines. 112 REGARDING LOVE. (A Confession.) There've been times when I've wanted to Know how it felt (I'm frank, you see) To be loved by a women who Would think the world and all of me. For me no fair one's heart thus far Has with love's kindly ardor glowed. Love ! Ah, its sweets and triumphs are Ne'er to be mine. I'm growing old. I philosophically, though. The situation contemplate. All things considered, I have no Reason at all to rail at fate. Love has its cares — is this not true? Those cares I have escaped. Ah ! had I wedded, would I now, look you. Be happier or else more sad? I might have won a heart that would Have afterwards grown cold ; if so. My over-tender nature could Hardly have weathered such a blow. I know how weak are human ties ; I know how love is apt to fail ; I know how many, many lies Are uttered at the altar rail. The blasted hopes, the blighted lives. The trustful love so often slain, The wretched husbands, the sad wives, The wrecks astrewn upon the main : I am aware of these sad things ; I've grown somewhat irresolute Whilst contemplating them. What brings Such woes? Is love an evil root? REGARDING LOVE. 113 Should one love less devotedly In order to obtain more of True peace and joy? Or, say, should we Dispense — vi^hoUy dispense with love ? The consequences of too great A passion startles me somewhat ; It makes me rather hesitate To launch a matrimonial yacht. I am too timid some may think. They who risk nothing, nothing win. I dallied too long on the brink Of Love's sea ; I should have plunged in. Regrets may cloud my future days. I was, as I have found too late. Too vacillating in my ways. And yet I rail not against fate. To win a heart that would remain Loyal and leal through all of life Were bliss indeed. But O ! the pain Of having an unloving wife. The latter possibility Might have been mine. Doubtless it would. And so in my philosophy I think things have worked for my good. I hold, so far as love's concerned. That I have acted well my part In this life ; yes, I feel I've earned The peace that bides now in my heart. The peace that bides ! Ah me ! some vague And faint regrets, I must aver. Disturb that peace and seem to plague Me sometimes — when I think of her. 114 NINETEEN-SIX. Farewell, Old Year ; thy end appro acheth now ; Death soon shall claim thee. There are those who will Deplore thy dying — those whose eyes will fill With tears when at the midnight hour thou Ent'reth thy grave : for thou hast seemed somehow Like to a friend; and we, O friend, until Life is no more may in our mind-depths still Live thy days over. Memory will endow Our lives with her stored wealth: and thus, dear Year, Shall we, through all the sorrows that might be, Find consolation's balm in memory. O ! when our time is come, and death draws near, May some kind friend be by to shed a tear, Even as we do now, Old Year, for thee. OUTDOORS. For poets' odes to spring I care But little ; I prefer Outdoors, where Nature is, and where I may commune with her. A library ! 'Tis a good thing ; I scoff not at men's views. But outdoors, on the fields, in spring, 'Tis pleasanter to muse. No soul housed on a city street Its gladdest song outpours; Tt sings where life is free and sweet, And real ; it sings — outdoors. THE PARTING AND THE COMING GUEST. 115 A guest whom we have learned to know Is from among us soon to go. Should his loss wring Our hearts with grief, while at our gates A younger, fairer guest awaits A welcoming? And yet one feels that he could brush From straining eyes — no, there's no such Thing as a tear. A tear? Pshaw! we're too much in love With life now at the dawning of Another year. Upon the threshold of a new And unknown year we stand. How few Of all earth's men Will mourn when death takes Nineteen-nine ! How many, though, will dine and wine Young Nineteen- ten ! SPRING. Old Earth as she now whirls through space Assumes a new beauty and grace : She feels a strange joy Taking this maiden coy Again in her loving embrace. And we who inhabit the sphere, We who for awhile abide here, As the Southland's soft breeze Stirs the fresh-leafing trees, Find life O, so happy and dear ! 116 SPRINGTIME. Nature is kind, the trees are blossoming And man rejoices. Yes, benignant spring Has come again; lier kindly smile now beams Upon the land, and O ! her presence seems Dearer than e'er before : all things appear So beautiful and life is foimd so dear. One's heart this season knows the rapture of A new-born ecstasy. Ah, Heaven's love These bright, sweet days is shown everywhere: The hills are green and fragrant is the air With scents of early flowers. Once more earth Her loveliest raiment dons, and joy and mirth. As caroled by the songbirds in their lays, Mark the fleet hours of the gracious days. A NEW WORLD. Ere in my life you came I found it dull and tame : I knew not then the beauty of this earth. How great a change is wrought! Now, happily, I'm taught Life's meaning, its diviner scope and worth. Love has aroused my mind And heart and soul. I find The world transformed, and in the bright sunshine Life is more fair, more sweet, More dear, and more complete Than 'twas in days when love's wealth was not mine. SPRING'S REIGN. 117 Benignant Nature's brightest smiles Are beaming now in these Dear days on continents and isles, And on earth's sparkling seas. Spring has returned, and our hearts beat With highest hopes as we Stand on the threshold of Life's sweet. Strange, and deep mystery. She lavishes her richest gifts Again among us here ; Our wearied spirits she uplifts. Life now is O ! so dear. From far-off fields where daisies sway Now in the balmy breeze Sweet scents sometimes so strangely stray In our town's boundaries. Yes, life is sweet in fair Spring's reign, And O ! it would be wrong For any soul then to refrain From bursting forth in song. The sternest of us may at times Unbend. What if we fling Our cares away, and jot down rhymes! There's some excuse — in spring. 118 A SPRING DAY. That day in fair April, which we Spent long, long ago by the sea, I often recall ; 'Twas dearer than all Other days — that midspring day to me. I love to recall it, I do. The ocean was never more blue And sparkling than when We looked on it then. In the heart of that spring we once knew, A BROKEN RESOLUTION. I registered a vow on New Year's day To give up rhyming in four months ; therefore I must, as it is now the first of May, Bid farewell to the Muse forevermore. Yet when birds sing as they are doing now. When days are long and one has lots of time, When sweet and balmy breezes waft one's brow, 'Tis hard to check a tendency to rhyme. However, when the Summer has gone by, When Autmnn with her rich and ruddy hues Bedecks the forests and the fields, ah ! I Shall then — perhaps — say farewell to the Muse. But now — no, no. I cannot say farewell When lilacs and when roses are in bloom ; Yet when the golden-rods nod in the dell To part from her may fill my soul with gloom. I'll wait until a few more months elapse. I'll bid, albeit in a trembling tone. Farewell in winter; yet I might (perhaps) Be loath to shiver in the cold — alone. MAYBELLE. 119 She loves me ; she can't help it. One might be Apt to imagine, unless I explain, That these expressions smack of vanity. Well, possibly I may be somewhat vain. But I am positive she loves me, though : She says so, and she's truthful as the day. Why can't she help it? Well, true love, you know, Begets love ; hence my love she must repay. Yes, darling little three-year old Maybelle Surely returns her father's loving ; why He — that is, I love more than words can tell My precious one — the apple of my eye. BESIDE THE SEA. I romped with Maud upon the shore — With Maud, who has thus far lived four Years in the world; I've lived three score. But this fair morning when With that most joyous juvenile, Time waived, with an indulgent smile, His claim on me, and I the while Became a boy again. Yes, this fair morning I was one Of two glad children, O ! what fun We both had playing in the sun. Now sunk to rest. And Maud Rests too, she sleeps : beside the sea I walk alone. Ah, rest to me Shall come ere long. How suddenly Were all my years restored ! 120 A MEMORY. A tuneful group they were — those few Itinerant musicians who Played in the bright sunshine: I paused and listened to the band, When suddenly I felt a hand Press gently that of mine. A small tot of the neighborhood Had from his plapnates strayed and stood Beside me on the street : I clasped the little hand that he Extended, and together we Enjoyed the music's treat. :j! Hs * * * * To-night upon the pier, among A merry crowd, I sit : a song Is sung, and lo ! I see A city street, a child demure, Whose bright face beams with sweet and pure And trusting smiles on me. The vision fades. I'm sad. Yet why Should I, where revelry runs high As it does here, be not Gay like the rest? But no. the song Just heard has moved me — made me long To see again that tot. A DAY RECALLED. 121 I walked one well remembered day Beside the sea, and saw A very little child at play Alone upon the shore. She smiled as, pausing in my walk, I greeted her, and we Soon were engaged in earnest talk There by the mighty sea. She seemed to like me, and she had Much to relate: I sat Down by her on the sand, most glad To have with her a chat. Dear child, I often think of you. Ah yes ! though many a year Has passed since your words brought into My empty life some cheer. I love the ocean, yet I ne'er Found by its waters more Of joy than on the day that fair, Bright, trusting child I saw. 122 TO DOROTHY. " Sunbeam of Summer ! oh ! what is like thee ? Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea." — Mrs. Hemans. Do you remember, Dorothy, Those bright days in July When we met by the peaceful sea. And played there — you and I? Those playful hours are, I find, A pleasure to recall ; a^lthough they may from your young mind Have faded, one and all. I very often think about The man we formed of sand ; Before that breaker knocked him out He certainly looked grand. You made his body and his face. His arms and legs likewise ; I shaped his hat and helped to place His ears on and his eyes. And then the " auto ", Dorothy, That would not quite hold two ; There was not room enough for me. It only seated you. Ovir names upon the sand also — My! didn't they look fine? I've not forgotten yours, although You have forgotten mine. CHILDHOOD. 123 And I think, too, of our store — Our little store. I judge No other dealers on the shore Sold such nice cake and fudge. Now 'neath bleak winter's sullen skies I The angry waters swirl About that coast, but in your eyes Fair summer bides, dear girl. May you forever, joyous child, Find life as sweet and dear As were those sunny hours whiled Away near the old pier. So I — a lonely man — think of That little girl with whom I played, and whose smiles, bright with love, Dispelled awhile my gloom. CHILDHOOD. The days — O the days of childhood! How blessed and happy and good They are ! Mine were so ; And yet — yet, I know, I would not relive them, if I could. 124 IN A CITY SQUARE. I like to sit here in this square And watch the happy children play ; I was as free from grief and care, Some fifty years ago, as they. Yet I am not unhappy now. Who can be on a day in spring? In this sweet air my soul somehow Is strangely stirred, and I must sing. A child speeds with unconscious grace On roller skates 'round the flag staff ; I note her bright and winsome face, I hear the music of her laugh. '■a'- I notice how her straying curls Dance in the sunshine when she shakes Her head the whole she gayly whirls Around the circle on her .skates. She leaves off skating soon and drops Her " rollers " for a piece of chalk, With which she draws some squares and hops Towards one marked " Home " there on the walk. Home ! That must be a happy one She trips to now beside her nurse. The afternoon is almost done. I— well, I'll stop this rambling verse. Dear child, fair child, you mind me of A little one as dear and fair, Who plays — yes, plays somewhere above, Not here, not here — now — in this square. RITTENHOUSE SQUARE. 125 For me to occupy a seat Here in this square perhaps is wrong. I live just north of Market street, And ought to stay where I belong. Yet may not those who live above A certain street come here and sing? One's heart must sing of life and love When basking in the smiles of Spring. Beside me sits a little boy, In his hands is a fuzzy bear ; Both bear and boy seem to enjoy The spring-day's outing in the square. A train of choo-choo cars goes by. Where bound ? The tot who hauls it knows ; Ask him ; 'tis he can tell, not I. To Happyland I should suppose. The tumult now is at its height. But is it not a pleasant noise? They shriek and shout in pure delight — These merry-hearted girls and boys. They play " hop-Scotch ", and tag, and ball; The girls jump ropes ; I hear some cry For " salt and pepper ", others call For " apples ", " peaches ", and for " pie ". Now a precocious artist takes A crayon in his chubby hand. And on the asphalt pathway makes Some drawings hard to understand. So who can blame me if on clear. Bright afternoons I sit sometimes On a bench in this playground here. Inditing a few trivial rhymes? 126 MINOR MISHAPS. There was a small boy with a gun, He wanted some innocent fun ; A " friend " loaded for him That gun to the brim. Pa and Ma are now seeking their son. His young sister one afternoon, While flying a purple balloon, Was carried away. Her nurse thinks she may Be blown back to her parents next June. O say ! have you found anywhere On the earth, or perhaps in the air, Two cute kids? When last seen They were playing, I ween. With a gun and balloon, in the square. The boy's elder sister's left eye Was cut by a fall ; that is why She now lies in a swoon. But she'll come to real soon. Probably by the first of July. She has had, to be sure, a close call. Being very near killed by her fall. But she still is alive. And perhaps she'll revive. She is stunned, merely stunned — that is all. The fond parents of these three bright Little dears, who are now out of sight. Seem real worried. The nurse Says that things could be worse. Does this thought cheer the parents? Not quite. It's true, there is one little dear Whose body, at least, is still here ; But her senses are fled, And her mother, 'tis said. Feels almost like shedding a tear. RICHES. 127 I am possessed of untold wealth, I'm rich beyond all dreams of greed; A wife, two children, strength and health Are mine. What more does a man need? Up-town I have a little home Where we four live ; I like to hear The children shout " Papa has come ", W'hen I at eve my home draw near. Those little darling ones they watch Each evening at the corner of The street for me, then we three march Towards home and Mother whom we love. Yes, I indeed have imtold wealth: A home just large enough for four, A wife, two children, strength and health. Riches ! No man on earth has more. LIFE'S HOURS. 1 danced one day upon the lea — Danced, yes, and shouted from sheer joy; I laughed aloud ; I was, ah me, At that time just a boy — a boy ! How carelessly I whiled away Life's hours once ! I now employ Them usefully ; I do not play, Nor dance, nor laugh. I'm now no boy. 128 A LITTLE CRITIC. {Too panegyrical perhaps, but wholly honest in her spontaneous encomiastic expressions.) None seems to think that I, In poetry's sphere, Will ever rank as high As Bill Shakespeare. But stay ! — there's one who tells Me oftentimes That my verse far excels Bill Shakespeare's rhymes. This critic, aged five years, ^ Has not a doubt My lines surpass Shakespeare's, Which I oft spout. What ! tell in rhyme a new Story, my dear? Well, better this than to Murder Shakespeare. Once, then, upon a time A great king had A — " Did that king write rhyme Like you do, Dad ? " Don't interrupt ; wait till I'm through, then I To all your questions will Gladly reply. And so some fairy tales I improvise, Which my hearer ne'er fails To criticise. She says now I " beat Bill ", But I'm inclined To think my critic will Soon change her mind. She'll learn the poorness of Dad's verse, but will Ne'er doubt that he can love As well as Bill. OUR OUTING. 129 Come, Nell, your hand ; Now let us skip Across the sand ; Look out, don't slip. O my ! what fun ! Don't budge, be brave ; Let's stand — run, run ! Here comes a wave ! How sportive are These waves that thus Roll up so far To play \vith us. They laugh, and so Do we when they Upon us throw The sparkling spray. We like, we do. This great big sea; And I like you, And you like me. And the cea likes Us both to-day ; At least it strikes Me, Nell, that way. CHUMS. The morning appears most Propitious for A jaunt along the coast Of Jersey's shore. So hurry, Nell, and get Your hat ; we ought To ride to the Inlet, Or else Longport. 130 CHUMS. Ah ! you prefer Young's Pier. I shan't oppose The motion. It is clear What you say goes. " The Pier " — yes, here we are ! Nell knows what's best. Let's walk out to the far End, then — let's rest. Really, you've chosen well ; I like to be Away out here with Nell, And with the sea. Away out here — out here Above the blue. Deep sea, and 'neath the clear Heavens — with you. There is no joy more dear — None more profound Than simply sitting here, Looking around. * * ♦ >f^ * What fun we two chums had That summer we — Nellie and I her Dad — Spent by the sea. Those daily rambles by The deep with such A merry comrade I Enjoyed so much. Still on old Jersey's shore Beats the wild sea. I — well, I'm thankful for A memory. In dreams out on the pier. Over the blue Sea, Nell, and 'neath the clear Skies, I'm with you. THE LESSON. 131 I watched her building by the sea, And lent my aid. What skill in architecture we Toilers displayed ! When in the tunnel 'neath the fort We two clasped hands, I knew I had a friend long sought Found on the sands. A little friend — one who knew, though, Enough of this Strange world to have learned love is O ! Life's greatest bliss. I who should, doubtless, know more of The world than she, Had found, alas ! that love — yes, love — Was grief to me. But she — this child — is wiser than Am I, therefore She may teach me — a lonely man — Her brighter lore. New truths I fain would learn. Time's lapse Fresh knowledge brings ; And I am not too old, perhaps, To learn some things. So teach me, teach me, little one, Here on this shore New truths. I would, ere life is done, Of love know more. 132 HAPPINESS. Sometimes I know an ecstasy Unspeakable : a thought Sweeps o'er my mind, and O ! to me A glimpse of heaven is brought. Night flees before the morning fair Now brightening the east ; And I shall taste the pleasures rare Provided at Life's feast. On earth Love reigns : upon our small Round world the sun doth shine : Cares disappear, and soon shall all Hope's promised joys be mine. SILENT SPEECH. Words are so weak, and why Employ them now in my Revealment of that longing in my breast? O ! let my eyes convey That which no tongue can say, And yours, responding, grant my soul's request. Think not that I shall fail To read aright the tale Told me by eyes as eloquent as yours ; In their deep depths I see Two lives that are to be Blest with a love that through all time endures. SOME DAY. 133 Some day I'll meet my love, Unknown as yet. Ah yes ! Softly Hope tells me of A coming happiness. Now, though the world is drear, Not without cause I sing: A whisper in the ear Prevents my sorrowing. On Hope's sweet promise I Rely; I tread life's way Convinced that love in my Heart's core will bloom — some day. AWAITING HER COMING. There may be in the world somewhere A woman — one towards whom my heart Shall turn : a woman who will share My lot until death do us part. A woman — can Fate mean it? — who Will love me. Love me ! Ah ! if I Do meet her, I shall love her true : Yes, love her, love her till I die. My dearer, sweeter life — my love. My truer self I long to see. Sometime she'll hear the calling of My heart, my heart, and come to me ! 134 THE EARTH. Swiftly the Earth revolves in space, Unto her goal she speeds ; Some day she shall have run her race And gained the rest she needs. Nearer each fleeting moment she, Now on her star-lit way, Approaches, unaffrighted, the Predestined final day. O ! she is brave and she is wise. Rushing thus towards her doom, Cheerily now while in the skies Hope's star doth brightly loom. A DEATHLESS SONG. Our earth was greeted by a song That morn she took her place Amid the stars, to roll along Her destined course through space. Love was the inspiration of Those stellar-minstrels then : Their deathless song of joyous love Now thrills the souls of men. A CHEERING THOUGHT. 135 Should I despair because fate seems Unkind? No, why display Such weakness when my fondest dreams Are to come true some day? Nay, I shall not lose faith : I'll shed No tears: for is not life A thing to prize, though clouds o'erhead Portend more storms and strife? One thought — the thought that she shall be Restored to me some day Cheers me ; although from my heart she Has never strayed away. FOREORDAINED. Before the bright stars filled The vaulted sky Fate willed That we should live and meet and love in this Blest golden age : yes, it Was in Fate's life-book writ That we, dear one, should know love's fullest bliss. Yes, ere the stars were flung In space — ere they had sung Their greeting to the earth, Fate, who controls Our lives, decreed that we Should meet and love and be The happiest of all created souls. 136 HEAVEN'S GIFT. Surely of love I ne'er knew aught Until this maid I saw ; Since that blest day I have been taught A truth unknown before. Never has this world seemed so fair; New and strange joys I know; Along a pathway, strewn with rare Primroses, I now go. Our earth is glorified when Love Reigneth thereon. O ! then Cherish that gift which heaven above Hath vouchsafed unto men. A WOMAN'S HEART. There's that which kingly wealth can not Obtain — I'm speaking of A woman's heart. How blest the lot Of him who wins such love ! Gold may secure a woman's hand, While Love, in tears, looks on ; But hearts yield not to wealth's command; True hearts are not thus won. Shapely and fair the hand may be That itches for man's gold, But false to womanhood is she Who may be bought and sold. Love ! 'Tis the holiest sentiment Within the hixman breast : It is a gift by Heaven sent — The nobliest and best. SUMMER. 137 Summer has come, the season of Unbounded joy is here: Sweet, idle days when one may love And woo a maiden dear. Now in the lane the blithe birds sing, New beauties nature shows ; And I may go a-rambling Perhaps with — her, who knows? O ! she is kind, as her bright smile Right pleasingly attests. Can I be else than happy while Her smile upon me rests? WHERE LOVE BIDES NOT, ANTOINETTE. Where love bides not O ! ne'er let Me sojourn ; life, Antoinette, Must in places where is heard no love's glad song Be a woeful tragedy. It would kill the soul in me Were you, Antoinette, and love to leave me long. He, my Antoinette, who ne'er Was entangled in love's snare, He whom love denies his favors, he who knows Not that rare and soulful bliss Which steals o'er one in a kiss Taken from alluring lips beneath the rose : He who unto wisdom's store Never added love's sweet lore Has lived all his days in vain, for he has not Tasted life's best draught as yet. Where love bides not, Antoinette, O, how bitter and how sad must be one's lot ! 138 THE VOICE I'LL NEVER HEAR AGAIN. Sad and sweet was the song that she Used to sing. Ah ! nevermore Shall that song stir the soul in me As when 'twas sung by her of yore. Now at the play I occupy Near the stage my accustomed seat ; Again I hear that song, but my Pulse throbs with no enquickened beat. Other singers — world famous — may Regale a crowd with song, but I Can ne'er again in my life's day Hear the voice loved in days gone by. SOMETIME. Sometime, love, in a golden clime, Where roses bloom the whole year through, Where skies are of the deepest blue. We'll meet, we two — sometime, sometime. What joy in that fair clime we'll find ! What happiness we two shall share, Our eager spirits mingling there. And your dear form in my arms twined ! How beautiful and how sublime ! How wondrous strange and sweet will be Life when we meet and love, as we Will do, dearheart, — sometime, sometime. THE LAKE. 139 She moves among my visions of the lake." — Tennyson. Somewhere there is a little lake Upon whose surface may be seen Sweet lily-bells afloat: they take A pride in being there, I ween. Nestling among the joyous hills, Near nature's heart, this calm lake lies. Ah, there one hears the whip-poor-wills Pour forth their notes when daylight dies. One time the Spirit of the place, Radiantly fair, appeared to me. Could I again see her dear face, How blest and happy I would be. LOVE. The greatest and most precious of All things in our world is love : How cheaply, though, in these Too sordid days 'tis held. The stake Is gold, not love: and hearts may break While storm-tossed on life's seas. Yet love is love, and love has been The world's best wealth wherewith to win Joy worthiest to gain. One who has loved and whose love met, Alas ! with no return, has yet Not lived this life in vain. 140 A FISHER MAIDEN. She threw her line into the lake : Unnoticed by the angler, I Stood near ; the fish seemed not to take At all to her, I wondered why. Now had I been a fish that day No time would have been lost before A sole would have gasped life away Prone at her feet there on the shore. Often do I, O maiden fair, Recall how you with hook and line Caught not a fish, but, unaware, Had captured that fond heart of mine. A PREMEDITATED THEFT. When the stout arms of Morpheus enfold her, And she dreams of a fairer world than this. The favored guardian angels who behold her, Press on her smiling lips full many a kiss. Angels can do no wrong ; it might, however, Be not quite proper for us on this sphere To copy all their acts ; we must endeavor To be more circumspect — we mortals here. Yet I shall try, when next I catch her dozing Here on the porch, some quiet afternoon, To win a pair of gloves; that is supposing I get the chance, which I may — I trust — soon. CHRISTMAS TIME. 141 Should I one of these days espy Under the mistletoe Some merry maid, ah ! then would I A kiss deem apropos. Now of the season's merriest girls North, South, or East or West, A certain one with long, dark curls, Perhaps I like the best. O ! she's the girl whose lips are so Ripe for love's honeyed sips. Can I not 'neath the mistletoe Have access to those lips? FAINT HEART. If it should happen that I find her under A sprig of mistletoe on Christmas Day, I'll do that which need cause no special wonder ; That is, I'll — no, I hardly like to say. Should I discover, though, that combination — The girl and mistletoe — I am afraid I'd lack the courage in the situation To duly and to Yule-ly greet the maid. 142 THE ENIGMA OF LIFE. Strange (is it not?) our brief existence here. Unsolved as yet is life's deep mystery. Soon we'll be summoned hence. Yet should we fear A visitation we all know must be? No one can death's impending stroke evade : Nearer to all the Reaper draws each day : And some of us may in a grave be laid Perchance ere many hours pass away. Ought we not then, while life is ours, be Regardful of those duties that are so Clear and so urgent? O, if heeded, we Hereafter may that life in heaven know. AMID THE GLOOM. If sometimes 'mid the gloom appears A fair face, whose rare charm I've not forgotten through the years, Ah, is there aught of harm Re-living for a while in thought Those dear, dead days when she — My friend — was kind, when her smiles brought Such happiness to me? Those gracious days ! Ah me, it were Unwise now to give way To grief : yet, should I dream of her, Chide not my weakness, pray. VAIN REGRETS. 143 " O, stars that o'er me shine, 1 pine, I pine, I piue. With hopeless fancies hidden in an ever-hungering breast ! " — Owen Meredith. Ruth is eighteen and I Am forty-five: a sigh Escapes me as I sadly meditate On this disparity In ages, for I see Therein the very irony of fate. If I were younger, or If Ruth, whom I adore, Were only some years older I'd forsake At once my bachelorhood — That is if fair Ruth would But smile on the proposal I would make. I've met my love too late, And O, my grief is great. But were I twenty-one would Ruth's dear eyes Beam with love's light on me? No, no, it might not be. Regrets, vain though they are, will yet arise. WHEN TIME IS DEAD. When ages shall have fled, When Time — old Time — is dead. And earth on which he stalked has passed away, Then, dear one, on some far Off happy, glimmering star We two shall live forever — and a day. 144 MEDITATIONS OF A BOOKKEEPER. The day is done, I close my books ; stern duty Calls for no work upon their leaves to-night. I'm free to think awhile of one whose beauty And youthful charms were once my soul's delight. Night is the proper time for meditation ; Sweet thoughts now come to me, grim business yields To sentiment, and in imagination I join Alicia on Elysian fields. Alicia! Ah, in my heart's recesses Still glows the love thy smiles enkindled there In the old days ; that spark divine still blesses My life, and makes the world for me still fair. Down an enchanted lane in simuner weather We stroll again ; we cull again the fair Hedge flowerets, and while we sit together I twine again the wild blooms in thy hair. Thy face, Alicia, with glad smiles is lighted ; I take thy hand in mine ; 'tis not withdrawal ; I tell my story, and our troth is plighted There in that lane upon a summer morn. O foolish dreams ! Vain musings ! Unbefitting One in my place. Why in the dull brain of An obscure bookkeeper should there come flitting Thoughts that have aught to do with youth and love? Soon shall my day — my life's day — have an ending ; Soon I shall close my books, ne'er to resume The world's work on their leaves ; soon I'll be spending A long vacation in the peaceful tomb. HER SONG. 145 She sings an olden song, and lo ! it bringeth More comfort to my heart than e'er before. I gain, the while this happy maiden singeth, An ampler knowledge of love's wondrous lore. She sings an olden song. The birds that play in The leafy woods are no more tuneful. I Know well she sings as sweetly as do they in Their gladsome haunts beneath a summer sky. She sings an olden song, and I acquire A larger faith in Hope's fair words. Ah, yes! My life, as Hope now hints, may be raised higher To an estate whose wealth is — Happiness. AMID THE CROWD. Amid the crowd that sauntered by Was a fair girl whose features wore A lovelier smile than ever I Had seen upon a face before. 'Twas but a passing glimpse I had Of her, yet in my memory She lives ; her smile through all the sad Years I have known has oft cheered me. 146 ALICE. I sing of Alice. Ah! a poet never Sang of a girl so radiant and so fair, So dainty, sweet and pretty, and so clever, So bright, vivacious, and so debonair. A girl who loves this life, yet loves it rightly: She knows that somewhere there's a world more dear : And so earth's trials do but touch her lightly, For Faith walks with her in the life lived here. A gentle girl — not weak, for she is daring As are all heroines, and this fair sprite Is firm as adamant in all things bearing On principles of justice, truth and right. O optimistic, love-compelling Alice ! Of one thing 1 am positively sure, And that is she will never harbor malice If it should happen that my rhymes are poor. Yet one, I take it, cannot fail completely. Inspired by this maid, and if my song Be not all that it should, I know she'll sweetly O'erlook its faults nor think I have done wrong. O ! 'tis not wrong to dream — to build a palace In one's imagination, placing there, In full and free possession, charming Alice, Sweet tenant of that castle in the air. WHEN ALICE SINGS. 147 When Alice sings a glimpse of far-off places, Familiar once and dear in memory, I seem to catch : Ah yes ! and kindly faces From out the past appear again to me. Yes, when she sings life well is worth the living, For then to me its highest joys are brought : The sweets of love, the pleasure of forgiving Are chief among the things that I am taught. My soul expands, ambition's fire is lighted Once more within my breast. Hope hints of fame, And of a love which is to be requited. Of wealth, of power, station and a name. And thus into my life there comes a blessing ; For when fair Alice sings, Hope turns to me. And in a manner tender and caressing Speaks glowingly of days that are to be. If I rely on Hope's fair words and linger In a fool's heaven, held there by a song, My senses stirred, my heart thrilled by the singer, Should I be blamed? Ah, wherefore is the wrong? My paradise may be somewhat unstable — A thing of fancy soon to fade away ; Yet its delights seem real, and I am able • To fully know the meaning they convey. 148 ENFORCED SILENCE. Poets oft sing in soft And impassioned strains of Woman, whose charms diffuse Among men faith and love. O ! I know one, and so Rare her charms are, ah yes ! Could they be told by me Then the world I would bless : Yea, I'd thrill it, and fill It with songs grander than Any yet that have swept O'er the heartchords of man : And into the deep blue Of earth's dome wondrous strains Would ascend till they blend With angelic refrains. But not mine that divine Gift possessed by the true Bard, whose art wins the heart Of the maid he doth woo. Unexpressed, though, Love's blest Song may gladden the mind : So alone in mine own Breast, unheard by mankind, Songs of her shall confer Richest blessings, and tend To uplift shades that drift O'er the life's way I wend. LOQUACITY. 149 When one has no great thoughts to utter, Loquacity is very wrong ; But bards who write for bread and butter Cannot afford to keep still long. 'Tis not, though, by versification That I my sustenance obtain; I'd die of lingering starvation If I essayed to write for gain. I do but dabble, only dabble In verse. L oft flee from the rude World's maddening and vulgar rabble To court the Muse in solitude. I manage to exist by " clerking " ; This sedentary calling looks Real easy ; still it's no snap working In a close office over books. However, a precarious living I gain therefrom ; my verse ne'er brought Me a — but I should not be giving These rhymes through which runs no great thought. Who wants to know of things concerning My puny cares? The world's great cry Is for uplifting, grand and burning Thoughts ; and such thoughts I can't supply ! But if I now am more loquacious Than my thoughts warrant, pray o'erlook My fault ; be patient, kind and gracious ; Do not in anger close this book. Deal not, O reader, too severely With one who, very timidly, (For love, not gain nor fame) strays merely In the safe shallows of rhyme's sea. 150 LOUISE. I am, Louise, No poet. Please Remember that : and yet I can't refuse To call the Muse When thou the task dost set. I All men, dear Lou, The wide world through Are swayed by love's strange power. O ! my fond soul It will control Until life's latest hour. When Beauty pleads Her slave must needs Do all — dare all to please : And though I fail Perhaps to scale Parnassian heights, Louise, 'Twill ever be A joy to me, The while I journey o'er Life's course, to gaze Back on the days — The dear, dear days of yore. Yet I shall try. E'en though I die In the attempt. 'Twill be So sweet a thing, So comforting, To know I die — for thee. Soon — soon, O friend, This life will end : The grave, from which we shrink. Beyond doth yawn, And all are borne Each day more near its brink. But whyfore need I not succeed? My theme ought to inspire The coldest heart To feel a part Of Love's consuming fire. What if I know But grief and woe On my road to the tomb, The happy past At times may cast A light to clear the gloom ; Yes, even those Who stick to prose. Who never penned a rhyme, Might yet with ease Sing of Louise : The theme is so sublime. As in this bright Refulgent light I walk, life will to me Not seem all vain No, I shall gain Such joy in memory. WHEN WE MEET. 151 In a far-away clime beneath bright Sunny skies, dear, our two spirits might Come together somehow ; Then shall I breathe love's vow, While our lips in love's first kiss unite. Without love life were incomplete. O friend, now unknown, how sweet And precious and dear Shall this life be here That day — that blest day when we meet. SWEET SUE. Before I saw sweet Sue I never, never knew What 'twas to love ; I, now turned forty, thought Myself immune, as 'twere: But O ! when I saw her — Saw Sue — I knew at once that I was caught. Caught in love's airy net. So deftly cast, I yet Do not complain; nay, I rejoice. Sue's smile Has made the world somehow So wondrous fair. Ah, now My life's day dawns and I must sing the while. 152 A MODERN JULIET. She's gloriously beautiful — one who " Doth teach the torches to burn bright." Ah, were The bard, whose verse I cite, alive and knew This peerless girl, what lines he would send her ! Sonnets galore would Avon's poet write To her — my love. Again I quote Shakespeare: " Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear." O, Juliet, my Juliet : more dear To me than was Verona's maiden to Young Montague. Could I write as Shakespeare I'd charm the world by singing, love, of you. But no, ah ! no, sweet Juliet : you are More than the world to me : 'tis you alone Whom I would charm. Now unto Stratford's star I hitch my lumbering cart to reach Love's throne. THEY WHO LOVE. Doubtless a comely woman knows A joy in capturing men's hearts By the employment of her arts, Yet, if on no one she bestows A tribute of affection, she Is ignorant of love's best part ; She knows not what love means, her heart Is closed to life's sweet ecstasy. ODE TO A BEE. 153 Why say of those whose love has failed Of a requital, that they do But love in vain? Ah, they are who Have love's sublimest summits scaled. They stand on love's sun-blazoned heights, A vantage gained by sacrifice. Who without suff'ring can be wise, Or know of life's supreme delights? ODE TO A BEE. Fain am I, little worker in A flowery world, to glean Life's sweets : I strive, like you, to win The favor of my queen. A daring honey-seeker 'round Her lips would hover long. Nor deem, where such rare sweets abound, That stealing were a wrong. But those exhaustless sweets are for No roving humble bee. And I have doubts if their rich store Is meant for humble me. However, I shall not despair. Nay, blithe and valiant bee, A-humming in the perfumed air. Your song inspires me. 154 RUMORS. In the village it is bruited — The report is not refuted — That Miss Sally's lips are suited For — ^but no, I won't tell this ; Still it's true ; I can't help knowing. Have I not with Sal been going? O ! the rapture of bestowing, On such ruby lips a kiss ! No, I do not say I did so. Yet that night when Luna hid so Thoughtfully her face aniid so Beautiful a sylvan scene — A broad pasture, on whose clover Stood a maiden and her lover, The kind moon, that then passed over. Saw — well, no harm done, I ween. There's another rumor spreading, 'Tis about a coming wedding. One that I need not be dreading, For Miss Sally I shall see At the church, participating In the blest connubial mating ; Sal is — I'll not keep her waiting — Going, yes, to marry me ! That dear night on the moon-lighted Clover field our troth was plighted. When one's love is found requited Life on earth becomes divine. Now I'm all the while a-singing; Time his flight is swiftly winging ; Soon the joy bells will be ringing; Soon sweet Sally will be mine ! NOT ALONE. 155 A woman's love I never knew : That blessing from me is withheld : Alone, alone I am compelled This world of ours to pass through. Alone! No, not alone, for I Sometimes am conscious she is near : I feel her presence. O ! how dear Those moments are when she is by. No, not alone, the woman of My dreams is fair, and I shall in Another world find her and win, And hold forevermore her love. O ! I am happy knowing this — That sometime my soul will be stirred When our lips meet in love's deferred First, fondest and divinest kiss. The loves of this world — are they sure? They may, I question not, be sweet. But love won in a life so fleet. Can it, like mine beyond, endure? 156 A VIOLET. I mind me, not without regrets, Of one who loved spring's violets — Her favorite flower ; she to-day Is far away — yes, far away. I have a flower, one once worn By her whose absence I now mourn: 'Twas worn 'mong her stray curls awhile Ere given to me with a smile. Though perfumeless and faded, yet I hoard with care the violet : The violet that she once wore — She whom I'll see, ah ! nevermore ; The gentle girl who, one June day. Passed from this life away — away. Each spring the flowers, those that gave Her pleasure here, bloom on her grave. If tremulous sometimes should grow My speech, and moisture my eyes show, Would it denote a weakness? Should Grief be unworthy of manhood? UNFORGOTTEN. 157 Do you ever think Of that time when we Watched the great sun sink Down into the sea? that exquisite Summer afternoon ! From your mind has it Passed away so soon ? We talked about love In a careless way At the closing of That fair August day. By the sea we sat, In the bright sunset. Our little chat You perhaps forget. 1 have not somehow Quite forgotten all We then said ; I now That day's joys recall. Your loose auburn hair, Flecked with sunset's gold, And your smiles so rare I again behold. With you I again, By the ocean's side, Stroll as we did then In the eventide. Bluer than those skies. Deeper than that sea, Were your eyes — your eyes Beaming then on me ! I forget? Not through All eternity ; No, albeit you Have forgotten me. 158 RHYME'S RECOMPENSE. Yes, I have met her; that is, long ago We — well, we knew each other (ah! those old Days she has quite forgotten, tell me, though, Who — who has won the heart I found so cold? Her heart, you say, is stolen and by one Who cares not for the spoil. Strange! Is this true? Pray by what necromancy was it done? Who hath thus robbed her? Tell me, tell me who. I? No, ah no. By what means could I wrest From her that treasure? Not by pen nor sword: In both crafts I'm unskilled. Nay, friend, you jest. No rhyme e'er gained one so great a reward. I cannot lay unto my soul, it seems, The flattering unction that my muse has brought To me the object of my youth's bright dreams. The woman whom in vanished days I sought. Surely, my friend, you do exaggerate. That verse of mine she chanced to read, although Vibrating with a passion strong and great. Were not sufficient to win her. Ah, no ! A bit of rhyme per se can never win A woman, but the intuition of A kindred soul may yet discover in One's lines the spirit of undying love. In this respect the vagrant rhyme I sent Forth on its little trip some time ago May have aroused a kindly sentiment Within her breast — for me. Would it were so ! This well might be : for she has found perchance Between those lines the secret I ne'er told — The sad, sad sweetness of an old romance Methought long buried in oblivion's mould. FAREWELL. 159 A lustrous star, whose light On my life fell, Now vanishes from sight. Sweet star, farewell. The smiles I basked in for A brief, brief spell Shall haunt me evermore. Bright star, farewell. This erstwhile happy earth On which I dwell Now is of little worth. Dear star, farewell. Farewell, farewell : I must Not — dare not tell All I now feel. I just Shall sav — Farewell. PROXIMITY. Now sings that heart in me, For you, love, are so near ; Your blest proximity Inspires song, my dear. Proximity! I fear You think the word is wrong. True, you are far from me. And yet I sing a song ! O, love, our buoyant souls Float lightly o'er the great Sea that between us rolls, And we communicate. 160 BEAUTY. Fondly our spirits meet Above the foamy mist. How sweet, love, O ! how sweet It is thus to keep tryst. Awake, aye, or asleep. Thought, dreams and memory Transport across the deep Your happy self to me. BEAUTY. Beauty has been compared by those Who rhyme and who philosophize To a frail flower — to a rose That soonest fades and soonest dies. The flowers perish ; yes, but they Blossom again. O ! can true worth And love and beauty pass away — Away forever from the earth? I hold that beauty never dies. Still I am no philosopher ; But in a book a pressed rose lies — A rose I once received from her. Though years have passed, that flower gives Forth a faint perfume in the room. Her life — the beauty of it lives, Though o'er her grave fair roses bloom. WOMAN'S CONSTANCY. 161 Nothing have I to do With love, as I can see. No woman's likely to Adore and worship me. Yet men are wedded who Apparently are no More worthy — no more true Than I. Is this not so? We frequently hear of Drunken brute beasts who beat The wives they swore to love Before God's altar seat. Yet the love of these wives For their lords knows no change : Through all their wretched lives Their hearts are true. How strange ! O the devotion of A woman! No one can Fathom that wondrous love She showers on a man. Such love — Ah ! he who wins It while through life he goes Should, whate'er be his sins, Prize it until life's close. Were such a love to bless My life I feel that I Would cherish it, ah yes! Until the day I die. But I have nought to do With love, as I can see. No woman's likely to Adore and worship me. 162 FILIAL LOVE. No mortal ever walked the surface of God's earth who did not hold his mother dear. But why boast of so tender, pure a love? Whyfore exploit it on the highways here? A shallow love oft makes the welkin ring With noisy vows ; a deep and true love drops Unnecessary tooting ; 'tis a thing Too sacred to be thundered from house tops. On " Mothers' Day," so-called, some men will wear Emblems while strolling on the public street ; But a true lover of a mother ne'er Will thus proclaim a love so dear and sweet. Written May 8, 1910. SHOW. One's affection for another — For, especially, a mother — Should not be advertised, I think, upon the avenue. Ostentatiously displaying Loves and gfriefs (mark what I'm saying) Is that which but the vulgar and most blatant of us do. Why should I, though, be decrying " Showiness " ? There's no denying, We Americans are given to vainglorious display. There's no love too sacred for us To exploit: last Sunday saw us Smirkingly disclosing this trait on the street — 'twas " Mothers' Day ". ' LONGINGS. 163 (A slight tribute of respect to the memory of Thomas Moore.) I Stand on South Street Bridge ; I gaze into The murky Schuylkill with its sluggish flow. In the romantic days of long ago Old Erin's most melodious poet knew And loved this river, then so clear and blue, So sparkling in the glorious sunlight, so Silvery bright when the full moon would throw Her beams upon the playful ripples. True, Above these grimy wharves where barges lay. Freighted with coal, bricks, lumber, sand and stone, The stream glides 'tween green banks, yet I bemoan These restless days. I long to break away From Traffic's sordid reign. Where Peace holds sway There I would love to dwell, to dwell — alone. THE SEA. I've always wanted to sing of the sea, To pay, in my small way, a tribute to Its splendor, charm and power. And yet who Am I who dare to clothe in poesy The thoughts, regrets and hopes that come to me Now as I gaze out on the vast and blue Expanse of waters! Few there are, but few That may in thee confide. Ah ! I must be Silent, O ! ocean, as I thus stand here In thy o'erpowering presence. I find, though, A joy in this mute homage: yes ; I know An ecstasy as deep, a bliss as dear, As Byron found singing of thee on clear Moon-lighted nights in Venice, long ago. 164 SHAKESPEARE. Once angels mingled with mankind, 'tis said. The legend may be based on facts, although The songs those angels sang when here below Were not recorded ; nor doth hist'ry shed Light on such things ; yet Love's song is not dead. There lived on earth three hundred years ago A heavenly singer, not an angel ; no, Merely a player ; one who earned his bread By acting on a rude-made stage before Motley and boisterous crowds. O peerless one ! No angel ever sang as you have done. "Your words, so happily recorded, draw The world's heart nearer God's. Ah ! who has more Uplifted us than this earth's gifted son? UNKNOWN AS YET. I love her with my soul's best love, and she Loves me as surely ; in our hearts there burns Love's steadfast flame ; her woman's nature yearns To mingle with mine own eternally. O ! I shall seek her when my soul is free Of earth's imprisoning clay. When dust returns To dust what truths the quickened spirit learns ! In this brief life on earth I may not be Successful in my search for her ; but O ! In that far brighter life hereafter I Shall by Love's guiding signal in the sky Sometime learn where she is. Love, I long so To meet you in yon heaven. We shall know Each other when we meet there by and by. WON. 165 Just now my mind — as often seems the case — Is barren of all thoughts and all ideas. At this most untoward moment Grace appears; She holds aloft a rose ; smiles light her face. " This flower for a sonnet, sir." I pace Distractedly the room. Alas ! Fate jeers At me while with alternate hopes and fears I grope for rhymes — elusive rhymes. Ah! Grace, I sigh despairingly, I, goodness knows, Would wade through gore if thereby that divine Favor could be obtained. I must decline The prize. A sonnet I cannot compose, Not now — but hold ! Give me, give me the rose : The sonnet's written, and the flower's mine ! A SONNET. To write a sonnet seems an easy thing ; But fourteen lines required — that is all. A little matter like this should appall None who in stately verse would wish to sing Of hoary, rugged winter, gentle spring, Of glowing summer or of fruitful fall. The trouble is indeed in such a small Space to describe the seasons. Who can bring The heart's expression in the confines of A sonnet's bounds when love's the theme ! My soul Longs so for her. I would on Heaven's scroll Write her dear name, so that the saints above And men below might know whom I do love. And envy me while earth whirls towards her goal. 166 WINTER. Love everywhere : love in her sparkling eyes And on her lips — her red lips whene'er she Laughs, smiles, or sings, or speaks. Love on the sea. On far-off isles, and in the morning skies. Love also in the chilly air that sighs. Through the dead branches of each leafless tree. Yes, love's an ever present joy to me Because of her ; it can't be otherwise. I know she lives ; I know that I again Shall see her. I can not be sad. I know Nature but sleeps now 'neath her quilt of snow. Winter is waning ; Spring is near. Ah ! when The early wild blooms burst forth in the glen I may see her whom my heart longs for so. LOVE'S DAY. T would that I could worthily reveal My love. I would that in a poem I Could but present the inner part of my Heart to her kindly gaze, so she might feel How great my love is, and how true and real. But some day — some dear day before I die, Some day it may be 'neath a summer sky. When flowers are in bloom, and when the peal Of happy bells are heard throughout the land, She'll realize as ne'er before the might Of love — of faithful, patient love. A light Will flash into her life: she'll understand; And in the dawning of a mom more grand We two shall meet : our spirits will unite. IN JERSEY. 167 " Midnight, and love, and youth, and Italy ! Love in the land where love most lovely seems ! " — Owen Meredith. In Jersey, not, alas ! in Italy, My youth was spent ; hence it were foolish to Muse thus o'er Meredith's sweet summary Of life's best joys. Ah ! I have known so few. Besides, I " lag superfluous ", as 'twere. Upon life's stage. Youth comes not back again With its first love. I often think of her Whom I met — not in Italy, but " Spain ". When my heart and my arms were young and strong. And my mind clear, and my eyes keen, and when Life was most fair, I met my love among The sand hills back of dear old Wee-haw-ken. Ah ! Owen, love is sweet and love is true In every clime. Should love less lovely be In Wee-haw-ken than it is 'neath the blue And starry skies of far off Italy? Over in Jersey I once whiled away Some pleasant hours withal; may I not, then, Now, as the shadows close around me, say — "Midnight, and love, and youth," and Wee-haw-ken ! A LIFE'S HISTORY. I had a friend, 'twas long ago ; We parted, each went different ways. We were but friends — just friends, you know But yet I miss her — and those days ! 168 WHY NEED ONE CARE? Tell me, Pegasus, have I won My spurs? Have I, that is to say, In writing verses ever done Aught to have gained the Poet's Bay? Possibly not. I am aware I'll never win a poet's crown ; And yet, and yet, I do not care ; I'm not depressed ; I'm not cast down. A glorious song now thrills my heart : The song is mine — not mine to share With men ; I lack the singer's art ; But then, but then, need I despair? Beyond the veil that now is flung 'Tween these and brighter days elsewhere, Songs long unuttered may be sung. If silent now, why need one care? MY POEMS. My poems don't deserve to be Collected in a book : a friend Might read a few, but who is he Who will read all the rhymes I've penned? And yet the act of having dipped In verse was not unwarranted. True, some of my rhymes may be skipped; Yet others may, perhaps, be read. Perhaps, ah yes ! perhaps some may Give pleasure; a line which offends Need not be read ; I want all they Who get my book to be my friends. FRANKNESS. 169 I once said that I did not care At all for glory, pomp and show. I said this with a careless air ; Said air was an assumed one though. The fact is (for why not be frank?) I yearn to be a potentate. I'm fond of pomp; I'd love to rank Among the eminent and great. But I do not suppose I will E'er occupy, like Mercury, ^' Upon a heaven-kissing hill," A station. No, that's not for me. BY THE LAKE. Into the lake I threw The hook I fixed for Sue, But to her bait the fish .seemed not to take ; I, easier caught than they, Soon fell a willing prey To Susan's charms that morning by the lake. And, afterwards, when I Helped Susan scale those high And jagged rocks, methought if I should break My leg the pain would be Far less severe to me Than that caused by my heart's wound by the lake. Then O ! the task of love — The slow, slow winding of Sue's fishing tackle on the wooden stake Preparatory to Bidding that girl adieu Upon the grassy slope there by the lake. 170 BY THE LAKE. I plucked, ere leaving Sue, A modest flower that grew Wild on the sunny hill. Did my heart quake With awe (perhaps it did) Whilst I the flower amid Her ringlets placed, that morning by the lake? The lilies sweet and pure I did not touch: I'm sure To have " swiped " the^n would have been a mistake. I really draw the line At a ten-dollar fine. O, I %vas good that morning by the lake. Yes, I transgressed no laws That happy morn, because I was, as I have said, too good to take A lily; though I would Have stolen, if I could, A thing more sweet from Sue's lips by the lake. Not ignorant am I Now of love's power. Why She, winsome little Sue, has but to shake Her curl-crowned head at me That I prepared might be To die for her, if need were, by the lake. I trust, however, Sue Will bid me live. I do Not care to die — just yet. For her sweet sake I'd rather live. Ah yes ! Life has been, I confess, So dear to me since that day by the lake. j. LITTLE SUE. 171 Till yesterday I verily Knew naught of love, but who So densely ignorant can be On seeing little Sue? O ! fateful yesterday, when I In one brief instant grew So learned in love — a love taught by The smile of little Sue. Out in the morn of yesterday, Beneath its skies so blue, Heart-M'hole and free I went my way. Not knowing little Sue. No special danger did I fear When I at noon-time drew Anear the lake, so calm and clear, Where I met little Sue: But O ! my heart was stolen there. And now what shall I do? Well, I'll forgive and kiss the fair Young robber — little Sue. Forgiveness is divine, 'tis said : And I'm sure I'll not rue The act when sealed thus on the red, Red lips of little Sue. 172 AUTUMN. Fair summer's reign is o'er, The lilies bloom no more: In the chill air to-day I saw a flake Of snow. The winter drear Is drawing now anear; I may no more see Susan by the lake. But dear — most dear to me Is now the memory Of one rare August mom. Time ne'er can take From out my heart the fair Sweet image, graven there, Of her I learned to love so by the lake. SUMMER DAYS. No crowd but goodly company Were Grace and Sue and I Those idle days, so sweet and free, Of a summer gone by. A summer gone, with Grace and Sue, From my dull life. Ah me ! The sweet, free, idle days I knew Are now a memory. THAT MORNING. 173 Say, do you ever think of that Fair morn when by the lake we sat, We two, and fished ? We caught No fish, but O ! I never knew Before that fishing, dearest Sue, Was such delightful sport. In the fresh flower-perfumed air The happy summer birds sang their Choice songs, as though they wished To voice the joy all felt : most great Was mine found in that tete-a-tete With you what time we fished. Your hat was cast aside, and through Your free dark hair the soft breeze blew, Your curls it rumpled so. How perfect was that morning ! We Sat underneath an old elm tree And — well, we fished you know. Unnoticed on the ripples danced My pretty float. Your smiles entranced Me quite. In the depths of Your clear brown eyes, more than in the Clear lakelet's depths, I gazed. Ah me, How strange a thing is love! Aye ! strange, and dangerous, and sweet. I recked not, sitting at your feet That peaceful morn, of what Might be. Now I, afar from you, Am suffering from the wound, dear Sue, My heart that morning got. 174 SUSANNA. The charmingest of girls, She of the raven curls, Has robbed me of my peace ; I cannot do My work, nor sleep, nor eat. And yet life seems so sweet — So strangely sweet these days because of Sue. She is from top to toe (If I may put it so) Of such surpassing loveliness that few On seeing her could be Unmoved ; so don't blame me For loving — aye, adoring little Sue. Oh, her bright eyes ! Perchance It was their roguish glance That first so startled my rapt soul ; and now Deep in her wavy hair, Like that bow she wears there, I find my heart is tangled fast somehow. The strictest anchorite Would worship her on sight. Her joyous laugh, her songs, her gentle voice, Her comeliness, her grace. Her smiles, her radiant face. Would teach all men to love and to rejoice. It is not strange therefore, While o'er my books I pore, That towards this girl my thoughts should sometimes stray. How blest my life would be If Fate were kind to me, And grant me my heart's dearest wish some day ! SUSANNA. 175 Now in my quiet room, Amid the evening gloom, I sit alone, thinking of peerless Sue. I would that she were here So I could hold her dear Small hand, and press thereon a kiss or two. Yes, two or three — or more: Well, let me say a score. And on her glowing mouth, too, I would fain Bestow just one light kiss — But no, ah no, such bliss I upon earth, alas ! can never gain. Joys I must now forego I may hereafter know. Yes, in the sky when we as angels greet Each other, she may be Kindlier then to me, And 'mong the silent stars our lips will meet. And ! with what delight We two will wing our flight Through stellar space : and as I gaze into Sue's love-responding eyes I'll find in paradise A joy methinks that will be known to few. But no: not here nor in That world beyond I'll win The favor either of the girl or of The beauteous saint. It were Idle to dream of her. And of the stars, of kisses there — and love. 176 A FALL. Some day — ah yes, some day I fear Susanna may Pass from my life : the partmg of the ways Will come. 'Tis Fate's decree. But oft in dreams I'll see The joyous spirit of these fleeting days. A FALL. To my late fall let me revert ; The injury I then sustained Seems serious ; my heart was hurt, Its mitral valve may have been strained. I shall endeavor to relate How 'twas I fell, but yet I fear That in my now delirious state I may not make myself quite clear. I — O ! but it is hard to tell About a fall the results of Which may prove fatal : I — er — fell Into — ^yes, I fell into love. TO NELLIE. 177 On receiving from her the gift of a tea -cup. I have a treasure — one most rich : It is the little cup from which Sweet Nellie used to drink. I press my lips against its rim, And somehow now my eyes grow dim The while of her I think. For she, the friend we all held dear, Is far away: her season here So quickly passed, and I Now miss the working-days that were Made joyous by those smiles from her. For those lost days I sigh. Ah ! if in earlier years I had Met one so sweet — ^but no, these sad Regrets should not spring up. Life has of late seemed fair. Ah, yes ! I know its worth the while I press My lips to Nellie's cup. FRIENDS. Earth's beauty and its loveliness Are due to love ; on love depends Man's joy; blest are they who possess The pleasing art of making friends. I miss one loving friend I had Once when I trod those happier ways. I'm lonely now — lonely and sad, As I recall life's yesterdays. 178 SHE SANG. She sang: I was not there to hear; But she sang well, so I am told : She filled the seed house full of cheer, And — I was left out in the cold ! Alone, that eve, 1 left the store ; I supped at Doolittle's cafe, While Alice, in her repertoire Of songs, o'er happier hearts held sway. I thought of her while I did eat; At times I sighed, I scarce knew why. An egg, two rolls, some soused pigs' feet I had, also a piece of pie. When I my meal had finished I Strolled down the quiet street : I knew Not of the feast of song near by, More rare than that I got from " Doo ". She sang. O ! wondrous is the art Of a true singer, whose songs may Cause the dead chords of one's sad heart To thrill as on a by-gone day. She sang. The charm and magic of Her fresh young voice made all cares flee, And in their stead joy, peace and love Reigned for the time triumphantly. There is not too much joy in this Work-a-day world, hence 'mong life's things That one cannot afford to miss Are those songs that fair Alice sings. SHE SANG. 179 I wandered towards the Delaware : I gazed across at Jersey's shore, And when the shadows deepened there, Methought 'twas time to seek the store. I hurried back : upon the stairs I learned that our songbird had Regaled her friends with various airs. O ! then it was that I felt sad. Yes, then I knew grief's bitterest pang: I stagger now beneath the shock: For Alice — our Alice — sang- While I was lounging on the dock. Ah me ! perhaps the sweetest song That e'er was sung I failed to hear. I cannot, though it may be wrong, Help shedding now a silent tear. Would she have sung had I been there — This blithe and tuneful Loganite. I know not : still I shan't despair : I'll stay in-doors another night. And yet the years, as they pass by. May ne'er another song-night bring. 'Tis sad indeed to think that I May never hear sweet Alice sing : Sweet Alice of these later days, (As sweet as Ben Bolt's friend of yore), Whose smiles and songs and pleasant ways Have won all hearts here in the store. 180 NO LONGER YOUNG. I have been told That I am old, Which is quite true, yet I make bold To say, in brief, I find life dear. This is not queer, For I am not yet in the sere And yellow leaf. A young girl's smile Can yet beguile My fancy for a little while Here among seeds: For heart and mind, I haply find. Are still susceptible to kind And gracious deeds. I try to act With proper tact Despite my age — this is a fact. And 'tis no crime ■ For me to feel An interest real In some one's welfare, and reveal The same in rhyme. And so I send These lines I've penned To my — yes, let me call her friend ; For she, look you, Has friendly been To all within The store, and why may I not win Her friendship too? LOVE A BAR TO SUCCESS. 181 I'm told that I should put my whole Heart, and my soul as well, into My work ; but ah ! both heart and soul Belong, I might say. Mama, to you. To be successful they say I Must throw all of myself into Trade's greedy maw ; but O ! Mame, my Heart — if not soul — belongs to you. So if I'm not successful, Mame, In my attempt to get into The firm, who is the one to blame ? My heart, please note, belongs to you. THE STIMULUS OF LOVE. If thus far I've not managed to Win much success in life's stern game. My failure really is not due To my affection for fair Mame. Love is no drag; it urges me On in the race. Ah ! my heart needs Love's stimulant. I yet shall be A partner in this House of Seeds. O ! I'll make good. Just watch me climb Up Fortune's ladder. Wealth and fame Are bound to come my way — in time. I cannot fail, for I love Mame ! PAST DREAMS RECALLED. This is a very recent production, having been written nearly two decades after the two preceding poems, of which it is a sequel. There could be no fulfillment of Such glorious dreams. Why, then, repine? I dreamt of wealth, fame, power, love. How foolish were those dreams of mine ! I am not yet a member of The firm. I have no wealth ; my name Appears not in Fame's Hall. E'en love Has passed me by — I've not won " Mame " ! 182 THE BELLE OF THE SEASON. 'Tis six o'clock and the day's work is ended : I hie me home : I dine : now heaven's bright Stars shine : night on the city hath descended. To Alice — yes, to Alice I shall write. She once said she liked poetry, consequently I may be pardoned if for this dear maid I try to rhyme. Come, Muse, deal with me gently: It is for Alice I now seek thy aid. I must confess, though, that I'm not a poet. I may, as might be thought, possess the art Of stringing rhymes : yet any one can go it Like this for her whose charms win every heart. Our Alice is, although she may not know it, A poetess herself : one clearly sees That this is so : her thoughtful face doth show it. Ah, she need write no careless rhymes like these. Her's is a larger art — the art of making Less gifted ones, on whose heartstrings she plays. Perform the poet's task: an undertaking That now an humble bookkeeper essays. And yet it is as easy as is rolling Off of a highly-polished log to write In verse when she's the theme ; there's no controlling My Pegasus then in his maddening flight. But I must curb my ardor. O ! I dare not Tell her my heart's fond secret or reveal My deepest thoughts ; this fair young girl would care not To have me tell all — all that I now feel. THE BELLE OF THE SEASON. 183 O what a girl she is ! A stoic's heart could Not withstand her charms; nor can time heal A wound as deep as that which Cupid's dart would Cause the veriest anchorite to feel. Small wonder then that we who so well know her Should have this season here learned something of That master passion ; yet we dare not show her The depth of our overpowering love. Our adoration, although based on reason, (For who can help adoring one so dear?) Must not be told. The Belle of this fair season Moves in a grander world than our small sphere Yet while she's here — while, in a sense, she's ours We should be happy. Happy? Yes, for we Need never let the sunshine of these hours Be darkened by that parting soon to be. Ah ! I for one in present joys shall revel : I'll live not in the future nor the past, But now, yes, now ; my head I claim is level. No coming grief this hour's joy can blast. Ah Alice ! blithesome as the birds that wing their Flight in balmy springtime. I know well She is as happy as are they who sing their Carols in fair nature's wooded dell. She is so frank a girl ; though realizing Her more than ordinary gifts, she's free From all conceit : hence it is not surprising That we esteem a girl as true as she. A girl of humor. Humor is the rarest Gift found 'mong women so 'tis said. Our queen Has, I know well, the saving grace. Earth's fairest Girl has a wit as kindly as 'tis keen. 184 THE BELLE OF THE SEASON. A girl whose heart, although it is so youthful, Has yet been tried and found as true as steel. In her (and O ! doubt not my being truthful) I have discovered my long sought ideal. A smart girl too, who won't be caught a-napping. Not she. O ! that siesta which one day She promised to — no, I may get a rapping Were I to give our " Sleeping ( ?) Beaute " away. But if that imsophisticated keeper Of books felt sore because of having been Jollied by our somnambulistic sleeper, Should he protest for being taken in ? No, no indeed ; nor is it my intention To speak of that which our girl perhaps Has now forgotten. Pray excuse its mention. Hereafter I shall not allude to " naps ". Yet if at any time I find her cradled In Morpheus' strong arms, I shall — mark this — Avenge myself. I trust I'll be enabled Soon to do so by means of — yes, a kiss. Those smiles of hers ! How well I know their power. (She smiles as does no other girl in town) She can, though, look most sternly ; one sad hour I languished in the shadow of her frown. Yes, this fair girl can frown ; but then not often Frowns rob her lips of their more kindly grace. I like her better when her features soften. Smiles so enhance the beauty of her face. I like her best of all when she is kindly. There is a sweetness even in her frown ; And I'm disposed to like this maiden blindly. But I don't like to be by her " turned down " : — THE BELLE OF THE SEASON. 185 That is, without a cause ; and those who treasure That girl's good will would not in devious ways Do aught to bring a shadow of displeasure On her face wreathed with sunny smiles these days. Now I would not resort to an evasion, My duty's clear; I shall be frank and say That if on the alluded-to occasion I drove the smiles from her dear face away: Causing where smiles had been a frown to settle, My act was harmless and was really done In jestful mood ; yet by this girl of mettle I was " turned down " for my untimely fun. The penalty for that past act of sinning, Although excessive, yet was fully paid. I trust that nevermore those smiles so winning By act of mine will from her countenance fade. O ! our Alice, in my estimation, Is the best girl upon this favored sphere ; There probably (I speak with moderation) Never existed any one as dear. A girl of principle and of ambition. Of high ideals ; few are possessed of those Rich gifts with which she is endowed. Her mission In life is to spread joy where'er she goes. She heeds the call of conscience ; yes, she hearkens To that low voice, and blithely on her way Through life she goes. No shadow ever darkens The sunshine of love's most benignant sway. Yes, all is well ; and I do hope 'twill be so Until the close of her life's little day — Until there comes that final simimons we so Long for at times, and she is called away. 186 THE BELLE OF THE SEASON. I've noted, not without profound emotion, The strength of that religious sentiment Which prompted her to spiritual devotion At noon-time on those solemn days of Lent. And so I say if saints live in these latter Days, I know one excelling in good deeds. I won't say who. Ah well, it doesn't matter : Best not to tell, though, in a " House of Seeds " Perfection's none too strong a word to utter When speaking of our peerless little queen. Ah me, how queerly now my heart doth flutter ! And O, my reeling brain ! What does it mean? Are those strange joys that have at times delighted My soul in rapturous dreams about to be All realized? Shall my love be requited? Is heaven to open now her gates for me ? No, no; not mine, not mine. Ah! never, never Shall peerless Alice shower on me her Wealth of affection. To live I'll endeavor Without the bliss that her love would confer. We can but worship, not possess the flower That blossoms in our midst a little while ; 'Twill ere long brighten other fields, and our Lives shall no more be gladdened by her smile. But O ! when in her presence others tremble, As oft I've done, with love's strange ecstasy : When other friends in happier days assemble Around her, will — will she think then of me? JOY. 187 Will she think then of the poor old bookkeeper Whose heart is crushed, and who, with blinding tears, Now writes these lines? Ah me! my soul shall seek her O'er lands and seas through all life's mystic years. The night is spent : a newer morn advances Upon the grim old town : I must to bed. Farewell to all these dreamy fond romances. Why should they fill an old bookkeeper's head? Yet if my body to a desk is fettered, My soul beyond the confines of a store Is free to fly ; if that soul thus is bettered, Pray let it in fair heaven's azure soar. But I must close. The thoughts that now are flitting Through my fagged brain can not be all expressed. Here at my desk I have too long been sitting. I'm weary, — weary. I should seek my rest. I must prepare for bed ; that countenance beaming With happy smiles in dreams will come to me. I'll leave off writing now and take to dreaming; Adieu, dear girl, — in dreams thy face I'll see. JOY. No sadness for me, my dear boy. By grieving we only destroy Life's chances for bliss. I'm hunting in this World for joy — not for gloom, but for joy. 188 ON LIFE'S HIGHWAY. " We pass and speak one another, Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence." — Longfellow, Might I not sometime meet on life's pathway A fellow traveller whom I shall find Extremely charming? Yes, perhaps I may. Should this fair traveller's smile, so true and kind. Illume my life and bring to it a bliss Exceeding all past joys, would it be wrong And an unpardonable act to kiss Lips for whose sweets my ardent soul might long ? Lips luscious as a pair I know would lure Even the sternest stoic. Ah! I'm sure No harm there is in kissing lips so pure. IF IN THE DAYS TO COME. May every blessing light, dear girl, on thee And mayest thou ne'er know a single care. Each friend of thine I trust may ever be Sincere as now : life then shall seem most fair. If in the happy days to come shouldst thou E'er think of those who have found thee so dear, \. thought O ! kindly give the one who now Loves thee as all do who have met thee here. Let me hope that thou wilt remember me : Encouraged by this hope, I know I'll be Not quite so sad when I am far from thee. MY IDEAL 189 My ideal I have found — yes, 'mid the whirl And flurry of a busy day I saw Earth's loveliest and best and dearest girl : She smiled upon me in a crowded store. I recognize in her the vision of Entrancing day-dreams I at times have had : And in my overburdened heart a love, Lost for a while, returns, and O ! how glad Life seems. Again youth's joys are mine as I, Enraptured, gaze on her who into my Now love-enlightened life steals silently. A DARK-HAIRED DIVINITY. My thoughts throughout the day and dreams at night Are of the dark-haired beauty in that store. Earth ne'er was trodden by a fairer sprite : She is the queen I worship and adore. I am no longer free : my heart is now Enmeshed, as 'twere, in her luxuriant hair. And O ! my very life is hers somehow : Love such as mine oft drives one to despair. Let me, however, try love's fire to quell Ere it consumes me quite. And so farewell Now to the girl whose name / dare not tell. 190 APRIL. March goeth out with lamblike calmness, while April — capricious April — graciously Enters upon the scene. A sunny smile She has for everyone : and O ! as we Inhale the scent of flowers borne from fair Elysian fields where happiness and love And peace abound, a joy most sweet and rare, Like unto that bliss found in heaven above, Lightens our hearts. April through all her tears Encheeringly will smile. Hope in our ears Now whisperingly hints of happy years. MAY DAY. May has arrived : come, let us seek our Queen And crown her with fair flowers : let us, too. Erect a May-pole on the Village Green. Should we not dance 'neath skies so clear and blue? I read a message in the flowers of Ethereal spring that glorifies my life. Again hope tells me I shall meet my love, Looked for so long through years of toil and strife. Let us with song greet jocund spring, and may Each one join in the dance. O ! 'tis a day Never to pass from memory away. BEREFT. 191 Methinks if I possessed — well, say about A million dollars (which amount would be Enough for all my needs) that I'd skip out Soon from the store : for O ! the place to me Is dismal now. Yes, since Danbury's Pride Evanished from our midst life once so fair And bright with hope has changed, and I have sighed Like one crushed by a grief too great to bear. Let me, then, have a million dollars. Gee! Each plunk I'd spend searching for her. Ah me! Now lost to sight but not to memory. BY THE BALUSTRADE. Search where I may I know my quest shall be Useless so far as finding any maid So sweet as is the little one I see At work each morning by the balustrade. No eyes there are so bright as hers : when I Peer in their depths I find love biding there. Had I my youth restored to me I'd try Right valiantly to win this maiden fair. Alas I my youth has passed : and yet whyf ore Need I repine? Life still on me confers Enough of joy. Am I not at the store Rewarded daily by those smiles of hers? 192 THE DESOLATED MANSE. " Music hath charms," so it is said. I know it well ; my soul recalls Strains which this now mute harp once shed So joyously through these cold halls. Long years have passed since her hands strayed O'er these chords now so sadly still. The dear old melodies she played ! They haunt me yet and ever will. I oft at midnight hour these Echoing corridors traverse ; Bats, swooping from the musty eaves. Round me their weirdsome flights rehearse. I think of those dead days that were So bright, so happy. I seem to Catch 'mid the gloom a glimpse of her — Of her I ever found most true : Earth's only woman I found true. L'ENVOI. The last line reminds one of Poe. Do you not think so, Miss Briscoe? Perhaps Poe's wraith at my elbow Stood when I wrote it, Miss Briscoe. It's easy — quite a cinch, you know — To write acrostics, Miss Briscoe. Easy, that is, when helped by so Po(e)tent a spirit. Miss Briscoe. Sometimes I wish, though, your cog-no- Men had less letters. Miss Briscoe. But tell me, is it comme il faut To write in this way. Miss Briscoe? Did you say " cut it out? " Yes? No? Be more perspicuous. Miss Briscoe. DAY DREAMS. 193 My rhyming verses never brought Imperishable fame to me; Still I regret not that I sought Sometimes the Muse of Poesy. Lured by Love's smiles, I tried to scale Olympic heights. O ! how I tried ! There was, Hope said, no word like fail ; Though now I think Hope must have lied. I still, however, onward press — Ever, yes, ever onward. I Believe that I shall win success, Riches, and love before I die. I still build airy castles whose Sky-scraping battlements command Charming and most entrancing views Of a fair sea and a fair land : Entrancingly fair sea and land. THE OCEAN. Mighty in its wild wrath, the sea Is just as mighty when its soul Seemingly sleeps: the waves in glee So gently then on these shores roll. Let me live in the hearing of Old ocean's breaking waves ; .to me The sound is dear, for O ! I love The restless sea's sad symphony. It breathes of hope, and though I roam Earth's surface o'er, Hope's fair tale may, By heaven's wind across the foam, Reach me and brighten my life's way. I love thee, Ocean ; life would seem So sweet could I alway live here Close by thy side, and dream, and dream Of some one who is fair and dear : Exceeding fair, ah yes! — and dear. 194 LASTING LOVE. Many a man believes he is In love because a woman's smile Stirs his cold heart and quickens his Slow-beating pulse a little while. Let my love have the depth and might Of the illimitable sea — The love which abides day and night Through all time and eternity. I know I shall love thus when I Encounter her. Fate sometime may Be kind ; yes, we shall meet and my Rejoicing heart will love for aye. I know her lips will, with an art Sweeter than spoken words can be, Confess that the love of her heart Of hearts is mine — that she loves me : Ever, yes, ever will love me. CHRISTMAS DAY. May Love's blest song be sung to-day In every home on this fair earth. So subtly sweet seems song's strange sway- Song such as that heard at Love's birth. Let every one partake with zest Of this most gracious season's cheer. This Christmas Day ! Ah ! 'tis the best That ever dawned upon our sphere. It is indeed a good time when Earth's weary ones learn something of Bright joys, and in which sad-eyed men Reclasp to their hearts a lost love. It gladdens this life to learn such Sweet truths; and O ! what joy 'tis to Convey to those we love so much Our Christmas wishes as we do : Each heartfelt wish, as we now do. THIS LIFE. 195 Merely a player on life's stage Is every man and woman. True! Shakespeare, the poet and the sage, Says so, and he most surely knew. Life is indeed a mystery: Our little life " that's rounded by The long, long sleep which is to be Taken by all, for all must die. It is not well, however, to Expatiate on mournful things. Be cheerful ; he is wisest who Rejoices, dances, laughs and sings. I don't believe that it is a Sin to assume a cheerful air. Can worrying help matters? Nay. O ! why need any one despair ? Earth's fair, life's good; why, then, despair? TO THOSE WHO WAIT. 'Mid the world's storms and sordid strife, Its cares and trials, Hope's bright smile Still brings us cheer; there's joy in life; So let's be patient for a while. Lest we forget, 'twere well to write On the mind's tablets that we may True joy obtain by acting right; There surely is no better way. In time love's dream, that brings into Each lover's heart such rapture, will Be realized. Youth's dreams ! Ah, who Recalls them not? They haunt us still. If we but wait, life's every prize Shall, so Hope says, be ours at last. Can we not wait? Who says Hope lies? Our faith will outlive doubt's rude blast. Earth's hope-filled sons fear not doubt's blast. 196 A PHANTASY. The result, probably, of too much out and in going between the acts. Methought I met Pierrock R. Fell In Boothby's 'tween the acts last night ; Said he — " I like your verses well; Such poetry fills me with delight. Let me " (and here a check he drew) " Out of sheer admiration for Those tuneful traits of yours hand you This check it has pleased me to draw." It — the check — was made out for just Eight hundred thousand dollars. O ! But I'll blow it all in, I must Right off, ye gods ! on Miss — er — no. I should not mention here her name, She might not like it ; but the " dough " Cert'ly I'll blow in just the same On her — that is, on Miss Bris — no — Er — no. What ! tell her name ? O no I THE GIRLS. Most men, methinks, mistakingly, Imagine every girl a saint; Some girls may be so, still I see Sometimes, not often, one who aint. Like us, the girls are human ; so Of course some faults they may possess ; This doesn't seem to matter though : The men adore them none the less. It's just as well that women are Earthly as we, else they would be Beyond our reach, like a fair star Rolling along an azure sea. If girls sin — ah well, what of it? Surely such sinners' sins, so small, Chivalric men mind not a bit. Our girls ! we love them — faults and all. Earth's angels sin? No, not at all. AN ACROSTICAL ADVENTURER. 197 Many believe acrostics are Immensely hard to write — and read. Still difficulties do not bar Some souls from striving to succeed. Let an absorbing passion sway One's soul, for instance ; then in all The world no tasks are found today That can this love-swayed soul appall. It would, I have no doubt, be more Easy to navigate the air. Brave arctic perils, or explore Regions remote, and perish there — It would be easier, I say. Such things to do than writing these Confounded lines, but 'neath the sway Of Love we can't do as we please : Earth's creatures can't do as they please. DREAM KNOWLEDGE. My plummet line I shall not throw Into love's sea. Ah ! who can sound Such depths? Love's meaning, in dreams though, Sometimes methought that I have found. Love is a mystery, it seems : One which no mortal understands. Though I have held (that is, in dreams) The key to it within my hands. In dreams (just dreams) I've clasped a maid Enthusiastically. What ! Breathe here her name? I am afraid. Really, I think I better not. It seemed (in dreams) right to caress So rare a maid ; but dreams oft go Contrariwise : hence she, ah yes ! On me caresses may bestow : Effusively, mayhap, bestow. 198 A MODERN ROSALIND. These lines, composed after witnessing the theosophic play of " My Friend from India," are respectfully dedicated to Love is my theme. I sing of love. I know One whose rare charms have taught me something of The mystery which makes this life below The sweet precursor of that one above. In Arden's wood a lover on the trees Engraved the name of her who stirred his muse: But one must in prosaic days like these Resort to — well, let's say The Orpheum News. Imprinted then on leaves, not tree-barks, love Shall now be told. My fair one's name? Ah, well! Can she be the reincarnation of Orlando's sweet Enchantress? Who may tell? A TWILIGHT REVERIE. Evening draws near. I think of her — of her. Vainly, alas! I try to solve life's strange Elusive mystery. To days that were Lighted by her dear presence my thoughts range. Years — O what sad, sad years ! — have passed since then. Now o'er life's fairer days my memory Fondly doth dwell : I live them once again. Restored is my lost love: she looks on me And smiles : my arms her yielding form enfold. No words we speak : our souls, as our lips meet, Converse each with the other. All is told In one long kiss, So rapturously sweet ! LOVE'S QUANDARY. 199 A Valentine. Let me my thoughts, St. Valentine, Express: one's heartchords will On this most gracious day of thine Vibrate with love's glad thrill. There are two Orpheum artists who Encheer and entertain This town of ours, and I do Love well the peerless twain. I can't tell which I love the more, Yea, I am in a plight. Each maid I tenderly adore : Now I'm distracted quite. Both are so radiant. Ah ! my Fond heart writhes in Love's snares. Really my soul's aflame. Can I Resist such charms as theirs? I know men in the fierce throes of A passionate despair Struggle in vain : but will not Love Now deign to hear a prayer? Come, kindly Hope, and 'mid the gloom Cheer me. O ! may thy smiles On me alight as towards the tomb I tread life's weary miles. Enable me with braver heart. Sweet Hope, in life to act my part. 200 WE POOR MEN. Red lips just made for kissing, eyes in whose Unfathomable depths love seems to dwell. But we poor men who have fond hearts to lose — Yes, we had best beware of Beauty's spell. Still certain things are tempting, and some day Her lips may so alluring prove that we A kiss shall steal therefrom. Yes, come what may, We'll risk all danger for such ecstasy. A SPINSTER. Lines rvritten in an album of a young lady who on one merry making occasion playfully alluded to herself as a confirmed spinster. Sweet one, I trust thy future may Prove joyous as thy days now are : I trust as thou shalt tread life's way No shadows may thy pleasures mar. Surrounded now by those who more Than love thee as a friend, I trow Earth will for thee have joys in store Rarer than all thou knowest now. MY HEART'S SECRET. 201 Written on Saint Valentine's Eve, igoo. I. A privilege, ah yes ! is mine — Love grants all men a right: I therefore may, St. Valentine, Construct some rhymes this night. Earth's fairest maid I would address But her name must not be Revealed, nor yet dare I express All thoughts that come to me. Could I — but no, I must, dear friend, Keep my heart's secret till life's end. II. And yet 'tis sweet to whisper of Life's dearest joy : 'tis sweet Indeed to know there is a love Can make our lives complete. Enshrined within my heart is her Bright imaged form: her well Remembered smiles my heart-depths stir As on the past I dwell. Could I — ^but no, I must, dear friend, Keep my heart's secret till life's end. 302 AN APPARITION. Evening has come : I sit here in my room Dreaming of her whom I so fondly love. I see her face amid the deepening gloom — That fair sweet face : I hear the music of Her gentle voice, and O ! in my heart's core Peace, so long absent, dwells again, and I Am happy and contented : yea, far more Than I was in the days that have gone by. The ecstasy of a new love is mine : Earth's fairest daughter dawns upon my sight. Red lips, bright eyes and smiles that are divine Seem too much to withstand. I am this night O'erwhelmed by her rare charms: my soul, ah yes! Now knows a rapture I can not express. 'NEATH LOWERING SKIES. My heart is sorrowful to-night: I am to lose a friend, alas ! Soon, not from memory but from sight. She — that dear friend of mine — shall pass. Earth hath its sorrows : there will be Days very dark and dull and drear In this our goodly town when she, The girl I love, is no more here. Hope will, though, through the mists of tears Point to the blest delights that are AAvaiting me in future years. Thus cheered by hope's resplendent star, The shadows that might otherwise Enshroud my soul will drift away. Right cheerily 'neath lowering skies Shall I stem duty's call obey. On life's w^ay, steep and rugged though it be, No fears I'll know, for Hope will walk with me. A WHISPERED PROMISE. 203 Ere I met her the world seemed so Dreary and dull and full of care; I knew not then, as now I know, That life is beautiful and fair. Her smiles encheer me, and as I •' Peer in her eyes I'm conscious of A new found hope that cannot die — The hope that I may gain her love. The world has been transformed since her Entrancing smiles made skies so blue : Rare are the joys fate will confer Some day on those whose love is true. On Hope's low whispered promise I Now with the fullest faith rely. AN UNDAUNTED SPIRIT. May I not realize some day All those blest dreams of mine when I Roamed carelessly along life's way In youth's bright time long gone by? Earth then was fair. When one is young Life is most precious : my mind dwells On those dear days. The songs then sung Re-echo still in my heart-cells. And yet in these sad, later years Some comfort comes to me. Hope still 'Mid the encircling gloom appears In all her beauty. Nay, I will Let no grief daunt my spirit. May not I Enjoy life in the coming years? Ah, why Yield to despair when Hope stands smiling by? 204 LORA. My thoughts are free, yet O ! they never stray Away from her — my fond soul's true ideal. Red, sweet and tempting are her lips : some day I shall therefrom a thousand kisses steal. Ere in my life she came I knew not of Love's subtle power : now my heart knows more Of this world's joy. I in my new found love Rejoice as I have never done before. • A rapture, such as sometimes in sweet dreams Sweeps o'er the slumbering soul, doth in me stir : My longing eyes behold hope's star that gleams In the bright heavens as I think of her. Let hope's fair star shine on my life's pathway Ever as now. 'Tis sweet to think I may Yet gain the favor of my love — some day. THAT HEART OF MINE. A girl, whose name I'll not impart, Now has possession of No less a thing than my fond heart, And I may die from love. Now who without a heart can live? Each day I sadly pine. Will not this beauteous maiden give Me back that heart of mine? Am I to die? Life seems so dear Now in the springtime of the j-ear. A DREAM. 205 Respectfully dedicated to that chummy pair of girls whose inspir- ing names are indissolubly united in the author's lines. A happy dream I had last night, Methought that I was at the store, Noon had arrived and I was quite Anxious to have some grub, therefore No dallying I did but I Rushed rapidly across the way, And sour krout and hash and pie I called for while in that cafe. Near me John Rockefeller sat Enjoying strawberries and cream: Ere long we two had quite a chat. Said he [ah! this was but a dream] " Will you accept my check for a Mere million dollars, worthy friend? " "Most surely I shant say you nay ", I answered : then John quickly penned A check : and O ! when I got this Large sum I almost had a stroke. Now I shall on a life of bliss Enter forthwith, then — I awoke. Yes, and discovered I was — " broke ". NOTA BENE. / '' write " like Poe! But is it po- Lite to be Poe-like, Miss Briscoe? My style is somewhat different, though. From Edgar Allan's, Miss Briscoe. 206 A PLEA FOR CHEERFULNESS. Earth is most beautiful : and is it not Vain to brood over wrongs beyond control? Endeavor to be cheerful : do not blot Life's fairest joys from out the longing soul. Youth is the time for gladness, hope and love : No frowns then come upon fair Fortune's face: Death seems far off, and there are day-dreams of Unclouded lives that show no sorrow's trace. Not mine it is to revel in these joys : Gone has my youth's all too speedy reign. Ah ! I have lived to learn that Time destroys, Ne'er to restore, those castles built in Spain. ASK NOT HER NAME. My thoughts to-night are pleasant ones — they're of a gentle maid : Ask not her name, for I won't tell ; I really am afraid. Unless you look into my heart or search these lines you'll ne'er Discover the sweet name bestowed upon my lady fair. A VISION. 207 To two happy girls, who have sometimes pretended to he unhappy, these lines, written by an unhappy man who has sometimes pretended to be happy, are respectfully dedicated. Sometimes the world looks bright to me, No clouds are in the sky, And my heart knows an ecstasy Each hour that glides by. Deep draughts of joy I quaff, the things That vex me disappear, I seem to fly on rapid wings To some bright, distant sphere. Earth fades from view as I afar In the empyrean rise, Reaching at last a beauteous star Encircling Paradise: I hear the happy voices of Redeemed souls who make clear The strange, sweet mystery of love In hymns we all hold dear. There comes to me a peace divine That I before ne'er knew. Exceeding any dream of mine That could on earth come true. Rare vision of a moment ! How Ephemeral, alas! Ravishing a soul that now Into night's gloom must pass. 208 A LOST LETTER RESTORED. My mind this day is gladdened by a hope. It may seem strange a torn envelope Should have the power into my life to bring So fair and dear a hope. I needs must sing. Ah ! if a something, vague yet sweet, should stir My deeper feelings while I think of her, Am I to blame? Tell me, is it a sin Endeavoring thus by rhythmic means to win Perchance a smile from one whose name is now Engravened on my heart? Ah, I somehow Am apprehensive, as all " authors " are, Concerning certain things — now in a car One fateful morn I lost my heart, ah me ! Can this Kind maid restore it? We shall see. MAPLE HALL. Maple Hall. That charming spot, that dear, belov'd retreat ! Amid a world of flowers it stands, half hidden from the street. Yes, many a stroll with May I've had within its pleasant shade. Just at the dewy hour of eve when day's about to fade. Viewed thus by twilight's mystic ray its beauties ne'er can be forgot. Each blooming flower reflecting plain the peace that lingers round that spot. Rare are those flowers, sweet is May ; no maiden is so fair : Nor birds that carol sweetly can with her their songs compare. Oh May, dear May, in after years I hope, what'er thy lot may be. No grief nor aught that causes pain shall ever, ever come near thee. A VALENTINE OFFERING. 209 Dare I a fair young maid address this day, Or must I not my humble offering send? Let me, however, not to fear give way ; Love now is favored and may not offend. Yes, thanks to thee. Saint Valentine, I now Have freedom to dispatch these lines of mine : I, this glad day, am privileged to bow Lowly in homage at sweet Beauty's shrine — Longing to have her for my valentine. JUNO'S SWANS. " And wheresoe'er we went, like Juno's swans, Still we went coupled, and inseparable." — Shakespeare.. Saint Valentine, thy loyal subjects may Give utterance to all their thoughts this day. Unhesitatingly I call the Muse, Relying on her kindness to infuse Some life and spirit in the lines I now Am wishful to compose. My thoughts somehow Are pleasant — very pleasant ones, for they Concern two maids whom I met on a day Never to be forgotten. Ofttimes of Each maid I think, for both of them I love. No other maids so sweet in this world dwell As they whose names I dinna care to tell. 210 IN YOUTH'S BRIGHT TIME. Fair maiden, in youth's happy time all things appeareth fair. Life seemeth sweet, and mirth prevails unclouded by a care ; On every hand are blessings found, and friends are true and kind. Refulgent beams Hope's star, and peace abideth in the mind. Each day brings newer pleasures, rarer joys and more delight: Nor fears nor dark forebodings come to mar youth's visions bright. Contentment, health and beauty mark the reign of youth, and thou Enjoyest all these blessings. Yes, most favored maiden, now The pathway through life's fairest scenes thou dost with gladness tread. 0! when have passed these joyous days, when youth's bright time has fled, When thy now sunny brow is marked by time, yet then to thee No grief I trust shall come : and though youth's gladsome sea- son be Soon over, yet in future years I hope that thou shall not E'er know a grief, e'er lose a friend. O ! happy be thy lot. Now Fortune smiles upon thee. Could a maid be favored more ! Dear maiden, mayst thou thus be blest till all life's scenes are o'er. A TWILIGHT RETROSPECT. Evening is drawing near, its mystic shades Mantle the earth with many a sombre hue : In the far west the sunlight, ere it fades. Lingers awhile to bid a last adieu. Yea, now's the time I love in thought to stray 'Mid scenes and pleasures of the olden days. Clouds that have gathered memory drives away, And brings the past undimmed to meet my gaze. Recalled to mind is many a pleasant scene That lights the gloom of twilight's fleeting hour: Hope is revived, and far-off Florentine Unfolds its joys, Restored by memory's power. A SUNSET ON CORSON'S INLET. 211 Respectfully dedicated to — 'Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll !" Just now, as I muse o'er those lines addressed Unto this mystic flood, my o'erwrought soul Out of its prison leaps ; the radiant west, Dappled with dying day's fond, lingering gleams, Holds me entranced ; I gaze with ecstasy On the vast world of waters, and life seems Now O ! so happy by the sounding sea. Love's dream, that I thought died long, long ago, Revisits me ; again within my veins Pulsates the wildish blood's enquickened flow. Over the waves float music's soft, faint strains. How peaceful and how wondrous strange is this Sweet quiet moment in the eventide. Calm is my mind ; with what ease I dismiss All the old cares o'er which erstwhile I've sighed. Lightly the zephyrs o'er the salt waves steal ; Peace broods upon the scene, and in my breast A happiness, serene and strong and real, Has taken her abode and brought me — rest. Rest ! O most rapturous moment ! ne'er before In this world have I gained a knowledge of A thing so precious. I have on this shore Learn'd what means rest, and happiness, and love. But now the shadows fall upon the strand ; Lower and lower sinks the parting sun ; At last the stars look down upon the land ; I turn me homeward for the day is done. Under the star-lit sky I walk along. Pondering on joys that I shall know no more : Ephemeral joys — a sweet, soul-haunting song Sung by some nymph, whose fair form on the shore, Revealed in sunset's golden sheen, I saw. 212 SAND CASTLES. My thoughts are pleasant ones, for they Are of a little maid I saw- Delving in sand, and in this way Enjoying herself on the shore. Let me send her a verse or two ; It may perhaps remind her of New friends — 'mong whom is the one who Endeavors here to show his love. New friends may prove, ah ! don't forget, As true as old ones; when our hands Under the " moated castle " met, Gladly my heart sang on the sands. How soon the waves, though, swept away Those grand and stately castles we Erected that bright, happy day Near the resounding summer sea! THE BOY. Joyously you shout and play On the sand-drifts by the pier, Happy as the livelong day. Never sad when " Madie " 's near. THE GIRL. Visions of a delightful isle I oft behold. Near the glad sea Romps a fair child ; a radiant smile Graciously she bestows on me. I sit close by the breakers wild. Noticing things — sea, sky, ships, pier. I note with more joy, though, the child At play upon the sands anear. ONE YEAR AGO. 213 Most strongly does God's wondrous sea Allure me. Ah ! those days were so Divinely beautiful which we Enjoyed here one short year ago. Lightly as then the salt breeze blows In from the deep, but on the shore No friend now greets me. I miss those Endeared delights that are no more. Now the forsaken beach I pace Alone — alone ! Life, which is now Unlighted by her beaming face, Grows very wearisome somehow. Hope, though, shall be my comforter. This life were sad without hope's cheer. One summertime I walked with her Near this now desolated pier. THE DAYS THAT WERE. My mind retains the image of A girl whose sweet and sunny smile Drew me to her and won my love Eons ago on a fair isle. Love, do you think how oft we sat, In those days which were so care-free. Near the wild waves, which beat on that Enchanted island of the sea? Now here in loneliness I sit And think of days — the days that were! Useless it is to mourn, yet it Grieves me that I am far from her. Hope, though, her happiest song sings; Thus cheered, why now give way to woe? Each day that passes by but brings Nearer the joys I am to know. 214 SONNET. Addressed to a fair suffragist. March on, O radiant pilgrim; victory Is soon to perch upon the banner thy Small hands wave in the breeze. Can man deny So fair a woman aught ? Ah ! thou shouldst be Possessed of every right. Man's gallantry Has been enquickened, watching thee pass by. On life's bleak roads, beneath a sullen sky, Exultingly thou goest. Verily, Beauty like thine must conquer ; thou'lt secure Enfranchisement ere long. O ! peerless one, Haply the Senators at Washington Are men whose hearts thy witching smiles can lure. When they see thee, then — then, ye may be sure. New truths shall stir them ; thy fight will be done. February i8, 1913. HOPE'S STAR. My heart, O maiden of the dreamy eyes, Is sorely stricken. Since along our street, So short a time ago-, your dainty feet So fleetly flew, I've heaved unnumbered sighs. Peace dwells no more with me. I have grown wise, Having now learned to love. Am I to meet One of these days the suffragist whose sweet, Enrapturing smiles enthrilled me? My soul cries, But she to whom it cries may never hear. Earth seems so joyless now since she passed by. Hope's star I still discern, though, in yon sky, And I am cheered. I know the time is near When I shall meet her. Life ! O ! 'tis so dear. Now that its sweetest, wildest joys are nigh. February 20, 1913. VOTES FOR WOMEN. 215 Men make mistakes, and women too — sometimes. I ne'ertheless admire women ; their Slight faults I overlook. She who is fair Should be (I trust that Phoebe likes these rhymes) Permitted to engage in life's worst crimes; However willfully she acts, who dare Object, e'en though she drive us to despair? Earth's daughters rule men in all lands and climes. Beauty needs but to nod and men will go Even to death for her. And yet, and yet, Having so much, some women wish to get A vote ! They now want votes ! It seems that no Woman is satisfied — not one ; and so Now even Phoebe is a suffragette! February 21, 1913. MARCHING ON. To the marching suffragists in general, and to one especial suf- frage marcher in particular, this sonnet is respectfully dedicated. My sympathies, this dreary winter day, In fullest measure go out to those who, Strong in their faith and stout of heart, pursue So pluckily their journey. Bravely they Plod onward to the Capitol. O ! may Hope, which thus far hath cheered those pilgrims through Oppressive, weary days, continue to Encourage and sustain them on their way. By day and night, to reach the destined goal, Each of these gentle women struggles o'er Heavy and miry roads. The rains that pour And flood the narrow byways daunt no soul. When woman wills, can aught her will control ? Nay, nay — she gains the object she strives for. February 23, 1913. 216 A DANGEROUS PILGRIM. On the warpath our Phoebe still sticks. She stoops not to militant tricks ; She knows that there lies More harm in her eyes Than in throwing slugs, hatchets and bricks. MY MARYLAND. The Lament of a fair Hiker overheard recently in the vicinity of Havre de Grace. Suffragists should such sloppy states shake; Maryland's mud-meanderings make Me mad ; still on clothes Mud's a thing, I suppose, To ad (d) mire. O how my feet ache! FINALE. The " hike " 's o'er. My last line is penn'd. All things, except love, have an end. If love, too, could die (Make a note of this) I Would be happier. Farewell, dear friend. ESTHETICS. I love beauty by day or by night. As I might in this trite manner cite. To take some slight delight In a sightly light sprite. Or a bright sybarite, seems quite right. IMPROMPTU LINES. 217 Written on an Atlantic City ocean pier, September 20, igi2. O ! what a perfect day is this ! The wild waves play around the pier. Complete, indeed, would be my bliss If Madeline were only here. But Madeline is far away; Her absence spoils the day for me. My heart can not be light and gay When she's not down here by the sea. IN RESTRAINT OF FLIGHT. Poets love freedom, hence some dread Acrostics ; it irks them to write A prescribed letter at the head Of every line ; it checks their flight. Imagine, if you really can, Walt Whitman, who had no regard For verse rules, whose lines none could " scan "- Imagine, I say, this free bard Dallying with acrostics ! No, Walt's isoul brooked no restraint, 'tis clear. But my soul is less free, and so I've worked out some acrostics here. I find them not so hard to write. The letters in a name I love Suggest ideas and thoughts I might Not otherwise have e'er dreamt of. 218 THE PAST. "The past is dead," so runs the song: Ere dying, though, it tarries long With us — in memory. The past ne'er dies : thoughts of it stay To brighten or to cloud life's way In days that are to l)e. THE FUTURE. 'Tis well that Fate denies To all men 'neath the skies A knowledge of the future. Joy or woe, A better life, or worse, A blessing or a curse — Whate'er may come, 'twere best not now to know. LIFE'S ROAD. No hand clasps mine : no voice into My ear breathes aught of love: no word Of that dear story, old yet new, I ever have in this world heard. And yet undauntedly I go Life's steep and rugged way along. Love's joys, Hope says, I am to know : And Hope encheers and makes me strong.. FANCY. 219 What if my body's fettered to A desk, the fact remains That I, in fancy, yet may view Fair Nature's vast domains. O'er sylvan lakes on moonlit nights I oft float joyously; I view the world from snow-crowned heights, And it looks fair to me. On Fancy's wings I journey far, I speed across the sea : The cities of the Old World are Familiar ones to me. I am — in thought — a man of means. Whose vaults with gold are stored ; To revel 'mid earth's fairest scenes I can full well afford. AIR CASTLES. Who has not dreamt day dreams and been The architect of fair And stately edifices in The unsubstantial air? Just ere they topple over those Dream structures seem to be Most beautiful. Alas ! Fate shows Us here her irony. 220 OPTIMISM. The bees are making honey, A thing I ne'er have done. The trusts are making money, And I am making none. A critic, without meaning To cause me any pain, Might say I show a leaning Towards utterances inane. But I was just expressing This thought which came to me — That one without possessing The talents of a bee, Or who lacks golden treasure. May yet from life extract Some sweetness and some pleasure; I've found this is a fact. A LOST WORLD. The world will ne'er be mine again ; I had it once ; its treasures were All mine, all mine in those days when I fancied I was loved by her. I was a fool — a fool. Yet still In that heart she so lightly tossed Away there rankles naught of ill. I pine not for the world I've lost. A loveless world has no real charms. This I have learned — e'en I, I who Once clasped a woman in my arms And thought (poor fool!) that she was true. HOPE. 221 What is it that sustains us in The conflict ever raging here? A hope it is that makes life dear — A hope that we the fight shall win. We toil and suffer not in vain ; We know beyond these scenes of strife, In this probationary life, All that we strive for we shall gain. What if Fate frowns and seems to thwart Our purposes at every turn ! Sometime and somewhere we may earn The blessings we so long have sought. FATE. At tin:ies life seems So sweet ; our dreams Of love are fair, and hope's star beams In a bright sky; But storms arise. And sullen skies Frown on us as, with tear-dimmed eyes, We say — goodby. Life is so strange, So full of change; Fate oft steps in to disarrange Our plans, and we Lose hope and mourn : A friend has gone, And love, that seemed about to dawn, Is not to be. 222 THE POETS. The poets are the ones Best able of earth's sons To solve the mystery of life : they bring An overflowing love Into the study of All problems that are worth unraveling. In highest realms they soar, In deepest depths they bore, Truth's glittering gems they glean from every field : With hearts that hope makes light They climb Parnassus' height. To them fair Nature doth her secrets yield. And so these are the ones Best able of earth's sons To solve life's mystery : the joy of song They one time brought mankind, And some day they shall find Life's meaning for which they have searched so long. KNOWLEDGE. Whyfore be wise? It is the fool Who enjoys life, who laughs and sings. The happiest are, as a rule, They who know least about earth's things. Yet for the song and vacant laugh Of Folly's aimless creatures I Care not ; let me on the rough path Of Knowledge struggle till I die. POET'S PROGRESS. 223 (Altruistic allusions alliieratively arranged.) Rarely repressing random rhymes, Forever foraging for fame, Ambitious authors always aim To triumph these tempestuous times. Some super-sensitive souls start Falteringly forward. Fear-filled fry! But bolder bards bound bravely by, Defying Death's destructive dart. Harmony hypnotizes hearts. We watch with wonder — we weak wights — Homeric heroes haunt high heights, Performing proud Parnassian parts. Strange stars, so sparkling, so sublime, Seem saying (saying smilingly), Song's striving Sons shall surely see Success secured — sometiyne, sometime. PRAGMATIC PSYCHOLOGY. Practical people prefer Perfectly pure provender. Properly prepared peas Particularly please Poesy's proudest philosopher. 224 PARNASSUS. Why struggle on? It was not meant For me to scale this steep ascent. I fear To venture further. 'Tis in dreams — Yes, only then the summit seems Anear. Why should I toil so? I'm aware That I the sunny heights can ne'er Attain. I know I'll fail, and yet to me The struggle does not seem to be All vain. I'll fail, that is, from this mount's crest To catch a glimpse of Heaven's blest Abode; But Love's refracted light may shed Its rays upon me as I tread Life's road. This glory streaming from above — This light, this flashing light of love From those Illumined peaks shall fortify My wandering spirit until my Life's close. A POET'S SOUL. A poet's soul is free; it will o'erleap All barriers ; to no mandate it yields ; 'Twould be a sad world were that soul to keep From frequenting fair Fancy's fragrant fields. FINALE. 225 Youth's hopes have faded — those that promised well. Love, fame, wealth are denied me ; vainly do I try to climb the craggy mount where dwell The Muses nine, one whom I've dared to woo. And she, the fairest Goddess of them all, Whose kindly smile I one time strove to gain, Will ne'er hear of my struggles and my fall. Yet I have known her ; life has not been vain. My end is near; I do not feel I've made A failure of this life ; although I ne'er Have scaled the haunted mountain, yet I've strayed Around its base, and dreamt some sweet dreams there! THE LADY OF BETHAYRES. " At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour The thoughts that burst their channels into song. And sent them to thee — such a tribute, lady, As Beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest." — Edward Bulwer Lytton When one has conscientiously Performed a task of any kind ; It is a pleasant thing to be Commended for the same, I find. The poem, lady, I sent you (I'm growing very frank these days) Was not so bad a one ; I knew That it was worthy of your praise. Worthy, at any rate, of some Acknowledgment: still in due time It may be my reward will come. Yes, some day you will read my rhyme. As yet you have not thanked me, though. For those lines o'er which I so long Have toiled ; but one should not, I know. Expect too much for a mere song. 226 DAY DREAMING. Perhaps I am a foolish man To dream dreams, as I sometimes do, Which reason tells me never can In this life here on earth come true. But my dreams harm no one, it seems. Except myself ; hence, though unwise, It can't be wrong to dream the dreams I never am to realize. NO QUARREL. A sequel to Day Dreaming. Upon the whole, I don't believe That I have injured myself much By dreaming dreams. Why should I grieve Because I have indulged in such? Wise, cold and practical men, who Forge to the front in business strife, Might with great disapproval view What they regard my useless life. Yet I have kno\\ai something of Joys those wise, practical and cold Men may have missed, whose only love Lies in the mad pursuit of gold. Between those men, though, and myself There's no dispute ; we're all in quest Of happiness ; they who think wealth Secures it may perhaps know best. Quarrel? O ! no. Harsh feelings? None. We all intend to gain success As we view it ; so let each one In his own way seek happiness. THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS. 227 When we're engrossed in schemes for wealth To others' rights we oft are blind ; But greed sometimes defeats itself, And money means not joy we find. To seek for happiness is right, And very natural ; yes, quite so. But in the quest to shirk and slight Duty and work is selfish though. Why, why devote in its pursuit Our days and nights without a pause? The " prize " may turn to Dead Sea fruit When seized ; then we shall curse the cause, Shall curse the cause that led us to Transfix upon a self -raised cross Our sordid, shriveled souls. But who, When such souls die, will mourn the loss? AN EARLY CALL. The poets all appear to die At a young age, at least the great Bards do; this worries me, for I Have not been feeling well of late. Byron and Burns and Chatterton, And Keats and Shelley, likewise Poe, Died young. How short a life each one Lived here ! Mine may be short also. A CHEERING AFTERTHOUGHT. If bards die young, I need not fear An early siunmons from life's stage ; For if but hards die young, 'tis clear I'll live to an extreme old age. 228 AMBITION. Life's tasks seem light when one is young, Fame's ladder I once hoped to climb ; I still stand on its lowest rung, To reach the top requires time. Time! Yes, and something else one needs To gain the apex of youth's dreams : One must have genius who succeeds, And this I have not got, it seems. I, being fifty, have had quite Enough time for my ill-starred bout With fate. Mine is a losing fight, I'll soon be knocked completely out. I'll struggle on though, for I'm bound To scale Fame's ladder. What! too old? Nay, I'll mount at least one more round Before I'm laid out stiff and cold. Ambition's longings can't be stilled. Who can his restless soul subdue? In later years one's mind is filled With dreams as wild as e'er youth knew. Ambition ! Is it vanity. Mere vanity — ^base, low and coarse. Too vast and too intense to be Controlled by any himian force? Or can it be the promptings of A higher nature, reaching out For truer beauty, truer love In this world where men fear and doubt? I sometimes think it is a gift — A heaven-sent one to us here, Which serves to strengthen and uplift Our souls, and which makes life more dear. HOPES, DREAMS AND PRAYERS. 229 But few of us shall realize Our hopes and ideals : yet the same Give rest to life: call not unwise, ''^'" Therefore, the one who dreams of fame. Laugh not at those who may appear Too over sure of having their Fond prayers all answered — if not here, They may be granted, then, elsewhere. CALUMNY. " Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny." — Shakespeare. Detractors may subdue And wholly crush those who Are of too frail a fibre to endure The worries incident To life, but that are meant To try us and to help us, be ye sure. Praise, I believe, has less To do with one's success Than many think. Calumniators may Prove useful. Calumny, Rather than flattery, Oft stimulates our efforts in life's fray. In the long run a man Can thwart and rout a clan Of slanderers. One with a conscience clear And a stout heart is well Equipped to meet and quell The foes whose arts a true man need not feax. 230 PRELUDE. (Being a purgatorial introductory to Hell.) The place that I would now review Is most unpleasant ; no one, though. Thinks it exists, except a few Unhappy wretches whom I know. The theme's played out ; 'tis seldom brought Up for discussion now, and I Approach it gingerly. I ought To pass the matter coldly by. Less than one hundred years ago Men — many of them (how could they?) Believed in this abode of woe. How happier men are to-day ! We have, 'tis true, our cares and griefs. But ne'ertheless we're not downcast ; We are not tortured by beliefs Like those harsh ones taught in days past. Why, then, this old dispute renew? Whyfore revive sad themes ? Ah well ! I must, for some one told me to Express my views concerning hell. To speak of a place which has no Existence save in some one's vile Imagination, doesn't show Much sense — still it may cause a smile. A smile ! Well, if my lines provoke A smile I'll deem myself repaid. So let's to Hell. Better thus joke And smile than sigh and be afraid. There is no reason to regard The future apprehensively ; I know when I'm laid 'neath the sod There will be rest — sweet rest for me. O ! it is better to believe That which will make life joyous here Than to have views that make us grieve, And creeds that make us cringe and fear. HELL. 231 Not that fair land beyond the sky — That blest abode of Love — Does Lola seem to think that I Have gained some knowledge of : But of the nether world she thinks I know a deal ; and though My very soul within me shrinks From going down below, Yet for this fairest of all maids I must, before my time, Visit the depths of Hades' shades And write it up — in rhyme. Lola consigns me now to — well, I shan't demur; I'll go, As otherwise I could not tell About those imps below. For hitherto I have not dealt (This may seem strange) with things Infernal : nay, I've sometimes felt A wish to soar on wings Far, far beyond our world, ah yes! To some remoter sphere, Where I might find a happiness I never have known here. But now I must forbear to soar ; Indeed, I must descend To interview the devils for Our fair, inquiring friend. 232 HELL. Just here it seemeth passing strange, It really does, you know, That Lola's rambling thoughts should range To those imps down below. 'Tis not mere curiosity On Lola's part, ah no ! She really feels a sympathy For those poor imps below. I wish for her sake I could tell About their various acts : When time permits a trip to hell, I'll ascertain the facts. I never yet have gone to — well, To Jericho ; and so There's little now that I can tell About those imps below. The theme, as one may well suppose, Affrights me, and I grow Real pale the while I think of those Poor little imps below. ****** But come — enough of raillery. More soberly I ought To treat my subject; so let me Give it a serious thought. The hell idea has made men mad ; But I was pleased indeed That Lola took no stock nor had E'er shared in such a creed. The twinkle in her eye while she Bade me delve into this Deep subject showed some chaff from me Might not be deemed amiss. HELL. 233 There are some things that I somehow Am apt to treat sometimes In lightsome vein ; but let me now Con somewhat graver rhymes. Think not I lack in earnestness. The subject given me Stirs up my strongest feelings : yes, I feel its gravity. I have a serious side to my Composite nature ; so From now on in these verses I That serious side will show. * ^F *t* *•* "F ^ T The mind that holds to hell is crazed, And they who harp thereon Insulteth Him who should be praised — The Over-ruling One. We mortals would, I here maintain, (And, pray you, mark me well) Become most hopelessly insane By a belief in hell. Why if ten trillion miles away There were a hell, I'd see No beauty in this fair spring day : 'Twould have no charms for me. For while beneath the clear bright skies On flowered meads I'd stroll, I'd hear the curses and the cries Of some poor tortured soul. My sjmipathy would all go out Towards those who writhe in pain : I, too, might clench my fist no doubt. Unable to restrain 234 HELL. My horror of the monstrous wrong Imposed on man : to me The thought but makes of prayer and song A hollow mockery, I know how Hell in years now past Was worked for all 'twas worth ; I know how its feared terrors cast Their shadow on the earth : I know all this, and O ! I do Rejoice as ne'er before 'That this old lurid bug-a-boo Can blast men's lives no more. The world has wiser grown ; the years Have brought new truths : we find A joy in life when olden fears No more disturb the mind. Fear never saved a soul, ah no ! Man's ingenuity Can not devise a hell, I trow. That ever will move me. But love just gets me every time. Love wins where hatred fails. Love sweet and wondrous and sublime ; Love — love alone — avails. How beautiful this world of ours ! My heart with joy doth sing: I read Love's promise in the flowers That crown these days of spring. MY CHOICE. 235 I'll lurk not in the shadows of A morbid fancy — nay, In the glad light of radiant Love I'll live my life alway. With Love triumphant, hades' gloom Will disappear; and we Shall catch a glimpse, this side the tomb, Of joys that are to be. WE SAINTS. Supposed to have been written by a disciple of Jonathan Edwards. Let tortured sinners writhe; We saints shall all derive A joy in gloating over their despair. We'll mock their tears, their sighs. Their agony, their cries. What in hell — nay, what in heaven need we care? MY CHOICE. There are men who'd prefer in heaven to dwell, With some there they detest, Rather than be elsewhere a little spell With those they love the best. I'd rather be on earth with her I love. E'en for a little space, Than spend eternity in heaven above — She absent from that place. 236 A SOUL. A soul (whatever that may be) Exists, so some declare, Within our bodies, although we Can't tell exactly where. It may within the heart abide ; It might lurk in the brain ; Or in the lungs it might reside; 'Tis hard to ascertain. The soul exists at any rate, So say these cock-sure men; And then they solemnly dilate On things beyond our ken. That precious thing which none can find Is, so they have declared, Immortal. " Logic " of this kind Could very well be spared. I've read the Good Book — read it through: I learn therein that we Are mortals. 'Tis God only who Hath immortality. WHY WORRY? I care not for power or wealth ; Love is better, I think — love and health. Of this world I am fond ; As for a life beyond — Why worry? — 'twill care for itself. Life here needs our care : though 'tis sweet Yet often, to make both ends meet, We must labor and sweat. Life hereafter ! Why fret And worry o'er it, I repeat. THE VAST MAJORITY. 237 Ah ! ere long I among That majority vast Will be found: 'Neath a mound I shall have rest at last. IMMORTALITY. " Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul." — Longfellow. This poem is not an expression of the writer's personal senti- ments, but of those disquieting ideas which, he believes, are held by all who endorse Longfellow's poetical advocacy of a widely- spread theological dogma, though not necessarily a dogma based on a proved or a tenable hypothesis. To live alway ! to know no rest ! Does not The thought appall the mind? Who without fear Can contemplate a never-ending lot Spent — ah, but where? Alas! we humans here In darkness plod along life's toilsome way, In doubt we ponder on futurity. In the cold tomb, though, our encoffined clay Soon shall be placed : then will the soul be free. Free? Yes, but O! not privileged to die: Not free to choose oblivion: not free To seek a grave wherein to haply lie. Nay, for the soul such rest is not to be. 238 HELL AGAIN. A last word on the subject. Think, think a while what it itnplies- Eternal woe ; absurd ! It is the worst of all earth's lies, And should no more be heard. MAN OR Conditional Immortality. Man is a living soul. Immortal ? Nay, That gift in heaven he'll gain. I'm happy knowing I shall rest for aye If heaven I'll not attain. SPIRIT SEEKERS. Our scientists are able men — Sane, shrewd and sensible; but they Are credulous, as a rule, when From nature's realm they chance to stray. I'm not, therefore, impressed at all When some of these savants declare That we can speak in a dark hall With our dead friends whose wraiths are there. SPIRITUALISM. 239 Our rest in the grave is likely to be long and undisturbed ; no man can ever arouse us from that sleep of death ; God alone will do this, and He only at the end of time. One is led to think thus by reading various passages of Scripture, i Corinthians 15 : 52, 53 seem to warrant the writer in disapproving, as he does, of spiritualism ; these verses read — " In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump ; for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible." . . . "For this corruptible must put on incorruption, and this mortal must put on immortality." The dead from their graves don't stray far ; They may hear God's voice, but not man's ; " Materializers," therefore, are A lot of brazen charlatans. These "spiritists" (what nerve they've got!) Profess to call men from the tomb And trot them out before a lot Of poor dupes in a darkened room. The Bible, worthy some regard, Says not till judgment day shall we Be called from graves to meet our God And receive immortality. The world's worst fakirs are perhaps The mediums who claim to hold Communion, by means of raps, With those who lie in churchyard mold. When we are dead are we to be Allowed to rest ? Are " mediums ", sir. At their " seances ", for a fee. To drag us from the sepulchre ? But who gives credence to the claims Of this low, vile and vulgar herd Of cheats? 'Tis strange Professor James Gave thought to matter so absurd. Yet physicists, so-called, may be Gulled with great ease in rooms made dark, A female sharp from Italy * Found more than one an easy mark. This dabbling in " occult " rot Appears to weaken a man's brain ; Some scientists seem to have got By " spirit " studies quite insane. * Eusapia Paladino, who befooled a number of Europe's foremost scientists, but whose tricks were exposed by investigators in America. 240 UNHEEDED ADVICE. A reply to a friend who in a critique on Hell expressed his dia- approbation of the poem's first two divisions. You, who have read that piece of mine Called Hell, speak rather well of it : The last part, you declare, is fine; The rest you do not like a bit. The — er — yes, technique, so to speak. Of the work is, you think, all wrong. The first cantos are crude and weak And foolish, but the last is strong. The wit is strained, ill-timed and coarse Which permeates the early part, But the last section by its force And beauty moves, you say, your heart. You tell me to eliminate Without undue delay the two First cantos ; this, though, let me state, I hardly think that I will do. There is, as every sane man knows, No hell ; how absurd then for me. In the last of my three cantos, To treat the matter seriously ! It is not unbefitting to Treat certain themes with levity; This I occasionally do. Why in the present case blame me? I've put in my verse some mild fun Which you style coarse; you praise part third Where, foolishly, over a non- Existing place I am perturbed. The fact is I'm somewhat ashamed Of that part which has gained your praise. A place that now is seldom named Should not perturb one's mind these days. To excise that part though, or cut Out those you mention, seems a shame. For your advice I'm thankful, but I don't propose to follow same. DIETETICS. 241 A Lenten Thesis. Some sad saints (I am not of them) Piously es-c\ityf (not chew) Certain dishes, though 'tis true They may passionately love them. Sausage (don't think I'm sardonic) Is tabooed on Fridays ; though They select, with much gusto, Other dainties gastronomic. Lobster salad with egg dressing. Oysters, fish, clams, pies and cheese, Vegetables — yes, all these. But no meat ! It is distressing. True, indulgences are given Certain saints, who in this case May eat, after saying grace, Meat without offending heaven. Yes, for a consideration, Any saint who wants to eat A choice cut of bovine meat May obtain a dispensation. Now when I dine in the city. E'en on Friday, I eat ham ; Though of quail-on-toast I am So much fonder, more's the pity. Then, too, I like port and sherry, And I'm partial to champagne. But from these I must abstain And drink beer. It's hard — yes, very. 242 POLITICAL PARSONS. Although Fortune is so fickle, Yet 'gainst her one should not rail : I therefore, eschewing quail, Call for beer, ham and a pickle. Truly I am an ascetic : Yet I really ought to be A bon-vivant. Fate to me Is ironic. 'Tis pathetic. Yet we poels — hem ! — who waken Slumbering souls to Beauty's reign, Don't, in spiritual disdain. Turn from Pickles, Beer and Bacon. POLITICAL PARSONS. Lines suggested on hearing socialism preached by certain pro- fessional revivalists and evangelists in a series of meetings ad- vertised as a Religion ( !) Forward Movement conducted by Spir- itual Experts. Republicans and Democrats, And men of other parties, feel For those who wear the white cravats A veneration very real. Yet, while most of us fairly dote On churchmen, we don't like them to Tell us just how we ought to vote And run our business, as they do. Men of the cloth, those holy men. We all revere ; yet they are, though. Very impracticable when It comes to business, as we know. They should confine themselves to prayers And sermons — things they know about. Their views anent mundane affairs Are almost too bizarre to spout. PREACHERS, POLICE AND POLITICS. 243 The socialism spread by those Ecclesiastic gentlemen Is nauseous : hence I don't propose To go and hear their talks again. Let business folks help statesmen steer The Ship of State o'er rocks and shoals; The clergy then, whom we revere, Can tend to our immortal souls. PREACHERS, POLICE AND POLITICS. They who expound the different creeds, and they Who wield the clubs in our bailiwicks. Should not (officially, that is to say,) Take sides with men embroiled in politics. Why should one leave one's beat or why forsake One's pulpit so as to electioneer? Cops who desert their posts make a mistake; Divines who do so err likewise, I fear. Let politics alone : 'twere best to tend To duty; politics won't suffer then: They may get purer : so let preachers spend Their time in rescuing poor fallen men. Make better citizens of men and they Will then support — this cannot be denied — The worthiest candidates : 'tis in this way That politics will become purified. We need our churches and we need our jails. Police and preachers, who wage war 'gainst sin, Are useful workers. If, when preaching fails. Men commit crime, the cops should run them in. We must have laws — stern laws; and they must be Sternly enforced ; for order must prevail. Where free men live there's a necessity For priests, police, and the church, and the jail. 244 MY HEAVEN. All those who, by example and precept, Teach others to do right we should, of course, Highly esteem ; we also should respect Those law preservers who are " on the force ". Men of the cloth — the black cloth or the blue — Should be upheld and honored if they are Honest and brave and competent and true, As men should be who wear the cross or star. MY HEAVEN. If I am conscious when to me Death draws anear, I'll think, not of eternity, But you, my dear. One in the full possession of Sound health may dwell In thought upon a heaven above — A nether hell. A clear, strong mind might speculate And form some vague Ideas on future love and hate. Should such things plague A weary, dying man, dear love? No, no. Ah! I Shall find more comfort thinking of You, when I die. Here now with you — with you, my dear, Life is so fair. My heaven is on this earth here, Not one elsewhere. On Death's approach I need not shrink. When from my view Life is receding, I shall think Of love — and you. THOUGHTS. 245 O life, strange mystery ! O death that is to be For all who live on this revolving sphere. When pondering on these Perplexing verities The stoutest hearts have quailed from very fear. This life upon the earth ! Is it — O, is it worth The living? Who has not at moments sighed For rest ? Ah well, soon we Shall with the sleepers be — With those who lived, loved, toiled and who have died. Does death end all? Is there A happy world somewhere — One happier than this? Ah yes, it seems There must be: and some day We who have suffered may Gain there those joys we've known at times in dreams. MY SPIRIT'S FLIGHT. In evening's gathering gloom I sit. And, while I think of many things, My world- worn spirit seems to flit Away from me on eager wings. Freed of earth's clay, it wanders far Beyond the twilight's crimson skies, Reaching at last the golden star Whose course encircles Paradise. 246 DEATH. And there it hears the anthems of Angelic choristers ; and O ! It learns more of true peace and love Than souls on earth can ever know. The singing ceases: I, alas! Awake to life, for from its flight My spirit hath returned, to pass — With me — into the darksome night. DEATH. I know that I Some day will die ; I do not from the thought recoil. Eternity ! Ah, it for me Means rest from life's cares and turmoil. What boon more blest Is there than rest — The rest eternal which is brought To every one When life is done? Whyfore recoil from this sweet thought? Death, thou art kind And true. How blind Are many of us to thy worth. We wrong thee so ; Thou art no foe, But man's best friend upon the earth. A PROSPECTIVE RIDE. 247 A hearse that needs some slight repairs Stands, horseless, on a wheelwright's pave; Along the city's thoroughfares It has borne many to the grave. This somber vehicle outside The doorway of this noisy shop May be the one in which I'll ride When from life's serried ranks I drop, A ride! The prospect pleases me. Why not? But it may be unmeet To muse thus by a factory Upon a crowded, busy street. SURE THINGS. Love is sweet, but who is sure It will to the end endure? Friendship — O, how blest ! But do Friends not sometimes prove untrue? Faith — a state of mind, oft found Based on shifting, crumbling ground. Hope — ah ! we but have in her A deceiving comforter. Charity, Hood doth declare, Is in Christendom most rare. Fame. Alas ! the favor of The world's as shortlived as love. Wealth, so we are told, hath wings. What, then, are the certain things? Death and Taxes — don't you know? — Are the sure things here below. 248 FAITH. I've seen poor, lifeless clay- Laid mournfully away In God's green acre, and the tears have come Into my eyes; although Somewhere there is, I know, For all of us a bright eternal home. Glad are those moments when That world beyond our ken Is miraged on the cloudless summer skies. What solace and what cheer We weary ones find here When such fair visions greet our yearning eyes. " O, death, where is thy sting? " Thou canst no terror bring To trustful souls. Hearing the earth-clods fall On coffins may bring fear To doubting mortals here, But not to those whom faith sustains through all. ELEGIAC LINES. I strolled in a cemetery Not long since, and I was very Much impressed by what I saw there. I found comfort, yes, and cheer 'Mongst the graves. Ah ! there were many ; And methought if there were any Peace on earth that one who wished it might some day attain it here. It is comforting and cheering To know that a day is nearing When I, too, shall gain a rest as peaceful as is that of those Who are in their graves a-lying. Yes, I shall be occupying One ere long, for my life's journey happily is near its close. DESPONDENCY. 249 I peer into the future, but in vain; No sign nor semblance of a clue I gain On which to base a hope of happier days. The spirit in me falters as I gaze Out on the night: no star in heaven appears: My heart and mind are overwhelmed with fears. A spectre looms amid the mists that shroud The night : he looks on me and laughs aloud : His wild, reverberating laughter chills The blood that courses through my veins, and fills My stricken, shuddering soul with awe. I feel The nearness of an evil, vague yet real. I grovel in the dank slough of despond, No hopes in this world nor for the beyond. Lost, lost ! Aye, lost : destined for hades' gloom. E'en now my brain throbs at th' approaching doom. Grief gnaws my soul. Too soon, too soon I'll sink A dying wretch beside the grave's dread brink. DEAD FRIENDS. It matters not who dies, those who Remain behind awhile must do The work which yet Is left unfinished : we must be Regardful of ourselves, though we The dead forget. The dead ! We have no time to grieve : There's gold to gain, fame to achieve. Life so soon ends ! He is unwise who in this brief Existence wastes his time in grief Over dead friends. 250 A PUZZLED WILL. " To be or not to be, that is the question." — Shakespeare. I have a longing — 'tis for rest, And with a bodkin bare I might the object of my quest Obtain, if I but dare. Yet somehow I'm afraid to try The cold steel's sudden thrust. I, cowed by conscience, fear to lie Embedded in earth's crust. I dread to live ; but O ! death seems A still more awful thing. Life's ills I'll bear. I fear the dreams Death's sleep to me may bring. LIFE. Why do we men and women strive So hard here in this vale of tears, Through all the passing toil-nlled years, To keep (is it worth while) alive? Wealth, love, perchance the bubble fame Allures us ; yet one might possess All these, and know not happiness. We must, perforce, though, play the game. One thing, its shortness, should commend The game to us. Ah ! let us then, Us players — children, women, men — Play on, play on until the end. REST. 251 Give me that rest which knows No wakening. Let those Who vaguely dream of life beyond the grave Gain their fair dreamings ; when I leave the world, ah ! then An undisturbed and endless rest I crave. When I am dead may no One, whether high or low, Saint, sinner, god or demon, interfere With my sleep. Why destroy My long desired joy — Rest : of all blessings that which is most dear. The world is fair, and yet For all the jewels set In Heaven's diadem I'd not retrace My steps on life's road. No, I would not wish to go Back and restart upon life's long, stern race. Rest for my spirit — rest For heart and mind and breast. To be as though j'ou were not. O ! give me That perfect rest — that deep. Profound, calm, peaceful sleep Through all, ah, yes ! through all eternity. I am so tired ; yes, And, look you, happiness Here or elsewhere is yet not rest ; and for That boon I long — surcease Of life's cares, for that peace, That rest complete when one shall be no more. THIS LIFE. This life seems the happiest when We are young ; we enjoy it most then. Yes, life's worth living — once. But who would, save a dunce. Want to live it all over again ? 252 HUMAN FORTITUDE. This battle for existence ought To those who must participate Therein, and war 'gainst adverse fate, Prove — well, a most absorbing sport. How few there are who want to die. Even the very oldest cling To life; it seems to most a thing That is worth valuing — but why? We struggle on. What for? Who knows? The blind and halt on dark ways grope ; And many, many, without hope. Bear uncomplainingly earth's woes. Some dread life more than death, and seek Their rest before the day is done — Their rest ere it is fairly won. Few, very few, though, are so weak. For one faint heart a million brave And valiant souls face fearlessly This life and that eternity Beyond the confines of the grave. BENEVOLENCE. O the warm and hearty grip ! O the smile upon the lip ! The cheering word, the kindly beaming eye. The religion which doth bring Such blest fruit to blossoming Is one that had its origin on high. DISSIMULATION. 253 Smiles and brave words from him, the while His sorrow-burdened spirit cries For rest — for rest that Fate denies; Yet his face wears a cheering smile. Smiles, aye! and laughter too,. and they — His fellow men, his friends — those who Know or believe they know him, do Not deem him otherwise than gay. This bold front kept up through the years ! Is there not pathos in the bluff? O hollow pretense! 'Tis enough To move — yes, e'en the gods to tears. GOD'S CHILDREN. By merit we may hope to win Our Father's favor while on earth. 'Tis not the color of man's skin That counts with God : it is man's worth. The prejudice, the hate, the strife Among the races — should it be? Why can we not in this brief life Together dwell in unity? Brown, red and yellow, white and black, We are the sons and daughters of One God : and yet how much we lack Of brotherly regard and love. 254 LINES. In Reply to Ella Wheeler Wilcox's, " A Query." It matters not if one's a Jew, A Buddhist, skeptic or Gentile. If he acts rightly and is true To his own self, God then will smile Approvingly upon him. Yes, The conscience is a truer guide Than creeds and sects. The poetess Is right. How many men have died Unhappy, dreadful deaths, because Of having 'mid the world's mad strife Broken, alas ! some churchly laws For which a God in some new life Shall smite and punish them. Is He So cruel ? O ! how few men know That God is love. There cannot be A future life of endless woe. THE DEAD. " Pray for his soul " — This strange request I read once on a sign beside A church ; but the dead are at rest, Why pray, then, for men who have died? Dead souls or dead men. The Book shows. Know nothing : needless are the prayers So often made for their repose. The dead ! Ah ! God's great peace is theirs. I now would hate, yes, hate to feel That, after I have passed away. Some one, though meaning well, would kneel And for my rest and comfort pray. A DIVINITY. 255 {Respectfully dedicated to W. E. Henley.) " There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will." — Shakespeare. " I am the master of my fate " — a most Audacious vaunting, Henley. Who is he Who can unaided breast life's storms? Your boast Smacks of irreverence to gods that be. Weak, puny man ! What, he the captain of A soul of which Fate wantonly makes sport! Upon our little earthly hills we love To crow, but ah ! it signifieth nought. Prescribed has been the course of every star; The universe is ruled by law. Would we Accomplish what we do unless we are Helped in some way by a divinity? LIFE'S BATTLE. Inherited defects and habits — these Influence us; environment also, And early training shape our destinies; Against our will they drive us to and fro. Unless help comes the strongest spirits must Yield to these forces; yet men think it shows A weakness to seek aid of Him — the just And only God, whose heart with love o'erflows. 256 JEWELRY. " On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore." — Pope. Personal bedizenment, Since earth greeted Eve's advent, Has been femininity's Chief joy through the centuries. With a zest untiring Woman glories in this thing. Is it wrong? Ah! who may judge? Who of earth's sons would begrudge Even the minutest gem In a woman's diadem? Once the sterner portion of Humankind evinced a love For adornment ; once the strong And the brave thought it no wrong To bedeck with gilded charms Their necks, breasts, ears, hands and arms ; Thus arrayed men trod life's ways Proudly in primeval days. Time brings changes ; man adores No more these once prized gewgaws ; He renounces all such things — All save studs, pins, chains and rings. He who to old customs clings On his fingers may place rings, Or upon his shirt front wear Brilliant studs that flash and glare ; Or he might, if he thinks best, Hang a chain across his vest ; Or display, 'twould be no sin. On his tie a diamond pin. But these days man should not try To exploit those things that lie In a woman's realm. Who dares Covet any gem she wears? The world's gorgeous finery Looks best on a woman ; she, A GEM, 257 As men happily have found, Should with brightest gems be crowned ; It were meet that she should deck Her ears, waist, wrists, head, arms, neck, With earth's rarest jewels ; these Decorative vanities Are for her alone ; 'tis clear Man's renunciation here Shows the sturdy fibre of His strong nature. Woman's love For bedazzling trinketry Is too great a love to be Overcome ; hence then the fair. Not the brave, earth's gems should wear. Woman should — yes, should alone Wear the necklace, bracelet, zone, The tiara and the clear Sparkling pendant on the ear ; And the brooch ah ! that should rest Only on a woman's breast. A brooch is a priceless thing When it thus lies fluttering On a bosom fair ; the brave, Who behold it, may then rave. And in ecstasy enthuse O'er a gem's prismatic hues. Yes, while the brooch flutters there, Men — all men — may breathe a prayer. A GEM. One cannot at a single bound Attain paradise, as I've found. This thought is a gem : It has, yes, a-hem ! A real Tennysonian sound. 258 JEWELS. Shining jewels of great worth Deck the daughters of the earth. Yet not only are the fair Thus adorned with gems most rare, But some men appear to be Just as fond of jewelry ; Diamond studs and golden bands Glitter on their shirts and hands. 'Tis a pleasure to behold Priceless stones well set in gold. When those stones, so rich and rare, Sparkle on a woman fair Our pleasure is increased A full hundredfold at least. Earrings, bracelets, brooches, rings. Chains, tiaras — all such things Look well on young maids, but these Feminine necessities Are not meant for men ; the fair. Not the brave, such things should wear. For the pearls that women love Let men search the dank beds of Distant seas ; let men go down Into mines for stones to crown Womankind. Yes, let man's brow Sweat for woman's joy. Ah ! thou Art, O woman, the world's pride ; Nought to thee can be denied. Yet of greater worth by far Than such glistening baubles are Other jewels — those that shine With a radiance divine ; And those jewels, though so rare, Men, all men on earth may wear. They're the jewels God hath sent — Truth, peace, love and sweet content. Truth, peace, love, contentment — yes, Bring the truest happiness. How can men and women find These blest jewels of the mind? Search aright and everywhere JEWELS. 259 May be found these jewels rare. Oft on lonely mountain peaks. Far from the world's crowds, one seeks Peace and happiness and rest; Vain, however, is the quest. Living from the world apart Chills life's current in the heart. 'Tis not on some fairy isle Brightened by a sea nymph's smile. Nor in quiet valleys where Nature seems most kind and fair, Nor in cloisters where the sound Of the rude world's woes is drowned. Nor beside the margin of A calm lake that peace and love Are more likely to be gained. No, God's jewels an- obtained Everywhere ; one need not roam O'er the sea, afar from home, For these blessings ; one may win Them amid the city's din, Working in the ranks of men, With the pick, the spade, the pen. If one did but rightly look In the cities one forsook, One might at his very door Have found these things he sought for — Have found peace. Peace. O ! what bliss 'Tis to have a gem like this. All who live and act aright May secure this jewel bright And be rich ; ah ! richer than Any scoffer ever can. Live and act aright. A clear Conscience makes this life so dear. Serving God and helping man Is the best, the only plan For mankind to gain and hold Gems of greater worth than gold. Scoffers at things sacred ne'er Find on earth these jewels rare. 260 THE MUSIC OF OTHER DAYS. My soul has been haunted ever — Strangely haunted through the years By the music of the spheres, Heard when God's stars sang together. O that morning so auspicious When my soul on free wings soared, Thrilled then by Love's now lost chord ! O that music so delicious ! Shall I hear those voices blending In love's anthem e'er again? Yes, I know I'll hear them when My life's little day is ending. Then those sweet, faint strains that haunted Me on earth I'll clearly hear: Then shall I, as death draws near. Face eternity undaunted. WITH NATURE. When care oppressed I flee The haunts of men to be With nature : to commune in some fair spot With her uplifts the soul Beyond the earth's control Into a world where sorrow enters not. To worship Nature is To worship God, I wis. At Nature's altar I, a devotee, This blessed truth have felt The while in prayer I knelt And peace ineffable stole over me. OUTSIDE THE GATES. 26) O ! can it be that power so commanding, Which has the world ruled through all ages past, A power as yet beyond man's understanding, Is to illume my checkered life at last ? Am I earth's happiest knowledge to acquire? Am I to quaff fair pleasure's draught divine? To feel from now on that life's aims are higher? Are nobler aspirations to be mine? Am I in clearer tones to sing a newer And grander melody than e'er before? To know a deeper truth ? To gain a truer And larger idea of love's mystic lore? Nay, I am not to know now nor hereafter The largess of love's bounty ; but outside The gates I'll hear, perchance, the happy laughter Of those who taste the joys I am denied. So let it be. Yet there a comfort thinking That one familiar voice I'll sometimes hear In song or laugh : 'twill keep my heart from sinking When heaven by that voice is brought more near. LILIES. Blooming in all their wondrous beauty now Under the cloudless skies, the lilies fair Reveal God's goodness : yes, we learn somehow The meaning of the flowers, and a prayer Of thankfulness for these new proofs of love Now from our hearts goes out to Him above. 262 NEARING THE END. Never, never again Shall I the Muse command. The pen — the rhyming pen — Has fallen from my hand. I feel that I am near My end. From earth's scenes I Will shortly disappear. Will men weep when I die? Hardly. Who weeps? Not men. Yet some there are who may Miss me a little when From life I've passed away. LOVE OR FEAR. Is it the love of life or fear Of death which causes us to take A strangle hold on this life here — A hold that seems so hard to break? We cling to life tenaciously, At least most of us do — but why? Do we so love it? Or do we Fear — actually fear to die? LIVING AGAIN. Death, though he knocks us mortals out So easily, is not, we know, Invincible; there'll come a bout In which he'll find himself laid low. Laid low forever — then, ah! then We who faced him and fell may rise From earth's cold lap, to live again : Again, again, beyond the skies! SEEMS QUEER. 263 There'll come a time — and this to me seems queer — When I among the living shall not be ; That time perhaps is very, very near. To leave earth's scenes seems — yes, seems queer to me. There are occasions, such as now, when I Like, really like to dwell on the idea Of passing from the present life; to my Mind, though, this, as I would repeat, seems queer. 'Tis said our souls, when liberated, wing Their flight somewhere the while, in graveyards here, Our bodies mould. Death is a common thing. And yet to live no more seems — yes, seems queer. To die ! I contemplate, let me confess, Man's debt to nature with — well, with no fear. To lie, however, cold and motionless Does, as 1 would again remark, seem queer. LIFE'S UNCERTAINTY. If some grave soothsayer declared He could foretell just when I'd die, He would not have me greatly scared, For I would know he did but lie. Still should some sage state solemnly That 1 would die this very night, Why question his veracity? Might he not prophesy aright? I may, of course, die before night. Or I — who knows? — may live for years. In either case, though, 'twere but right To be prepared when death appears. 264 IF I WERE TOLD. If I were told by some one who Would know (yet who could know?) that I Had two days more to live — just two. What would I do before I die ? Would I be frightened as my end Drew near? Would I in terror throw Myself on quaking knees, and spend Those two days thus? I don't think so. Yet might I not? Death is, in fact, A dreadful thought on which to dwell. What I shall do, how I shall act When facing death, I can not tell. My courage, now so great, might fail Me when my time comes. Why assume I would be brave ? My soul might quail Within the shadow of the tomb. And yet the thought of death, I find, Is not unpleasing — not a bit ; Though I'm not morbidly inclined, I like at times to dwell on it. Against stern Fate I have no grouch. My grave I shall approach " like one Who wraps the drapery of his couch 'Bout him, and lies down " — when day's done. SHALL WE E'ER KNOW? Life is — but ah! who knows? To try To solve the problem would be vain ; When I the secret find then I — No, in the grave who can explain? The very wisest man can throw But little light on things like these — On life, death, love. Shall we e'er know All, all about such mysteries? MY FIFTIETH BIRTHDAY. 265 I would that I had lived — well, say One hundred years ago; For if I had, I would today Be happier, I know. But I am fifty now, and in A hundred years — aye, less Than half that time perhaps I'll win My right to happiness. Yes, I am fifty, and therefore I have no cause to be Unhappy. My life will be o'er Soon in this century. The joy of peace ! the joy of rest ! These are the joys I crave ; And I shall find them in that blest And deep sleep in the grave. ENCOURAGEMENT. In the far future there may be A wondrous world wherein we weak Work-weary wights will win what we In the life here so vainly seek. This thought is most encouraging. One might despair if it were not For those thoughts that cause us to sing And be contented with our lot. WHY WAIT? They say " it's ne'er too late to mend." But why wait until near life's end Before we behave? We're now nearer the grave Than we're apt to think, my dear friend. 266 RIGHT LIVING. When one's honest and means well — yes, when One is true and sincere and has got A bright cheerful nature, ah! then The world's dogmas and creeds matter not. Why waste time in exploiting beliefs That are mystic and weird and unsound ? In grappling with the world's griefs Character's the best staff to be found. The surest support in one's need Is to feel that one has acted right. When heavily leant on, a creed Oft snaps — then most sad is one's plight. The dead are at rest — it is we '■ That live who must suffer and fight ; And yet no one of us need be Discouraged if he but acts right. NO MORE OF DEATH. No more of death ! I mean no more Thoughts on the subject for a while. I should choose things best fitted for My readers — things to make them smile. I'd like to make men laugh until They all were fairly out of breath. To do so, though, I no doubt will Have to choose themes less sad than death. Yet oft when I on death dilate. My dirges and my elegies Seem to excite, I grieve to state. Some reader's risibilities. INDIVIDUALISM VERSUS SOCIALISM. 267 Men, some men, of a certain trend of mind. Are, so they tell us, much concerned about Social conditions ; these men would blot out From our statute-books those laws they find [O ! no, they have no common axe to grind !] Which safeguard individual rights. They spout Their sophistries upon the street, while stout Sons of true labor, those of thriftier kind. Work on with faith in God and faith also In our dear country's institutions. These Real workers in the shops, mines, factories. At desks, at looms, at forges, harbor no Envy of others; free through life they go. Thankful for all its possibilities. MODERN RELIGIOUS CULTS. {Respectfully dedicated to that large and irresponsible body of self-constituted preceptors in advanced spiritual theorizing.) "New Thought", "Man's Brotherhood"— such phrases fill The mouths of ideologists these days. " The Brotherhood of Man " — a sounding phrase. Implying, as it does, love and good will Among earth's dwellers. Whose heart does not thrill At the fair prospect ! Worthy of all praise Are those who with a rightful purpose blaze A new way towards life's dazzling svunmits ; still Should we forsake the beaten pathways? Ought We follow these late day evangels so Confidingly and blindly? Do they know More than the olden prophets? This " New Thought" May fail us in the battle being fought ; The ancient faiths the truer way may show. 268 THE WICKED WORLD. Men, generally speaking, are vile ; The world teems with greed, graft and guile ; Notwithstanding its sin, Though, it's worth living in. I don't care to die yet awhile. Of course I'm appalled oftentimes By outbreaks of violent crimes. Is the fault mine? Not quite. People will sin in spite Of all my best efforts and — rhymes. A helplessness in this regard Need, however, not worry a bard. When a Tolstoy fails to Reform the world, who Could expect one like me to try hard. Why not be light-hearted and gay? So long as griefs come not my way, I'll on life's primrose path Stroll along with a laugh. I mean to enjoy life's brief day. Am I selfish ? Ah ! well, some who read 'Tween these lines may find a heart can bleed For the woes of mankind. Yes, a poor rhj^mster's mind May feel for the race in its need. The fact is that in this life few Can parry Fate's cuffings ; but who Is called on to assume A demeanor of gloom? Laugh. Yes. What good does wailing do? A wealthy patrician may don The coarse cotton garb of a son Of toil ; and may pose On the fields in such clothes. But what good by such stunts can be won? The point I would make in this case Is that no one can ever efface By methods bizarre The vices that are Ingrained in the woof of our race. DUTY'S CALL. 269 Ah ! when a poet hears the clear And thrilling voice of conscience he Should cast aside unworthy fear, And in Truth's cause fight valiantly. The world at first may scout him, but In time his fight with it he'll win ; Yes, he'll uplift it from the rut It has unconsciously been in. The songs of an inspired bard Re-echoing among the spheres Will win the world ; though long and hard The siege may be, yet Truth's day nears. A poet with a message, then, Should give it to the world ; it may Not absolutely please all men. But Duty's call bards must obey. SOME DAY I'LL KNOW. If I have ever penned a line (Which, possibly, I might have done) That brought some sparkle of sunshine Into the life of any one. Then, then — yes then the angel who Records our earthly doings may Have noticed it, and placed it to My credit. This I'll know some day. 270 CONCERNING CREATION. A CORRESPONDENT'S CONTRIBUTION TO CONTROVERSIAL COLUMNS. In days remote some mist)' matter, then in space a-sailing, Was drawn together in a gaseous globe which through the clear Empyrean revolved, but God's or nature's law prevailing, The heated mass became in time a habitable sphere. Earth's fires through the ages cooled, the vaporous steam emitted Descended in torrential rains, the mists to water turned ; Then finally the solid land appeared and earth was fitted For life — fish first, then birds, then beasts, then man, as we have learned. The Rev'rend Henry Losch, as " Critic " says, is a true poet ; As a Bible exegetist, though, he's apt to err, I fear. The waters, so states Genesis (strange that Losch doesn't know it) Covered all of earth long, long before the dry land did appear. The nebular hypothesis by Doctor Losch is scouted ; Yet this doctrine of creation in no manner removes God From the fair world we live in ; no sane man has ever doubted That He made it ; we believe this as well as the Reverend Bard. While I can't accept friend Losch's scientific theorizing, Yet, like " Critic," I must praise him for the daring way he soars In proud Poesy's dominions ; yes, it is indeed surprising How complacently he disregards convention's irksome laws. It is only the Walt Whitmans and the Losches and such mortals (Ah! I should say such immortals) who can all the rules ignore; We poor earth-bound versifiers stand awestricken at the portals Watching these intrepid, fate-defying aviators soar. FORGIVENESS. Forgiveness, though good, yet spreads sin ; It encourages grafters : men in Public service would be More pure, probably. If forgiveness were harder to win. PROSELYTING. 271 I sometimes think it well that we Differ in our opinions so. If all men thought alike would the World then be better? I say no. If in religion, say, men were Of one mind and all of one cult, The State subservient to her — The Church — what would be the result? Perhaps not progress; why try then Converting the world to our own Peculiar sect views? Let men Think for themselves; let them alone. Help them, of course, when help they need, But don't dethrone the Gods of their Adoption, nor impose a creed On them for which they may not care. Be tolerant; although we might Deem ours the only proper sect, Yet other sectists have a right To their views, which we should respect. The safety, it seems to me. Of the creed which we hold so dear Lies in the multiplicity Of differing faiths on this earth here. A wholesome check they exercise On one another's temporal bent; Hence none of them dare aggrandize Itself to the world's detriment. Which of the creeds is really best Depends upon the point of view ; Each one no doubt can stand the test Its votaries subject it to. 272 PROSELYTING. I speak with deep respect of each And every creed ; but, after all, The things we do, not forms we teach, Count most and fit us for Death's call. POSTSCRIPT. Perhaps some one might smile who reads These lines; unconsciously I may Have dogmatized upon the creeds. My feelings carried me away. But one's views of old creeds don't cause 111 feeling these days; men are more Tolerant now, and " holy " wars Are happily forever o'er. Men are, so I find, better than Some of the creeds to which they hold. A man loves now his brother man More truly than in days of old. Surely no gentle reader need Take vimbrage at the thoughts I've penned. If I seemed to impugn a creed, To those who hold it I'm a friend. Life — let me say this — is so short And so uncertain ; should not we Strive here to make, I think we ought, Ourselves fit for eternity? I've made some friends, perhaps some foes, In life. Life! Mine will soon be done; I'm glad to feel now, near its close. So kindly, yes, towards every one. SECT ENTHUSIASTS. 273 Certain opinions I've expressed In verse form may be wrong, but then Should I refrain from rhyming lest What I may say offend some men? On morals, on philosophy, On politics, religion too, I am not an authority; Yet I at times these things review. Some call me bold, others accuse Me of schismatic scheming; yes, They tell me to abjure the Muse; My poor mild rhymes they would suppress. I have been told, in point of fact, That my views are unorthodox, And that if I'm not more exact I'll founder some day on Time's rocks. But on life's seas each one must guide His barque as seemeth right and well. Is mine to " founder " or to ride The billows safely? Who can tell? I hold one cannot go astray Who (this remark, though, may seem trite) Tries sedulously to obey The voice of conscience. Am I right? I may be wrong; to win divine Preferment, it is said, one needs More copious rituals than mine, And also more elaborate creeds. My doxy's not the one held by My censors; so they (is this square?) Charge me with heterodoxy. I Believe the charge to be unfair. 274 SECT ENTHUSIASTS. A simple faith accompanied by Good deeds avails not. God delights In certain dogmas, cut and dry, And forms, and ceremonial rites. Such things do not appeal to me ; Hence my poor soul, so some declare, Will not be saved — which, certainly. Is quite a serious affair. Those mighty tweedles — dum and Qi.. — I cannot differentiate. Let experts in theology On matters great as these dilate. I would a quiet life pursue, Free from ecclesiastic scraps O'er doctrines strange and weird, that few Or none can understand perhaps. Ghostly conception ! Trinity ! Three Gods — yet one! An, vhat's the use? These studies are too deep for m^.. Or else it is I'm too obtuse. At times it's interesting to Discuss these doctrines con and pro ; We can't all be convinced they're true. For men, as we know, differ so. Let no one in his fervor, though, Become intolerant and feel Himself called on to damn his foe ; This I would style mistaken zeal. Who fears anathemas? To scold And damn men does not change their views. Those stronger means employed of old — The rack and stake — we may not use. I do not speak in rancor here Of sect enthusiasts ; I would Merely observe no one need fear The future who tries to be good. BEATIFICATION RITES. 275 Those who discover and spread truths are no More jailed and racked and burnt. The Church and State Are in most lands dissevered ; men of late Have become free; the fires that burnt Bruno And other martyrs have long ceased to glow. No state again dare lend its power and weight To sects that would revive a smouldering hate. Upon poor Joan of Arc we now bestow A tardy, empty honor ! Should not we Also beatify brave Bruno, who Likewise was murdered? No, those whom we slew And tortured in the past should be left free To rest. Peace to their honored memory. What good now can our petty church-rites do? NO JOKE. Is life a joke? Well, hardly so. Are they who laugh and they who jest The happiest? Not always. No, Griefs come to them as to the rest. The peasant, pauper, millionaire, The soldier, statesman, lover, thief. The upright man — none's free from care ; All who have lived have known grief. If life's a tragedy — then what? We may therein an interest take, And weep at times — laugh too. Why not, Ere we therefrom our exit make? 276 THE HIGHER CRITICISM. Critics can never undermine Or shake a right belief. Why fear To have them study that divine Book which all worthy men hold dear? Let those who wish, investigate The Holy Bible. Ah ! I know The truths therein are far too great For any one to overthrow. But no one means, of this I'm sure, To chill our faith. That faith, at best, Is very frail and insecure Which cannot weather every test. Scholars familiar with the Greek, Hebrew and Latin tongues may be Entrusted, so I think, to seek For more light on life's mystery. My plummet is too short to sound The depths of this strange Book, and I Upon those students of profound Learning and knowledge must rely. I welcome, then, (why should I dread?) Those who expose the errors of Old and false teaching, and who shed New light on God's truths and God's love. TOLERATION. A necessary plea for a most gracious quality, which is not as all-pervading among mankind as it should be in this enlightened twentieth century. To men unbiased, those whose free Minds are by no traditions swayed. We might be kinder. Why should we Of these truth-seekers be afraid? DIVORCE. 277 A woman should forever and a day- Be true to him to whom, when she is wed, She vows to love and honor and obey Until the man or she herself is dead. But (yes, there is a But with a big B) When the man treats her ill, neglects her — when He lives with other women, drinks, when he — Drunken or sober — beats her, then — what then? Then, then, yes, then she should not live a day, Much less forever, with this worst of brutes. Divorce him; 'twould be criminal to stay With him and breath the air which he pollutes. MAN'S PART. When wives act wrongly (which, of course, few do) When love illicit lures them, when they drink, And otherwise transgress, the husbands who Divorce them act ungallantly, I think. Women are weak but men are — ah ! well, strong Enough to keep the marriage vows they make. Whate'er the provocation or the wrong, It were unmanly wedlock's bonds to break. Man should protect the woman who is weak: Condone her sins; yes, if a wife should err, A true man should not murmur, should not seek Divorce : he still should cherish, still love her. ENVOY. Ah ! why suppose that through the lines above There runs a vein of satire? Am I Not able to cognize that higher love Which some men feel — a love that cannot die? 273 ACHIEVING GREATNESS. I'll make a man of straw and when I've done so I'll at once proceed To knock him out ; the world may then Think I have done a valiant deed. By such slick means one easily Achieves success ; a man who hopes For fame will win it soon if he Rightly manipulates the ropes. Yes, mediocre men may score — I've known it done — success and fame By setting up a man of straw And boldly knocking out the same. LIFE'S WAYS. Whene'er before me there lie two Diverging courses I, it seems, Know not which one I should pursue; I can't decide between extremes. Still when before me two paths loom Portentously, I need not care Which one I choose; I'll reach the tomb By either path — all paths lead there. True, at a grave all life-roads end; Nevertheless, before we rest From our wanderings, let us wend The ways that seem to us the best. The best, the best — not those that we Find easiest, but those pathways Duty points out; although they be The roughest, we'll walk them these days. TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF. 279 It matters not, some say, how we Conduct ourselves now and behave. For in less than a century Each of us will be in his grave. These sophists overlook some facts. For instance, what is done and said By us whilst here — our words and acts — May bear fruit after we are dead. We should, on learning this, commence To turn over a newer leaf. Or else our acts might, centuries hence, Bring some poor struggling soul to grief. Ah ! by our wrongful conduct we May suffer too — sometime ! To earn True joy through all eternity We should, then, a new leaf o'erturn. SOWING AND REAPING. An effect follows a cause ; None disputes this, hence if we Transgress one of nature's laws, We must pay the penalty. If we sow wild oats in youth We in later years shall find Sad results therefrom : this truth "Twould be well to bear in mind. We may, on the other hand. Act [for cause precedes effect] In youth so as to command Later on the world's respect. We may make the deserts glow With rare verdure if — but I'm Getting tiresome, and so I must stop this prosy rhyme. 280 CONVERSIONS. Professional revivalists Point, with a pardonable pride, To many new names on their lists Of the elect and sanctified. How quickly made are most converts ! Does reason sway them? Who may tell? Perhaps an exhorter exerts O'er some men a hypnotic spell. It has been said that reformed rakes Make the best husbands ; a girl, though, Who weds one of them surely takes A great risk — at least, I think so. Converted sinners oft " backslide " ; Although helped by some power divine, They lack, this cannot be denied, The strength to walk on a straight line. I must admit that my belief In these "conversions" is not strong; A " redeemed " crook or " reclaimed " thief Cannot, I think, remain good long. One whose delinquencies were less — A reformed debauchee — may be Best trusted ; a girl's happiness With him is safe, most probably. Yet I am dubious somewhat. A habit, tendency or trait Of any kind I know is not An easy thing to extirpate. Therefore when jaded roues grow Aweary of those haunts of theirs, Women — good women — should place no Reliance on their vows and prayers. My views may seem harsh, yet I do Not wish in any wise to shake A girl's faith in her power to Always keep straight a reformed rake. THE SMOKER'S CHURCH. 281 Smoking is permitted in The Man's Church (as it is called) in Atlantic City, and the writer is informed that many who attend the services avail themselves of the smoking privilege. This inno- vation in church ethics has suggested these verses. A man who cannot put aside his pipe Or his cigar or cigarette the while He worships his Creator, is a type Of humankind which must make Satan smile. Why, in some playhouses devoted to Burlesque performances, whose patrons are Exclusively male bipeds, one may chew And spit, but one must not smoke a cigar. Yet here on Sabbath morns, within the walls Of this church by the sea, there may be seen, Dimly through thick tobacco haze, the thralls Of Alcohol's twin sister — Nicotine. Mohammedans, whom we so criticise. E'er entering their mosques, remove their shoes. Strange people ! Yes, yet probably as wise As those of us who lounge and smoke in pews. Men who are wont to smoke and chew and drink Can find time outside sanctuaries to Indulge their tastes ; they should refrain, I think, From such things while they occupy a pew. I do not say that smoking is a sin, But men at church — if I might give advice — Should not, during the service, indulge in A habit which is — well, not overnice. Am I too captious ? Maybe so, and yet I must say there are certain places where Men should show God respect ; a cigarette Should not be lighted in a house of prayer. Upon the street, in dining-rooms, in cars, Blowing their fumes in everybody's face. Let men puff cigarettes, pipes and cigars ; But in a church smoking seems out of place. 282 RHYME'S INEFFICACY. Do laws prevent crime? No, not much. Do sermons? No. Does force suffice? Or moral suasion? Can I crush Out by my rhyme all forms of vice? No, I can ne'er do this ; the three Worst vices that afflict and curse The modern world can never be Wiped off earth's surface by my verse. So 'gainst the dram-shop, gambling-den And the house of bad morals I'll Say nought ; at rhythmic screeds the men Who frequent such haunts would but smile. Yes, rhyme in general [my rhyme in Particular] is weak, and so Lyric Philippics against sin Would be most futile, as I know. Hence I shall not excoriate The evils of the day, nor chide The drinker, gamester, profligate, In verses which they would deride. Against this active trio, then. Which upholds vice so ably, I'll Say nought ; to lash vice with a pen — A rhythmic pen — seems not worth while. It is not that I really fear The amused smiles, or the abuse — An oath perhaps, maybe a sneer — From those I rile — but what's the use? Perhaps I may be able to Write more effective verse sometime ; If so, I'll try what I can do Towards ridding this world of its crime. But as no bards have yet, we know. Reformed the world by aught they wrote, The chances of my doing so Appear exceedingly remote. POSTERITY. 283 Once in the senate hall some one Cried out " What has posterity E'er done for us ! " Well, it has done More than this flippant wit could see. The annals of our race disclose Great deeds performed by mortals who Hoped for posthumous fame; this shows Us what posterity may do. Men, ere they die, toil hard and save For others — to provide for them Makes men unselfish, kind and brave. Should we such qualities condemn? So to these others who draw out Our greatest virtues, are not we Beholden? Yes, there is no doubt, We owe much to posterity. To work for our dear ones who Outlive us, and also for their Descendants, is to add unto The world's wealth and our own welfare. Our words influence those who may Survive us ; thoughts we launch may roll Along the years till time's last day. Do not these facts spur now one's soul? Men who have yet to tread life's ways May bless us for our words of cheer. Surely this knowledge makes these days. Which we now live, more bright and dear. Posterity! Those friends that are As yet unborn ! Ah ! that day when We meet on a fair, distant star We'll thank them — yes, we'll thank them then. 284 THE REDEEMED. The wickedest are the most cowardly; Their impulse to be good when death draws neat May be due to contrition, or may be But the result of an all sudden fear. Death-bed repentances do not impress Me very greatly : if they be sincere, 'Twould seem those who are steeped in wickedness Are surest of God's love after life here. The man who sins — magnificently sins, Who in his brother's blood imbrues his hands, Is he who at the close of this life wins A sure passport to Eden's fairest lands : After his last (perhaps his first) real prayer The murderer — saved and redeemed by grace — Goes from the gallows or electric chair Straightway into a loving God's embrace. But we whose lives are uneventful, we Who do no mighty crimes, we men who try To act aright, face less assuringly That unknown future when we come to die. If I had done some murdering instead Of rhyming I might be more sure these days Of that hereafter which most mortals dread, While women would be sending me bouquets ! Fresh flowery favors from fond female friends And perfumed notes are not for him who woos The gentle Muse, but for the one who ends His crime-crammed career in a calaboose. Let not my words rob malefactors of The joy they find in thinking God will save Their sinful souls ; we all need God's great love- We all are on our way now to the grave. A SOCIALIST. 285 Surely I grudge no wretch condemned to die That rapture, bliss and glory which, it seems, He will in heaven know : I but ask why We lesser sinners may not dream such dreams ! We who can not accept the doctrines taught By certain masters of theology Will have no standing in that higher court Which seals our doom for all eternity. A SOCIALIST. Private property is wrong, the State certainly should seize It for us proletarians; this would be best I'm sure. The State could then support us, we could do just as we please; We all would then be equal, there would be no rich nor poor. We would not have to work then, for the State could well afford, With confiscated coin from erstwhile bloated millionaires, To amuse us, clothe us, see to our lodging and our board ; The State would run the trolleys ; we'd ride then and pay no fares. Each man could have an aeroplane, a yacht and motor-car ; I would summer at Bar Harbor, or possibly I might Prefer to hang around a nearer, dearer, different bar ; There's one downtown whose cocktails are to me a pure delight. I love a certain woman ; no, I do not mean my wife, But the fair spouse of a neighbor who lives some doors above ; She's my Socialistic soulmate, my affinity, my life ; We both look for the dawning of the era of free love. While the coffers of the State with the coin were nicely lined, And those humanitarians, who are to us so good. Would hand us daily our portion of the swag, you'd find That I would prove most loyal to the glorious Brotherhood. Should men of capital protest when our order swipes Their property, we'll clap them, every mother's son, in jail. When the Socialists' Proud Banner floats o'er the stars and stripes, I at that joint downtown shall gulp full many a gin cocktail. 286 HUMANITY. This term, so frequently exploited by the Socialists, has sug- gested these lines as likely to prove a befitting battle song for the Socialistic brethren. Humanity ! That is the word which gives us such delight ; We dearly love to harp on it — we of The Brotherhood. Our individuality we sink clean out of sight ; Our one concern in life is to promote the general good. Humanity ! We'll shout that word until our throats are hoarse. The shibboleth's a dandy one, and often it has stood Us in good stead when stringing the dear public — er — of course I mean when pleading for our cause, the — er — yes, general good. Humanity ! 'Tis glorious to — er — expatiate On love for one's own kind, ah yes ! and thrifty workers should Be social and hand over all their savings to the State, 'Tis sweet to sacrifice oneself thus — for the general good ! Humanity ! A car e so great should make us brave and bold ; We'll crush those li. 'Sters who own property, indeed we would Wade to our waists in plutocratic gore if we were told That doing so would but subserve the — er — yes, general good ABOLISHING LIFE'S EVILS. Men talk about abolishing War, murder, vice, all kinds of crime. Well, this would be a blessed thing; But 'twill take time, yes, 'twill take time. SOCIALISM AND ANARCHISM. 287 A Socialist declares that his Especial theory really is Unlike the one held by those who Are Anarchists — but is this true? They seem dissimilar I know, Yes, " diametrically " so, As is oft said ; but the result Gained by adopting either cult Would be the same. To Anarchy True Socialism tends. Let's see. Both Socialists and Anarchists Are properly placed on the lists Of our land's malignant foes; 'Tis hard to tell just which one shows The greater hatred for the grand Old flag that still waves o'er our land. I've heard the speakers of each sect Rant in our halls ; in one respect These speakers are alike; they vie With one another to decry This our Republic, in which we Have equal opportunity To strive for life's joys; yes, this gem Of all republics they condemn. Our institutions they assail ; At law and virtue they both rail ; Against our homes and charities. Our morals, wealth, and industries, And everything that we hold dear, These envious ones have but a sneer. " Let's from the map obliterate " The Government we loathe and hate," Thus says the Anarchist. " Agreed," 288 SOCIALISM AND ANARCHISM. Replies the Socialist, " we'll need " Some centralized strong power then " To run all business and rule men ; " This power — the State — to all who may " Its philanthropic rules obey, "Is bound to make life better than " All other systems ever can." " Not so, not so, my good friend," here Breaks in the Anarchist, " it's clear * That while your social views are nice Yet they will scarcely, sir, suffice. I'd like the State to pamper me, But I prefer full liberty — Full license, if you'd have it so ; I would be free to come and go. State pampering would weary me, I would be absolutely free. I, as is every anarchist, Am a true individualist. To serve the State, sir, for the good Of our common brotherhood Is nice, O ! yes, but excuse me, I for myself want liberty. I wish to be as free as air, And I am sure I could not bear The restraints of the State ; I trow I'd not be then as free as now. But, really, if men would obey The State, as you, sir, think they may. Why could they not live, one and all, * It should be remarked that from this point to the end of the poem it is the philosophic anarchist who is holding forth ; it is his views, not the writer's, which herein are being given. SOCIALISM AND ANARCHISM. 289 Free from its constant beck and call? In time the kind, paternal State May grow despotically great. E'en in small homes things don't go well At times, and children oft rebel. Will unity be the outcome Of your large Socialistic home? Compliance — for the general good — With the State's kindly orders would Be grand and noble — quite so, still Obeying just one's own sweet will Seems easier; yes, Anarchy Is practicable, as you see. Your system, though sustained by strong And new-made laws, would not last long. You scoff at patriotism, while You look for (and this makes me smile) Obedience and love and all True loyalty from every thrall In your Great Commonwealth, so called, When finally it is installed. To formulate and to enforce Your social laws will take of course A host of statesmen learn'd in law, A vast constabulary corps, Armies of clerks, and also hosts Of office-holders to fill posts. All this, as I'm free to infer, Will somewhat tax your exchequer. To help her wards the State, I'm sure. Must in some way the means procure. Now our demands, sir, will be great; This might impoverish the State. 290 SOCIALISM AND ANARCHISM. It would be awkward, 'pon my soul, To put the dear State in a hole. 'Tis true, your sect will run the mint, And turn out money without stint, But foreigners with whom you deal, As deal you must, perhaps won't feel Like trusting you ; yes, they may doubt The worth of that coin you turn out ; Your fiat funds they may refuse. Thus the world's credit you will lose. This possibly might wound your pride. You would feel mildly mortified. Then will your theory, so fine-spun, Abolish graft, which we all shun? I doubt it. No, take it from me. You can't uproot cupidity From human hearts, sir, by a scheme Of making Law a god supreme. Why e'en the gods that seem to be Fail to check immorality. I don't like gods, and I deplore The deifying of the law. Your centralized Bureaucracy In no wise, sir, appeals to me. Still go ahead and make the law (Which I confess, sir, I abhor) Obnoxious to the world, and you Will most unquestionably do Me a great service, for you know Obnoxious things in time must go. My aim in life (yours too, I trust,) Is to wipe law from off earth's crust; Your method, though more indirect SOCIALISM AND ANARCHISM. 291 Than mine, may prove of some effect. My nature's frank ; guile and deceit I do not like, yet I'm discreet; Therefore your creed, my crafty friend, Suits me all right; I'll gain my end If your strange theory you but spread Among mankind — so go ahead. We'll laugh (you doubtless in your sleeve, But I'll laugh loud) while fools believe In the Utopia ( !) they'll gain When men of your persuasion reign. So go ahead, I shan't prevent Your onslaught on this government, Whose laws are (this amuses me) Lighter and fewer than will be Those of your sect when it controls Some ninety million human souls. O ! 'twill afford me a real joy When this Republic you destroy. When on its ruins your queer sect Its socialistic State erect, It won't be long ere men will be Dissatisfied, then Anarchy Will reign supreme. Proceed therefore In your attempt to make the law All powerful ; when law controls Men's businesses, and lives, and souls, Then Anarchy is nsar, my friend. Proceed therefore, you serve the end That I have long been striving for — Utter abolishment of law. This is the end I have in view. The Socialists but play into 292 NECESSITIES. My hands. Poor fools ! some of them say That, " diametrically ", they Are as a class arrayed 'gainst me. The fact is they aid Anarchy. Yoii leaders know this, but not those Dupes who the rank and file compose ; They help us though — these willing dupes- In our contentions and disputes. To make use of a pet word such As " diametrically " much Delights the rank and file when they Meet their foes in a wordy fray. Then, too, these dupes disseminate The seeds of malice, greed and hate; Without their aid it would be vain To hope, as I do, for the reign Of Anarchy, when Law shall be Abolished and all men are free. Free, aye ! not wards, sir, of a State But masters of themselves and fate. LIBERTY. Liberty! Though the price of it may Be great, it is worth all we pay: Vigilance that ne'er nods, Ne'er relaxes. Ye gods ! It is worth it, yes, worth it, I say. NECESSITIES. We all mean well ; justice and love Most men desire ; all want peace. Yet the world needs its legions of Priests, soldiers, watchmen and police. BUYING FOREIGN TITLES. 293 The many matrimonial corn-pacts recently entered into by rich American girls with titled foreigners have suggested these verses. Another heiress soon, they say, will wed A proud though impecunious foreign earl. But who here in the States intends to shed A tear because we are to lose this girl? It does, though, seem a pity to behold A poor, weak and misguided daughter of Ambitious parents thus exchange her gold For — what? A title— not, ah! not for love. Not love, not love ; her wealth is great, 'tis true, But love, the richest gift by heaven sent, The girl possesses not ; she never knew. And ne'er will know, life's holiest sentiment. Obsessed now by the thought that she sometime Will wear a crown, this foolish maiden would Yield up her body and her soul — a crime That shocks the moral sense of womanhood. What will not money do ! With it one may Procure a title from the Church or State. A millionaire can give his child away To some high lord who seeks a wealthy mate. And priests will bless the union of the two, While Heaven shudders and while Hell applauds. The world's flesh-pots attract a motley crew ; 'Round them are found dukes, clericals and lords. A titled son-in-law comes high, but no Buyer objects who can the price afford. The son's thrice bless'd — by Pa, by Ma, also By some " vicegerent ", so-called, of the Lord. 294 RELIGION AND SCIENCE. This thrice-bless'd son now enters on a course Of wildest living ; he neglects his wife — Drink, debt, debauchery, despair, divorce. And death! So ends " a romance in high life ". If King George had but knocked out Washington Some of us here might now be belted earls And win fair brides. I'm glad, though, our George won. I never cared much for tuft-hunting girls. None of us need deplore the fact that these Two sordid souls will wed ; they may, you know, Harness themselves in wedlock if they please ; She needs the title and he needs the dough. PROBABILITIES OF ANOTHER LIFE. Another life, it seems to me. Is likely. Time? Nay, we need more Than time ; we need eternity To do all we are cut out for. Still I may err ; some of us do A great deal in this life of time. I've done myself (is this not true?) Enough — yes, quite enough of rhyme. RELIGION AND SCIENCE. Religion and science appear To mistrust each other. 'Tis queer That such times when the two Seem to clash, as they do. Religion should show the most fear ! No, religion, as her acts well show, Is brave. I was wrong — yes, quite so. She and science agree. It is theology Which is timid and fearful, we know. ARBITRATION. 295 One night a footpad stopped me — " Sir," said he, " Your money or your life " ; my fright was great. My life and coin are rather dear to me, So I replied—" O ! let us arbitrate ! " " Let us arbitrate, let us arbitrate." " Not much," he answered, " if you care to live. Hand out your cash ; come ! I've no time to wait." I yielded ; there was no alternative. The crook was subsequently pinched and tried ; They found him guilty, I am glad to state. When sentenced to be fined and jugged, he cried — " O ! judge, your honor, won't you arbitrate? " " Let us arbitrate, let us arbitrate." " Well, hardly," said the Judge. " I really fail To see the use ; I must incarcerate Your corpus, for a season, in the jail." " Here is an ode to Spring, 'tis one of those — " The Editor, though taken unawares. Acted with rare discretion, he uprose And promptly kicked the rash bard down the stairs. " Let us arbitrate, let us arbitrate ! " Thus yelled the falling poet. Ah ! but who Could then have helped him? 'Twas too late — too late! No schemes of arbitration now would do. They bore the shattered poet to the " Chi ", Where long he laid in a delirious state. Raving of jocund spring, and asking why It was that they refused to arbitrate. 296 OLD THOUGHTS. " Let us arbitrate, let us arbitrate — " This cry of his re-echoed through the wards. He spoke, too, of his soul — how it would mate With hers, ere long, on daisy-spangled swards. When dreamers here, whose strange schemes work so well (That is, in theory), reach fair Heaven's gate, And Peter tells them all to go to — well, Will they then say — " O ! let us arbitrate? " " Let us arbitrate, let us arbitrate ! " Their cry for arbitration won't help though; The saint is firm, he will not hesitate To tell them all to go to — er — below. OLD THOUGHTS. Life seems to me (and doubtless to Others also) most strange; the more I see — but these thoughts are not new; I've uttered them, I think, before. Still there's no harm reuttering Old thoughts when we've no new ideas. Life ! Yes, the more I view the thing The more mysterious it appears. Let me muse, therefore, o'er the old, Old thought — that life is strange ; although Another life, so we are told. More strange than this we are to know. That other life ! Yes, it will be More strange than this, and far more fair. What happiness we'll know when we Greet our loved and lost ones there ! SOME REFLECTIONS. 297 There are visionaries who Have evolved great schemes to do Away with crime, work, poverty and cares. All will be most lovely when 'Mong the world's vast hordes of men The faddists introduce these schemes of theirs. I am doubtful, though, if these Social doctrinaires who please The credulous among us with their schemes, Can by law make all men kind, True and loving. No, I find An iridescent gleam about such dreams. When one contemplates those two Philosophic savants who Are so unbrotherly, how can one look For the promised love that will Every mortal's bosom fill When new and strange laws choke the statute-book? In the far-off Northern zone 'Neath the Pole Star, cold and lone, A Peary and a Cook could not agree; Yet the faddists say when they Rule the country all men may Dwell then together in sweet unity ! ASSASSINS. A speed-fiend these days in his motor-car Is like a slanderer, it seems to me. In what way you ask? How obtuse you are: He runs men down. Dost now the likeness see? Our lives and our reputations too — ■ Yes, our good names (the " jewels of the soul ") Are at the mercy of assassins who O'er their cars and vile tongues have no control. 298 WEALTH. The rich, so some say, are all thieves, The poor, all saints — but is this true? I doubt if any one believes The statement, though some claim they do. By trickery one cannot rise To any height ; no cause is won By a resort to fraud ; not lies But truth wins out in the long run. Thieves are not trusted ; crookedness Avails not ; honesty in these Days of hard struggle brings success ; It is the best of policies. And yet most men are honest — why Do not more of us, then, succeed? The fact is we are rather shy Of other qualities we need. Thrift, diligence, strong nerves, good health, Sobriety and common sense. Joined with integrity, win wealth And raise a man to eminence. We know this well, and yet at Fate's Stern laws we rail ; our failures quite Embitter us. O ! how one hates The man who prospers in life's fight. Brains, pluck and skill — if one has piled Up wealth by exercising these Good traits, why should he be reviled By those who lack such qualities? I'll never make my pile, for I Possess no skill in gathering coin, But in the common hue and cry Against the rich I shall not join. SUCCESS. 299 I hold that malice is a sin, And envy too. I think such traits Can only find a lodgment in The warped minds of degenerates. I blame not anybody who Amasses wealth ; we all — had we The needed talents — would try to Acquire independency. I'd like to be a millionaire. Yes, I admit it ; yet I'm sure I grudge no man on earth the share Of wealth he's managed to secure. SUCCESS. Let no one judge from the above Remarks on wealth that success lies In the accumulation of Hard cash ; one should not thus surmise. If one has helped his fellow-men. As best he could, in their distress — If one has always meant well, then One has, I take it, gained success. For he who has thus acted will Know, as he draws anear life's goal, A joy and peace that cannot fill A mere gold-gatherer's sordid soul. Many of us may not have won Success as money-makers, but The word " Failed ", when our lives are done, Need not on our tombstones be cut. 300 WAR. Wars in the past were doubtless necessary. But the world now perhaps can get along Without resorting to those sanguinary Methods of righting that which we think wrong. An insult, for example, from some nation, Envious of this Republic's greatness, might Be settled honorably by arbitration. Why rush, like brutes, into a bloody fight? War! Is it hell, as Sherman one time stated? Ah! it is worse. If hell exists, I feel Its woes are very oft exaggerated. But war ! — it's far more awful, far more real. AN ARMED PEACE. An armed peace is almost as expensive As war itself; though we may need these vast And costly armaments, I'm apprehensive As to the peace they "safeguard". Will it last? It seems so strange that after very nearly Two thousand years of Christian teaching we Have gained — what? Peace? — sweet, lasting peace? Nay, merely A truce of doubtful durability. War may. ere long, engage the close attention Of every nation in fair Christendom. We live in terrifying apprehension Of that curse which we know some day will come. Ships, armaments and fighting men — we need them. Yes, we for war must ever be prepared. Prayers! Peace-funds! Arbitration courts! Who'll heed them? When wars are wanted wars will be declared. THE CARMEN'S STRIKE. 301 Those inconsiderate young men, who for weeks past have stoned cars when a chance has offered, now have got aweary of the sport somewhat; some have been fined and others jailed. Ah! when these reckless youths asailed the trolley-crews and riders they recked not with Reyburn and with Clay. To work on cars or ride therein is most assuredly no sin. This fact, 'mong other wholesome truths, has now been taught these thoughtless youths. We peaceful citizens, therefore, who always have upheld the law, may once again, without a fear, avail ourselves of that most dear and sacred right so long denied to us ; I mean the right to ride in the street cars. O ! we should give thanks for this blest pre- rogative. To feel now when we ride that we don't place our lives in jeopardy is something to be thankful for. The reign of order and of law is re-set up. Peace is installed. The sympathetic strike, so-called, has proved a fizzle; listen to the hum of industry. Ah ! who, these days of " sympathetic " strikes, failed to secure the things he likes? Who was deprived of bread, of beer, of milk, of meat? 0! hear, just hear the rattle on our thorough- fares of carts heaped high with sundry wares. We all are happy, save a few dupes of unworthy leaders who don't realize the glory of our country and the flag we love. Our thrifty workers will not grieve when these disgruntled leaders leave the city, whose vast industries they tried to ruin. Ah ! did these more thrifty workers, when told they must draw their trust-funds out, obey? No, they, though in the union ranks, still keep their money in the banks. The bankers at the old stands do their business still. Is this not true?* Blind leaders! Pitifully blind! Why is it * With the view of crippling the fiduciary institutions of the city, the trade-union leaders had ordered every union workman to withdraw at once from banks and trust companies every dollar he had therein on deposit. The leaders also declared a sympa- thetic strike throughout the state, ordering all union workmen in all lines of industry to stop work on a certain day and not resume same until allowed to do so. 302 THE CARMEN''S STRIKE. labor cannot find, in all the varied industries, more able officers than these? In politics they soon intend to drag their cause. Where will it end? These baffled, vengeful men, alas! would now array class against class. A new religion they'll next spring on us, to which we all must cling. They'll fail, though, in their every plan of exploiting the workingman. Yes, give them rope enough and they will surely hang themselves some day. It was our Mayor, yes, it was he who by his might crushed anarchy. Before the rabble others quailed, but the Mayor's courage never failed ; when others would have parleyed, he stood for the law's supremacy; peace, lasting peace, dear to our hearts, he won by his intrepid arts. All honor to the strong, brave, stern and level-headed man — Reyburn. We Philadelphians well may be proud of Reyburn and of Clay ; they did but do their duty, still they showed such pluck, and tact, and skill, and such impartiality in serving us, that every free, right-minded, loyal citizen feels grateful now to these two men. And to O'Leary, yes, to him our thanks are due. Long life to " Tim ". To this staunch chief and his brave men, who safeguarded our city when mobs sought to pillage her, we owe a debt of gratitude also. And there's an- other sturdy son of our town towards whom each one is kindly drawn — 'tis Kruger, who would not hand o'er his business to the enemy ; all of us feel for Kruger, man of blood and steel, a deep regard ; ah ! no one could intimidate this man who stood heroically for the right. His cause was just; he won the fight. E'en Kruger's foes in their hearts must acknowledge that his cause was just. MY NAME IS PLATT. 303 Sentiments supposed to have been uttered by a national strike promoter and organizer when in Philadelphia, 1910, superintend- ing the trolleymen's causeless strike which so signally failed of success. The chief demand of the strikers was recognition of their union, this demand the Trolley Company would not grant. I have rings on my toes, As everybody knows ; And corns, too — but then why mention that? Men shudder when I frown ; I come from Detroit town. I was once a workingman ; my name is Piatt. Pray don't forget the name, Piatt— C. O. Piatt ; the same Is calculated to inspire awe. I'm a veritable god, Slaves tremble when I nod ; Piatt is my name, as I have said before. Six thousand car-men, who Had fairly good jobs, threw Them up at my command ; it seemed a shame, But then I had to show My authority, you know. Piatt — Clement Piatt, remember, is my name. My admirers now wear Many medals upon their Manly bosoms, and on every medal my Full name — Piatt, Clement O. — Appears 'neath my photo ; And these tagged-idlers cheer as I mote by ! The police I defy. When I am mayor, then I Shall fire (I'm not talking through my hat) Every member of the force. I can get along, of course. Without the cops. My name, please note, is Piatt. I have this bum town scared. I've actually declared A general strike ; this bluff has got 'em cowed. I am playing a deep game. Piatt — C. O. Piatt's my name; It is a name of which I'm rather proud. 304 JOHN E. REYBURN. I like the name, although The letters C and O And P don't fully please me ; could I drop The "0" I'd find more peace; For I don't like police, Yet my initials spell that dread word — " cop ! " I hate Reyburn and Clay ; But wait till Saturday And then— no, I must not anticipate. Blood in streams shall gush through these [My name's Piatt, spelt with two t's] Fair streets unless the people arbitrate. The timid ones to me Now bend the shaking knee. I'll force on them my arbitration plan. O ! I am gaining fame. And C. O. Piatt's my name. I'm a " workingman " from Detroit, Mich-i-gan. JOHN E. REYBURN. [Written in respectful acknowledgment of the Mayor's cour- ageous conduct, and of his great services to the city, during the strike riots in the early part of 1910.] All honor to our Mayor, John E. Reyburn. When lawlessness in our fair town prevailed, When men, some men, of a high calling, quailed Before the mob, the Mayor was firm and stern ; He knew what other men have yet to learn — That parleying with mobs is wrong; he jailed The miscreants who wantonly assailed Men at their peaceful tasks ; at every turn He balked the schemers who had formed a plan To unseat Justice and to paralyze The industries that able men and wise Have built here through laborious years. We can With grateful hearts thank God for this strong man — This strong, brave man who knows where duty lies. A STRIKE. 305 [These dispassionate verses were suggested by the lawlessness and distress which, in the summer of IQII, attended an ill-advised and most unsuccessful strike for trade-union recognition in one of the world's greatest industrial plants, located in Philadelphia. It should not be thought that the writer is unfriendly disposed towards labor. He may believe that many trade-union officials are becoming unduly arrogant and are at times inclined to make preposterous demands which if granted would unsettle business generally and cause much suffering to everybody engaged therein ; but one who has such beliefs as these and who frankly expresses them, does not, of course, show thereby that he is in any wise an enemy of the workers.] Men, while hastening to their Work at early morning time, Waylaid in our city fair ! Beaten! Why? Pray, for what crime? Wanting work — this "crime" is theirs. Who asails them? Let us know Who, on the town's thoroughfares. Beat and kick the workers so. Strikers ! Well, we sympathize With them in their just complaints; We're not callous to their cries ; Employers are — well, not saints. What are now these strikers' woes? Did their late employers dare To ill-treat them and impose Wrongs which were too great to bear? No, it seems their greatest woe Is the firm they once worked for Won't yield to "The Union", so They — its members — break the law. On the street they loaf and glare At the willing workers who Pass by on the way to their Work — work they are glad to do. 306 A VERACIOUS NARRATIVE. Men may work if they wish to. This right who — yes, who denies ? We should protect all men who This clear right would exercise. We should teach those who belong To trade-unions that to Kill non-unionists is wrong: This the strikers should not do. We think these malcontents, then, Are not warranted — not quite In assaulting workingmen, Which, to us, does not seem right. A VERACIOUS NARRATIVE. A farmer once [this tale is true, For otherwise I'd not tell it. I'm really not a person who Would fib merely to make a hit.] This farmer he [if any doubt The truth of this they only need Consult the record to find out That what I say is true indeed.] The farmer had [of course I know That writers oft prevaricate ; Hence this tale may be doubted, though 'Tis true, as I again would state.] The farmer had a cow, the same Was run o'er on the B. & O. Against the road he made a claim — A claim for damages, you know. He claimed one hundred dollars, yes, And got it. He the day before Would have sold that cow for much less. It pays to have a cow run o'er. WOMAN SUFFRAGE. 307 She wants the ballot in her hands, The which in time she'll doubtless get. Man has to bow to the demands Of a determined suffragette. Who can oppose a woman when Her methods are as militant As those who want to vote like men? Thwart such a woman ? No, I can't. What ! stop a suffragette who rails 'Gainst custom, laws and fate? Estop Her tongue, which lashes men? Her nails, Which scar the features of a cop? Stop her from hurling brickbats through Shop windows? — from assaulting State Officials? — from attempting to Burn halls wherein men congregate? Nay, this at present most rampant Hysteria of hers will grow Less marked in time ; and so I shan't Try to suppress her now. Oh, no ! Give woman carte-blanche, as it were, To do what she thinks serves her cause. 'Tis unchivalrous to jail her r"or breaking man's or e'en God's laws. AN UNIMPORTANT MATTER. I do not care a dam (of course I mean by this a tinker's dam) For lobster and anchovy sauce ; I'd rather any day have ham. This matter may appear of slight Importance ; but let me explain, I merely tell it so I might Say " dam " and not be thought profane. 308 RESOURCEFUL WOMAN. In these days woman excels man In courage, nimble wit and zeal. Listen, O ! listen, ye who can, To certain truths I would reveal. Fear wrecks men's lives. Ah ! we bards, who Through psychologic lenses peer In human souls, know well how few Men in the world are void of fear. Man's cowardice may briefly be Depictured here ; and briefly, too, In this sketch woman's bravery And ready art we might review. When they first met they felt they were Made for each other : she knsw he Was her soul's destined mate ; in her The man found his affinity. He lacked the nerve, though, to propose. The woman pined not in despair ; She roped in later, the world knows, A guileless multimillionaire. SfC ^ ^ ^ -JC ijC >!* 'Twere well perhaps, before I close, To let the gentle reader glance Upon the lives now led by those Who figured in this love romance. A married pair dwell at the shore Most sumptuously, I have heard : — A blighted wretch works in a store On Market street not far from Third. And such is fate ! He who declares Men strong and women weak has yet To learn a thing or two. Who dares Talk thusly to a suffragette? TO MISS MARGARET , 309 School Teacher and Suffragette. I hope Miss Margaret will be Very successful in this life. She can't be president, but she May be a president's dear wife. But O ! she is a suffragette. Fate, consequently, may have meant The fair, ambitious Mar-ga-ret To be an actual president. Down — down with man ; let woman rule. Can she do so? I think she can. Too long, too long she's been the tool. The slave and plaything of base man. Love? Nonsense. Pooh! No militant Vote-huntresses such weakness show. Love? Up-to-date young women can't Trust men enough for that. O no ! We all — both men and women — love Our country ; true, the petticoats Love the Church more ; 'twill rank above The State when women have the votes. Well, well, the Church is pure j and who Doubts her infallibility? Most women would prefer her to The State, and this appeals to me. So if the Church should reign again. If she her old claim reasserts To rule our consciences, we men Won't mind ; we like to please the skirts. 310 TO MISS MARGARET . Fair woman's privileges here On earth are not enough — not quite. The ballot might enlarge her sphere ; She really claims it as a right. 'Tis time on earth for something new. What good has tyrant man e'er done? The world will learn a thhig or two When " Margie " reigns at Wash-ing-ton. Perhaps these lines are foolish, yet Many true things are said in jest. But I should close ; Miss Mar-ga-ret Is tired and deserves a rest. Miss Margaret might " keep me in ", Or set me some hard task, I fear ; Or in some manner discipline Me if I do not stop right here. But " bards " are privileged to sin Against established laws sometimes. Forgive me then ; don't " keep me in " For perpetrating rhymes — or crimes. Miss Margaret is not, I hear, Unduly strict ; they say she's kind. Still if she means to be severe And keep me in — well, I won't mind. Expulsion — that's the thing I fear. I dread no other punishment. I shall, when called, at once appear Before our future President. Whatever tasks she sets I will Accomplish, though they take up all A livelong day — from morn until The evening dewdrops on earth fall. DOING IT. 311 " Everybody's doing it now." — Line from a popular ditty. Verses written to while on her European tour in the summer and fall of igi2. The song says we're all doing it; 'Tis likely we all are; I'm no Exception, as perhaps this bit Of verse which I write here will show. From youth up I have rhymed, and still I'm at it ; though by doing it I ne'er derived, perhaps ne'er will Derive the slightest benefit. I know I ought to stop, and yet Among the songs that I have sung There may be one — but don't forget To mention me to Sallie Young. Yes, as I was about to state. Some song sung one time by Cliff Ford May some day in some heart vibrate A kindly, sympathetic chord. But I'm too sanguine, as it were. No verse-line can I ever drop That will in any manner stir " Her " heart ; and so I better stop. Stop? Nay, I cannot stop, I fear. 'Twere easier, in point of fact. To stop those waters as they near Niagara's awesome cataract. Stop? Ah! go stop the swelling sea's Inrushing tide, the flight of time, The courses of the stars : all these One, mayhap, stop — but not my rhyme. Aye ! stop earth's journey round the sun. Stop e'en a suffragette's loose tongue. But try not, for it can't be done. To — 0! but how is Sallie Young? 312 DOING IT. I don't regret, though, giving my Time to the Muse, whose smiles so bright Lured me from bu=iness, in whch I Might have become a shining light. Perhaps I'll never wr"te a line By which I'll score much of a hit. Fame ! Ah ! it never may be mine ! But I still go on "doing it". Fame's ladder is so hard to scale; I've not reached yet its second rung; If I keep on, though, I can't fail. And so — but, say, how's Sallie Young? Your foot now presses. I might say, Fair Albion's historic soil, Whereon, as in a former day. Men live and love and dream and toil. Grand has been England's past, and she Is still supreme — still great and wise. God bless our kin across the sea, To whom we're bound by deathless ties. The land of Shakespeare ! I would lay With reverence upon this bard's Sepulchered dust a — er — but, say. Give Sallie Young my best regards. The freest land upon the sphere Is England : there true liberty Prevailed while human beings here Were kept in hopeless slavery. Lincoln redeemed our fair land when He freed the wretched slaves therein. Now we are happier, better men ; We can't forget, though, our past sin. Foul crimes, though they be pardoned, still Leave marks; but good deeds, though unsung. Tend to — er — um — I trust you will Remember me to Sallie Young. DOING IT. 313 Sometimes with indignation my Blood boils when o'er these things I dwell. The fearful past is — hem — say, I Trust — er — that Sallie Young's right well. I was a child when war began, Else I'd have been [as from the gist Of thefe remarks one might judge] an Unyielding abolitionist. A love for freedom seems to dwell Within my heart. Ah ! do you know, I think this is because I'm — well, A poet, if I may say so. Perhaps had I been older when The war broke out, I might have sprung Upon my country's foes ; but then I — ah! but how fares Sallie Young? You who are now in London-town, Whose fogs are wont to hide that sim Which beams these days so bright'y down On Humpty-third and Ham-il-ton, May smile whilst glancing at these lines. Doubtless you'll think I ought to quit This work ere this day's sun declines, And not, as now, be doing it. Yet is it very wrongful, when Athwart one's brain strange fancies flit, To sit down at one's desk with pen In hand and there try doing it? Business has not knocked sentiment From out my life ; nor has time's flight Impaired, to any great extent, My heart. O no ! my heart's all right. The silent passing of the years Has calmed my spirit, dulled my wit; But yet in grief sometimes, and tears, I find myself a-doing it. 314 ENGLAND AND THE UNITED STATES. England ! She's worthy our regards, Aye, and our love. I hold most dear The birth-land of the Bard of bards : The world's resplendent star — Shakespeare I England I love — I always will. 'Tis the true land of liberty. We here held men in bondage till Immortal Lincoln set them free. We boasted — boasted blatantly Of freedom when we owned the while Four million slaves ! Hypocrisy Like this must have made Satan smile. When our slaves broke their chains then we Chased them as far [forgive us, God,] As Canada : there they were free. On British ground no slave e"er trod. The stain upon our sh'eld has been Effaced by sacrifice of lives. We're free as England now ; our sin Is past — its memory, though, survives. Crimes, though condoned by heaven, yet Leave scars which time can not out-blot. Our country ! May we ne'er forget Its saviour, Lincoln, who was shot. YELPERS. My having dropt a rhythmic line In England's praise seems to excite Certain compatriots of mine, Who rate me for it. Is this right? Commenting on faults we possess And upon virtues found elrewhere, Does not denote that one is less A patriot, as some declare. To yelp at England seems to please Some m.en immensely. I've begun To get impatient, though, with these Yelpers ; they greatly tire one. DREAMY DRONES. 315 A dreamer ! Bah ! But few Care aught for him, it seems. The world wants men who do Great things — not one who dreams. Though his ideals be high, Though he conceives bold schemes, Yet — a mere dreamer ! Why Should we regard his dreams? Yet busy men sometimes, At night 'neath luna's beams. May be thrilled by the rhymes Of some drone who dreams dreams. GOOD INTENTIONS. Are good intentions well To have, or is it true They pave the w^ay to hell. As it is said they do? Intentions that are good. E'en if not one of them Be carried out, I would Not utterly condemn. Intentions harm no one ; Acts may be better, still If no great deeds are done, Consider, pray, the icill. 316 A LETTER. Suggested by reading one of William Watson's poems. To the Editor of " The Bulletin." Dear Sir: It is generally conceded that woman is not entirely devoid of faults, but when a mere male creature presumes to study her, he should not, on discovering some trivial feminine foibles charac- teristic of the sex in general, proceed to excoriate the individual woman whom he has been examining ; no, that doesn't seem chivalrous; it were better (certainly more diplomatic) for the bold psychologist to speak of woman in the abstract, and in this manner (in the abstract) chide her — very, very gently chide her for her shortcomings. It is safer, paradoxical as it may appear, to impeach a whole sex than to criticise harshly an individual member of it. The impaled individual, if a man, may knock you down ; if a woman — well, who can tell what may happen ? But when one rails at men or women collectively, they and the world at large are apt only to smile. I am led to utter these sentiments by reading William Watson's poem, just published, entitled " The Woman With the Serpent's Tongue." I believe the disgruntled Watson would not have ven- ture I to lampoon a man. Allow me to present some verses of my own, called forth by the English poet's poem. WOMAN. Woman is human, and, therefore, A fault or two she may possess. But what of that? We men adore And idolize her none the less. Ah ! from the cradle to the tomb's Dread brink, a woman plays her part Well on life's stage ; her smile illumes The sad world's palpitating-heart. Man in his struggles here on earth Her blessed ministration needs; Without her, of what little worth Were all his aims, and faiths, and creeds ! A LETTER. 317 She is not faultless, no, not quite — Not wholly so; but then, but then, She is the world's pride and delight, The darling of the gods and men. The souls of men and souls of gods Thrill with love's joy when she is by. Who would not, when she smiles or nods. Be willing in her cause to die? Ah ! when she smiles the old earth rolls Blithely along. What joy men find When, in the deep depths of their souls, Fair woman's image is enshrined ! Life without her ! What would it be? I hardly dare prognosticate. Yet one of that sex is, we see. Scored by a would-be laureate. What private cause impelled him to His spleenful outburst? I'm inclined To think he wooed her and she " threw Him down " ; he now airs his small mind. We read his verse, but none can tell Why he thus rants with rhythmic skill. A man if he can not speak well Of any woman should keep still. But here is a — a — well, a bard (A slanderer is not a man) Who scolds a woman. Why regard Him as a man? I never can. 318 MY SHIP. In quest of treasure, which Might tend to make one rich, I long ago sent out a ship to sea : But of tliat venture no Tidings have come, although My ship, Hope says, will yet return to me. There are those who aver Hope is untrue — that her Fair words and promises are not to be Relied upon : but drear Were life without Hope near To say our ships will some day come from sea. GHOSTLY VISITORS. When at my desk I write Far, far into the night, How often in my room strange guests appear : They enter silently, And gaze so upon me ; Their visitations, though, I do not fear. They harm me not, and why Be rude to them, and by My manner show they are unwelcome? Nay, I pity them : so sad They seem. I never had The heart to turn those solemn guests away. FLIGHTINESS. 319 O! if my soul could only break Its fetters and on pinions fleet Soar in the infinite, I'd make All other bards take a back seat. I'd pass in my flight from this sphere Many who've sung long since, but I Would slow up when I reached Shakespeare ; I would not, could not pass Bill by. I'd pause and. if he would allow, I'd shake his hand. I'd love to gaze Upon the forehead and the brow Of him who wrote such wondrous plays. FAME'S INSTABILITY. How insecure a thing Is fame ! The plays attributed to one William Shakespeare were not, they claim, Written by Avon's songful son. Yes, fame is insecure ; Shakespeare Is now attacked ; I, too, may be Doubted some day ; these stanzas here They'll say could not be done by me. THE BACONIAN THEORY. If those plays that bear Shakespeare's name Were written, as some parties claim, By Bacon or by Another learned guy. What's the odds? — those plays still read the same. Doubts of authorship cannot, I know. Mar one's joy in those dramas, although I like to think 'twas Shakespeare Who wrote Hamlet, and Lear, And Macbeth, and those sonnets also. 320 FRIENDS ALL FRIENDS. I'm not deficient, if you please, In one art : 'tis, as you may guess, The art of making enemies, In which art I've gained some success. Men who have never made a foe May be angelic — very true ; But they are weak and forceless, so Give me an enemy or two. A man is very properly Judged by the friends with whom he goes And by the foes he makes ; let me Be judged so. I've both friends and foes. If I'm loved for the enemies I've made I shall be, I confess, Much pleased ; I'm glad when some one sees Somethmg to love which I possess. To friends and foes whose love and hate Have helped me I have cause to be Most thankful ; I appreciate The help they all have rendered me. To those who are no friends nor foes, Who grant no favors, but allow Me a fair field — yes, I to those Feel also very kindly now. And so towards all the men who dwell On earth whom I have met I may Feel kindly ; I wish them all well, For all have helped me on life's way. ANNETTE. 321 I scarcely can repress a sigh The while in verse I dip : I e'en must weep — you ask me why? Our Nettie has the grip. Perhaps the grip has Nettie, still In either case, you know. There's cause to grieve, for when Net's ill My tears are bound to flow. And they are flowing now as they Ne'er flowed before : it looks • As though my tears will wash away The records in my books. Lunch time has come, but yet I fear I can't eat even pie. Who can gulp grub when Net's not here? Not I — no, no, not I. Out in the joyless day I go : While on the thoroughfare I cry aloud for Net, but O ! That dear girl is not there. Back to the office then I reel, As one made drunk with grief. Self-slaughter, I'm inclined to feel, Might bring me some relief. Mine is indeed the grief that kills : I stagger in the store. 'Tis hard, I find, to make out bills When one's heart is so sore. And yet I happily do know That somewhere far beyond The gathering gloom Hope's star doth glow. Why, then, need I despond? 322 RECOVERED. For me there may be pleasure yet In this life here ; yes, when We have back with us little Net I'll breathe and live again. But now I'm practically dead, A fact which is quite plain. I try to think, but my poor head Cannot endure the strain. A faintness comes upon me now, My pen falls from my hand : The ceaseless throbbing of my brow Is most too much to stand. My heart — but no. Why air my woes? Fair Nettie might prefer The grip, bad as it is, who knows, To these lines I write her. I'll stop right here. Why speak about That heart of mine? Ah! let It break. Who cares? Without a doubt Our one thought is — Annette. For she's down with la-grippe : therefore We all are quite " upset ". May Heaven soon to health restore Our dearest girl — Annette. RECOVERED. Annette now is happily o'er The grip ; she is with us once more. She's come back less robust, But her lost strength, we trust, Will soon be restored in the store. I WON'T TELL HER NAME. 323 A Song As sung on one memorable occasion in Stokeson's Mushroom-Annex. I think it is nice — yes, I think it is bliss To work in a place as pleasant as this : Where all are so kind the work seems like play, And our lives are made bright with new blessings each day. The sweet friendly feeling pervading the place Enchants every one, fills each worker with grace. And now I'm so glad that to this place I came Because of some one, but I won't tell her name : No, I won't tell her name: I won't tell her name. -") Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. Time never can weaken those ties strong and dear Of friendship and love that are daily formed here: Yes, the hearts that in this seed-establishment beat Know a rapture that makes life especially sweet. One can find in the store more true pleasure and mirth Than anywhere else on the face of the earth. ! 'tis good to be here : if I never came 1 would never have met — but I won't tell her name. No, I won't tell her name : I won't tell her name. Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. 324 I won't tell her name. When awearied, as sometimes may happen, we need But turn to our nearest co-worker to read In his or her face a sympathy keen That throws a bright glamour of joy o'er the scene. There are smiles to encheer us should we feel depressed : And O ! there is nothing so lovely and blest As a smile. Ah, like that one which yesternight came On the face of — but no, no : I won't tell her name. I won't tell her name : no, I won't tell her name. Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. A few days ago, to be candid with you, I felt rather gloomy, in fact I felt blue : For something occurred, I need not say what, That seemed to increase the gloom of my lot. But some one came to me and thus she did say : — " To sorrow, my friend, you had better not give way." She cheered me so much — this sweet, lovely dame. But I won't tell her name, no, I won't tell her name. I won't tell her name: no, I won't tell her name. Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. If Strokes — our friend Strokes — were to hear me thus sing He might not think it was exactly the thing : Perhaps he would tell me to hire a hall : I think I shall do so and invite you there all. Or on the stage in the footlight's bright glare I'll sing of this girl who is so sweet and fair, And singing of her may win me great fame ; But I won't tell her name, no, I won't tell her name. I won't tell her name : no, I won't tell her name. Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. I won't tell her name. 325 You may not believe it, but yet it is so, That I once appeared in the great Barnum-show : Before clerking here I was considered a star, I could hang by my heels from the top trapeze-bar. I was then very highly accomplished you see, But work in the office has since weakened me. Lofty stunts I can't do now : it does seem a shame, But yet to this place I am glad that I came Because of — but no, no, I won't tell her name. Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. The girl that I love is the star of my life : Some day I shall ask her to be my dear wife : For I may say here I am very sure That life without her I can never endure. And so if she refuses me I'll blow out my brains: Perhaps the girl will vi^eep over my remains, And then the way she treated me may seem a great shame. But I won't tell her name, no, I won't tell her name. I won't tell her name : no, I won't tell her name. Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. Singing topical songs is not quite my forte, I have warbled sufficient, and therefore I ought To let others sing who more clearly can show The charms of this girl whom I worship so. Her eyes they are bright and her lips they are red. All the blood in my body for her I would shed. Yes for one so adorable I would die game, But I won't tell her name, no, I won't tell her name. I won't tell her name : no, I won't tell her name. Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. 326 AN AFTERNOON'S STROLL. A SENSATIONAL SONG AND DANCE. As rendered in the Potato Vaults with great success by the author and his able colleague in vaudeville. The other afternoon at the hour of four George and I said good-by to our friends in the store : We went for a walk, the weather was clear, We dropped in a saloon and we called out for beer : Several schooners were brought, we emptied them all. Then George began singing " After the Ball " : I joined in the — hie — chorus, I think — hie — George was tight. But when I said so, why, he wanted to fight: Yes, when I said so he — hie — wanted to fight. Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. So I bloodied his nose, he blackened my eye : For the police the bartender loudly did cry. We took a ride that night at the city's expense. And were fined the next morning for our little offense. We paid the fine like men, left the court arm in arm. And declared that this life on the earth was a charm. We promenaded the streets till the hour of noon, And then we dropped into another saloon : Yes, then we dropped into another saloon. Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. A week after that we went back to the store, Mr. Stokeson was standing in front of the door, He said that if we were inclined to drink beer We better work at Burpee's, or else go with Drear : He said that he didn't want us at all. Told us to go with Lanbreth, or else go with Mawle : He assured us he wanted no men of our ilk. That he had supplied our places with tho':e who drank milk : That he had supplied our places with those who drank milk. Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. AN afternoon's STROLL. 327 Mr. Stokeson named others, he mentioned Meshell, Told us to go thither or else go to — well, He did not say where, but we could surmise That the place he referred to was not in the skies. So we turned from the store : we two who aspired To be in the firm some fine day were now " fired ". Of course we felt sad, so we each dropped a tear : We were filled with emotion — yes, and soon filled with beer, For ere parting we blew in our last plunks on beer. Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. I've been looking for work at every seed place, They don't seem to be stuck on my shape or my face. Th's look'ng for work is pleasant — I don't think. I really believe it will drive me to drink. Had I the price of a drink now you bet I know where To drown all my trouble, my sorrow and care : But alas ! I'm dead broke, this fact is quite clear, I am looking for work and also looking for beer: Yes, I'm looking for work, but I prefer beer. Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la, la, la, Tra la, la, la, la, la, tra la, la, la. 328 PINAFORE. As revised and adopted by members of the Noonday Social Circle At one of their symposiums in the Bean Department. Selection — " When I was a Boy." Characters introduced — Sir Joseph Porter and Cousin Hebe. Impersonations by C. P. and Miss . Sir Jos. When I was a boy I was very cute and sweet, I played in the gutter, I lived upon the street; I never told a lie. O me ! but I was good ; In fact I was the idol of the neighborhood. Hebe. In fact he was the idol of the neighborhood. Sir Jos. I used to chew gum till my jaws got sore, And now I keep the books in a Market street store. Hebe. He used to chew gum till his jaws got sore, And now he keeps the books in a Market street store. [_Both dance.J Sir Jos. When I grew up I guzzled malt beer, So they sent me to jail several times a year; At last, being very fend of jokes. They apprenticed me to Mister Strokes. Hebe. They apprenticed him to Mister Strokes. Sir Jos. And now they like me so much, you see, They have placed me in an office where it's nice to be. Hebe. Yes, now they like him so much, you see, They have placed him in an office where it's nice to be. \_Both dance.'\ PINAFORE REVISED. 329 ^jV Jos. The other day I got too gay, So they sent for a cop to take me away, But they missed me so when I was gone That they called me back the very next morn. Hebe. Yes, they called him back the very next morn. Sir Jos. I've been somewhat dazed since I came back. For the cop knocked me silly with his black-jack. Hebe. He's been somewhat dazed since he came back. For the cop knocked him silly with his black-jack. {_Both dance.'] Sir Jos. Now all young men, whoever you may be, If you wish to get in an office just like me, Drink plenty of beer and never tell a lie. And you will be here by and by. Hebe. Yes, here or in jail by and by. Dialogue. Sir Jos. Cousin Hebe, you should stick to the text — not misquote me. You fail to realize the subtle significance of this ethical act of ours. I am endeavoring to inculcate on the minds of the young men present the fact that by emulating me they will eventually be rewarded by ob- taining a position, perhaps as high as mine, in the office of this particular establishment. Hebe. Pardon my seeming frivolity. Sir Joseph, and let us re- peat the last lines of our stunt — I mean our ethical act. \_They resume the song."] Sir Jos. Now — as I've said — never, never tell a lie, And you may be here by and by. Hebe. Yes, you may be here by and by. 330 art's artifices. Sir Jos. Be careful to dance the tra la, la lee {_He dances.'] And you'll surely be in an office just like me. Hebe. Yes, dance this tra la, la, lee with vim \_She dances.'] And you'll surely get in an office just like him. [Spurred on by the vociferous applause of their audi- ence, they both dance very vigorously in the arena formed by the bean-sacks.] Sir Jos. 'Tis almost one, and I fear the gong Will cut me short in the midst of my song, So if you wish to hear me sing more You must wait until we meet on the beautiful shore. Hebe. You must wait until we meet on the beautiful shore. Sir Jos. I really and truly believe that I Will have more time to sing in the sweet by and by. Hebe. He really and truly believes. Oh my ! That he'll have more time to sing in the sweet by and by. \_Exeunt, both dancing.] ART'S ARTIFICES. The lines which on this page appear Do not point a moral, 'tis clear. It is quite evident They are no ornament ; But they fill space, that's why they are here. When space is unoccupied I Fill the void, so to speak. That is why I most always stick In a slight limer'ck : It is such easy verce to supply. PARTNERSHIP PROSPECTS. 331 {Suggested when working over the third stanza of the poem Vague Vaporings.) Had I served Trade's god with the zeal I served fair Poesy I'm sure I'd not now in my old age feel (This sounds like Woisey) so blame poor. Yet, while not in the firm, I can Say that I'm not what one may term A superannuated man ; I'm very glad I'm not infirm. My heart is not yet ossified ; Still through my arteries the warm Blood circulates. I'll put aside For future use the chloroform. My mind and brain are clear ; my arm Is strong — not quite as supple though; But life has not yet lost its charm. And so the hemlock I'll forego. The future's mine ! Hope, sir, appears As friendly now as when she stood By me in those departed years. ! I may yet — don't scoflf — make good. Being, then, ablebodied still (0! say not that my star has set) It is quite likely that I will By chucking poetry get there yet. I must divorce myself from rhyme — An art I have been wedded to. When in the firm I'll have more time To court the Muse ; till then, adieu. Adieu ! The luring call of rhyme 1 must ignore, nor dare I dip In verse till I ('twill come in time) Am taken into partnership. 332 INJUSTICE. Till then I'll curb my roving-soul. My restless spirit I shall quell ; I'll metaphorically roll Up my shirt-sleeves and work like . When I'm a partner then, of course, I can make up for all the time Wasted in work ; yes, when I'm boss I'll pass my days just writing rhyme. A sign that reads Phillips and — who?, Dealers in — let's say Artichokes, Shall be flung 'cross the avenue. Won't it look well — Phillips and S * * * * *? Then I shall be a man of means, Whose fame extends beyond the seas, A specialist in Lima Beans, And an authority on Peas. Anticipatively these days (Ah! much of truth is found in jokes) On that emblazoned sign I gaze — That sign which reads :— PHILLIPS & S * * * * =^ ! INJUSTICE. Certain connoisseurs cannot commend My verses, at least they pretend To see nothing in them ; And so they condemn Those lines which they can't comprehend. A genius, though, is not long Kept down by injustice and wrong. I shall not despair ; I'll (this aint hot air) Dazzle earth yet with a grand, sweet song. MY BEAU. 333 A BRIEF ROMANCE OF A FAIR YOUNG HADDONIlIi. Supposed to have been written by Miss -, I have the proper sort of beau, He says I'm more to him than life: On me he freely spends his dough, He wants me to become his wife. I am inclined to think that he Is Mr. Right all right, all right. He positively worships me : He calls upon me every night. He gives me many costly things, He brings me jewelry galore: He loads my hands with diamond-rings, He buys me bracelets by the score. My beau takes me to all the shows : He's just sent me a seal-skin sack. He constantly on me bestows Rare flowers, books and bric-a-brac. He has commissioned Laurent's to Keep me supplied with choicest sweets: Such things, he knows, I like to chew Whilst checking up the order sheets. O ! he's dead stuck on me all right : Why, in a letter he said I Was his Angelic Camdenite For whom he willingly would die. There's not a wish I have but what That beau of mine anticipates. Next spring he'll sail me in his yacht To lands where Joy for us awaits. 334 MY BEAU. On Sunday afternoons in his Best automobile we are seen : On Haddon Avenue we whiz Along by means of gasoline. For me the Muse he oft invokes, He raves in verse about my charms. He'd call here, if allowed by Strokes, To fold me daily in his arms. Yes, many calls, did Strokes permit, My friend would at the seed-house pay: 'T would be a joy for him to sit At my feet through the whole long day. He must defer, though, that rare bliss Till evening. Ah, then when we meet He presses on my lips a kiss — One so ecstatically sweet ! Love ! O how much it brightens life ! What joy to one's heart it doth give! I am — just think — to be his wife Before the lilacs bloom this spring. What visions of delight appear To me as I with rapture gaze Into the future. O ! how dear Are these love-lighted winter days. He says I am divinely tall. My eyes are stars, my teeth are pearl. And that he never loved at all Until he met his Jersey girl. My lips like red, red roses are ; (He means in color I suppose.) In fact, he even goes so far As to write sonnets to my nose. MY BEAU. 335 A noble brow, he says, is mine, A forehead beautifully fair ; But O ! most glorious and divine Is my great wealth of raven hair. He swore I had a brainy head, A dainty waist, (the nsrve of him!) He also (ought I tell it?) said My ankles were so neat and trim. The compliments he pays are true : My worth he very clearly sees. It's nice to have a lover who Thus understands my qualities. This Tuesday evening he became Most eloquent : he deeply sighed. Then begged me on his knees to name The day when I would be his bride. He seized my hands and pleaded so. That I was just about to say Let's wed to-morrow, when my beau Evanished in the air away. My sweetheart disappeared. I had — Girl-like — been dreaming in my room : And now, alas! I'm very sad: I sit alone here in the gloom. No more his thrilling voice into My listening ear breathes vows of love — The olden joy, yet ever new. That had its birth in heaven above. From sight, but O ! not from my mind. My gallant friend has passed away. I waken now, ah me ! to find A world unblest by Love's bright ray. 336 what's the use ! Fate mocks at me in my despair : My woman's heart is rent in twain. Can I — can I this sorrow bear? ! shall I ever smile again? My lover's gone, my dream is o'er : 1 scarcely can indite these rhymes. I think to-morrow at the store I'll shed a tear or two at times. A CAUTIOUS MAN. I'm a cautious man, and lately I have acted most sedately ; For frivolity is greatly Out of place I feel : and so I shall walk with circumspection, I'll do naught without reflection, Lest a critical inspection Of my life some faults might show. WHAT'S THE USE. I'd kick the chandelier. Or " walk off on my ear ", E'en " shoot the hat ", If her regard I'd gain, Or her love could obtain By doing that. What is the use, though, in Doing these things to win A woman fair, Who might, when her love wanes. Give me for all my pains. An icy stare? STANZAS SENT STROKES' SEED STORE. 337 Ah ! many thoughts are running through My mind on this eve of a new Year — Nineteen-ten : Thoughts of old friends, of life — that part I spent down in the city's heart, 'Mong busy men. It seems now the old neighborhood Around Christ Church I've left for good; I would, therefore, Express this wish — the wish that I Shall be remembered kindly by Those in the store. I not unfrequently recall My recent co-mates, one and all, In bulbs and seeds ; And my heart oft with rapture thrills When thinking of The Wabash Mills And — Archie Meeds. When, retrospectively, I gaze Back on the old evanished days, What mem'ries come Thronging into my mind ! Yes, what Fond memories ! But I must not Get tiresome. What careless rhymes I'm writing here ! Ah ! some may think that I am " queer ". He who invokes The Muse is most unbusinesslike. I wonder how these rhymes will strike Friend Walter Strokes ! Others have twitted me sometimes For venturing to deal in rhymes. Is it a fault — A grievous fault to soar into Fancy's vast realm as poets do? But what says "Walt"? 338 STANZAS SENT STROKES' SEED STORE. Will he these idle lines condemn? Will he have time to look at them? Yes, maybe so. Yes, for the sake of auld lang syne These well-intentioned lines of mine He'll read, I know. In Traffic's quarter, it appears, One must be careful ; I for years Held, in a store, My soul in leash. But now, ye gods ! I'll do just like the higher bards — I'll let it soar! Bold? Yes, I'm very, very bold; Quite so — on paper, be it told. But otherwise I am particularly mild — As mild, almost, as any child Beneath the skies. I can right valorously wield A pen, but on a battle-field I'd faint, I think. I wouM not like to shed my gore, Though I don't mind how I outpour My soul — and ink. Yet life, as we may truly say, Is a real battle, and some day On its field all Must yield the ghost. The sword and pen Will from the tired hands of men Drop at Death's call. But come. I did not mean to be, So sorrowful ; no, no, let me A note more gay Strike on my lyre, so to speak. The world is happy; let us seek Its joys today. STANZAS SENT STROKES' SEED STORE. 339 I never was a man of deeds Like Wilson, Taft, and Strokes, and Meeds. It rather looks As though they'll ne'er place on my brow The victor's crown. I write rhymes now. I once kept books. Ambition ! No. I am content To dabble in mere sentiment — To dream, to weave Strange fancies, to let memory Bring some of life's bright scenes to me This New Year's eve. Towards my late comrades I have none But friendly feelings ; may each one Meet with success. To all — from Boss to office boy — I wish long life, good health, and joy, And happiness. We may not all be millionaires [I'm told that even they have cares — Perhaps they do] But we may all find life to be Worth living if to ourselves we Prove ever true. But I should cut these verses short. I've said enough ; no doubt I ought Apologize. Sometimes I don't know when to end. But, really, I did not intend To moralize. 340 REBUFFED. I am a poor relation Of a man most high in station : He runs a lift at Jimble's — runs it purely for his health: I am proud of him, and one day, I believe it was a Monday, Being short of cash, I called upon this gentleman of wealth. I approached his elevator. He received me with a greater Show of cordiality than was expected, but when I Mildly touched him for a dollar. He reached out and grabbed my collar. Then with me he mopped the store up till I thought that I would die. I arose somewhat disjointed. And I might say disappointed. From the aisle where he last chucked me : I could not repress a groan. Riding homeward in a trolley I felt very melancholy. When I'm next in need of money I'll let relatives alone. A NAUTICAL TWIST. A jolly tar stood in the bow Of a ship that was maining the plough — I mean ploughing the main. I'm no sailor, 'tis plain. I get twisted on sea-terms somehow. JERSEY FAIRS. 341 With the laudable motive of making the drink habit more safe and more respectable, the Subway Tavern, as they styled it, was introduced. It was thought that these taverns, in which pure liquors (soft and strong) were to be dispensed at reasonable rates, under Christian management, would improve the morals of the community while at the same time realizing its promoters about six per cent on their money outlay. Many approved of these prayer-opened saloons, others disapproved considering them as a compromise with evil. The experiment did not succeed, and was finally given up. It was while these subway taverns were run- ning, in 1904, that the following verses were written. I am, let me say, a square man ; Well, at least I am a " Fair " man. At Mt. Holly and at Trenton when the leaves begin to fall. And the frost is on the pumpkins. It is then the country bumpkins Flock around my booth, for ! I am the idol of them all. I at times like much to frolic With my customers bucolic. And adown the pike with them I very often promenade : I tip them on all the races. After which I seek those places Known as consecrated bar-rooms, where I call for lemonade. When I thus am out a-drinking, Should I happen, without thinking, To vibrate my optic-lid while ordering tea or some such drink, I feel sure that Preacher Hotair Would not blame me, for he's got a Lot of sense and knows, like me, the worth of a sub-rosa wink. Winking surely has its uses : Yes, it frequently produces Favors from a pretty woman or a bartender when we Do not wish that those about us Should have any cause to doubt us When we preach, as oft we do, on virtue and sobriety. 342 LINES TO E W W . O ! believe me, Stella Peeler, There are moments when I feel a Very strange kind of sensation in the region of my heart. Is it love or indigestion? Pray, do not evade the question : I am dying for the knowledge you — you only — can impart. It is not, I know, the fashion For a Poetess of Passion To give serious attention to a query such as mine : But a case like like this, revealing Such intensity of feeling, Cannot fail to draw from you at least one sweet and soulful line. LINES TO A L Have they for us poor rhyming dubs A private graveyard, Mr. Nubbs, Where, when we've been laid out w"th clubs, They take and plant us, Mr. Nubbs? WAS IT WRONG? Maud sang a song most sweetly. Was it wrong To call it, as I did, a Maud-lin song? MY ARTISTIC SOUL. 343 A critic once said I wrote trash : The remark cut my soul like a lash. But then what the deuce Need I care for abuse, When my rhymes (sometimes) bring me in cash? My artistic soul is not quite So sensitive now to a slight: I no longer quail When press censors rail At the verses I venture to write. If an editor happens to kick Me down stairs or hurl at me a brick, When upon him I call, I don't mind it at all ; I the next time mail my limerick. LOVE'S SACRIFICE. O ! I could die rhyming for Maud. Indeed, if my death would afford Her joy, I'd not stop These lines till I'd drop Stone dead on the green grassy sward. WHAT LOVE CAN DO. In all crimes he was deeply dyed ; He had, in fact, no character ; He gambled, drank, swore, stole and lied, Until he happened to see her. And she reformed the man, and then He married her, yes, and in time Became a useful citizen. And made a living writing rhyme. 344 A WOMAN'S IDEAL MAN. I really do not feel I am any one's ideal. No woman ever yet regarded me As something to adore. I cannot state, therefore, Exactly what a hero's traits should be. To be the ideal of The girls — to have them love And idolize you might suit some first-rate. Such popularity Does not appeal to me : It would disturb my mind's quiescent state. SOLICITOUS INQUIRIES. How's your terpsichorean toe? Twirlish as usual, Miss Pitcoe? Do you play diabolo? Tell me, tell me, Miss Pitcoe. How about your latest beau — Does he please you. Miss Pitcoe? If you scorned him would he blow Out his brains then. Miss Pitcoe? If he did, ah ! then how ro- Mantic 'twould be, Miss Pitcoe. Well, at rhyming I'm not slow; Do you doubt it, Miss Pitcoe? Oh ! forever I could go On like this for Miss Pitcoe. Any individual, though. Might rhyme thus for Miss Pitcoe. My heart's in it : hence this flow Of verse is easy, Miss Pitcoe. Lest in it I put also My foot, I'll stop now, Miss Pitcoe. THAT SWEETHEART OF MINE. 345 Unlike Austin, I'm no wearer Of the laurel, but whene'er a Girl as lovely as is Sarah Asks for rhymes I can't decline Her request. Nay, I'm no poet, My lines very plainly show it, Yet, like this, though, I can go it For that dear sweetheart of mine. Where can there be found a rarer Little beauty than my Sarah? ! there never lived a fairer Girl nor one quite as divine. 1 could, were I but a rhymer Like " Rud " Kipling, write sublimer Lines than these at any time or Place for that sweetheart of mine. FAIR FLOSSIE. I walk aimlessly to and fro On the street, knowing not where to go Alone in the crowd My soul cries aloud For a star — aye, for Flossie Friskoe. From Roxboro to Bufifalo 'Twere hard to find any one so Alluringly sweet And so dainty and neat As the far-famed fair Flossie Friskoe. 346 GIP.LS. I know a very bright And winsome Camdenite, She's kind and true and ne'er a duty shirks, I likewise know of one Dear girl in Kensington, Who 'mid the looms in that mill-district works. And O ! I know a third Sweet thing, and she's a bird Of gorgeous plumage ; she, of course, is found Across the Schuylkill, where The fairest of the fair Do, as some judges seem to think, abound. At times I think most of My Kensingtonian love. But oft I pine for her who lives more west. Occasionally I For Camden's goddess sigh. I don't know which of these girls I like best. A CONSIDERATE MAN. If the angels should happen to hear Me sing, I have reason to fear It would cause them to weep : So I frequently keep Very still, just to spare them a tear. MILTON. The epics and odes I compose Are not as fine, some think, as those Milton wrote. Well, John has Done some real good work, as His " Paradise Lost " clearly shows. SOME SIMPLE STANZAS SENT SARAH SLIMCOE. 347 When I play poker stakes are low. Am I too weak-nerved, Miss Slimcoe? I could of course say high, but O ! There'd be no rhyme then, Miss Slimcoe. In poetry one must oft forego Telling the real truth, Miss Slimcoe. I don't mean lie : O I dear me, no. Just — er — dissemble. Miss Slimcoe. One's art (mine's verse!) demands, you know. Such sacrifices, Miss Slimcoe. Consign me, pray, to Jericho If my verse bores you, IVliss Slimcoe. Before you bid me thither go Smile once upon me. Miss Slimcoe. P'rown — and I'm " broke " ; but smile, and lo ! The world is mine then. Miss Slimcoe. Your smile 'mid purgatorial woe I shall remember, Miss Slimcoe. That smile, whene'er recalled, will throw Me into transports. Miss Slimcoe. Ah ! then the very imps below Will envy me, fair Miss Slimcoe. My ! that sounds very much like Poe. Do you not think so, Miss Slimcoe. The world assuredly doth owe Much to us poets. Miss Slimcoe. 348 OPERA PASSES. We serve to — er — uplift, you know, Humanity, fair Miss Slimcoe. We find it hard in doing so To pay our board-bills, Miss Slimcoe. Why, as a rule, are poets so Impecunious, Miss Slimcoe? To wallow, as it were, in " dough " Is not for us : nay. Miss Slimcoe. Ah ! how to love is all we know : To love — and suffer, Miss Slimcoe. Love — no, I'll close now else you'll grow Aweary of me, Miss Slimcoe. Then, mayhap, you will not bestow The smile I covet, Miss Slimcoe. OPERA PASSES. When I (which is seldom) secure A pass for the opera, I'm sure To then patronize. As you may surmise, The show — that is, if it is pure. Sometimes I discover, alas ! That certain shows are not first-class. I should such shows shun ; But politeness bids one Accept and make use of a pass. VAGUE VAPORINGS. 349 A bright lemon or a light lime To bards who live in the limelight Should be given when they write rhyme, Provided, of course, they rhyme right. Skilled seamstresses swiftly sew seams. A clever line — yes, it seems so. I'd be foolish if I dreamt no dreams, For there's so much that I — in dreams — know. Dream knowledge is rot — this term we Well use. Work gains the goal we term Success; if alert and firm, the Goal's won. No, I'm not in the firm. This silliness I should forego, Else those whom it shocks might go for My scalp. No doubt I'd have more show If of common sense I show more. AT THE LUNCH COUNTER. " What would you like?" "Like! A beefsteak And some champagne, but they're too dear ; 'Twere best to ask ' what will you take '. Waiter, bring me some krout and beer." Life is so serious that it Might not be right to jest like this; But yet sometimes a little bit Of nonsense may not be amiss. And truths are often said in jest. A moral might be drawn here: 'Tis this — that life may be found blest By those who order krout and beer. 350 A TRUE TALE. This is a true tale of A youth who fell, Alas ! too much in love With a young belle. The belle was rich ; her Pa Was proud, therefore He kicked the poor youth far From his front-door. The youth, though poor, was game ; With courage rare He limped away ; became A millionaire. Returned in after years To the homestead ; His parents were in tears. They thought him dead. He bought them autocars, An aeroplane, Steam yachts, high-grade cigars, Tuns of champagne. And then he thought awhile Of her, and all His love came back. Gads ! I'll Pay her a call. By that door from which he, Ten years ago, Darted so hurriedly. Helped by Pa's toe. He stood ; this time no fear His mind oppressed ; He clasped at last her dear Form to his breast. Papa came in, he seemed Now reconciled ; Forgave the youth, and beamed Upon his child. " Accept," the father said, " My blessing, pray." These two fond souls will wed Without delay. MORALIZING. 351 The verses hereabouts may be More frivolous than those elsewhere, Yet of life's stern reality The writer is full well aware. Inclined to take then, as he is. Grave views of life, some readers here Might pause and marvel ; surely his Apparent levity seems queer. And yet why queer? Have not grave men Indulged in quips? Do jests denote A care-free mind? One may joke when He grasps a knife to cut his throat. No reader therefore should suppose That he who writes thus carelessly Has steered clear of all earthly woes. Life is, he knows, no comedy. No comedy ! True, very true. But why be downcast? Why assume That it is wrong and sinful to Laugh as we journey towards the tomb. When our risibilities Are moved there is no harm in laughter. Laugh then, in this life, when we please; We may not get a chance hereafter. Not mirth-provoking are these quips. To read them may not be worth while ; Yet to some reader's kindly lips Perhaps they'll bring a passing smile. If they do not, no harm is done — No harm, save just some misspent time Expended on some so-called fun Expressed in alleged forms of rhyme. 352 DIVERSE VIEWS. That certain readers will not quite Endorse some of my views I know ; And yet these same views others might Think perfectly conime il jaut. [I like to get off a French phrase; With many folks this makes a hit ; Though when from one's own tongue one strays One's apt to put his foot in it.] This parenthetic clause excuse. Ere thus digressing I meant to Have asked, when some oppose the views Others think right, what should one do. Why to the Grundys of the earth Should we so cravenly defer? Why stifle at their very birth The sentiments that in us stir? When one is seized with an idea, Whose propagation seems to be Essential to mankind, why fear To give it full publicity? Should one be dumb because one knows That thoughts, when uttered, oft offend? By this course one might make no foes, But would it tend to gain a friend? STRANGE. Sometimes, despite all that I do To versify in a way to Delight judges who My stanzas review, I fail. This seems strange, but 'tis true. A LOST THOUGHT. 353 A brilliant thought occurred to me one day, But O ! I failed to note it on a pad ; Later the thought passed fro-m my mind away, I now cannot recall it, hence I'm sad. Yet why should I my loss so deprecate? The thought, indeed, was brilliant and sublime, But to the world I could — I'm free to state — Never present it in becoming rhyme. Of what use is a thought when it can not Be given to the world ? Yet there's no great Dearth now of thoughts; the jaded world has got More now than it can well assimilate. SUPPLIED. I have a space to fill With rhyme, it needs but two Short stanzas, yet these will Be difficult to do. In vain I cudgel my Brains for a thought or two ; The needed stanzas I Cannot — ah ! these may do ! THE NON-ESSENTIALITY OF THOUGHT IN THE CONSTRUCTION OF POETRY. Thinking is not conducive to Perfection and sublimity When writing verse; my " impromptu" I wrote almost unconsciously. Yes, often when I scarcely tried I've written with surprising grace. Mark the rare beauty of " Supplied ", Which I dashed oE to fill some space. 354 GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY? The lines in this book indicate That I am no real poet, yet Despite the fact, I perpetrate Sometimes an ode or triolet. At least I try but don't succeed In perpetrating odes ; and hence, As I am guiltless, there's no need To charge me, then, with an offense. Sins of commission seem worse than Those of omission ; in law none Is held a culprit who doth plan A crime, if that crime be not done. One's deed is judged but not one's will; Yet the will may, in point of fact, Be reprehensible, but still The world notes but the overt act. Yet, in a sense, those who fail to Perform the evil they devise Are no whit better than those who Do wrong. But then why moralize? 'TWAS NEVER MEANT. 'Twas never meant that I should be Quite as imperious and great As Caesar, but I live, and he Is dead ; so I'll not rail at fate. It's really good to be alive. For life is pleasant after all. Death waits us, still we may derive Some joy here ere he pays his call. A WARNING. 355 When I left my alma mater, I mean the public-school, Which I attended for a term, the future then to me Looked very bright ; no ripple stirred life's calm and tranquil pool. This third line may mean nothing, but I like its euphony. Nor drink nor dissipation, (very few wild oats I sowed), But rhyme it was that floored me — yes, 'twas chiefly rhyme no doubt. Let those young men now journeying on life's hope-lighted road Take warning, or their later days may find them down and out. If I cherished fond ambitions in those days now gone by. If I e'er hoped to gain — which may have been the case one time — Success in business life, those hopes of mine were wrecked when I That fatal day first plunged into the whirling stream of rhyme. Perhaps not rhyme alone has cast me on the shoals of fate ; My obtuseness, probably, and lack of business qualities, Combined with certain other failings, managed to frustrate My plans, and I am now a derelict upon life's seas.* But ne'ertheless 'twas chiefly rhyme that brought me, as I've said. To what I am; and so again I would advise young men. Who wish success, to cut out rhyme and give their time instead To something else — say business ; they'll all be successful then. A TRIBUTE TO WOMEN. Women are not at the bottom of all folly and all crime ; It is unjust to say that they drive many men to drink. Believe me, it was not a woman that brought me to rhyme. To blame the sex for our delinquencies is wrong I think. In those early days of youthhood it was not a woman whose Ripening charms bewildered and inflamed my soul and brain. No woman ruled my will when first I called upon the Muse, But her power subsequently I, alas ! could not restrain. * Editor's Note. — Poets are apt sometimes to express themselves too hyperbol- ically. The author's present condition is not, we believe, as bad as might be inferred from this poem, yet his warning to young men was doubtless given in all sincerity, for the lines appear to have been written with much earnestness. 356 ETERNITY. Eternity means — er — well, I Can't fathom it, so I'll not try. It is a mystery That is too deep for me, And so into it I shan't pry. An abler man in my stead Should tackle the subject, and shed Some light on the same. And thereby gain fame. I'm sleepy, let me go to bed. Yes, I'll stop ; for it doesn't look well On a theme of this import to dwell Thus lightly; they'll say I am flippant, which may Prove a charge rather hard to repel. I DO NOT KNOW. I wonder, were I to drop dead, (This is not funny — don't think so) Would any tears for me be shed. I dO' not know, I do not know ! FOOLISHNESS. Am I foolish? Well, say, sir, in the Core of that heart which throbs now in me There's a secret — a dear One, which makes life appear So sweet. Am I foolish? Maybe. TO A. L. T. OF THE BULLETIN. 357 An acknowledgment of the return of some manuscripts rejected because of their " unavailability ". My rhymes he remorselessly spurns. I wish I could write like Bob Burns, Or like Byron or Moore; But I can't, and therefore Those verses of mine he returns. When one does the best that he can Is he any less of a man? Is he less of a bard If to rhyme he tries hard? Why then put him under the ban? " A man's a man " — but in this note It were worse than useless to quote. It seems " The Bulletin " Has for me " got it in," Notwithstanding what Bobbie Burns wrote. But I jest. There are editors who Are kindly. I know one or two. I don't, let me add. Feel slighted or sad Because some of my rhymes would not do. THE MIND I could, if I had the mind to. Write like Austin and Kipling. How true This is. Yes, I find That I have not the mind, Which is needed, to write as they do. However, I'm somewhat consoled By knowing these two brave and bold British poets are quite Unable to write As I do : this truth should be told. 358 A COLD WORLD. The world presents me no bouquets ; 'Tis evidently unaware That I write lyrics, odes and lays ; Or if it knows, it doesn't care. No rhymes of mine have ever yet Inspired men to sing my praise ; I never, I may say, have set The Thames or Delaware ablaze. Fame seems remote ; the chance of my Achieving it is slim indeed. Sometimes I really think that I Was never born to succeed. I'm not quite crushed though ; dreams somehow Sustain me. Don't scoff ; life's rough ways Are smoothed by dreams ; in them my brow Is bedecked by belated bays. The world may probably get wise To my rare gifts one of these days ; 'Twill then on me, so I surmise, Bestow innumerable bouquets. AN OPTIMIST. I may be very happy yet. Or I may not; this doubt I find Affects me not ; I never let A doubt disturb my tranquil mind. The world that seems inclined to damn My verses now, may sometime praise Me for the same ; and hence I am Not pessimistic these sad days. I am an optimist, you see. Why, if I knew there were but woe Aud suffering in store for me, I'd be no pessimist, I know. SOME PARAPHRASTICAL LINES. 359 With apologies to Thomas Moore. Alone near the City Hall limps a poor bard, In seedy habiliments he is attired ; His heart aches, his frame too ; his lot is most hard ; From an editor's sanctum he has just been "fired". He had the temerity therein to show Some verses on spring, whereupon — but not here Need the rest be related ; to drown now his woe He steps in a saloon and there orders a beer. " Oh ! blest be this beer, and in memory oft May it sparkle in dreams ! " — Having got off this bit Of sentiment, he, for a place that is soft, Looks around so that he with some comfort might sit. The poet is gone — but he ne'er will forget, When at home he shall talk of the dangers he's known. To tell, with a sigh, what " endearments " he met When he strayed in that Editor's sanctum alone. ANTICIPATION. Anticipating things is more Delightful, so they state, Than realizing them ; therefore Let me anticipate. In dreams I'll find my greatest bliss- In dreams that cannot be E'er realized by me in this Life or eternity. 360 TOL-ROL-LOL-LOO. Written on my fifty-sixth birthday. If I live but a few years more — Which I intend to do — I shall be sixty : just three score Of years ! Tol-rol-lol-loo ! When I was in the twenties I Thought not I would live to Be fifty-six years, which is my Age now. Tol-rol-lol-loo ! Life is, as cases like this teach, Uncertain ; yes, look you, I may the age of ninety reach. Who knows? Tol-rol-lol-loo! The longer one lives the more he In knowledge grows. How true ! Doubtless when ninety I will be Most wise. Tol-rol-lol-loo ! Still I'm not foolish now. O ! no. Nor cynical ; he who Reads 'tween my lines will not think so. Not much. Tol-rol-lol-loo ! POLITENESS PAYS. " Your money or your life " said he; I really liked not this request. But, as he had the " drop " on me, I — well, I did not quite protest. My pocketbook and watch and chain I handed him that darksome night. " Thanks, sir," he said, " you may retain Your life ". Now wasn't he polite? PREACHING AND PRACTICING. 361 Too many rhymes I have in my Book introduced. Who'll read them o'er? I've cut out much, but no doubt I Should have eliminated more. This is a busy age, and few Have time to read much poetry: 'Tis quality which appeals to Judicious men — not quantity. One's offsprings — I mean of the brain — [Malthus need not be quoted here] Should be curtailed ; bards should restrain Themselves. One ode's enough a year. Why not, some may ask, practice what You preach. An Elegy like Gray's Should be produced, and not a lot Of unimportant roundelays. Well, I would slaughter all of those Poor weaklings — my brain's progeny — If afterwards I could compose One — one immortal elegy. But, hang it all ! withhold your blame. I do my best; can one do more? If I e'er had a dream of fame, That dream — ah well ! that dream is o'er. There is now, yes, now in my heart And brain a song the world would class As worthy; but I've not the art Of uttering that song, alas! 362 PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHY. I marvel greatly to hear of A man committing suicide Because a woman he may love Refuses to become his bride. Were I in love and she whom I Adored disdained to be my wife, I probably might heave a sigh, But I would hardly take my life. I would no cup of poison drain, Nor would I cut my throat, nor yet Blow out my brains. The girl's disdain I would endeavor to forget. Time, the great healer, would perchance In due course my mind's grief assuage, And in another love's romance I might have spirit to engage. L'Envoi. " He jests at scars, that never felt a wound." — Shakespeare. But I've ne'er loved ! I speak, no doubt, Too lightly of love's pangs. I'm one Who, if rejected, might blow out His brains — or try to — with a gun. PLAINLY PERCEPTIBLE. 'Tis patent, obvious and clear That Homer, Milton, and Shakespeare, And Keats, Were all great geniuses. Who But of their ilk could with words do Such feats ? Yet none of those famed bards could write Like this ; some credit, then, I quite Deserve. In a strict rhythmic sense, I'm not A genius ; I've simply got A nerve. POLAR POLEMICS. 363 It certainly begins to look As though friend Peary and friend Cook Are not quite able to control Themselves when ispeaking of the Pole. Friend Peary broadly intimates That Doctor Cook prevaricates. It really isn't very nice Thus to throw mud, or rather ice. Now when the doughty Commodore Went forth the north-wilds to explore, When he his home delights forsook, He reckoned not with Doctor Cook. And Cook forestalled him, so it seems ; Poor Peary's fond, ambitious dreams Of being the first man to look Upon the Pole were smashed by Cook ! Well, 'tis the irony of fate. Now Peary, in a jealous state. Rails at his luck and, with a hook, Would drag from fame's niche the bold Cook. I hate, I do, upon my soul. To see this hero of the Pole Act thus. There's room in Glory's Book Both for friend Peary and friend Cook. 364 PEARY'S PRE-EMINENCE. Peary indeed was justified In saying Cook the faker lied. At first I thought the term too strong ; I chided Peary; I was wrong. The brave Commander could not brook The antics of mendacious Cook, And in his righteous wrath he tore Away the mask the miunmer wore. And now this Cook, or rather Crook, This lying wretch, who undertook To spread on earth a wild canard, Is hoisted by his own petard. We turn with loathing from a scar To gaze upon a lustrous star. The world, O ! Peary, would extol Thee — God's sole man who found the Pole. Commander, the world's people now Would wreathe with laurel thy brave brow. Accept our homage, daring one. Thy life's work, Robert, is well done. PERSONIFIED PERFECTION. She can sharpen a pencil of lead. She can hammer a nail on the head ; She's a girl of rare sense. She can swim, golf and fence. She can sew, cook, bake pies and make bread. She can motor, dance, sing, paint and draw: She's a pearl in which there is no flaw. And this paragon (Ah! are you not on?) Is, alas ! an ideal — nothing more. PREFATORIAL PLEASANTRY.* These trivial Dedicatory disquisitions In introducing Sundry Sunset Sonnets Are Fraternally forwarded To the town's truly Formidable Four (Mrs. B, Miss P, Dr. B and Mr. P.) 365 Here in the town I've jotted down Some lines that may A glance repay. These, let me state, I dedicate To the Big Four Now at the shore. Inhaling there The salt sea air With its ozone That gives a tone Of vigor to Those town folks who, Not feeling well, Go there to dwell Awhile beside The ocean wide. I love to raise My voice in praise Of the deep blue ; To listen to Its song to me Is ecstasy ; It seems to stir My soul, as 'twere. A message of A deathless love To me it brings. And my heart sings. Yes, a wave's noise Is of all joys The — do I hear A call for beer? Yes, yes, I do ; 'Tis true, 'tis true. They beckon me Now from the sea ; They say " come here And have a beer ! " Yes, the Big Four Wave now and roar An invite to Schmidt's famous brew. Most surely I'll Be glad to " smile " With the Big Four, Whose wave and roar * These lines are introductory to the double acrostic entitled A Sunset on Corson's Inlet, on page 211. 366 PREFATORIAL PLEASANTRY. I see and hear. Me for the beer. Farewell, O Sea, Remember me. Thee I adore. But O, you Four ! When they say " beer " Then life seems dear.* I must declare That I'm glad their Names are not long. For I'd have strong Reasons to shirk Acrostic work If their names were Long. I prefer Short names, therefore. When I work o'er Acrostics ; yes, I must confess That for this sort Of work the short Names are the kind I like to find. But I digress ; Beer was, ah yes ! Just now my theme ; From it I seem, Alas ! to range. How strange ! how strange ! Now let me veer Around to Beer. If it were not For beer one's lot In life would be A tragedy. I find no fault With Herr Schmidt's malt * A matter-of-fact reader of sumptuary sentiments and with prohibitive propensities should not allow himself (or herself) to become unduly horrified over the references to drink in this poem — the writer in this particular effusion is not to be taken too seriously. A versifier's rhapsodies should not be literally construed. A rhymer cannot be judged rightly by his compositions. This rhymer speaks very assertively here of various drinks; elsewhere, in different places, he expatiates just as dogmatically on love ; the fact is, however, that he knows practically nothing about either drinking or loving, having in his time paid little if any attention to such things. He is as ignorant of one as he is of the other; neuher seems to have ever greatly appealed to him; perhaps he has no capacity for either; he is, as may truly be said, a most abstemious bachelor. His prosaic avocation in life (that of a clerk and bookkeeper) never permitted him to acquire a true conception of those dangerous things — drinking and loving, nor yet of other things about which he nevertheless has not hesitated to rhyme. Hence when this rhymer after busi- ness hours discourses on wine, woman and song, on love, on theology, on sociology, on politics, on pugilism, etc., his opinions should not be accepted as authoritative. They are not the opin- ions of a man of the world — opinions based on experience, but are merely the imperfect deduc- tions drawn from imaginative premises by a very circumscribed rhymer whose prime object is the slick turning of a tuneful rhyme rather than the promulgation of a living truth. Still truth, if looked for, may be found anywhere. Life flows into every nook and corner of the teeming world of to-day, and something of an ever-present mystery can everywhere be learned. Even in a busy office a plodding bookkeeper may be enabled to gather a fair knowledge of human nature. And so the abstemious bachelor believes that this seemingly vacuous poem of his, if rightly read, will, broadly speaking, prove conductive to general abstemiousness, though not perhaps to universal bachelorhood. Yes, the writer is pleased to think that here and there upon the pages of his book an attentive and patient reader may discern the glimmering ol a truth — a truth gotten ofT intentionally by the writer in one of his occasional serious moods. PREFATORIAL PLEASANTRY. 367 Extract ; a stein Of that divine Concoction goes, As one well knows, Right to the spot. ! does it not? 1 don't refrain, Sir, from champagne — Not from " Mumm's dry ", O no ! not I. Fresh from the ice It's very nice. Yes, I well love The product of Those grapes so rich And luscious which Perfume the air Of France ; 'tis there. Where the vine grows — Yes, there in those Romantic dales That Love prevails ; Yes, it is there On French soil, where The grapes abound. That love is found. Love in la belle France loves to dwell. Love means more there Than anywhere Else on this small Terrestrial ball. That tale oft told— So old, so old. Yet ever new — Seems there more true. In sunny France A girl's glad glance And smiles are far More glad than are Such things elsewhere. I have been there. Yes, yes, in thought Such things I've sought ; I've found them too. As dreamers do. Ah ! here in town, As I drink down That sparkling wine, What joys are mine! ! life is sweet When fond souls meet And love — yes, e'en In dreams, I ween. So when I've quaffed Love's true-born draught 1 feel — I might Say — a delight I cannot well In these lines tell. The tongue and pen Both fail us when We would express That happiness We sometimes know While here below. When my joy's deep I always keep The stillest ; yea, The eyes convey Our thoughts best when We talk with men. A silent toast Affects me most. The eyes, look you. May waft as true And eloquent A sentiment As any one By words has done. 368 PREFATORIAL PLEASANTRY. The soul's truth lies, Sir, in the eyes. ! is this, " Rude ", A platitude? The other three Agree with me. " Jack," " Clara," " Rose,"- Each of them knows The eloquence Of silence ; hence On this fact why Enlarge? O! I Am now too — well. Too full to tell My thoughts I fear. (Too full of beer.) But not I feel Too full to deal The cards aright. 1 would tonight Play, if I dare, Some solitaire. Out of the "pack". Which holds a " Jack " And also two Right Bauers, do I pluck— a " Rose ". There surely grows No fairer bloom This side the tomb. When roses in June days begin To blossom, then — No, I again Diverge, I fear. Too far from beer. I must not bore The patient Four. I must not stray Again away From my theme ; let Me, therefore, get Back to the road From which I strode. Beer was, methinks. And kindred drinks. My theme. Excuse My vagrant muse. And now all hail To good old ale. This, many think, Is a grand drink. I'm fond of ale ; I like it pale. Next — O what bliss! — Is whiskey ; this Seductive booze Who can refuse? It is today The world's mainstay. My compass, though, [This many know] By which I steer Life's barque is beer. My chart, my guide, My staff, my pride, In this life here Is beer, beer, beer. Beer is my creed. Beer — with a bead. When much athirst I swallow first Some good old rye. Then — yes, then I Proceed to cheer Myself with beer. Rum, absinthe, gin And brandy in Right quantities — I like all these. PREFATORIAL PLEASANTRY. 369 Wine? Yes, for all Kinds I oft call. They all are fine, But Beer for mine. Beer every time. Beer is sublime. Porter and stout Are, without doubt, Drinks worthy of Our deepest love. This the Quartette On the Inlet Of Corson's will Admit ; but still There is no drink Like beer, I think. We mortals here Require beer. Beer's what we need. Beer — with a bead. Our souls demand Schmidt's A I brand: How heavenly A brewery Would seem beside This — hie — this wide Pulsating sea. ! — hie — let's flee To the — hie — bar, It can't be far. Let us repair To the — hie — fair. Tra, la, la — wow ! I'm happy now. 1 feel — hie — feel Just like the real Thing, don't you know, Only more so. I, yes, I — gee ! But what ails me? Retire ? Pooh ! No. Damfido. I'll paint instead The Inlet red. I'll serenade Some nice young maid. For you, my dear. At this bar here, A bar I will Of music trill. Is not the pun A glorious one? O, maiden pure. Your eyes allure My soul away From its — hie — clay. Love, let us fly ; The dawn is nigh — She disappears. Come, come, more beers ! Fair saint, I'll woo Thee back, look you, With Schmidt's — hie — say, What ails me, pray? I seem to grow So — hie — yes, so Er — so — hie — well Say, what the hell Makes my brain reel? What makes me feel So — hie — so queer? Can it be beer? Perish the thought ! I spose I ought. Yes, I — hie — spose I ought to close. So long. Big Four. Au — hie — revoir. 370 PHILADELPHIA'S POETICAL POLICE. [A contest for the poet-laureateship of the police force was held, under the auspices of a Philadelphia newspaper, in the spring of 1910. Following are some unofficial dissertations by an onlooker at the tourney.] Lo ! Spring is here. We citizens Bask in those smiles of hers. Whilst reading odes fresh from the pens Of police officers. Yes, we know more of spring, no doubt, Than e'er we knew before. Now that its charms are pointed out By guardians of law. Music that breathes of love divine Now softly to us floats ; Love, too, illumines every line That comes from our bluecoats. Springtime and Love ! What wondrous themes ! Ah ! every listening soul Is carried heavenward, it seems, In a — er — yes, " patrol ". It has been my most fervent prayer To reach that place so blest Where I might gain a rest, and where I might escape — arrest. In Thomson's " Seasons " we delight. Of vernal joys and peace Thomson wrote well, but yet not quite As well as our police. Though I am, when it comes to rhyme, Particularly dumb, I know when verses are sublime. And I know when they're bum. Philadelphia's poetical police. 371 Oft have I hung enraptured o'er A poet's masterpiece ; Though I ne'er wooed the Muse like Moore, Or Keats, or — the police. We cannot all be fav'rites of The Muse, but we can sing, As best we may, of Truth and Love, And Faith, and Hope, in spring. We all know something of these things — The cop upon his beat, The clerk, the workman ; each one sings. For each has found life sweet. Some men find nought in rhyme, and they Disdain the rhymer, who Is but a spineless crank, they say. Is this impeachment true? No, they who soar in airy flights. Without an aeroplane. Lack not in pluck. We laud the " Wrights " ; The poets why disdain? They who preserve the law, who face Mad mobs, who stamp out crime, Who risk their lives, — 'tis no disgrace For them to dip in rhyme. So let them then. Director Clay, Have carte-blanche, as it were. To seek the comely Muse and pay Their best devoirs to her. You might as well attempt to dam Niagara as to stop My rhythmic flights, although I am, As my lines show, no cop. Men have, indeed, attempted to Damn me, yes, with faint praise. Nor dams nor damns, though, can subdue Me in mid-vernal days. 372 Philadelphia's poetical police. I wear no star; I'm but a rank Civilian, a mere dub. I can not wield the pen like " Frank ", Nor, like him, wield the club. I can't play (I'm not on the force) The game well, but I can Look on and pass remarks of course. Like any other fan. With shouts and yells then of delight I greet the doughty bards. It is an intellectual fight — This Battle of the Guards. At rhyming " Edward " is no mut ; He understands the game ; He's not quite up to Kipling, but He gets there just the same. The victor of the pennant we May soon know. Will some dark Pegasus win, or will it be The War-horse of the Park? Imperishable fame awaits The cop who wins the bays, Whether that cop perambulates Town-districts or park-ways. Whoe'er the laureled one may be I, as becomes a fan, Shall rise and root vociferously For this prize-winning man. But how award the prize — yes, how ? It might, perhaps, be well To place on each Miltonian brow A deathless immortelle. PUGILISTIC PICTURES.* 373 [Apropos of some opinions advanced by certain local moralists as to the advisability of allowing managers of moving-picture shows to exhibit films which depict the defeat of a popular white prizefighter by a colored opponent.] The fight films should not be allowed ; We must let no kinetoscope Show how a negro whipped the proud Caucasians' pet and only hope. We will assume a pious air ; Those who mistrust us we'll abuse ; We'll beseech Heaven, and the Mayor, To stop these very wicked views. Much is at stake — our pride, our race. Those pictures taken at Reno Must be suppressed ; they're a disgrace, O ! why did Jeifries fail us so ! Fight films shown ere our idol's fall Ne'er wounded so our righteous pride. On Heaven — and the Mayor — we call : — Save us from being mortified. ******* Drop this false air of sanctity. Why fuss and fume so? You've no right To stop those who may wish to see This reproduction of the fight. The " prestige " lost perhaps may be Regained in years to come, hence those Unlovely traits — hypocrisy. Cant, hate and envy — why disclose ? The grand Caucasian race need not Whine and despond so; it is by No means played out ; it's simply got Just now a palpable black eye. July, 1 910. * The heated discussions and general lawlessness throughout the country following upon the prizefight at Reno, Nev., on July 4th, 1910, prompted this and the four other poems succeeding Precipitous Praise on next page. 374 PRECIPITOUS PRAISE. We should not enthuse, as we do, O'er living celebrities who Pose within the limelight. They're all apt — black and white — • To backslide ere with life they are through. Dead men cannot do any wrong. Let's wait then — our wait won't be long — For our heroes to die ; When they're safe in the sky We can praise them in story and song. November, 19 12. DOPE. " Apology is only egotism wrong side out." — Oliver Wendell Holmes. Dope, now say some apologists. Knocked out the white man's only hope ; It was not Johnson's mighty fists, But it was dope — yes, it was dope. Upon the third day of July Johnson could not with our man cope ; Jack floored Jim twice and blacked Jim's eye Because Jim on the Fourth took — dope. Was it Jack's confidence and vim, His pluck, strength, skill and science? Nope. He whipped our idol because Jim, On Independence Day, took dope. Our Jim was nervous we admit, Not frightened — no, but he would mope, And so to soothe him just a bit We gave him — perhaps — too much dope. Well, well, the white race need not be Cast down nor in gloom's dark slough grope ; We'll trot out Jim again when he Has gotten o'er this case of "dope(?)". July, 1910. BARBARIANS. 375 The account of an actual incident, and one of many similar occurrences that took place in our city and other American cities on this particular anniversary (the 134th) of the Nation's birth- day. These lines describing the incident (an unprovoked assault on a twelve-year-old colored boy by a crowd of white lads whose ages ranged from twelve to seventeen years) are respectfully dedicated to the kind lady who so opportunely came to the tor- mented boy's assistance and who cared for and comforted him in his distress. On Independence Day, along One of our streets, there walked a child ; This child was doing nothing wrong, Save that at times he paused and smiled. The child was colored. Not " Jack's " feat — No, something else amused the boy ; He smiled ; some hoodlums on the street Observed the youngster's look of joy. The look enraged those roughs, and so To wipe away the deep disgrace Brought on them that day in Reno By one who championed their race, They fell upon and kicked and beat The black child who was passing by, And who dared on an up-town street To smile on the Fourth of July ! " On earth, O ! God, Thy kingdom come." Thus here in " Christendom " we pray. But none can find in heathendom Such crimes as shame our land today. We talk about " converting " dumb And sinful foreign heathens. Why Not convert our town's vile scum? Say, is the task too hard to try? July, 1910. 376 ABOUT A BOUT.* With some side reflections on the intolerancy evinced by certain chauffeurs in their adoption of racetrack discrimination rules. Your vict'ry, Jack, has not been vain ; You've shown the world, sir, by your feat That in pure muscle, as in brain, The black race need take no hind-seat. Think ! there are creatures sunken so In the world's slime as to grudge Jack The laurels he won at Reno. And why? Because God made him black! Perhaps God should have made us of One color — white, all white. I'm quite Sure, though, that to obtain His love We're not required to be white. Some other things are requisite — Character, honor, purity. But some men haven't got the wit To understand how this may be. Black ! The dark color of Jack's skin Is an excuse ; they who decline To race with him fear he will win. And so they draw the " color line ". In a fair fight or auto race Few white men dare meet boxer Jack. Some low poltroons say 'twould disgrace Their " calling " to cope with a black. How utterly absurd and how Contemptible are all those who In the brave world of true sport now Object to a man's racial hue. * Arthur has apparently fallen from grace; charges afiecting his character are made as this book goes to press. These charges, though they may not be substan- tiated, are regarded by the general public as well founded. The writer composed this series of five poems in July, 1910, being then entirely unsuspicious, of course, of Johnson's moral waywardness; the recent charges brought against the noted pugilist suggested the short limerick poem, entitled Precipitous Praise, on page 374. THE COLORED RACE. 377 Had surly Jeffries won the scrap The nation's white-skin hoodlums then Would keep their grimy hands, mayhap, From off the colored citizen. Our country is disgraced no doubt, More by the vile, insane and low Race spite now shown than by the bout As lately pulled off in Reno. As for the pictures — well, 'twill be No sin to view them ; yet if they Cause fools to act disorderly. The Mayor will stop the film display. I take (as probably one ought) In worldly happenings a bit Of interest, though I am no sport. Nor — I may say — a hypocrite. July, 19 lo. THE COLORED RACE. As pugilists few white men are In Johnson's class ; and how few whites Can mount, like the late Paul Dunbar, Fair Poesy's sun-flooded heights. And Washington, yes, Booker T. — The student, thinker, sage — has done A work that shows his race to be In brain and brawn a worthy one. Yet there are men with souls so small As to begrudge the boxer Jack, The scholar Booker and dead Paul Their laurels. Why ? These three are black ! 378 THE COLORED RACE. Black? Yes, at least two of them are; The other — well, if saints be fair, Then in yon heaven Paul Dunbar Is now as white as any there. Black ! 'Tis not their fault. Why defame Therefore the boxer, sage or bard? To be consistent we should blame The One who made them, that is — God. Yet worth, not color, counts the most With Him who made us ; why then slight Our darker brother, and why boast And brag and gloat because we're white? That race, from many human rights And privileges now debarred. May on life's course outstrip the whites, And gain the favor of their God. Some scientists think this may be. Though theologians protest. Well, doctors of divinity Are wise ; they probably know best. Theology's not in my line. Nor can I be placed on the list Of scientists ; I'm no divine, No bard, no anthropologist. I am no savant, sage, nor wit, No sad recluse, no saint, no sport; But in most things I take a bit Of interest, as perhaps one ought. I dip, just dip in things ; I am A dilettante, one of those Whose worldly — no, none cares a damn What my life's work is, so I'll close. July, 1910. ON THE BLEACHERS. 379 I always whoop her up a bit When our home teams score, Hence, when the Phillies make a hit, I shout and yell and roar. I've not whooped much of late, but there May, in the way of ball, Be something doing later, ere The leaves begin to fall. A PHYSICIAN OF THE MODERN SCHOOL. An Up-to-date Practitioner. Respectfully dedicated to Doctor . " The world's a stage," so says Shakespeare. 'Tis true, we mortals are Mere mummers ; though in life's play here I figure as a star : A star, the world knows this full well, Whose light can ne'er decline ; But, being modest, I shan't dwell Upon those deeds of mine. I'll just state that my specialty Is — no, I should not brag ; It ill becomes a famed M. D. To chew, as 'twere, the rag. 380 SYRACUSE SEMINARIANS Yet proper self-respect constrains Me to aver right here That I for all men's aches and pains Have a sure panacea. I don't, when tending to the ill, Prescribe, as most docs do, A noxious drug or nauseous pill ; Nay, these things I taboo. I merely etherize the guy Who happens to be sick ; I take my scalpel next and try On him my " little trick." To put it more succinctly, for I must not be prolix, I simply from my patient draw Forth his bum ap-pen-dix. Later the patient, or else his Executor, draws me A check. Ah ! nothing in life is As precious as a fee ! SYRACUSE SEMINARIANS At a Football Game. Several stunningly sweet sirens saw Some strikingly spry students score. Screams succeeded such skill. Surely such sounds, so shrill. Shook sunny Spain's sea-skirted shore. BLONDES AND BRUNETTES. 381 I scorn them both — blonde and brunette. What matters shade or hue Of hair or eye ? There ne'er breathed yet A woman who was true. Women, aye, take it, sir, from me, Are false as well as weak ; I've studied them most thoroughly ; I know whereof I speak. For her no wise man entertains A passing thought ; none but A fool for her blows out his brains. Or his throat tries to cut. The fact is, though, that men, all men, Are fools ; not one is wise. We're apt to be most foolish when We gaze in women's eyes. There is, I own it, a blonde girl, A real blonde, if you please. Who 'round her little thumb can twirl Me with consummate ease. Soon I shall ask this blonde to be My dear and precious wife ; If she declines, I'll probably Rush home and take my life. A JOY WE ALL MIGHT KNOW. Have something to look forward to; 'Tis pleasant to anticipate Good deeds ; hence, when I've got to do A thing, I — well, procrastinate. I've put off doing lots of things ; I like to think about them so. I find anticipation brings A joy — a joy we all might know. 382 YOUTH'S ASPIRATIONS. When I was a small lad I wanted very bad To be, when I grew up, a circus-clown, Or a detective, or A pirate who loved gore. Or else a scout or actor of renown. I am, though now of age. No actor on the stage, Nor clown, nor scout, nor sleuth who hunts down crooks. Nor pirate on the seas ; No, I am none of these ; I'm in an office, down town, keeping books ! A TRIBUTE TO LORD ALFRED TENNYSON. Written on the fly-leaf of a copy of " In Memoriam " presented to Miss L. C. Britannia's famed Laure-ate Rhymed well : he was certainly great When he touched upon love : But he knew nothing of Limericks, it is saddening to state. A good poet, though, was A. T. He was greater perhaps than C. P. But it's doubtful if this Noble lord had the bliss Of e'er knowing a girl like L. C. Let those who o'er Alfred enthuse Not proceed in their zeal to abuse Poor C. P. Why resent A fond sentiment Of one who would here woo the Muse? Ah ! C. P. believes it is no Sacrilege upon this page to show His deep-rooted regard For the Laureate Bard, And for the fair L. C. also. NEWS. 383 Written thirty years after A Tribute to Alfred Tennyson. And so you met L. C. today. What! now Mrs. Brown? You don't say! 'Twas real nice of her To ask if I were "Still living." How time glides away! The years to one closely employed Pass quickly; life's May I enjoyed; But such joys don't last, December's shrill blast Now sounds. Youth's hopes soon are destroyed. And L. C. — I mean Mrs. Brown, When told I still lived here in town. Just smiled — smiled and said She thought I was dead; This thought seemed not to cast her down. I live — or, to speak properly, — Exist. O ! it's pleasant to be Remembered by one For whom I have none But kind thoughts— I allude to " L. C." To L. C. whose friendship I knew — A friendship enduring all through A whole happy spring. 'Tis most comforting To think of a friendship so true ! Yes, C. P. still lives — still exists; Still draws breath, still keeps books, still persists In rhyming a bit When olden scenes flit Before him from out of life's mists. 384 OUR DOROTHY. (After the manner of Read, to whom probably, considering the circumstances, no apologies need be made.) The time draws near When on the pier We'll wave, yet not without a tear, A farewell to Our Doro, who Is soon to sail the ocean blue. She goes to France To eat, perchance, Frog-legs, and probably to dance And sing also; For we all know That she is, so to speak, " not slow ". Our Dorothy Will surely be A lioness in gay Paree. She will by her Rare graces stir The heart of Europe, I infer. In France — la belle France — this town's well- Known star will for a season dwell. They'll sing her praise There these spring-days. And toast her in the swell cafes. When Dorothy Has crossed the sea. There'll be but little joy for me In " the States" here; I'll find, I fear. Life, without Doro, very drear. she's back! 385 Still I'll not quite Despair : there's light Amid the gloom. Hope's star, so bright, Still shines; and we Again may see Our (ah yes! "our") Dorothy. May 10, 1913. SHE'S BACK! She's back again! Ah ! if my pen Were but more facile I might then With truer art And skill impart The news which now enthrills my heart. I cannot state In adequate Verse-phraseology so great A fact that she — Our Dorothy — Is back, though it means much to me. Let others woo The Muse, and to A listening world reveal their true, Deep thoughts, whilst I Stand dumbly by, Not daring to breathe e'en a sigh. But O ! sometime In a far clime My soul may, in immortal rhyme. Exult and be Forever free To sing, to sing — for Dorothy ! 386 YOUTH. Dear are the songs of youth ! Ah, I One time was young ! I sang in those Rare, sunny days, so long gone by. Of love — the love which glad youth knows : The love that I no more shall know. How free those days were of all cares ! Yet time can ne'er, with all its woe, Bedim the glory that was theirs. A gracious, tender memory Uplifts my soul these later days. Earth still is beautiful ; let me Rejoice, then, as I tread its ways. LIFE'S EVENING. Love's not for me ! Why should I, then, In my life now love's strange cares bring? Let me be free — heart-free as when I trod life's ways in youth's bright spring. Each one who plods earth's thoroughfares Knows of life's dangers ; I've thus far Escaped its pitfalls and its snares. No heart, though, is without a scar. Doubtless love's not for me, and yet A vision of a maiden, whom Long years ago I one time met, Lights up for me life's twilight-gloom. A GRANDSON'S TRIBUTE TO HIS 387 GRANDMOTHER. ' SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY W. A. C. When things go wrong and I feel blue, Who is it writes a billet-doux, Which really cheers me through and through? My Grandma. Who is it thinks I'm truly great — Who seems, in fact, to estimate Me at my worth? I'm glad to state 'Tis Grandma. I have a lock of golden hair That I habitually wear Next to my heart: who placed it there? My Grandma. Oft do I gaze upon that hair ; The gift of one so sweet and fair, And also young, although I swear She's Grandma. And when upon the road I go, With a new line of calico, That lock of hair uplifts the woe Which otherwise would crush me so. This is not strange : the hair, you know. Is Grandma's. Now breathe it not, but I have, too, The picture of a maiden who Is very kind and very true. And loves me as all women do — 'Tis Grandma's. 388 A grandson's tribute to his grandmother. O precious picture ! really I (Believe me, this is not a lie) Would rather — yes, much rather die Than part with it : the reason why Is this — the photo's that of my Dear Grandma. Now women, I may say, are quite Entrancing creatures, and I might Enlarge upon this theme to-night. Only I do not think it right : For there's but one (she's out of sight) Whose presence fills me with delight — That's Grandma. Does dear Grandma reciprocate My love? Why cert. At any rate. She says so in her notes of late. Dear, kind Grandma. So to the office at the end Of each glad week my way I wend : There, handed to me by a friend. On whom I very much depend, Are those sweet letters that are penned — By Grandma! THE ACADEMY. 389 Lines toP*****L*****, Esq., member of the Acad- emy of Natural Sciences, on receiving from him a copy of his treatise on Pamphila Aaronii. Though I live adjacent to " The Academy " I do But rarely in that building show my " mug ". I am not down on the list As an Entomologist : I scarcely know the name of any bug. They have no use for me In that academy : They don't want chumps who deal in sentiment. If I called there they'd throw Me quickly out I know, For I am not a scientific gent. I read, though, with delight Your pamphlet, and I'm quite Obliged to you for putting me so wise To insect breeding : still Some bugs I'd rather kill Than breed — of course I don't mean butterflies. THESE DAYS. I live near the Park Boulevard ; At any rate, I try real hard These days to live there. But to live anywhere Is not easy these days — for a bard. 390 SOLUTION OF A CHESS PROBLEM. Problem called the " Baby Elephant " appearing originally in the chess columns of " The Times ", April i8, 1880. BLACK. BKt WK WP B P WP B B B P B P W P B P B P WR BK B P W P BB WR WKt BR W P B P W P WP B P W P WKt W B WHITE. White to play and mate in five moves.* SOLUTION. White, having move to make, with his good King should take The Knight ; now Black his King's Pawn pushes one ; Then quickly White doth bring to Queen's sixth square his King. Next, Black's Pawn captures Pawn. Well begun ! Of much the " Baby's " shorn, for White takes Pawn with Pawn The while Black views his third move with a sigh, He needs must shove with care his King Knight's Pawn a square. White smilingly sees victory is nigh ; He places, with delight, on King's fifth square his Knight. Poor Black to make his fourth move sets about ; But O ! what can he play ! move Bishop where he may, White's Knight will mate him next beyond a doubt. • The writer did not compose this problem, he wrote only the versified solution. The name of the Problemist he is unable to recall. A POEM IN PROSE. 391 Some Day. Inscribed, %vith regards, to Walt Mason. It seems modest to enclose real verse in apparent prose : yet in headlines to declare that a poem is put there, worthy of a copy- right, looks a little, at first sight, like a vain bard's ruse whereby he might catch the public eye. Still no harm's done. Why sup- press one who strives to win success ? All who would their wares purvey, bards as well as others, may label them as seems most wise, and their merits advertise. Surely advertising pays in these truly business days. Bards who advertise their wares may in time be millionaires : they their aims may best attain by denounc- ing sordid gain. Or the day that brings the dough they may hasten if they show, in some sad, sweet melody, the blest joys of poverty. Wealth and glory come to those who put poems within prose : but the poems must all be of the finest quality. The " Masonic " brand will win favor from " The Bulletin ". I can- not, though, on demand, hand out this required brand ; hence the coin and fame, that lure modern bards, I must abjure. 'Tis neces- sity constrains me herein ; no one disdains coin and glory — not e'en those who put poems within prose. Coin it is — the bright coin of our realm that men most love. This, we know, some bards deny : well, these bards perhaps don't lie ; they may be a truthful lot ; then, again, they may be not. Coin and glory ! Ah ! some day they, perhaps, may come my way. Yes, I may amass some- time untold wealth by means of rhyme. Some day, some day, some sweet day things will likely come my way. I endeavor oftentimes to express my thoughts in rhymes, but the Muse, whose aid I ask, seldom helps me with my task : oft to my most frantic call she makes no response at all. Mister Mason does not find her so distant, so unkind. I am sure the Muse ne'er slights Mister Mason when he writes ; she assists him in his tasks ; in her gracious smiles he basks. I wish very frequently that she were as kind to me ; not to have men reimburse me for copyrighted verse. No. Ah ! perish such a thought. A bard's inspiration ought to be higher ; he should aim to secure, not gold, but fame. Still I don't think I'd resent a proposed emolument for my verse ; but I'm, alas ! not in Mister Mason's class. Bards unfavored by the Muse must, perforce, life's prizes lose. It is hard, but ne'er- 392 A POEM IN PROSE. theless I am cheered in my distress by the thought that probably Mister Mason pities me. No, I shall not call him " Walt " ; he would doubtless call a halt on familiarity such as this from one like me. Mason — Mister Mason, I should observe here, that 'tis my sad misfortune, not my fault, that " she " snubs me. Ah ! dear Walt (I mean Mister Mason), you feel for me, I know you do. But I am not kicking; there is no reason to despair. Hope is mine. A man who woos the fair but capricious Muse is not easily cast down ; he may smile, though Fate may frown. Some day, some day, some sweet day things will likely come my way. Some day there will burst from me an entrancing melody whose sonorous notes will roll from the late discovered Pole to the farthest star, whose light has as yet not reached us quite. Then I, in immortal prose, may embody one of those grand, dear poems that, it seems, I compose in happy dreams. Ah, the world will marvel when I wield my inspired pen. Then beneath yon heaven's vault I'll hobnob with — yes, with Walt. The fair Muse impartially then will smile on Walt and me ; strains of music from the spheres will be wafted to our ears, our voices blending free in the stellar symphony. O ! we'll make the welkin ring with the songs that we shall sing. We will sing as ne'er before ; from our souls the songs will pour. Ah ! this whirling world will be ravished by our harmony. Men will wreathe our brows with bays in the coming songful days. While the populace exalt our deeds I'll turn to Walt, and I'll say to him — Old boy, this life is a life of joy: yes, a life of joy, dear pard, to the one who is a bard. O ! the rapture, O ! the bliss, living in a world like this ! Of all worlds in space it is far the happiest. I wis — * * * * But forgive me ; it may be. Mister Mason, wrong for me thus to dream. Yet who will blame a poor wretch who dreams of fame? Sometime 'neath the bright blue skies we our dreams may realize. Sitting here among the gloom of a back third-story room in the night's deep solitude I write out these verses crude. But the gods some day may be, as I've said, more kind to me. Some .day, some day, some sweet day things will likely come my way. ADAM'S EXCORIATION OF POETS 393 AND THEIR PRODUCTIONS.* To the world at large. Fellow-Mo rtals : I have no use for poets : their work indicates a nature too cal- culating for me to admire. They conceive a thought and with painful deliberateness sit down to present it according to set pro- sodical rules, not daring to disregard feet, rhyme, rhythm and other verse requirements. There is an artificiality about this business. I prefer the free, unconventional manner with which a truly frank man expresses his sentiments. Poets don't seem to know when to let well enough alone ; they continually try to improve an effusion after it has been sprung on an unsuspecting public. Quite a number of prominent poems have been revised more than once by their authors : this is tantalizing to those who purchase first editions. Those engaged in the art of painting, sculpturing and the like are not in the habit, after their wares are on the market, of hunt- ing them up with brush and chisel for the purpose of making alterations. The example set by these artists should be followed by those who dabble in verse and who call their work an " art ". I am, my poor suffering fellow-mortals, Very truly yours, Adam. July 20, 1905. AN ANSWER. To whom it may concern. Dear Sir {or Madam — as the case may be) : I am a poet (ahem!). Naturally I want to reply to the letter signed " Adam ". I do not know how that letter will affect Austin, Kipling, Swinburne, Markham, Tubbs, Ella Wheeler Wilcox, James Whitcomb Riley and others of my contemporaries (ahem!), but it causes me to boil over with more or less indignation. It is true that we poets {we poets} sometimes make changes in our poems after they leave the press, but what of that. Homer, *This " Adam" epistle, it should be stated, was written by the rhymer himself so as to provide a motive for the perpetration of the answering production which di- rectly follows. 394 AN ANSWER. Shakespeare, Byron, Keats, Burns, Tennyson, Browning, Poe, Longfellow, Whittier and others in their day have occasionally revised their lines. I have revised mine ; the practice may prove temporarily tantalizing to our living admirers, but posterity will be the gainer by inheriting our most polished and finished work. (Ahem!) "Adam" charges us (us, mind you) with being in- sincere. He actually intimates that we are temperamentally dis- honest. O, this is too much! It is enough to drive a poet (and let me re-mention the fact that I am to be classed in that cate- gory) ; it is enough, I say, to drive a poet to profanity, or worse. It has driven me to worse — I mean to verse. Adam would per- haps not approve of my changing this word. It has not, though, driven me to profanity. Surely there is nothing in the last stanza of the following poem addressed to " Adam " that savors of pro- fanity. I don't hesitate to own That " Let well enough alone " Is a saying worth considering when tempted, as we are. To retouch some work supposed To be irrevocably closed. For in an attempt to better we are liable to mar. A sculptor who would try To beautify his statue's eye By a supplemental clipping of the brow, may only make Matters worse : his extra toil Might the whole stone-image spoil. Hence for him an extra chiselling were a palpable mistake. Take his brother artist, who In oils may really do A masterpiece that promises to bring fame for which he yearns : Yet, not satisfied, he takes Up his brush again, and makes An improvement which does not improve — as he too late discerns. But the poet, O ! the sad And dreamy poet ! He may add Various verses to his piece and no one seems to care, " Adam ". Yet rhyming's easy, and if my Verses are not read — well, I Shall have no reason to be sadder than I usually am. NOT OBLIGATORY. 395 Addressed to any one who may, whilst turning over the leaves of this volume of verses, happen to glance upon this page. You who pick up this book of mine Are not obliged to read each line Therein ; 'twere well To read some short poems, also The " Dedication " ; don't dip, though, Into my "Hell". Peruse your Dante ; his style may Delight you more than my weak way Of treating so Delectable a place. If you Want something vigorous, read through His " In-fer-no ". We differ — I and Dante do — About the place we're going to Sojourn awhile. His views are fearsome ; the " Divine Commedia " may scare you — mine May make you smile. I do not aim to terrify. If I win but one smile then I Am satisfied. Yet I would not want to appear Too careless. I have (don't smile here) A serious side. ASTUTENESS. A woman reader, who Looks the above lines o'er, May be moved by them to That " Hell " of mine explore. Perhaps this was just why I wrote those " decoy " rhymes. Shrewd? Yes, but bards must try To get verse read sometimes. Poets who are astute Know what " the sex " will do When warned 'gainst certain fruit, And certain verses too. 396 A SILENT HARP. I'm working now, hence I'm not free To sing to any great extent. From now on in this world there'll be A dearth of rhythmic sentiment. My harp upon the wall doth hang. Mute are those chords that used to throb Beneath my touch. I durst not twang The harp now ; I must hold my job. Yet the sad world should try to bear Its temporary loss of song. Jobs are uncertain. Who shall dare Say I'll not twang that harp ere long? If it should chance that I am " fired " — Which is not an unlikely thing — I would at once trill an inspired Song such as only true bards sing. I know full well the world at large Waits for this song ; but song ne'er won A bard a living ; don't discharge Me yet — not yet; I need the mon. JUST DESERTS. I sometimes think (perhaps I'm wrong) That I'd be wealthy if I were Paid by the world for every song And every poem I write her. And yet, and yet (ah! who can tell?) Had I for all my songs and rhyme My just deserts, I in a cell Might now, yes, now be " doing time ". NEEDS AND WANTS. 397 If we had all we needed we'd be quite Well off perhaps, and doubtless know few cares. Had we, though, all we wanted, then we might Have worries, but we'd all be millionaires! A moral here may be deduced, 'tis this : That wealth — great wealth does not free one from care. I would, however, in my quest for bliss Not hesitate to be a millionaire. POESY'S ESSENTIALS. One who has never tried to rhyme may think The task is hard ; but no, it's easy when There is within one's reach a well of ink, A goodly lot of foolscap and a pen. Of course one must have thoughts at one's command ; Thoughts, though, are very plentiful 'mong men. But O ! there is not always right at hand Those three essentials — paper, ink and pen. THE PEN. The pen is man's best friend in times like these : More mighty than the sword, we're told ; let then The fighting men wield all the swords they please ; I'd rather (it is safer) wield a pen. But yet not always, I'm constrained to state. Is the pen mightier and safer than The sword ; 'tis when the writing-man is " great " The pen wins out — Ah ! am I such a man ? 398 INSUFFICIENT SPACE. Just a few lines, say only four, Allow me in which to explain How I met and came to adore Miss — no, too short is a quatrian. MISS ***** 'Twould take ten thousand tomes to try To thoroughly tell the true tale That tends to trace the tender tie Uniting me to this female. Yes, she — this female — is so nice That not less than the number of Tomes I have mentioned will suffice To tell the story of our love, I'll not essay the task ; no, I Shall make most copious notes instead ; The tale can then be told by my Biographers — when I am dead. DEFERRED LAURELS. Some future antiquarian. Delving between the light lines of This volume, may feel that the man Who wrote the lines knew how to love. Perhaps the thought disclosed here may Smack of conceit, and some may twit Me thereupon. Ah well, if they Do so I'll surely not mind it. Posterity (jeer all ye please) May do me justice. 'Tis, I find, A joy to think I'll gain by these Rhymes (sometime) a friend who'll prove kind. HAT HANGING HARPIES. 399 Something funny is in order, So I'll tell about a boarder — Harrie Hady — who disliked to pay board bills, and who, they say, Hated working. Mr. Hady Married, therefore, his landlady. Harrie doesn't work now ; he lives well, with no board bills to pay. Will this story cause much laughter? No, I rather think that after It is read the more judicious will not even care to smile. There are in the world, dear ladies. Far too many Harrie Hadys — Shameless parasites whose slothful souls reek with the foulest guile. HILARIOUS HAPPENINGS. He slipped on a banana peel And fell down hard, while one and all About him laughed ; it seems a real Good joke to see a person fall. And the effects of that fall he — The victim — felt for years ; but then Most of us laugh quite heartily When mishaps come — to other men. HAZARDOUS HEIGHTS. Though there's room, as I'm told, at the top, Yet my efforts to get there I'll stop ; I might fall ! While I'm no Strict abstainer, why go Where I'm likely to take such a drop? 400 HUMORISTS. In order these days to attract Attention and to make a hit, One must be funny; yes, in fact. One must be something of a wit. One has to memorize a few Old vaudevillian jokes, and drag Them into all discussions to Sustain his standing as a wag. Now this is rather rough on one Of serious proclivities. 'Tis hard on such to hand out fun When discussing life's tragedies. But humorists must live up to Their reputations; they must keep The world a-laughing ; though they do No doubt oft make high heaven weep. THE REALITY OF THE UNREAL. My book I'm drawing to a close, I have now only one or two More things to write ; I don't suppose That any one will read them through. The poem Gwendolen McKnett Is much too long; I hardly can Expect that to be read ; nor yet Will many read A Model Man. Why, then, have labored over them. Some matter of fact folks may ask. 'Twas simply because I — a-hem ! Well, just because I liked the task. PROLOGUE. 401 " The labor," says the great bard, " we Delight in, physics pain." Ah, yes! The pain that seemed to trouble me Was just the pain of — loneliness! Just loneliness. How funny ! Yes, I have felt lonely oftentimes; And in my spells of loneliness I found some comfort writing rhymes. I found that thoughts were company — That mythic creatures of my pen Were kinder and more true to me Than were real women and real men. Therefore I revelled, as it were, In Fancy's world, so wondrous fair, And won the love — the love of her Whose presence sheds such glory there. What tenderer companionship Than hers, pray, can there be for me? In lonely hours I must dip (Can I do else?) in poesy. PROLOGUE. And now for Given McKnctt. She is a myth, but yet The void in my heart would be greater were It not for Gwen. To me There's a reality About that world whose joys I share with her. Faith's eye beholds more than One's optic organ can. The soul discerns more clearly than the mind. And so I've learned how rare And real that world is where Dwell men and women who are true and kind. 402 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. I now intend to write That which will much delight Your very youthful heart, my Gwennie dear. O ! I a poet am, And I don't care a — a bit Who knows it, for I'm not the sort to fear. Some, who have read thus far, May not think these lines are As refined as could be penned by a bard who Was reared with so much care As I ; but don't despair ; There will be some genteel things said ere I'm through. Really, Gwendolen McKnett, I have hardly started yet ; I'm but sparring for an opening. Why, I Can, in ring parlance, land A punch with either hand. I'll be dealing out some real dope by and bye. If in the index I Thunder thus loudly, my Motive is worthy. I should not commence This task too hurriedly; It is serious to me, For the poem is didactic — in a sense. I wish to feel the ground. So to speak, ere I expound The striking truths and morals that I would In proper rhyme convey. Give me, then, some leeway. Before long I'll be doing you some good. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 403 It is not right to hurl Upon a gentle girl Of your frail build great truths too suddenly. Besides, it's been some time Since I last dipped in rhyme ; So I must now extremely careful be. My last piece, as you know, Went the rounds some time ago Of the general press and of the magazines. My neglected art again I take up. I find it, Gwen, Hard at first to tell my thoughts by rhythmic means. It is only at the start I am somewhat faint of heart; My art saves me from disaster, also my Nerve helps me when astride Of Pegasus. Few can ride That steed with such full confidence as I. Should I now be dismayed? Nay, the task I have essayed Is indeed herculean, yet heretofore My nerves have stood the strain Involved in this work of the brain. And I rather think they can do so once more. At the threshold, as it were, Of a work that might confer So much of happiness on humankind, I am not the one to let Any doubts and fears upset The equipoise of my gigantic mind. 404 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. While the verses I submit May fairly scintillate with wit, Yet I shall touch on serious subjects too : I propose to inculcate Lessons that may prove of great Advantage to a worthy girl like you. Perhaps I'll disregard, Like Camden's good Gray Bard, Some verse requirements, but at the height Of any passion too O'erwhelming to subdue, I care not if prosodian feet I slight. I'm a guy that knows what's what ; Flies, for instance, never got On my person, for I've cut my wisdom tooth. I'm no chump, and I would smash In the face of any rash Individual who doubts I speak the truth. But I'm by nature meek ; When smitten on one cheek I turn the other one, I proudly state, Around for one more blow : But when struck thrice I show An inclination to expostulate. Yes, as a rule, I'm mild ; I'm a sort of nature's child. Among her solitudes I love to be : 'Mid her peaceful scenes I feel A happiness so real That my inmost soul thrills with an ecstasy. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 405 Yes, in her solitudes I love to stray : her moods Are many and capricious ; often she Is gentle, kind and mild, And loving as a child. But O how cruel she at times can be ! In her vv^ild moments I, Beneath a lurid sky. Have stood and v^^atched, with mingled joy and fear. The fierce outbreaking of A mighty wrath, when Love Seemed dead and Hate reigned on our trembling sphere. Believe me, I am not A misanthropic lot : I love humanity — its joys are mine: Its sorrows, too, I share, And at times, though 'tis rare, I towards its dissipations do incline. To tell you about these Dissipations, Gwen, may please And interest you : possibly they might. Should I suppress a few, (Which I had better do) Edify as much as they afford delight. Well, once, O ! Gwen McKnett, I smoked a cigarette ; I'm a devil of a fellow, 'pon my word. And one night I went to The famous old Bellevue, And ordered there a bottle and a bird ! 406 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. I may say every cent Of my week's stipend went For that light luncheon : and I had to do Thereafter, for a spell, My " eating " at a place less swell, But I picked my teeth in front of The Bellevue. A business man, I hold, Should be alert and bold. An air of opulence conduces to Success : hence frequently. After sampling a free Lunch, I've picked my teeth in front of The Bellevue. Men do dissemble so. Viewed in the abstract, though. Humanity is grand. 'Tis true, these days We are liable to find Here and there among our kind Specimens we cannot very warmly praise. How strange life is ! Yes, Gwen, I've often thought so when Before Boldt's door my useful " pick " I twirled. A student of life may In front of a cafe Acquire quite a knowledge of the world. Not among nature's hills, Nor by the sea that thrills One with its grandeur and sublimity, Do I find life so dear As in the city here. Where I can study best its mystery. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 407 The crowded streets appeal To me : on them I feel At home. 'Tis true God made the country, still By His grace and His aid The cities have been made. Why, then, of them should any one speak ill? Great cities are — but you Will not this thing read through If I thus moralize. Now where was I Ere I diverged ? O yes ! I started to confess Some unforgotten sins of days gone by. I, as I said, have smoked. I've actually invoked The Muse whilst puffing at a vile segar. I've drunk too — the weed's chief Concomitant, in brief. Is whiskey, which I've gulped at many a bar. The users of the weed, (Smokers, chewers, snuffers), need A neutralizing article like gin To offset the nicotine In the brain, lungs, heart and spleen. Ah ! whiskey and tobacco are akin. To see such an unclean Thing as a pipe between The lips of men professing here on earth To aid God's cause is — well, Enough to make all hell Break out in unextinguishable mirth. 408 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. It really seems to me A strange anomaly For churchly men to smoke, as many do. Still if they're like the rest Of us, need we protest? No, let them drink and smoke and snuff and chew. But it is so absurd, For those who preach The Word, To rail 'gainst drink when in that twin vice they Are steeped. Consistency Is, most assuredly, The rarest jewel in the world today. But I digress again. I really must try, Gwen, To curb a habit which I much deplore. Now to resume my tale ; 'Tis one that cannot fail To edify you, as I've said before. I have been to moral shows, I have wept at human woes, I have dabbled some in literature and art ^ I have even tasted of Those sweet delights that love Awakens in a young man's tender heart. Where proudest Beauty reigned I have dwelt, but I refrained From yielding up that heart which in me beats : I have passed unscathed her snares Set to catch one unawares. Though I plucked most freely of her sweetest sweets. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 409 Yes, these lips have clung ere this In a long impassioned kiss To other lips most roguish and most red ; And these eyes have gazed into Other eyes of deeper blue, And this breast hath pillowed many a fair young head. And these arms, O yes ! these arms Have encircled forms whose charms Far surpassed those told in fiction we have read ; But this heart was never theirs, For in all my love affairs I have ne'er permitted it to rule my head. I have always had my way With the fairer sex. Ah ! they Deem me more charming than most of my kind ; And probably they're right. The dear creatures are so bright, And to manly beauty none of them are blind. O the hearts with which Fve toyed ! O the conquests I've enjoyed! O the victims of my charms who pined and died ! Yet not undeserved their fate. For they planned to subjugate One who beat them at the little game they tried. But I'll drop this talk on hearts With its sweets, its wiles and arts; For, although I am an adept at the game. There's a young blonde fairy who Might my now free soul subdue — Though I'll not divulge the said young fairy's name. 410 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. I am ruthless I confess, Yet my heart is really less Adamantine than my writings may reveal. Ah ! there's one — this fairy sprite — Who with little effort might Crush that organ 'neath her dainty little heel. Well, if she felt thus inclined, I would not so greatly mind : I'd lay bare my throbbing heart without a groan. Though it might be thought unwise For a maid to utilize A man's fond heart as a mere stepping-stone. Would the weight, though, of those feet Still the heart that now doth beat? The pressure might be fatal, yet who cares? 'Neath her feet to yield one's breath! Ah ! this surely were a death That would sweetly realize my fondest prayers. Then my epitaph would show Those most curious to know Of him who underneath the stone doth rest, That the sleeper was a youth (Epitaphs all tell the truth) Who died of an oppression on the chest. Now fair Gwen knows well for whom I would meet this crushing doom, So 'twere supererogatory to explain: And I therefore will proceed To other things my pet may read With no less a sense of pleasure and of gain. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 411 Shall I let my radiant gem Know how greatly I condemn An appetite for alcoholic drink? Why some real dear friends of mine Are accustomed to take wine ! But of course from such depravity I shrink. Yes, I'm temperate: and so I believe that rimi should go — • That one ought to put it down whene'er one can : And on occasions I, Especially when dry, Have put it down- — for I'm a temperance man. I have played the races, though The nags backed by me were slow ; At the tracks I never have met with success. I'm a very easy mark For the touter and the shark. My faith in them I really must suppress. I've played poker, let me say, In a very cautious way. Mayhap I've sworn and used some slang at times. I've been out nights with the boys, And have known certain joys Which 'twere better not to speak of in these rhymes. Jovial spirits like a lark: Often I (but keep this dark, For I breathe it in a confidential way) Paint the town a crimson hue, Yet 'tis singular how blue One feels on his release the following day. 412 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. But my loveliest of pets Knows how soon a cocktail sets One aright. O ! as a bracer it's immense. And it's often I have quaflfed Of this necessary draught, Which indicates that I'm a man of sense. When I obtain a pass To an opera that's first-class, I invariably do patronize the show ; And when the ballet's called I, although by no means bald, Am always to be found on the front row. 'Round stage-doors I have hung Many times to watch the young And modest members of the ballet corps Emerge. I — no. Who cares To hear about affairs With ntw-found friends after the play is o'er? After the play ! Ah ! then Life's gayest hours, Gwen, Begin. I join the strollers, beaus and belles; I manage to pick up A fair friend, with whom I sup In some snug room at one of the hotels. I am drowsy through the day, But on the Great White Way, During the night and through the very small Hours before a brand New day dawns on the land, I'm the liveliest and gayest of them all. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 413 Blithely I move among The pleasure-loving throng In gilded salons when the lights are bright. Ah, no habitue Of our town's White Way Is as care-free as I am, Gwen, at night. The pop of champagne corks. The sound of knives and forks, Song, laughter, music — I delight to hear All this ; and then the flow Of wit, and, later, — no. Why tell of joys snatched just as day draws near? Bohemia with its Kindly and clever wits. Its open-hearted, generous-minded men And women, whose free souls No earthly law controls. In such a world I mingle — now and then. ! I am a dandy lad. I'm the sonny of my dad, And the idol, don't forget, of Logan Square. Say, I'll knock the stuffin' out Of the duffer who would doubt That my head has a sufficiency of hair. 1 have done some things, of course. That have caused me slight remorse ; I am ever ready to admit the truth. I've ne'er gone the pace that kills, Though I've sown on barren hills Some wild oats in adolescent days of youth. 414 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. There are those who glibly speak On religion, yet who seek Places where I'd blush suffusely were I seen. Why, when I my acts compare With most others, I declare My record looks particularly clean. Ne'er yet, when in a feud. Have I my hands imbued In blood ; I ne'er burnt barns, ne'er forged a will, Nor napped a kiddie, nor Burglarized a house or store. Nor picked a pocket, nor e'en tapped a till. I ne'er held trains up, nor Embezzled funds, therefore Through life I've exercised much self-restraint. Yes, negatively, I Have acted well, and my Conduct, consequently, cannot cause complaint. On the whole, I've been so good That if Angel Gabriel should Sound his trumpet now 'twould cause me no dismay, But with my usual grace. And a smile upon my face, I would join the ransomed ones without delay. For I am, I state with pride, Which I take no pains to hide, A High Ritualistic Churchman; hence I need But say that when life's o'er I shall gain the heavenly shore Where joys await those who believe in the right creed. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 415 To be saved one must believe What theologians conceive As proper and correct. Right living may For our bodies do, but O ! " Right " believing will, we know, " Save the soul ", as I once heard a bishop say. By that the eminent And philosophic churchman meant That you must accept his views or else be — well. To avert the doom that he Foresaw we should agree With his hypothesis anent the place called hell. But I myself, fair Gwen, Have often thought that men Need not to such ideas pay any heed. Worship one God — just one ; Let each daughter and each son Of that God be good. Of dogma there's no need. A multiplicity Of Gods — e'en two or three Supreme Creators tend to complicate And becloud the matter ; though My knowledge, you should know, Of theologic doctrines is not great. Ecclesiastic views of mine May be wrong. I'm no divine. I don't wish to seem assertive. I know well Some phlegmatic natures need A club to stir them : hence a creed Is best for them — a creed that hints of hell. 416 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. Hell where lost souls are to Perpetually stew- In seething mixtures of brimstone and oil. The saints on high (mark this) Derive their greatest bliss In looking down and watching sinners boil. Thus many, alas ! view those Future joys and future woes The saints and sinners are to know. I paint A picture orthodoxy must Accept. But O ! if true, I trust That I, Gwen dear, shall never be a saint. Hell! No, I'll not discuss The subject. Whyfore fuss O'er this archaic horror? The disgrace Of such a teaching ! It Is an insult to the wit And common sense of our aspiring race. O ! think what hell implies ! It is the worst of lies : One that has driven many a wretch insane. Eternal woe? Absurd! Where — where in all God's Word Can one an idea so revolting gain? " No rose without a thorn " applies To our earth life. Beyond the skies There's pleasure unaccompanied, Gwen, by pain. Heaven with hell may here below Be found annexed : o'er yonder, though, A heaven without a hell we may attain. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 417 In paradise there'd be No happiness for me Knowing that somewhere in celestial space There were an awful hell. Verily I would rebel Against the monstrous author of the place. But one need have no fear That after this life here There'll be for some a hell prepared. Nay, nay. There'll be a heaven, though : And I'm happy, for I know Should it be denied me, I shall rest for aye. Rest ! Ah, Gwen, let me pause Here a moment. Why? Because That word is so delicious. O ! I love To dwell upon that word. Rest, rest — yes, undisturbed By hell's harsh shrieks or softer sound-waves from above. Heaven, I feel, can get Along, sweet Gwen McKnett, Without my company ; and as for hell — Well, possibly hell too May manage, Gwen, to do Without my presence. Who, ah, who can tell ? The probabilities Are that my absence from these Two places will prove no calamity To either ; e'en the earth, Whereon I had my birth. Never seemed to care especially for me. 418 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. A stranger reading my Verses might think that I Am popular, but I am not. I've penned A few lines that may be Admired, but for me The world cares not. Gwen, you're my only friend. My one friend ! What need then To crave the love of men? To wish for other friendships? Yes, why sigh For popularity? 'Twould not, if gained, make me Any happier. Why want it then — ah! why? Your friendship is indeed Sufficient, and I need None of the world's. I wonder, though, sometimes Why it is I am not more Popular in this world, for I'm not so bad, e'en if I do write rhymes. Through my being there doth run A religious vein ; no one Can fail to mark so palpable a fact. You may note it in my air, In the very clothes I wear, 'Tis apparent in my every word and act. A phrenological survey Of my cranium this day Showed my bump of veneration to be great ; While my chiropodist, who knows The hidden language of the toes, Also found strong indications of this trait. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 419 They who know me best have said That from the apex of my head To the soles of my aristocratic feet I appear to be possessed Of human nature's very best Attributes, and this explains why I'm so sweet. My ideals are sublime ; I would, had I the time. Recount them here. How many a poor soul needs Encouragement; and it Would likely benefit Posterity to read about my deeds. But time forbids, and they Who'll walk life's devious way When I rest from its labors and its strife, Must without help from me Work out their destiny. I can't tell now the story of my life. A notable career May be in this life here (As I en passant might succinctly state) Obtained by industry. Perseverance has made me A poet. One must work to become great. Success is gained by toil. Gallons of midnight oil ['Twas gas I used, but oil in verse sounds best] Have I consumed o'er my Laborsome jobs, but I Love work; sometimes I'd rather work than rest. 420 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. Ah ! Gwendolen McKnett, 'Tis only by the sweat (Should I say " perspiration? ") of one's brow That one achieves success And wealth and happiness, All of which are — almost — in my grasp now. Almost, not quite, dear love. 'Tis but a question of Time, merely time — or else eternity! But as time is so short. So fleeting, Gwen, I ought Soon be in the possession of the three. The prospect, though, of this Eternity of bliss, Which is so imminent, should cause no one To give up striving here For joys that are held dear. I shall struggle on as I have always done. My modesty, indeed. Is my chief fault ; I need Assurance, more — er — well, I might say " cheek " To successfully pursue Dame Fortune, and to woo From her the golden shekels, so to speak. A man — yes, even a Woman, dear Gwennie, may Be happy, quite so, without riches. Wealth Does not necessarily Mean happiness ; give me A competence, and love, and peace, and health. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 431 Love! peace! health! contentment! If these to me are sent, With a competence— a neat one— thrown in, I could get along real well. Still it's very hard to tell ; Mankind seems ever hankering for more tin. I am no exception, Gwen, To the general run of men. That rapacious soul of mine, which fumes and frets In its imprisonment. May never be content Until it slumbers 'neath the violets. In time I might control My too aspiring soul. One learns some things in life ! it's a good school. So, ere the violets shed Their fragrance o'er my bed In earth's damp soil, my spirit I may rule. These various things I say Not in a boastful way, For boasting is a thing that I abhor ; But my candor is so great It compels me to relate My virtues to the maiden I adore. Not that you — that maiden— are Unaware how very far Superior I am to most mankind. But one's merits should not be, From mistaken modesty, Hidden where they would be difficult to find. 422 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. They baptized me by a name Which was not so bad — the same Being Clifford. Well, it might have been much worse. They could have dubbed me " Walter " At the font there by the altar, As I lay helpless in the embrace of my nurse. Yes, " Clifford " they called me; The fore part seems to be All right ; it sounds well ; there my sponsors soared To heights supreme. Ah! if They had but stopped at Cliff. There's a shallowness, alas! about a ford. The christening, dear Gwen, Being over, I was then Driven home and carried, howling, to my cradle. While my relatives below Sat down with much gusto To the choicest viands ever set on table. A grace was duly said For the very generous spread ; The grace was short, and yet, before 'twas through, The grub 'gan to disappear. For the Fillupsers, my dear, Are no slouchers Avhen it comes to a menu. They ate while I did sleep. And they drank, too, long and deep : 'Twas " a feast of reason and a flow of soul ". Ah! the ruddy wine went 'round, And my health, as since I found, Was drunk full oft from many a sparkling bowl. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 423 Some kindly guests were so Desirous to show- By frequent toasts their liking for the kid, That ere the banquet's close They sank in sweet repose By the festive-board, 'neath which they soon were hid. The affair passed off real well ; The police were called to quell But few disturbances. There will, my pet. At family gatherings be More or less hostility. Which manifests itself in ways that I regret. Every household in the land, I am led to understand. Contains a skeleton kept out of sight ; But the presence of so grim A guest can never dim The sunshine of our homes love makes so bright. I was reared in luxury's lap, Noted chefs prepared my pap, And French nurse-girls tossed me on Parisian knees : Now I find in man's estate My taste for nurse-maids is as great, Whether they be English, French or Portuguese. It matters not to me Woman's nationality; They all have charms, and I can well enthuse Over any, even those Who less lovely traits disclose Serve quite well to interest me and amuse. 424 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. As a study I commend To any philosophic friend That of female foibles; the subject can Open to one's mental view A world where lurketh not a few Of those mysteries as yet unsolved by man. I have delved most deeply in This rich mine, and I have been Fortunate in those discoveries there made ; The traits revealed, some most unique, Of which I care not now to speak, Have for all my work of research amply paid. " The proper study of mankind Is man." In Pope this line you'll find. Pope's head was level, and his thoughts sublime. Like me, he understood Man's capacity for good. As also man's capacity for crime. He read men's minds, he knew Their natures, and saw through Those subterfuges practiced to deceive : His glance, so keenly bent. Beneath the surface went : Though the malice of his shafts oft made one grieve. We poets, Gwen — we who Analyze the false and true. Have fuller knowledge of life's subtler side Than the average man, whose views, Unillumined by the Muse, Must perforce be less extended and less wide. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 425 Our souls are unconfined. Chains, Gwendolen, may bind Our bodies to this transient mundane place, But O ! our minds are free. And in the spirit we Traverse ofttimes the vasty halls of space. On fleecy clouds we float To happy spheres remote : We hear the echo of that olden song Which greeted our earth The morning of her birth When she commenced her flight the stars among. Love's strong and loyal arm Guards us from every harm. And Peace in all its plenitude is ours ; While, free as birds at play, We pass full many a day With Flora in the midst of her gay bowers. We love the flowers, they Delight us on our way. Sweet blooms of garden, field, hillslope and wood, The clambering vines, the trees. The waving grasses — these All show how fair life is — how fair and good. A wild rose blossoming In the first days of spring So fresh, so pure, so beautiful, brings cheer To us ; while in the haze Of late autumnal days The radiant golden-rod is no less dear. 426 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. The carol of the birds — That music without words — Strikes in our thankful hearts an answering chord ; And we rove through fairest scenes, While no shadow intervenes To cloud the joys those blessings do afford. So near to Nature's heart, Yet not despising art In its true sphere, we wend our way along Life's sunniest paths. And O The blessings that we know ! Who would not be, like us, a Son of Song? Sometimes on idle days Through forest depths we blaze Our way, to keep tryst with a woodnymph fair. This surely is no sin. No. " There's a pleasure in The pathless woods," as Byron doth declare. Coy sylphs of fair wood lands Wave their white lily hands And beckon us to their free rendezvous. To slight these denizens Of dewy dales and glens A true, chilvarous poet would not do. So we enjoy ourselves Disporting with the elves In mystic forests : yes, we mingle 'mong The driads, fauns and fays. While Pan pipes his sweet lays And the glad woods re-echo with Love's song. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 427 O ! we do lead a life Apart from all the strife Of that rude world without : yet, dearest Gwen, We like that rude world's fun, And I — yes, I for one Rather like its women, too, as well as men. It is not wrong, nor yet Is it strange, sweet Gwen McKnett, That I should entertain a liking for A sex of which my Gwen Is a shining specimen, And one in which I fail to find a flaw. The cold, impassive man Who on earth's fair daughters can Gaze unmoved, commits the wrong : ah no, not he Who confesses frankly to The spell that maids like you Cast o'er tenderer hearts of masculinity. Wine, woman, song — these three. But the greatest one to me Is woman. I've extolled with tongue and pen Her charms; but of them all. Blonde or brunette, short or tall, There's none that can compare with peerless Gwen. Yes, of the world's Big Three — The world's blest trinity Woman is first. Her rule is absolute Here in this world so wide. She is creation's pride — Creation of which she's the perfect fruit. 428 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. How often have you, Gwen, Played with the hearts of men. Men must, perforce, yield to such charms as yours. Your beauty casts a spell On men, as you know well. Ah ! men are weak, and beauty so allures ! If men go wrong, if they Do ever chance to stray From paths of rectitude, and err sometimes. Judge them not harshly, for The women they adore Are oft the instigators of their crimes. Though Adam sinned, would he Of that forbidden tree Have ta'en the fruit Eve filched had it not been For her cajoleries? Knowing the cause of these Moral lapses, one thinks lightly of man's sin. Yet there are times when I Can scarce restrain a sigh. O ! the wickedness so rampant nowadays Almost causes one to weep. Really I can hardly keep An undimmed eye while contemplating sin's dark ways. I've sufficient chivalry To forgive a man when he Sins for a woman's special profit. What If in a house he breaks. Loots a bank, or even takes Human life? For woman's sake I blame him not. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 429 Women are or ought to be Exempt from any penalty- Attached to law's infringement. I contend That lovely woman can't do wrong. We've thwarted her sweet will too long : Let us for her the cruel laws amend. A woman oft is stoned For a crime that is condoned In a man. To me this doesn't seem quite straight. Either let the woman free Or stone both. Which shall it be? The matter's rather hard to regulate. Man has no right, we're told, From the fair ones to withhold The world's advantages, so-called. Let them — Women — be exempted too. That is in a worldly view, From the penalty of that sin we condemn. Yet nothing can prevent The resultant punishment Of any crime. A man who may defame His manhood suffers in His conscience for the sin, Although the world absolves him from all blame. There's no man 'neath the sun So wretched as the one Who has a guilty conscience : although wealth And, consequently, troops Of friends are his, what boots It all if he has lost his mind's sweet health? 430 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. The mind's tranquillity Gone — gone forever, he Who has offended against God and man Is to be envied not. There's nothing can out-blot A wrong once done : not e'en forgiveness can. Thus sin the conscience sears In spite of what one hears Of man's immunity. A wrong, in fact. Can never be repaired. A man is never spared The haunting memory of a sinful act. Woman fares better here Than man, for it is clear Her conscience is a stouter one ; she can With more ease bear the weight Of sin however great. Yes, here a woman's stronger than a man. Remembered acts that might Have been — well, not just right [I won't say sinful — women cannot sin] Don't seem to worry her : She's not hampered, I infer. By conscience, as so many men have been. Ne'ertheless a woman may Be too restricted in our day. Abrogate for her the social laws; aye, give Her equal rights — e'en more Than man is blessed with ; for Extra license is her just prerogative. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 431 Let her do as she lists. A jury that resists Her right is wanting in true gallantry. Give woman every time Carte-blanche to plunge in crime. She should, I think, be absolutely free. She — the world's pride and hope — Should be given larger scope, A broader field, a sphere that has no bound, In order that she might Wage a more equal fight With tyrant man upon life's battleground. Though hampered and confined By man's laws, womankind Yet manages in tragic days like these To hold her head above The swirling waters of Life's all too frequently tumultuous seas. Woman reasons little, yet She gets there, Gwen McKnett : Gets there by impulse, intuition — or Call it just what you may, She by the quickest way Attains with ease that which man strives so for. Through all the years of time Mankind has found its prime Source of comfort and of joy in woman — whose Gentle graces, tears and smiles, Mingling with her arts and wiles, Have inspired oft the votaries of the Muse. 432 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. Milton [and I agree With him] hath said that she — Speaking of woman — is God's last and best Gift unto favored man. Though strongly put, who can Controvert that which the poet has expressed? The blind but observant bard Has, you see, a high regard For woman. Well, most poets have. You'll find That I (as might sometimes Be gathered from my rhymes) Also have a deep esteem for womankind. At her shrine I've bowed down, I've trembled at her frown, Her blame has turned my thoughts to death, but when She has praised me and smiled, ! my heart has with wild, Delirious rapture leaped within me then. For her — ah yes, for her 1 would, though no mariner. Navigate a barque upon the raging main : Or, if she preferred it, I, Though no aeronaut, would try Through the atmosphere to speed an aeroplane. For her the midnight oil I've burnt : for her no toil Has been too great for me to undertake. Sometimes I think that I Would not hesitate to die — Were it really necessary — for her sake. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 433 Woman ! Ah, 'tis not mine Upon her brow to twine The laurel and the bay belonging there ; Let me in silence grieve, While happier poets weave The immortelles on brows that are so fair. When but a lad, ere yet My lip was downy, pet, Woman's influence o'er my young life was great : She was my star whose light Ever guided me aright; And now, in you, she overrules my fate. Before your bright eyes beamed Upon me, Gwen, life seemed A useless thing; with my own hand, who knows, I might, had we ne'er met, O Gwendolen McKnett, Have brought my life to an untimely close. True, I had tasted of The world's poor joys, but love Had not as yet my life illmned ; but when You burst upon my view Life had in store, I knew, The rarest happiness for me, dear Gwen. And when you smiled and spoke My soul, long dormant, woke. Then the full beauty, aye ! and glory of The world impressed me, Gwen, As ne'er before. I then First realized the power of true love. 434 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. O mistress of my soul ! Fair enchantress, your control Over my destiny was prophesied Far back in halcyon days, E'er falsehood's blighting maze Obscured those joys Love scattered far and wide. In sturdy days, my Gwen, When men were brave, and when The maids were fair ; aye, fair as your dear self — When love was never sold Nor bought with paltry gold, When worth and merit ranked above mere wealth. In golden days — days of Peace, happiness and love: When the fair earth knew naught of war and strife: When good will and good cheer Prevailed among men here. And every blessing gladdened every life. O my darling ! O my more Than life itself ! You I adore With all the passion of my frenzied soul. Yes, love, for you I feel An idolater's fierce zeal That hades cannot curb nor yet control. I've sung of freedom, yea, And boasted in my day Of its delights ; but now how gladly I Would yield my liberty At Owen's feet, so that she Might ever rule me to the day I die. GWENDOLEN McKNETT, 435 To be, ah yes ! her thrall, Ever at her beck and call — Gods ! at the thought the hot blood rushes through Each pulsatory vein. No office could I gain Whose duties would be pleasanter to do. The tasks that Gwen McKnett Would condescend to set Her willing subject would be quickly done. Ah, let me ask who would Not think it very good To dance attendance on so fair a one? Her slightest word to me Would be as a decree I needs must heed. O ! I would be content Thus waiting upon her — A life-long servitor, In dread of naught excepting banishment. Outside my prison room The flowers each year might bloom, And hills and vales be rich with summer's green, And Nature, mayhap, smile On her handiwork the while. And songbirds' melodies make glad the scene : Atlanta's foamy shore Might with old ocean's roar Resound as in the days I trod thereon; While ships might sail afar Beyond the harbor bar To lands, it may be, 'neath a southern sun : 436 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. But held a captive by My peerless Gwennie, I The fair world would renounce with no regret ; Its joys were far less real Than those that I would feel In the service of my dear exacting pet. Ah ! nevermore to stray From Gwennie' s side away, But close as her dear shadow I would be, Attending unto all Her wants, both great and small, In a proper spirit of servility. O ! I would never leave Her day or — er — or eve. O ! happy days and happy evenings of A vassalage like this, Of uninterrupted bliss, Of a life spent by the side of her I love, Of a joy I may not name. Of a heart in which the flame Of wild and miquenched longings glow these days : Of a dream beyond all dreams, Whose sweet fulfillment seems So near while in her soulful orbs I gaze. How beautiful and fair ! How strongly sweet and rare Is a life like mine swayed by love's mystic spell! Love makes a paradise Of a world that otherwise Would be, perhaps, a veritable hell. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 437 Do I speak in terms too strong? Nay, my darling, it were wrong To speak other than I do of that which calls For unadulterated truth. The which I've told from earliest youth, And ever will — no matter what befalls. His Satanic Nobs, fair dame, I don't hesitate to shame: I tell the truth in poetry as in prose: Also, as is but right, In the sermons I indite. And in essays, tracts and all that I compose. I have no doubt at times Uttered platitudes in rhymes ; Some very inane lines I've doubtless penned ; Dull and prosy, too, I've been, But I ne'er commit the sin Of exaggerating facts to gain an end. Most men prevaricate When called on to relate Their fishing exploits, but not so with me: E'en here, my dear one, I Hesitate to tell a lie. I cite as proof of my veracity The case of that large trout; Its weight, as I found out, Was ninety pounds — I caught it in the spring. Now I ne'er swore it weighed A hundred pounds, fair maid : Though others would have done this very thing. 438 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. Among my friends, fair Gwennie, There are doubtless very many (Your sweet self in their ranks may hold a place) Who think that I do go To an extreme in being so Observant of the truth in every case. But I'm so free from guile; It's my nature, pet, and while Your Clifford breathes this mortal life below It will be his highest aim, Not to acquire fame, But to tell the truth in which he revels so. There is so much being done In the way of lying on The slightest provocation : it might be Remarked here that the men In this respect are no worse, Gwen, Than the fairer portion of humanity. Think not that I'm inclined To disparage womankind. I reverence the sex, and so you must Not judge my views severe. No indeed, my Gwennie dear, I may be plain of speech but I am just. How often as one sips The honey from ripe lips Do doubts of their sincerity arise ; The words that issue through, Though false, may yet seem true, Until too late the scales fall from our eyes. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 439 Yes, too late to regain The peace whose happy reign Once blessed those hearts that now are cold. Yet who Need care, e'en though Love lies A-bleeding? Is it wise To grieve because a woman proves untrue ? But there are lips atween Whose beauteous curves, I ween, No utterances of falsehood e'er flow through. Those lips, as you divine. Are yours. I would that mine Could this night meet them in a kiss or two. But now you are not here. So I'm compelled, my dear, To kiss the comely sirens who are nigh. Moore tells us that we may, When from loved lips away, Make love to those that happen to be by. Tom Moore's advice is sound. Yes, one is really bound Who goes through life to cull the sweets thereof. Undoubtedly a man May to his Matilda Ann Be true though he in Sail sees traits to love. Some may think otherwise, So I shan't dogmatize On a moot point ; one's mind perhaps may change. But there's no need for us The matter to discuss, Because from you my fancy ne'er can range. 440 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. Now other girls I see — Girls who really dote on me, Girls of whose charms a poet well might sing ; But somehow they don't fill All that's called for on the bill. None but my Gwen can do this wished-for thing. you surpass them all, Your charms they never pall ; " Their infinite variety," to quote Shakespeare, " Age cannot wither nor Can custom stale." Therefore I'll prove ever loyal to my Gwennie dear. Time — grim old Time might fly, Aye! eons cycle by. Worlds be disrupted, crumble and decay — All this and more might be, But O ! the love in me For Gwen McKnett can never pass away. It is founded on a rock, Or rather on a frock — On the blue silk garment that you sometimes wear ; 1 think you had it on That night we sat upon The sofa, in the alcove, by the stair. I And yet I am not sure Even of this: 'twas your Eyes — your expressive eyes, that were so bright. Which held my heart in thrall. O ! I was dead to all Other things when seated there with you — that night. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 441 That night, Gwen, of the ball ! O ! I recall it all— The dance, the music and the merriment, The flowers and the feast, And last, but O ! not least, The time we in the cozy corner spent. We left the merry throng Awhile, nor thought it wrong In that sequestered spot to have a chat : 'Twas there I told my love. Ah me, the sweet strains of A waltz came faintly to us where we sat. Yes, Gwennie, it was there That I my heart laid bare — There in the alcove. Do you not recall My protestations of An all-absorbing love. As I knelt by you that night at the ball ? Surely you don't forget, Gwendolen McKnett, My soul's outpouring. When a lover kneels To plead fittingly his cause. Can she whom he adores So soon forget his passionate appeals? 1 live in memory That night again : I see Your face abeam with smiles. I hear again That waltz by Straus — The Blue Danube, and I with you Dance to its lively measure, dearest Gwen, 442 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. That waltz ! O, Gwen McKnett, It haunts and thrills me yet : My dreams are gladdened by its cheerie flow Of melody. When near Life's end those strains I'll hear: They'll lull me to my endless sleep I know. The frou-frou of your gown Seemed, as we danced adown The festooned hall, to blend with those notes of That waltz song. The delights Of that night of all nights Are my chief gems in memory's treasure-trove. And when my time to die Arrives, 'twould satisfy My soul as from earth's clay it takes its flight Could it, my peerless Gwen, But hear the music then Of the swish of the ball-skirt you wore that night. The " rustling of a wing " (Strange " Bob " thought so!) might bring A joy to some ; but far more dear than all Other melodies unto My soul is the frou-frou Of that bifurcated skirt worn at a ball. O Gwen, sweet Gwen, my pride. When you are by my side This world of ours seems almost divine : That heart of yours I feel Is true as tempered steel, As it beats in unison with that of mine. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 443 Yes, Gwendolen, to me You somehow seem to be The one above all womankind in whom So nicely concentrate All those virtues men call great. And which tend to rid this earth of all its gloom. When your fair face you turn Towards me, and I discern Thereon such kindliness unmarred by guile, I feel that I am blessed, That life hath for me a zest In the benediction born of your smile. Your graciousness doth add So much to make life glad. Precious are those dear ties that bind me to The object of my love. Why the very saints above Envy me for being smiled upon by you. The world most wisely finds In Shakespeare's Rosalinds, His sweet Violas and his Juliets, And other women, much To love; but they're not such True paragons as are the Gwen McKnetts. " What's in a name? " Well, more Than Shakespeare ever saw Or yet " dreamt of in his philosophy ". Had you lived in his time He would this truth sublime Have found and have acknowledged readily. 444 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. And so your name, Gwen dear, Would much have pleased Shakespeare: He would have placed you foremost among those Fair heroines who claim Man's homage, and your fame Would be borne afar on every breeze that blows. Now I have looked around, But thus far have not found Another who would prove so sweet a pet. So cheer up, Gwen, don't fear, I'm too dead stuck, my dear, On those charms of yours to sour on them yet. You're not the first girl, Gwen, That I have loved, but then You're the only one whom I can love for aye. What a favored girl you are! Verily a lucky star Must have shone upon you on your natal day. You have my love. What more Gwen dear, can you ask for? I would shower wealth upon you if I could ; But as I can't, I'll do The next best thing for you — I'll deluge you with rhymes. Am I not good? The wealth, Gwen, of the heart Is best. If by my art I might convey to you that treasure which Is stored in mine, I feel I'd be doing you a real Generous act; for then (in rhymes) you would be rich. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 445 Rich — yes, beyond dreams of Cold avarice. A love That fills a heart is worthy of regard. Why should a woman spurn Such a heart, and from it turn, E'en though it pulsates in an humble bard? I'm not that fickle kind Who, when they chance to find Another charmer warranted to please, Uncompunctiously shake Their former flame. I make The substitution only by degrees. I may be classed perhaps Among diplomatic chaps. I hate to wound one's feelings ; so I do Not exactly drop the old Till I have a dead sure hold On the new. But this does not apply to you. Where upon this mimdane sphere Breathes another lass so dear. So precious, as fair Gwendolen McKnett? O ! in you, dear love, I find ■ The ideal that my mind Formed ere your charms my raptured gaze had met. ' I, of danger unforewarned. Succumbed the moment when there dawned Upon me charms so ravishing. I then Experienced a sense Of ecstasy intense. I'll ne'er forget when first I met my Gwen. 446 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. Life's worth the living when We have with us our Gwen — Our own blithe lassie Gwennie. O her voice, Whether heard in song or speech, Has a power that might teach The coldest hearts to love and to rejoice. Her voice so fresh, so young. So clear, so sweet. I've hung As in a spell upon its every word : Its dulcet accents, fraught With love's glad truths, have taught Me lessons I before had never heard. Until my life's last hour Her voice shall have the power To spur me on to high and mighty deeds. I shall show, O ! Gwen McKnett, The world what it has not learned yet — That Cliff's soul can soar above mere bulbs and seeds. Her voice ! Has not its tone Reached at times high Heaven's throne, And caused the saints around it a surprise? And a happiness far more Complete than they before Have known in their experience in the skies? Speak then — speak now, fair sprite, That we who listen might Taste of Heaven's joy ere our life's lease is through. When death shall hush those notes. Why we can cut our throats And take the journey Heavenward with you. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 447 Should your " flight " tend downward — no, 'Tis not likely Jericho Will hereafter be your dwelling-place: and yet We could none of us forbear To follow you, if needs be, there; For our love has no set bounds, fair Gwen McKnett. Love ends not with the tomb. Whate'er may be the doom Of those whose charms have won in this life here The true love of their kind. Will after earth's life find Love still lives and of all joys is the most dear. But I must not, Gwen McKnett, Speak of death. Ah no, not yet Should this subject be discussed. There are, who knows. Weightier problems than this kind Which of ttimes engross your mind : Such as those deep ones that appertain to clothes. Dress in all its sweet details — Ribbons, sashes, laces, veils, Bonnets, turbans, hoods and all styles of headgear; Seal-skin sacques and various wraps, Bustles, lingerie, and perhaps Some things whose names to me are not quite clear. There are other thoughts no less As dear to womankind as dress: Now my pet is shrewd almost beyond her years, And well indeed she knows I speak now of the beaux. Without whom girlhood would dissolve in tears. 448 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. Without the men, O ! what Would women do ? Would not Their interest in dress itself be lost? Would they even care to live When every joy life has to give Drifts away upon its seas so tempest-tossed? But this must never be, My Gwen's too fond of me: And — though it makes me jealous — yet I know She is fond of others too, And hence it would not do To banish men from one who likes them so. Yes, you like us: don't deny The soft impeachment: really I Am aware of only one whom you do hate. The exception merely goes To prove the rule. Ah, Gwennie knows That her love for all the rest of us is great. 'Tis well that this is so ; Hence we must never go And leave our pet disconsolate. Ah, how Can we expect elsewhere To find another maid so fair As the damsel at whose shrine we worship now? No, we'll not leave you. How Could we forsake you now ? A thing that cruel we can never do. 'Twould surely be too mean To shake our little queen. When she is so devoted and so true. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 449 No, no indeed, not while Our angel's winsome smile Gladdens the earth will men e'er wish to die : Nor while we men have your Approval, pet, I'm sure You will not want to bid us a good-by. So we will tarry yet On earth, O ! Gwen McKnett, And breathe the air you breathe, and feel the same Delightsome thoughts that rise When eyes gaze into eyes, And glad hearts glow with love's undying flame. There will, methinks, be less Of mirth and joyousness Found 'mong strange saints in regions of the sky Than those which I do gain Right here upon life's plain, When that sweeter earthly saint — my Gwen — is by. But some day I shall know, And when my time to go To that far land beyond approaches, my Last thought before I start Shall be of my sweetheart. Whom I'll meet again in that blest home on high. There in that home we two May earth's happy ties renew : While other joys, that now we dream not of, Shall be ours, dear, for aye. I.et us then be blithe and gay, And drink and sing and dance and pray and love. 450 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. Love especially, for this Is earth's supremest bliss, Within it are embraced the other four. Would our prayers ascend If love were dead, my friend? Would dance or song or drink please as of yore? Would beaming smiles so grace That fair and radiant face If love were not thus lingering close by? That voice ! O, would it still Its listeners enthrill Were love, triumphant now, to pine and die? If love should take its flight Would those eyes be so bright? Would they beam so tenderly, my dearest girl ? And, let me ask, would those Sweet terpsichorean toes Twirl so sprightly in the waltz's maddening whirl? Not so, dearheart ; therefore While Love is by to pour The sparkling wine, we'll take the proffered cup : And we will dance and sing, Aye, and make the welkin ring With the praises our full hearts shall offer up. Should hearts like ours shrink E'en from a fresh grave's brink Because of doubts? Ah no, my precious dove. Death does not separate The lives sealed here by fate: The grave cannot obliterate earth's love. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 451 The world is fair, look you. Flesh and the devil too Are also fair when love — the love we know — Idealizes them. So let us not condemn Aught that adds to life's pleasures here below. Contrast, my Gwennie dear, A long and sad career With a short yet merry life, then tell me, do, Your preference ; to me The latter seems to be In every way the better of the two. I loathe a hypocrite. Give me your men of wit. Of liberal views, your bon vivants, by gad ! Life was not made for tears. Nor foolish doubts and fears; It were better to be merry than be sad. Be natural and admit Those feelings that may flit Across the mind : confess your tastes though they Be for rum, tobaccO' or For the lasses. It is more Commendable to walk on Truth's highway. " With mirth and laughter let Old wrinkles come." I get These lines from him whom gods praise on their thrones. " Let my liver rather heat With wine," (I still quote, sweet,) " Than my heart cool with mortifying groans." 452 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. If generous living may Shorten our little day, And ere the wrinkles come we cross the line 'Tween life and death — what then? Ah ! we'll not be turned, sweet Gwen, From the table's richest dishes and its wine. To Pleasure then, my own, I'll give my days : her throne Shall be the shrine at which I'll kneel me down : Her favors she'll confer On so true a worshiper : For me her face will never wear a frown. I'll revel in her smiles. And as music, dear, beguiles My vagrant fancy she will tell me all Her choicest stories of That wondrous thing called love. And the joys that spring therefrom which never pall. On flowery beds of ease I'll lie whilst listening to these Rare tales of love. Though 'twill be sweet to live In Pleasure's court, I'll miss Therein that greater bliss Which the presence of my Gwen alone can give. For when away from her I, as one might infer. Am torn with grief. Hope, though, my spirit cheers As a radiant vision of The one girl whom I love Amid the circumambiant gloom appears. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 453 My sweeter life — the one Without which I'm undone. My dearer self, without whom ah ! what were The world and all therein? What would my life have been If I had never on this earth met her ? She knows so well my ways, And blissful are the days Passed in each other's company : we throw Aside all worldly cares, And 'long life's thoroughfares, Hands joined and hearts aflushed with love, we go. With joy's light in our eyes We walk 'neath sunny skies. The city streets celestial do appear. Our way, most beauteous friend, Through Elysium we wend ; Each day that dawneth brings our souls more near. There comes no prescience of A time when our love Will be dethroned. Naught can our lives estrange: No vandal's vengeful hand Can rend apart the band Which binds those hearts that time can never change. The world is very bright And beautiful : I'm quite Sure woman makes it so. Her smiles afford A joy that makes life dear To man upon this sphere. An Eveless Eden we don't want restored. 454 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. O ! why does my life seem So like a happy dream? Ah, Gwendolen McKnett, it is that you Have taught me how to love That now the skies above Are tinted with a brighter, tenderer blue. Sweet are the flowers of spring, Sweet are the birds that sing Among the trees in balmy summer ; sweet It is to listen to The laughter of the children who Play on the sands near where the seawaves beat. But sweeter than all these Is the bright smile one sees On Gwendolen's fair face. How incomplete Would be this life to me If I should never see That happy face lighted with smiles so sweet. There are too many stern And chilling visages, that turn The milk of human kindness into gall ; By my Gwen's face ever shone With a radiance all its own. Diffusing blessings everywhere on all. In the light of that dear face. With its rare and perfect grace. Who would not esteem it glorious to live? O ! my spirit mounts on wings Far above life's grosser things, Whilst I contemplate this lot that fate might give. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 455 So much of joy to gain ! The thought inflames my brain : Parched is my throat and feverish my tongue : My legs (ah! pardon, pray — My limbs I meant to say) Seem to wabble, while my nerves are all imstrung. A blest futurity By the side of Gwen ! Ah me ! The overpowering prospect makes me faint : My senses reel — I gasp. And in the dark I clasp The warm, fair, jeweled hands of my sweet saint. Those firm yet gentle hands. Although in distant lands I'm called to roam, yet, dearheart, they will not Lose their power over me : No, those hands across the sea Would still exert an influence o'er my lot. Reaching across the main. Those firm hands would restrain Me from undue excesses and, perchance, Endangering escapades With flirtsome foreign maids, In the gay metropolis of la belle France. Those hands so kind and true. Unselfishly they do Their share in work that charity affords. Most blessed work, ah yes ! Prompted by kindliness. Not by hopes of future payments and rewards. 456 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. Those brave hands. Day by day Most diligently they Pursue their tasks, no duty do they slight. There's indeed a charm in those Slender fingers that enclose So tigthly in their grasp a heart this night. Those white and shapely hands. As their possessor stands In her loveliness, so proud and O ! so great, Her adoring slave — myself — Would not for all earth's wealth Exchange his fetters for a freer state. Those eager, clinging hands. What ! I unloose the bands That they have fashioned 'round me strong and true? No, I hug the chains whose links Hold me a captive. Ah, methinks A love- wrought chain should last life's journey through. Those hands so small, so soft, So skilled, so sure. How oft I've watched them deal the cards on nights when I At the round table met The poker-playing set. Ah, some of us went broke when stakes were high. Who at times does not get left? From those dexterous, those deft And dainty digits we not always gained The bits of pasteboard for Which we finessed. We bore Like true gamesters, though, the losses we sustained. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 457 It is well to be resigned To our fate. The much maligned Gaming-table teaches us how good a thing Resignation is: I'm told It should ever be extolled As a virtue worthy of acquiring. Talking of virtues, let me state Here my darling's most marked trait — It is kindliness. Ah, I have never heard That Gwendolen McKnett Has ever, ever yet Denied the lowliest one a kindly word. A gracious smile bestowed Here and there along life's road On those less favored toilers we oft meet, Brightens full many a heart And displays a Christian's part, Which in after years may make our lives more sweet. Kindness disarms our foes; Thrice blessed the heart that knows Its presence. O ! it moveth one to do Acts that comfort and make glad Many who might else be sad Oftentimes in passing life's rough places through. Never yet were kind words lost. And how little do they cost! Yet there are those who prize them more than gold. These remarks are trite no doubt. But truth redeems them, and without Any impropriety truth may be told. 458 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. He who would for no real cause Refuse a beggar who implores A crust of bread, is no worse than the one Who, without a reason, could Withhold a word that might do good. Yet men, and women, too, these things have done. Strange — ^yes, strange is this phase Of character. Men's ways At times seem scarcely human : some appear Dead to that sense of good In our common brotherhood — Which other, happier natures find so dear. Brothers, in a sense, we are — A truth divine, and yet how far From all its goodly lessons we oft stray : The cold disdain, the haughty air, Ignoring those with whom we share The precious hours of each passing day. " Man's inhumanity," I'm quoting Burns you see, " Makes countless thousands mourn." Was Robert too Severe? Ah! I'm inclined To think that we can find Men in our time whose hearts are kind and true. In these late days one reads Of grand, heroic deeds Done; not as in the past when men waged war, And 'mid its deathbolts gained A fame, while others, slained, Lay in vast heaps on fields stained red with gore: GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 459 But deeds of valor done By men and women on The fair fields of these peaceful days. Ah yes! To benefit their kind How many we do find Who risk their lives in all true willingness. Not in war's deadly strife For conquest's sake is life Best sacrificed : and we might clearly learn A lesson as we see How kindliness can be More apt than hate a lasting fame to earn. ' O noble lives ! Has it Been meant for us to sit And idly dream, and leave unto the rest Life's duties? Should we shirk The blest and gracious work Of helping the downtrodden and distressed? Now I am no moralist — Though 'twould seem so from the gist Of these passing dissertations — yet I say, With a reverence sincere. That kind Heaven must hold dear All courteous acts performed on Life's highway. But a little while, and then We shall leave these scenes, my Gwen. The life that waits us yonder is not known. We are likely though, dear friend, To attain a peaceful end By kindly acts to those with whom we're thrown. 460 • GWENDOLEN McKNETT. Whether at home, my gentle maid, Or 'mid the busy scenes of trade, In stores, in offices or on the street, To stand aloof in chilly state Is a thing I deprecate ; A benignity of manner is more meet. So don your silken gown, Look your prettiest ; don't frown On any one — smiles more become your face. Be a sunbeam in whose rays Your Cliff may bask these svmimer days, A joy he is all willing to embrace. Life at the best is short, And therefore, pet, we ought To cull its flowers in youth's gala time. [Aint this sentiment put neat? Do you get unto it, sweet? You bet your life I don't get left on rhyme.] I've got the thing down fine; This " afflatus " called " divine " I possess, love, in an eminent degree. I am fly, and no mistake, When called upon to wake The tuneful spirit of true melody. I am never at a loss To express myself ; of course This fact is clearly shown in all I write. Good verses are a treat — Let me add, without conceit, That mine always prove a wonder and delight. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 461 In imagery I'm rich, And the forceful strength with which I grasp a subject causes much surprise. I can talk of love, of war, Call forth one's laughter, or Can bring the tears to sympathetic eyes. I may with absolute Propriety refute The baseless charge of insincerity Formulated by a few Superficial readers, who Fail to see that I can think most seriously. If I treat a solemn theme Rather lightly, if I seem Careless, even frivolous, is it fair To call me callous? Nay, I, as Tennyson might say, Understand " the depths of some divine despair." Of life's disappointments I Have had very likely my Full share; hence I have suffered, and I might Therefore add I've learned to feel That life is earnest, stern and real. As is clear to all who read my lines aright. I'm not always at my best. Even Homer and the rest Of my prototypes have nodded at odd times; But with frankness I assert That I'm generally alert At such times when my soul gropes around for rhymes. 462 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. I'm not satisfied with less Than perfection, and I press Ever onward with unfaltering steps along My way; and e'er life's close I may realize all those High ideals that I've immortalized in song. Fame though, I now begin To see, is hard to win; There's no royal road thereto. What if I may Obtain the plaudits of The world ? Alas ! its love Is fickle, and it passes soon away. " All is vanity." This view Of life may not seem true To your young optimistic mind : but then Solomon, who spake thus, may Have been right; for in his day He was, we know, the wisest of all men. A criticism terse Was passed upon some verse Of mine once which I never have forgot : My critic was a bright And very erudite Young lady, and she said that I wrote — " rot ". Her calling my lines " birni " Drove me that day to rum. I failed, however, to obtain the cheer Sought for at many bars. Night with its myriad stars Saw me reel homeward filled with grief and — beer. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 453 It cut me like a lash To have my lines called trash By one so pretty, gifted, and so wise. In fact, I was so stung That, being rather young, I registered beneath the darkling skies A vow that some day I Would show the world that my Effusions were, if not perhaps sublime, At least not quite as bad As my fair critic had Declared with so much hauteur at the time. Her accentuated air Of disdain when laying bare The imperfections of my verse, caused me, More than aught else, to take An oath that I would make My name known in the world of poesy. Now doubtless this may strike One as most Byronic like. Attacks of Scotch Reviewers, we are told, Spurred Byron on to fame; Inmiortal is his name, While his Scotch foes in unknown graveyards mould. My case is different, I Was really goaded by A young girl's strictures into writing rhyme. I've not yet achieved renown; Fame's imperishable crown May, however, grace that brow of mine sometime. 464 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. I wield a facile pen As you well know, my Gwen; It responds so to my will and ne'er grows tired. It really seems at times To anticipate the rhymes That come thronging in my mind when I'm inspired. Often at midnight, when The world's asleep, my pen Records the thoughts that may, when I am dead, Bring me posthumous fame, And keep alive my name 'Mong those whose lives my words have comforted. Sometimes in life's routine Certain incidents, I ween. Of a nature not to be divulged, occur : Hence I'm under, so I feel, No compulsion to reveal Any happenings of such a character. Take that time when we — but I Would of course much rather die Than state the circumstance ; so have no fears, Safe in your Clifford's breast The secret, love, shall rest, Never to be whispered into mortal ears. Close-locked forevermore Within my bosom's core Is that occasion when we grew — ah well. Somewhat overbold, I fear, A chaperone not being near, And we, ahem ! we — no, I mustn't tell. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 455 No, I'll not allude to that Delicious time when we two sat Cheek by jowl upon the self -same Morris chair, How with one impulse our — well, This is not a thing to tell, And I'll ne'er disclose what happened then and there. O moments of delight When lips with lips unite! Of them I durst not even dimly hint. Those moments, I opine. Are too sacred and divine Ever to be recorded in cold print. I've surely had no lack Of joys: in looking back On life I mark how brightly they appear. Indeed, I question much If e'en in heaven there's such Ecstatic bliss as I have known here. Dost doubt the truth of this? Why I have had the bliss Of knowing you; sometimes you've been to me Most kind. Therefore need I My statement qualify? No, it should stand; 'twas made advisedly. A library were too small To hold a tithe of all That I might say. Time doesn't quite allow Recording fully here The chief events of my career ; I shall speak of them anon, but not just now. 466 GWENDOLEN McKNETT. Aided and abetted by The Muse of Poesy, I Shall in majestic phrases soon be heard. I'll describe the deeds I've done, My amours, the conquests won — All of which have made my name a household word. Yes, I shall — but bless me, Gwen, I am digressing. When I started on these stanzas, be it known, It was my intention to Tell of those sweet traits that you Possess — and I've dwelt mainly on my own. Well, it can't be helped you know ; The thing is done, although I deplore somewhat my strange f orgetfulness. But at a future time I may probably in rhyme Dilate upon the charms that you possess. I shall let my fellow men Know the virtues of my Gwen — Of her kindliness, her charity, and all Her rare qualities of mind And of person. Yes, I find That precious parcels always do come small. O ! it's I who'll write the song The world has waited for so long, And it's you, dearheart, who will the song inspire. Ah, the Muse will lend her aid While the charms of such a maid Are sung with all a lover's wonted fire. GWENDOLEN McKNETT. 457 With this song, then, in view, I'm better able to Draw to a close these rambling rhymes: therefore I bid you, Gwen McKnett, Goodbye: or, rather, let Me say — it is more fitting — Au revoir. 468 A MODEL MAN. To W. A. C * * * * * * — that broad-minded and genial phil- osopher, that accomplished man of letters, of business, of senti- ment and of the world — this poem is affectionately dedicated. I am a drummer — pray don't shrink, I never swear, nor lie, nor drink: I am, as one might say, the pink Of pure perfection, " I don't think ". Yes, I'm the boss exponent of All that is worthy of one's love. Though not a saint, I claim to be A model of propriety: My faults are few, my virtues are, Ah yes! too nmnerous by far To mention here ; besides, just now My modesty will not allow A revelation of the same. Some day when my distinguished name Is blazoned on the Roll of Fame, Those striking attributes of mine Will all be known, I opine; And men in every land and clime, Who love the mighty and sublime. Will with profound amazement hear The story of my strange career : They'll marvel when the tale is told Of acts so daring and so bold. Heroic acts are bound to gain The world's applause, hence I'll obtain. Ere many years have onward whirled, The praise of an enraptured world ; My due of course, no more, no less, As I may frankly here confess. Yes, when my virtues are revealed A MODEL MAN. 469 All other heroes in the field Must stand aside ; I am the one Who shall be styled Earth's favorite Son, Before whom lesser lights will pale, Or pass into Oblivion's vale. Ah yes ! indeed, posterity Without a doubt will hear of me: 'Twill know me as a man of deeds. Who sold Root-beer, and Plows, and seeds. And unadulterated ( !) spice, And Beans, and Oats, and " Death-to-Lice ". (Parenthetically here I'd say this of the seeds and beer : That while the seeds would germinate, The beer would not intoxicate.) Posterity, as it surveys, With retrospective glance, these days, Will note how great a part I played Upon the busy marts of trade: 'Twill catch on to the fact that I Was most particularly fly. Yet at the same time will agree That there were never flies on me. This seems a most felicitous stroke Of paradox combined with joke. Well, 'tis a way I've got sometimes Of intermingling with my rhymes Such quaint conceits. I might do worse Than this when dipping into verse. But I digress. My vagrant Muse, Whose bidding I cannot refuse. Allures me from the beaten track To which I now must hasten back. But, in resuming, I shall drop 470 A MODEL MAN. Commercial subjects. Wliy talk shop? Business, with which I've thiis far dealt, Has its attractions, but I've felt Within me certain thoughts more dear Than those called forth by seeds or beer. From traffic's sordid strife I turn: For other things my soul doth yearn. On History's impartial pages, Recorded for all future ages. Those grander qualities of mine Will with resplendent lustre shine: I, in a sense, will live alway. What boots it if my coffined clay Crumbles to elemental dust? For me there'll be the sculptured bust, Wliich, in Fame's Temple broad and high. The loftiest niche will occupy : And hero worshipers will throng Around its base with gladsome song ; They'll deck my brow, my brow so classic, (Which then, alas! will be but plastic,) With wreaths of laurel, while they gaze. Spell-bound, upon the bust for days. My grave (and I say now and here I contemplate it without fear) Will be the Mecca, so to speak, Of multitudes, who fain would seek For hope that might uplift the race, For inspiration and for grace. The tears of women will be shed Because of the illustrious dead ; Their knight is gone, their eyes will dim Because of him, because of him. With fairest flowers they will cover A MODEL MAN. 471 The tomb of gallant knight and lover. How sacred doth a flower appear On which hath dropp'd a woman's tear. Flowers ! the fragrant token of Respect, of friendship and of love. Emblems they are that sweetly show The better side of life below. A rose fixed in a woman's hair Adds to the glory one sees there: And fitting is it that the bay Should crown the hero of the day. Can one who gazes on a flower Be doubtful of a higher power Than that of man's? Nay, no sane mind Writhes with a doubt of such a kind. How beautiful this earth of ours — Blest with woman ! blest with flowers ! We men who love them both should give Our heart-thanks now because we live. I have a rose — a faded rose; I value it because of those Dear days it calls to mind ; ah me ! Days when I had a friend, but she Has passed from out my life, and now I feel its loneliness somehow. I grieve ; it is — as you infer — Because of her, because of her. But grieving, look you, is all folly : Away, away with melancholy. The Jester's cap and bells for me, And merriment and melody. I meant not to have struck a chord Disclosing grief ; and if I've bored The reader of these lines, I ask 472 A MODEL MAN. Forgiveness. Henceforth I shall bask In the glad light of Pleasure's smile; My heart must not break yet awhile: What if a canker's gnawing there, I know how to be quit of care. Not by the cutting short of life, Not by the shot-gun, nor the knife, Nor by the poisoned draught : these means Of leaving life's tumultuous scenes May suit some wretches, but for me The journey towards the tomb shall be The longer way: this will best suit My taste, and hence I'll take that route. I'll trip along my tombward way With lightsome heart and spirits gay: I'll play the races, yes, I'll back The favorite runners on the track : I'll haunt those gorgeous places where I am assured the game is square: When stakes are high I'll take a hand, I have the necessary sand. To cards, however, I'll resort When not engaged in other sport. Gaming of course excites the brain, But 'tis too quiet, I maintain, For one convivial like me : I crave hilarious revelry. Where woman, song and wine abound I shall most usually be found. My life will be a merry one. If shortened — well, what harm is done? I'll go the pace, you may depend. Unto the end — unto the end. In gilded halls I'll oft be found, A MODEL MAN. 473 And, when the flowing-bowl goes 'round, I'll drink therefrom. Who can withstand That draught when woman's jewelled hand Dispenses it? A woman's will Is law to man : so let her fill The glass, we'll drain it for her sake, If not our own. Yes, we will take The proffered cup; we'll drink to her, We'll sip the wine, but will prefer The sweeter and more thrilling sips — The nectar, look you, of her lips. The man who will not when he may Is but a dolt, a chump, a jay, A namby-pamby mountebank, A cad, a pusillanimous crank. Pah ! he is 'neath contempt, and so I'll check my scorn — I'll let him go. I turn to woman, without whom This life on earth were one of gloom. Woman, thy worth we recognize — We men, and, gazing in thy eyes, A grateful prayer comes to our lip For thy endeared companionship : For thy sweet ways, for thy true heart, For all — ah yes ! for all thou art. Alas ! it is not mine to tell The thoughts that now within me well : Too feeble are my pen and tongue. Let abler poets, who have sung Of worthy themes, now gladly raise Their tuneful notes in woman's praise: Let them essay the happy task ; To live and love is all I ask. Ah! are there greater joys above 474 A MODEL MAN. Than this : to live, to live and — love ? To live and love ! But come, I meant Not to indulge in sentiment. I am a man of moods, you see ; Believing in variety, Which is the spice (the pun forgive) Of life : and one should rightly live. One in the spice line learns a deal ; More than 'tis proper to reveal. Of hiunan nature I have made A study : it is well in trade To read men's minds in order to The likelier make sales, look you. It showeth genius (or else cheek) To sell a man a pound of leek When he wants beans, but this I've done Full oft. The fact is I have won Distinction as a hypnotizer. Last week I sold an Atomizer To one who wanted Cloves : this will Show my surpassing business skill. A man besought me on his knees For Corn once ; I sold him Peas. I could no doubt with equal ease Have booked his order for Swiss Cheese. And did the peas 2i^-pease the buyer? No, but you see my fee was higher : Or, technically speaking, my " Commission " was somewhat more high. My mission in the world is to Obtain cora-missian — which I do. My heart, which melts where love prevails, Is adamant when making sales. That piteous cry for Early Corn A MODEL MAN. 475 I treated with supremest scorn. Now it is well to mention here A fact which doubtless may seem queer. 'Tis this: that I in love affairs, More than in selling sundry wares, Obtain my greatest triumphs : yes. As well as my chief happiness. The man who is successful in The business world is sure to win Success in love: and this is so. As my experiences show. Think not that I have never felt The master passion. Ah ! I've knelt At Beauty's shrine: I've worshiped there, And felt the while that life was fair And worth the living. Yes, to me Has come love's thrill of ecstasy; And 'neath its spell my soul hath soared To taste of joys in heaven stored. I am, you see, a man of parts ; But it is in the game of hearts I most excel : there my forte lies. Hearts are the trumps and mine the prize. My play is brilliant, strong and bold ; The winning cards I always hold : I crush my rivals, and, of course, Their fate fills me with no remorse. Love's tournament is not for boys : They who contest for its high joys And for its favors must possess Man's virile force and sturdiness. The youth of adolescent age Must step aside while men engage In royal competition for 476 A MODEL MAN. The favors Beauty has in store : In store for him whose deeds proclaim A hero worthy of the name. A woman's smile may be the prize — A smile that beams forth from her eyes ; And for that smile men venture all. A life — the sacrifice is small — Is lost. Why not? the prize is high And men will do, and dare, and die. " Our ends are shapened," says Shakespeare, " By destiny." The Bard, I fear, Is right, alas ! Man who is born Must live his life: work, love, and mourn Until his little day has fled And he is numbered with the dead. We are but puppets in Fate's hands. And needs must do as she commands. But stop — I'm sermonizing now ; A serious mood has seemed somehow To come upon me, and I find My usually careless mind Filled for the nonce with thoughts that make The stoutest mortal sometimes quake. Death — dreadful thought ! And yet there is A something in the thought, I wis, Not all unpleasing. Death! ah, we Have no real cause to shrink from thee. Rest for the tired heart and brain Thou bringeth. Is not this a gain ? Does death end all? It cannot be: Nay, it but sets the spirit free. Thus we are taught : it may be so, But do we know? Ah! do we know? Go ask the mitered priest, and he A MODEL MAN. 477 Will discourse on futurity As glibly as I do on seeds. (He talketh well, this man of creeds.) But does he know? List! hear him tell About a heaven and a hell. With much ecclesiastic grace He vividly describes each place. I sit and marvel in my pew, I ask can such ideas be true. I'm not a scoffer: I respect All earth's religions; they direct Their votaries to live aright, Which is most proper ; I am quite Convinced of that. The point with me — A stumbling block as you will see — Is this: to which should I belong? If one be right, the rest are wrong. Which of these many faiths is the True, Simon-pure, correct one? See? Am I to clap me on the chest And boast that I possess the best? I may laud spices, but the line I always draw at things divine. 'Tis natural that a man should cling To early teachings ; years may bring Increase of knowledge, new ideas, New thoughts, new truths, and with the years His mind will broaden : he will change In all things save (nor is this strange) Those theologic views which he Imbibed beside his mother's knee. Now I, who am conservative, Am likely while on earth I live To hold fast, as indeed I ought. 478 A MODEL MAN. To that belief in childhood taught : It may be false, but who dare wrest A pleasing fancy from one's breast? It matters little just what are My views religious, it is far From my intention to narrate My private notions: I'll but state, In brief, that I am what I am — "The Church" may bless, perhaps may damn Me for my independence here. Well, well, her damns I do not fear. E'en threats of excommunication Don't signify in our free nation : In Spain they might, but we're too wise To let such measures terrorize. The conscience, mark you, is the thing. Not the commands of pope or king. To which all should defer. Ah ! then Joy will illume the lives of men. Now man, thank God, has every right To think according to his light: To use his reason, small or great, Unhindered by the Church or State. The world improves : there was a time When views like these were deemed a crime; The conscience then was overawed By viceroys, so-called, of the Lord. Presumptuous man! upon my word, This claim is almost too absurd : Its arrogance quite shocks us, while Its rich grotesqueness makes us smile. The wanton blaspheme of the claim Should bring, methinks, the blush of shame Upon the cheeks of those who try A MODEL MAN. 479 To bolster up the olden lie. Now I respect, as I have said, All earth's religions, yet I'm led To speak sometimes in language strong Of dogmas that are clearly wrong. It is with no unkindliness That I these various views express. I love my fellow men and would Do them a service, if I could. I'd rid their minds of ghostly fears, Their lives of doubt, their eyes of tears : I'd strike a blow, in my small way, 'Gainst superstition's deadly sway. But I diverge : the fact is I Am what I am because of my Past training. It is so with all. Early surroundings, which they call Environment, has much to do With one's belief through life : how few Are the exceptions ! Now just here Is food for thought, for it is clear That had we been in Turkey bred, We'd be Mohammedans instead Of what we are. Ah me ! the more One studies theologic lore In this and in far distant lands. The less one really understands Its mysteries. Should this not teach That tolerance is best to preach? Best still to practice? Why should men, In that which is beyond their ken. Be so cock-sure? Ah, is it wise For any one to dogmatize? Who knows? who knows? And— but no more. 480 A MODEL MAN. This must be tedious ; yes, must bore Those who so graciously intend To read on, even to the end Of my remarks. From grave tO' gay 'Twere best to turn before I lay My pen aside. Yet as I draw Nearer the finis I am more Inclined to sadness. Strange, most strange How fate steps in to disarrange One's fond desire ; here I had Meant to be jolly, yet I'm sad. This mystery of heart and brain Who can explain? Who can explain? Whyfore should one who Avould be jolly Be a prey to melancholy? Whyfore should laughter turn to tears? Whyfore should hope give way to fears? On pleasure's heel why follow pain? ' Who can explain? who can explain? But stop. I must not moralize Over these questions that arise : They are too deep. Ah yes ! to me The whyfore of the why must be An unsolved problem : for a man Immersed in business really can Have little time to spend on these Multifarious mysteries. A drummer may, however, scan, The same as any other man. The situation of affairs. And, putting by his business cares. Pause for a while to ruminate On life, on death, on love, on hate. Yes ! he, like other men, may weave A MODEL MAN, 481 Strange fancies, and perhaps believe In their reality. Why not, If doing so should cheer his lot? To meditate is not unwise, And I need not apologize For having built, as dreamers do, Air castles in the ether blue : For having tasted of a bliss Not known in a world like this. Sometimes, as has been intimated, I get transcendently elated. Not in a bacchanalian sense : Nay, that were too rank an offense. I mentioned on the second line How I abhor a drink like wine ; That fact I would reiterate, I'm most abstemious — " this is straight ". Therefore I mean not that elation Arising from inebriation, The word as used here is " symbolic " ; I mean no spirits alcoholic. I speak of spirits to be sure, But ah ! they are those sweet and pure Emotions of the soul within, Free from all grossness and from sin: The subtly sweet esthetic kind — The exaltation of the mind. The rapture of a hope which fills One's being with ecstatic thrills : A soul, look you, in whose depth lies A dawning sense of paradise : The sentiments so true and real Which only higher mortals feel. Ah ! would it smack of vanity 482 A MODEL MAN. Were I to say they come to me? I've felt their force — the force of these Rare sentiments. Beneath a tree's Cool shade in spring I've sat and found, While gazing on the scene aromid, A joy and peace I may not tell. Ah yes ! and I remember well Days (happy days they were to me) Spent by the ever-sounding sea, Days of a summer that were blest By one whose friendship I possessed : My gentle friend of days long gone, And now — I mourn: yes, now I mourn. I mourn, as you again infer, Because of her, because of her. But it is not all grief with me, My friend still lives — in memory. I see her now, I clasp her hand, I walk with her along the strand, I hear again her glad, low voice — And I rejoice ; yes, I rejoice. The past — in thought — again is mine. Need I repine? Need I repine? My memory is haunted by The spirit of dead days. Yes, I Here in the gloom do mind me when I dreamt love's dream; and now again I dream, but not as once I did In hopeful years : yet still, amid Life's later cares and duties, may Not hopes and dreams illume our way? And so, in soberer manner, I Now hope and dream. Perchance a sigh Escapes my lips sometimes — ah, well ! A MODEL MAN. 483 The cause of it I need not tell. Sighs are not always notes of woe. A longing sad yet sweet may show Its presence by a sigh : and who Would wish such longings stilled? How true It is that we ofttimes find more Of happiness in longing for An object than we seem to gain By its possession. Joy and pain Are strangely joined. Anticipation Means more than does realization : There is in one a sweet unrest That adds to life a buoyant zest. To have, to gobble up, to sit Surfeited at Life's feast — well, it Is not, methinks, the happier lot. But hold, but hold ! Ah, is it not Wrongful — most wrongful thus to let These thronging sentiments upset My calmer purpose? I should strive To check their sweep. Yet I derive A pleasure in their unchecked course: For O, look you, I feel their force — The force, as I have said, of these Rare sentiments. Beans, corn, peas, Spices, commissions, dollars, cents Cannot efface such sentiments : Cannot blot out that cherished store Of finer thoughts from my mind's core. And now to close: the hours have sped; It getteth late, I must to bed. Too long I've dallied with the Muse: Yet who will blame, who will abuse A plain, commercial man this night 484 A MODEL MAN. Because of his poetic flight? I have been frank, sincere and bold, And now my tale is almost told ; I've let my fancy stray, and much I've said about myself ; if such Has interested, well and good. Now, lest I be misunderstood, I mention that 'twas with the best Of feeling I my thoughts expressed. If I have wounded any one By aught I've written, said or done, I ask forgiveness. If I've play'd The critic's part, and, mayhap, made My strictures too severely strong, I crave a pardon for the wrong. In my room's quietude, where none Intruded, I perhaps have spun Too long a tale : well, it is one That has been told, for I have done. It is with kindliest thoughts I dwell Upon the closing word — Farewell. NO MOURNING. 485 I must, because of advanced age, Soon make my exit from life's stage. I'll hate to part From the Muse ; leaving her, I'll find, Rather distressing; I won't mind Leaving Trade's mart. In neither world — the world of trade Nor that of Poesy — have I made As yet a hit ; And few, few women and few men Will miss me — really miss me when These worlds I quit. No one will care — not any one, "When I" (to quote from Tennyson) Put out to sea." It grieves me to know this, but still 'Twere best perhaps that no one will E'er mourn for me. SEEDSMEN AND POETS. Business and rhyming-men may thrive When I no longer am alive. Vast fortunes may Be made by seedsmen, also by The world's aspiring bards when I Have passed away. 'Twill please me more than otherwise To know when I'm in Paradise, Or Jericho, As it may happen, that seedsmen As well as poets may e'en then Gain fame and — dough. My being absent from the scene Will not in anyway, I ween, [" I ween " sounds well] Grieve other bards and seedsmen. Who Cares where it be that I go to — Heaven or hell? 486 UNCOMMITTED SINS. If I had wanted to I could Have penned more sonnets, odes and lays ; But I forbore. I think I should, In consequence, receive some praise. I might have perpetrated more Verses, but I desisted though : Or, as has been said, I " forbore ". Hence I deserve some praise, I know. Sins uncommitted — those that are Suppressed by our own will force — may Plead loudly for us at the bar Of justice on a future day. Though often tempted to outpour My soul in song in those tense days When I kept books, yet I forbore. Such self-restraint was worth some praise. Now I'm too old to hum the airs That visited my soul one time. The passing years with all their cares Nip, as it were, the roots of rhyme. Romance and love and sentiment Must in youth's day on business wait. When youth has gone the years prevent Our testing life's joys. Such is fate! Yet I have no regrets ; nay, none. Life! I've enjoyed it; yes, and I Enjoy it still ; 'twill soon be done. But I am not afraid to die. I'm pleased to think that I displayed Such self-restraint in bygone days. Duty, not Love's call, I obeyed. Yes, really, I deserve some praise. TIME TO STOP. 487 True, I at odd times sang of love ; My heart ne'er felt the strange thrill, though, Of love's full force. I but sang of That which 'twas never mine to know. I academically dealt With the great subject ; though 'tis true There have been times when I have felt That I could love as others do. I acted wisely. I forswore Love and its lures in youth's wild days. And so, as I have said before, I certainly deserve some praise. Yet sometimes I am conscious of A want I cannot well define — The loss of something (is it love?) That never was nor can be mine. But whyfore be downcast in these Comparatively peaceful days? Alone I sailed life's storm-swept seas. And now — now I deserve some praise. TIME TO STOP. Being the writer's final farewell to the Muse. I'm now more elderly than when I worked (and rhymed) in that seed shop. I can't write verse as I did then ; I am too old ; 'tis time to stop. To part from the Muse ! O ! it wrings A poet's heart : the tears I drop Would drown a world. Of all sad things The saddest — nay, 'tis time to stop. Farewell, O Muse ! The dreams are o'er Which I once dreamt in that seed shop. I'd like to rhyme a little more Just here — but no, 'tis time to stop. 488 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. Though I have always been a clerk And bookkeeper, I never had A special love for office work ; Something about it made me sad. To add interminable rows Of figures, to make bills, to strike The balances — such things as those I do not altogether like. I ne'er did care for business or For any mercantile pursuits. Yet many years I kept books for A wholesaler in nuts and fruits. I never had the nerve to break From office trammels. Weak of will And mediocre, I could make No progress. I merely stood still. And life — bright, glorious life swept by The while I burrowed in a store, And I beheld the friends of my Youth gain the prizes they strove for. Some gained renown, and others wealth. Ah well ! can one his fate control ? Gee ! I'm unburdening myself. Confession's good, though, for the soul. Yes, I am frank. But then why not Be frank? I suffer no regret. I am contented with my lot. And — well, I may be happy yet. There is in mediocrity No crime. At a desk I worked two Score years most conscientiously. I did the very best I knew. From candy, nuts and fruits I went Into the floricultural line ; But in a seed establishment 'Twas not intended I should shine. I'm not in fruits now, nor in seeds, Nor in aught else at present. I'm Just looking for a firm that needs A clerk who keeps books and can — rhyme. LAST LINES. 489 " Now, we part, My songs and I. We part, and what remains? Perchance an echo, and perchance no more." — Owen Meredith. I wrote Thyme for rhjmie's sake ; I knew I could By writing it ne'er make A livelihood. To me it was a fad, And nothing more; In Poesy's realm I had No right to soar. Rhjoning to very few Proves lucrative; For me it would not do ; I had to live. And so I worked — well, I, That is to say. Kept books down town till my Hair became gray. And yet a lifetime spent On trade's stern mart Ne'er has caused sentiment To quit my heart. The rhyming knack I had, Also, it seems, A habit — which was bad — Of dreaming dreams. Dreams ! dreams ! Mere dreams. But then How fair they were! Who would have blamed me when I dreamed of her? 490 LAST LINES. Those dreams ! They brought to me The joy of hope. No, I could never be A misanthrope. Contentedly, down town, At keeping books, I worked, despite Fate's frown And coldest looks. Time passed ; youth's heyday waned And died; life nears Its end now. Hope sustained Me through the years. Hope ! Ah ! her song yet stirs My soul ; I hear Again that voice of hers ; It still is dear. Hope of — I know not what. A rest from care ; Something to bless one's lot Here — or elsewhere. And these vague dreamings of A better state On earth here or above. They kept me straight. Not that rewards cajole Or penalties Affright the average soul In days like these. If I have acted square 'Twas not — well, let's Say not because of fair Words or loud threats. LAST LINES. 491 I acted just as I Did — no, I'll drop This subject; 'tis too dry. I'd better stop. Things occult I'll cut out; None cares to read Dreary remarks about A chosen creed. It shows a want of tact To dogmatize On these last leaves ; in fact, It is unwise. Yet is it very wrong To muse o'er things And listen to that song Which fair Hope sings? Oft in the summer, at The twilight time Of a fair day, I've sat Me down to rhyme. And on vacations when A view I caught Of the wild sea, ah ! then The Muse I sought. Rare moments there have been When I've learned of Those joys that follow in The wake of love. Beyond the city streets My soul has flown. Yes, life's supremest sweets At times I've known. 492 LAST LINES. The products of my muse, Now gathered here, Who will care to peruse? But few, I fear. The world's loss would be small, So I opine, Were I to burn up all This verse of mine. And yet 'twas not to please The world I took The pains I did with these Rh5Tnes in this book. True poetry lovers care Not to peruse Verse in which tyros air Their shallow views. Well, I too, I confess. Love verse, but know My limitations; yes, No one more so. Yet I wrote verses ! Why, Some one may ask. O just — er — because I — Er — liked the task. For rhyme's sake, as I've said, I wrote these rhymes. [Will she, when I am dead. Read them — sometimes?] Rhyming appears to me Harmless. Why twit Those, then, who chance to be Engaged in it? LAST LINES. 493 Sore? By no means. Whyfore? This bantering wit I took in good part. Sore? No, not a bit. I got off verses to Simply kill time. The world would not, I knew. Care for my rhyme. Still, having done the same, I'll not consign To the devouring flame This book of mine. My verse, I'm free to state, Perhaps is what Some might denominate As rhythmic rot. Nought in unkindness, though, Is herein penned ; I have lampooned no foe. Much less a friend. I have been frank — also Sincere. I might Have erred at times ; few, though, Are always right. Regrets? I need feel none. What I have said Will, really, harm no one When it is read. My rhymes may be thought poor And void of charm ; But they can not, I'm sure. Do any harm. 494 LAST LINES. She whom, in dreams, I love Perhaps may look Within the covers of My little book. Many a foolish line She'll find ; but here And there, though, Love's divine Truth will appear. Hence, when she glances through These pages, she — My dreamlove — may learn to Love — yes, love me! If this prove so, I need Not hanker for The world's praise; no, indeed; Hers is worth more. LIBRARY OF CONGRESS llillilllllllillllllllll 018 378 065 7