' LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 ^ Shelf :/3..6:V6 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 
Volunteer Grain 
 
One Jmndred and sixty copies pi-ijited from type, 
 of 'which one hundred and fifty are for sale. 
 
Volunteer Grain 
 
 Francis FrBrowne 
 
 cQ^ 
 
 IRIRHT -^ 
 
 ^bG M ^^^r' 
 
 -^B^^ ! \ 
 
 Ch icago 
 Way & Williams 
 
 
 MDCCCXCV 
 
r 
 
 Copyright 
 
 By Way & Williams 
 
 mdcccxcv 
 
'To my Wife and Children 
 
VOLUNTEER GRAIN 
 
 A FIELD of wavering grain 
 Wild grown on some unplanned, unplanted space. 
 
 Owning no fostering grace 
 Of husbandry save the free air and rain. 
 
 Not the well tended field 
 Whose soil, deep mellowed by the ploughman's share, 
 
 Full planted, tilled with care. 
 Gladdens the heart with its abundant yield. 
 
 But some fortuitous seeds. 
 Chance blown, wind scattered, falling by the way, 
 
 Growing as best they may. 
 Find soil and sun sufficient to their needs. 
 
 And though but little rife 
 With golden grain, or flowers that grow between. 
 
 This slender sheaf I glean 
 From the unplanted acres of my life. 
 
Contents 
 
 
 Page 
 
 Under the Blue 
 
 II 
 
 Vanquished 
 
 13 
 
 Santa Barbara 
 
 16 
 
 The Message from Judea 
 
 18 
 
 Retrogression 
 
 22 
 
 Bugle-Echoes 
 
 26 
 
 Dead Beyond the Sea 
 
 27 
 
 Matthew Arnold 
 
 31 
 
 Infruition 
 
 33 
 
 Bryant's Eightieth Birthday 
 
 35 
 
 On an Unfortunate Lover 
 
 38 
 
 The Death of Longfellow 
 
 40 
 
 Ideals 
 
 43 
 
 Carcassonne 
 
 49 
 
 9 
 
 
Contents 
 
 Page 
 
 Ballad of Books Unborn 53 
 
 To THE Author of ' Old-World Idylls ' 55 
 
 A Poet and his Interviewer 56 
 
 Greeting to Lowell 58 
 
 Welcome the President 64 
 
 Washington's Birthday 66 
 
 The Wicked Fisherman 68 
 
 Vistas 70 
 
 10 
 
UNDER THE BLUE 
 
 The skies are low, the winds are slow, 
 The woods are filled with Autumn glory ; 
 
 The mists are still on field and hill. 
 The brooklet sings its dreamy story. 
 
 I careless rove through glen and grove ; 
 
 I dream by hill and copse and river ; 
 Or in the shade by aspen made 
 
 I watch the restless shadows quiver. 
 
 I lift my eyes to azure skies 
 
 That shed their tinted glory o'er me ; 
 While memories sweet around me fleet, 
 
 As radiant as the scene before me. 
 // 
 
Under the Blue 
 
 For while I muse upon the hues 
 
 Of Autumn skies in splendor given, 
 
 Sweet thoughts arise of rare deep eyes 
 Whose blue is like the blue of heaven. 
 
 Bend low, fair skies ! Smile sweet, fair eyes ! 
 
 From radiant skies rich hues are streaming ; 
 But in the blue of pure eyes true 
 
 The radiance of my life is beaming. 
 
 O skies of blue ! ye fade from view; 
 
 Faint grow the hues that o'er me quiver ; 
 But the sure light of sweet eyes bright 
 
 Shines on forever and forever. 
 
 12 
 
VANQUISHED 
 [death of general grant] 
 
 I. 
 
 Not by the ball or brand 
 Sped by a mortal hand. 
 Not by the lightning stroke 
 When fiery tempests broke, — 
 Not mid the ranks of War 
 Fell the great Conqueror. 
 
 II. 
 
 Unmoved, undismayed. 
 In the crash and carnage of the cannonade; 
 Eye that dimmed not, hand that failed not. 
 Brain that swerved not, heart that quailed 
 not, 
 
 '3 
 
Vanquished 
 
 Steel nerve, iron form, — 
 The dauntless spirit that o'erruled the 
 storm. 
 
 III. 
 While the Hero peaceful slept 
 A foeman to his chamber crept ; 
 Lightly to the slumberer came. 
 Touched his brow and breathed his name : 
 O'er the stricken form there past 
 Suddenly an icy blast. 
 
 The Hero woke: rose undismayed: 
 Saluted Death, and sheathed his blade. 
 
 V. 
 
 The Conqueror of a hundred fields 
 To a mightier Conqueror yields ; 
 t4 
 
Vanquished 
 
 No mortal foeman's blow 
 Laid the great Soldier low; 
 Victor in his latest breath — 
 Vanquished but by Death. 
 
 15 
 
SANTA BARBARA 
 
 Between the mountains and the sea, 
 
 Walled by the rock, fringed by the foam, 
 
 A valley stretches fair and free 
 
 Beneath the blue of heaven's dome. 
 
 At rest in that fair valley lies 
 
 Saint Barbara, the beauteous maid ; 
 
 Above her head the cloudless skies 
 
 Smile down upon her charms displayed. 
 
 The sunlit mountains o'er her shed 
 The splendor of their purple tinge; 
 
 While round her like a mantle spread 
 The blue seas with their silver fringe. 
 i6 
 
Santa Barbara 
 
 Enfolded in that soothing calm, 
 
 The earth seems sweet, and heaven near; 
 The flowers bloom free, the air is balm, 
 
 And Summer rules the radiant year. 
 
 n 
 
THE MESSAGE FROM JUDEA 
 
 Across the years and distance wide, 
 Across the continent and the main, 
 
 Through all the changes that divide, 
 The message comes to us again 
 
 Of Him who, midst the accusing band 
 That stood the erring one before, 
 
 Stooped down and wrote with sinless hand 
 His law to sinners : Sin no more. 
 
 Oh, firmer than the sculptured stone 
 That sacred message ever stands, — 
 
 The one line writ by Him alone, 
 Eternal in the shifting sands. 
 i8 
 
The Message from Judea 
 
 Eternal, though the trampled mould 
 Had but a single hour sufficed 
 
 Within its fading shape to hold 
 The message of the living Christ. 
 
 For glad tongues spread it far and wide, 
 And told it o'er and o'er again ; 
 
 And thus it ever shall abide, 
 Engraven in the hearts of men. 
 
 He loved not sin, yet he forgave 
 The doer of the deed abhorred ; 
 
 His justice lifted hands to save. 
 
 Not menaced with a glittering sword. 
 
 In laws of love he did descry 
 Our frail humanity's best hope; 
 
 Not in the rule of eye for eye, — 
 Not in the axe, the stake, the rope. 
 19 
 
The Message from Judea 
 
 O ye who take Christ's name, yet fear 
 To follow where he led the way, 
 
 Why should you doubt his precepts clear 
 For guidance in your little day ? 
 
 Think well, amidst your fear or wrath, 
 If Christ were with you now, as then. 
 
 Would he approve the doom of death 
 Invoked upon your fellow-men? 
 
 Oh, if indeed to do his will 
 
 And walk his ways be your desire. 
 
 Seek not to make his good an ill, 
 Mercy a cheat, and Christ a liar. 
 
 If wrong could ever right a wrong. 
 Or life could be by death restored, 
 
 How had the ills the centuries throng 
 
 Been banished from Thy earth, O Lord ! 
 
The Message from Judea 
 
 Oh, listen to the gentler voice 
 
 That bids all hate and violence cease; 
 
 And trust sad Earth may yet rejoice 
 Within the blessed reign of peace. 
 
 21 
 
RETROGRESSION 
 
 Oh, let thick mists the earth enshroud, 
 And the great sun withdraw his light, 
 
 And fall from every lowering cloud 
 The darkness of the elder Night. 
 
 Let sea and sky together close. 
 Till i)oth commingle into gloom; 
 
 And pitying heaven weep with those 
 That follow Freedom to the tomb. 
 
 Weep, Nature, for thy perverse child, 
 
 Thy youngest, Man; whose father. Time, 
 
 Dowered him with passions fierce and wild, — 
 A heritage from out the slime 
 
 22 
 
Retrogression 
 
 Where his progenitors maintained 
 Existence by unceasing strife, 
 
 And slowly through the ages strained 
 Their way to higher forms of life, — 
 
 Of which, we said, our race and age 
 Were the consummate flower and fruit 
 
 Now our old savage heritage 
 Asserts in us the latent brute ; 
 
 And brutal instincts overpower 
 Reason's imponderable play. 
 
 And Manhood's finer forces cower 
 Before the primal passions' sway. 
 
 Whereof the deadliest and the worst 
 Is Fear, — the parent-passion vile, 
 
 Of all the hateful brood accurst 
 That can the selfish heart defile : 
 23 
 
Retrogression 
 
 Fear, Hatred, Wrath, the coward-lust 
 Of Vengeance ; Truth discredited. 
 
 Till Justice is no longer just, 
 
 Reason is drunk, and Honor dead ; 
 
 And Mercy fears to speak aloud 
 The plea that withers on her lips ; 
 
 Pale Pity stands with forehead bowed, 
 And Faith's pure star is in eclipse. 
 
 Men tremble, and their spirits quail 
 Before Opinion's tyrant might ; 
 
 When lower Self bears down the scale. 
 The higher Self rejects the right. 
 
 And still must rage the horrid feud 
 Inherent in our being's law; 
 
 The arbitry of Bad and Good 
 By wager of the tooth and claw. 
 24 
 
Retrogression 
 
 Opposing forces up and down 
 
 Shall sway us till the end of time; 
 
 These fit us for an angel's crown, — 
 Those drag us backward to the slime. 
 
 Oh, well may mists the earth enshroud, 
 And the great sun be veiled in gloom, 
 
 And tears fall thick from every cloud. 
 When Hope sits dumb by Freedom's 
 tomb. 
 
 25 
 
BUGLE-ECHOES 
 
 Across the years, full rounded to a score 
 Since Peace, advancing with her olive wand. 
 Restored the sunshine to our desolate land, 
 Come thronging back the memories of war: 
 Again the drums beat and the cannons roar, 
 And patriot fires by every breeze are fanned. 
 And pulses quicken with a purpose grand. 
 As Manhood's forces swell to ampler store. 
 Again ^ the camp, the field, the march, the 
 
 strife. 
 The joy of victory, the bitter pain 
 Of wounds and sore defeat; the anguish rife 
 In tears that fall for the unnumbered slain. 
 And homes where darkened is the light of 
 
 life, — 
 All these the echoing bugle brings again. 
 26 
 
DEAD BEYOND THE SEA 
 [g. p. b.] 
 
 As a far landscape when the clouds are 
 clearing 
 
 Closer to us appears. 
 The far-off vistas of my youth seem nearing 
 
 Across a mist of tears. 
 
 Glimpses of old familiar scenes are flitting, 
 
 And old familiar faces ; 
 And the old schoolroom, and old school- 
 mates sitting 
 In the old familiar places. 
 27 
 
Dead Beyond the Sea 
 
 I roam once more those boyhood realms 
 Elysian; 
 
 I dream Youth's dreams again, — 
 Till I awake; and through the fading vision 
 
 Comes back the bitter pain. 
 
 Where are they now, those comrades brave 
 and cheery ? 
 Where journey they afar, 
 Or rest their wandering feet, grown worn 
 and weary, 
 In stranger clime, or star? 
 
 And where is he, the Friend above all 
 others, 
 For whom I shed these tears ? 
 Boyhood's companion, tenderest of brothers, 
 Loved of my later years ! 
 28 
 
Dead Beyond the Sea 
 
 In mutual sympathy and aspiration 
 Our hearts were ever led . . . 
 
 Now among strangers of a foreign nation 
 My dearest Friend lies dead. 
 
 I have no lack of other friends to cheer me, 
 
 Of sympathy no lack; 
 Yet ever from the kindly faces near me 
 
 My thoughts will wander back. 
 
 My children wile me with their innocent 
 graces, 
 
 And throng about my knee ; 
 But still I gaze beyond their happy faces, 
 
 Across the desolate sea. 
 
 Must all the memories of early pleasures 
 Be cherished amidst tears.'' 
 
Dead Beyond the Sea 
 
 ruthless Time ! give back the plundered 
 
 treasures, — 
 Give back the vanished years ! 
 
 1 strain dim eyes and stretch weak hands in 
 
 yearning 
 Across the widening sea 
 O'er which I nevermore shall see returning 
 Youth and my Friend to me. 
 
 Tears for the dead ; and for the living, pity; 
 
 . The Past is past for aye : 
 My Friend lies dead in that far German city, 
 And I am old and gray. 
 
 30 
 
MATTHEW ARNOLD 
 
 Not in the meeting of the hands alone, 
 
 Nor ripples of a casual courtesy 
 
 Above the deeps of thought unstirred that 
 
 lie,- 
 Not thus, O Master, is your purport 
 
 known 
 To those who in your printed pages own. 
 More than hand-clasp or meeting eye to eye, 
 *A presence that is not to be put by,' 
 Speaking more clearly than your voice's 
 
 tone. 
 And thus you go not from us in your going; 
 Some Tree of Truth, from seed cast by your 
 
 hand, 
 
 31 
 
Matthew Arnold 
 
 Green-canopied, shall spread its branches 
 
 wide, 
 Its gracious effluence far around bestowing, 
 A shadow and refuge in a weary land : 
 So shall your living Self with us abide. 
 
 32 
 
INFRUITION 
 
 In Winter, when we're musing 
 On happy days of Spring, — 
 On charms that wait our choosing. 
 And pleasures quickening, — 
 
 How chill the sunshine glows 
 Upon the Wintry snows ! 
 
 In Springtime, when we're longing 
 
 For brighter days of bloom, — 
 Impatient for the thronging 
 Of pleasures soon to come, — 
 How tender buds are lost 
 In Spring's delaying frost ! 
 
 In Summer, when we're sighing 
 For the refreshing rain, — 
 33 
 
I n f r u i t i o n 
 
 For blossoms that are dying, 
 For pleasures turned to pain, — 
 
 How all our green hopes scorch 
 In the blaze of Summer's torch! 
 
 In Autumn, when we're grieving 
 
 O'er days of Summer fled, — 
 Thinking of joys we're leaving, 
 And pleasures that are dead, — 
 How cold the gray cloud lies 
 Under the Autumn skies ! 
 
 In the unending seasons 
 
 Of slow revolving years, — 
 The faiths that fade in treasons, 
 The pleasures tombed in tears, — 
 How heavy is the pall 
 Of Life, that droops o'er all ! 
 
 34 
 
BRYANT'S EIGHTIETH BIRTHDAY 
 
 O POET whom our grandsires loved, 
 
 And whom our sires revered and praised, 
 
 Not less do we, — last of the three 
 Of generations thou hast graced. 
 
 Still in our children's hearts shall chime 
 The echoes of thy deathless song ; 
 
 And though we sleep, their love will keep 
 Still green thy laurels, worn so long. 
 
 So hast thou everlasting life : 
 
 Though nations fadej the poet free 
 
 Shall live; and still his utterance thrill 
 The generations yet to be. 
 35 
 
Bryant's Eightieth Birthday 
 
 O patriarch of the poet throng! 
 
 Not simply have thy singer's arts. 
 Nor golden store of scholar's lore, 
 
 Endeared thee to the people's hearts. 
 
 To think is much, to be is more; 
 
 The first is great, the last is good ; 
 On thee we place the crowning grace 
 
 Of universal brotherhood. 
 
 Thy love for God is love for man, 
 
 And Jove for God's works, good and fair; 
 
 And not one jot shall be forgot, — 
 For Nature knows her worshipper. 
 
 The Eastern pines thy love shall sing 
 Across the land, to where, profound 
 
 By Western steeps, the wild wave sweeps, 
 That, save its dashing, hears no sound. 
 3^ 
 
Bryant's Eightieth Birthday 
 
 The trees thy loving care didst tend 
 Shall blossom still ; and still shall run 
 
 The laughing rills among the hills 
 And sunny vales of Cummington. 
 
 And Roslyn's fields be fair again 
 
 With bloom, as in those marvellous hours 
 When thou, thy heart from cares apart, 
 
 Walked lovingly among the flowers. 
 
 And Roslyn's woods be all atune 
 
 With birds that warble forth thy name 
 
 In Springtime's green, or Summer's sheen, 
 Or in the Autumn's tints of flame. 
 
 Sing forth his name, pour out his praise, 
 O woods and streams, O birds and flowers ! 
 
 Repeat, repeat his numbers sweet; 
 
 His love and fame are yours and ours. 
 
 37 
 
ON AN UNFORTUNATE LOVER 
 
 Wild spirit of fire, whose flame too fiercely- 
 burned; 
 
 Appointed suflferer, chosen to tread the press 
 
 Whose purple streams pour only bitterness; 
 
 Unhappy lover, whose strong nature yearned 
 
 For the full measure of love its love had 
 earned. 
 
 And loved too true to be content with 
 less, — 
 
 Whose life was shattered by his passion's 
 stress, 
 
 His faiths betrayed, and hopes to ashes 
 turned. 
 
 Let happy husbands, on wild desolate nights 
 
 When stars are hidden and the tempests 
 rave, 
 
 3S 
 
On an Unfortunate Lover 
 
 Turning to the fond eyes of trustful wives, 
 Think on his hunger for the heart's delights, 
 Think with compassion on his lonely grave. 
 And think with gratitude on their happier 
 lives. 
 
 39 
 
THE DEATH OF LONGFELLOW 
 
 ♦ O ye dead poets, who are living still, 
 Immortal in your verse.' — Longfellow. 
 
 We mourn for those whose laurels fade, 
 Whose greatness in the grave is laid ; 
 Whose memory few will care to keep, 
 Whose names, forgotten, soon shall sleep ; 
 We mourn life's vainness, as we bow 
 O'er folded hands and icy brow. 
 
 Dark is the grief of those whose faith 
 Is bounded by the shores of Death ; 
 From out whose mists of doubt and gloom 
 No rainbow arches o'er the tomb 
 Where Love's last tribute of a tear 
 Lies with dead flowers upon the bier. 
 40 
 
The Death of Longfellow 
 
 O thou revered, beloved ! not yet, 
 With funeral bells, with eyes tear-wet, 
 With faltering pulses, do we lay 
 Thy greatness in the grave away ; 
 Not Auburn's consecrated ground 
 Can hold the life that wraps thee round. 
 
 Still shall thy gentle presence prove 
 Its ministry of hope and love; 
 Thy tender tones be heard within 
 The story of Evangeline ; 
 And by the Fireside, midst the rest, 
 Thou oft shalt be a welcome guest. 
 
 Again the Mystery shall be clear ; 
 The august Tuscan's shade appear; 
 Moved by thy impulse, we shall feel 
 New longings for thy high ideal. 
 And under all thy forms of art 
 Feel beatings of a human heart. 
 41 
 
The Death of Longfellow 
 
 As in our dreams we follow thee 
 With longing eyes Beyond the Sea, 
 We see thee on some loftier height, 
 Across whose trembling bridge of light 
 Our Voices of the Night are borne, 
 Irradiate with the light of morn. 
 
 O happy Poet ! Thine is not 
 
 A portion in the common lot : 
 
 Thy works shall follow thee; thy verse 
 
 Shall still thy living thoughts rehearse ; 
 
 The ages shall to thee belong 
 
 In immortality of Song. 
 
 42 
 
IDEALS 
 [schiller] 
 
 And wilt thou, truant-like, thus leave me, 
 
 With all thy visions of delight ? 
 The joys that soothe, the ills that grieve 
 me, — 
 
 Will nothing stay their rapid flight? 
 Alas, how quick the time is going! 
 
 Youth's precious hours, how fast they flee! 
 The waves of Life are swiftly flowing 
 
 Into Eternity's great sea. 
 
 The radiance of those suns is banished. 
 That lighted once my youthful quest; * 
 
 And all the bright ideals are vanished. 
 That filled with joy my swelling breast; 
 43 
 
Ideals 
 
 And vanished is the sweet confiding 
 In forms my fancy did portray : 
 
 Reality, a robber hiding, 
 
 Has made my fairest hopes his prey. 
 
 As with a wild resistless passion 
 
 Pygmalion did a stone embrace, 
 Till tides of love, in human fashion. 
 
 Suffused the marble's icy face, 
 So I, with youthful love's devotion, 
 
 Embraced all Nature as my own ; 
 Until she warmed to life and motion, 
 
 My ardent poet breast upon. 
 
 And in my fiery ardor sharing, 
 
 * Mute Nature then a language found, 
 
 Returning with a zeal unsparing 
 
 The love that filled my being's bound. 
 44 
 
Ideals 
 
 Trees were alive to me, and flowers ; 
 
 Each silvery fall sang soft and low ; 
 Quickened to life all Nature's powers, 
 
 From my own being's overflow. 
 
 With that celestial rapture swelling, 
 
 My narrow breast a world enclosed ; 
 Which strove to burst its bounds, outwelling 
 
 In forms where Beauty's self reposed. 
 How glorious seemed the world before me, — 
 
 An opening bud, all fresh and green : 
 Alas, how few, as years rolled o'er me. 
 
 And worthless, have its blossoms been ! 
 
 How upon wings of boldest daring, 
 Happy in dreams his fancies yield, 
 
 The youth, undoubting and uncaring, 
 Flew eager to Life's thronging, field ! 
 45 
 
Ideals 
 
 Up to the farthest planet burning, 
 
 My striving pinions swept their way; 
 
 No height could hasten my returning, 
 Or bid my ardent purpose stay. 
 
 How easy then seemed my advancing! 
 
 Youth's course unhindered swept along ; 
 While by Life's chariot blithely dancing 
 
 Appeared a bright celestial throng: 
 First, Love, with her sweet compensations; 
 
 Then, Fortune, with her golden hoard ; 
 And Glory, crowned with constellations ; 
 
 And Truth, with sunlight overpoured. 
 
 But yet ere half the journey ended, 
 That radiant company was gone ; 
 
 Those faces that my way attended. 
 Disloyal, left me one by one. 
 
 46 
 
Ideals 
 
 By Fortune was I first deserted ; 
 
 Wisdom brought Disappointment's ruth; 
 And Doubt's dark cloud hid the averted 
 
 And sunlit countenance of Truth. 
 
 I saw the laurel wreaths of Glory- 
 Degraded upon foreheads low ; 
 
 And all too soon Love's tender story 
 Had vanished in the Long Ago. 
 
 While evermore was silent growing, 
 And lonelier, my rugged way, — 
 
 Hardly the faintest glimmer showing 
 Hope's radiance fading like the day. 
 
 Of all that company so splendid, 
 One only steadfast has remained. 
 
 And ever at my side attended. 
 
 Faithful till Life's last heights are gained: 
 47 
 
Ideals 
 
 Thou, Friendship, with thy touch caressing 
 And healing every aching wound, 
 
 With health and comfort ever blessing, — 
 Thou who wert earliest sought and found. 
 
 And thou, the friendly task inspiring 
 
 That helps to calm the soul's fierce strife, 
 Thou, Industry, that, never tiring, 
 
 Upbuilds the edifice of Life, 
 And on Eternity's foundation 
 
 One atom on another rears. 
 Yet from Nature's great obligation 
 
 Cancels the minutes, days, and years. 
 
 48 
 
CARCASSONNE 
 [gustave nadaud] 
 
 *I 'm an old man ; I 'm sixty years ; 
 
 I've worked hard all my life, 
 Yet never have gained my heart's desire, 
 
 With all my toil and strife. 
 Ah, well I see that here below 
 
 There is perfect joy for none; 
 My dearest wish is unfulfilled, — 
 
 I have never seen Carcassonne ! 
 
 *The city lies almost in sight, 
 
 Beyond the mountains blue ; 
 
 But yet to reach it one must needs 
 Five weary leagues pursue. 
 49 
 
Carcassonne 
 
 And then, alas, the journey back! 
 
 I know not how 'twere done : 
 The ripening vintage fears the frost, — ■ 
 
 I shall never see Carcassonne ! 
 
 ''T is said that in that favored place 
 
 All days are holidays. 
 With happy folks in robes of white 
 
 Passing along the ways ; 
 'T is said there are castles there as grand 
 
 As those of Babylon, 
 And a Bishop and two Generals there, — 
 
 I shall never know Carcassonne ! 
 
 'The Vicar a hundred times is right, — 
 We are weak and foolish all ; 
 
 And in his sermon he teaches us 
 
 That ambition makes men fall. . . . 
 50 
 
Carcassonne 
 
 But yet if I could somehow find 
 
 Two days under Autumn's sun, 
 
 My God ! but I would die content 
 After having seen Carcassonne ! 
 
 ' I ask Thy pardon, gracious God, 
 
 If my prayer ofFendeth Thee! 
 We strive to peer beyond our sight, 
 
 In age as in infancy. . . . 
 My wife and son, they both have been 
 
 As far as to Narbonne ; 
 My godson has seen Perpignan, — 
 
 And I 've never seen Carcassonne ! 
 
 An aged peasant thus complained, 
 Bowed down with toil and care. 
 
 I said to him, 'Arise, my friend; 
 Together we'll go there.' 
 5^ 
 
Carcassonne 
 
 We set out on the morrow morn ; 
 
 But our journey was scarce begun 
 When the old man died upon the road, 
 
 He had never seen Carcassonne! 
 
 52 
 
BALLAD OF BOOKS UNBORN 
 
 Sad is the fate of him whose books 
 Unkind reviewers maim and kill ; 
 Whose heartstrings quiver in the hooks 
 That show their cold dissecting skill ; 
 They work on him their wanton will, 
 While all his tenderest hopes are torn: 
 But, ah, there's something sadder still 
 In thinking of the books unborn ! 
 
 The wounded author may find nooks 
 Secluded, by some vale or rill, 
 Where nevermore the critic rooks 
 Can rend him with their inky bill ; 
 53 
 
Ballad of Books Unborn 
 
 But, oh, what solace for the ill 
 Of hope deferred that waits forlorn 
 To feel the parent raptures thrill 
 Of books that yet remain unborn ! 
 
 The would-be author, whose fond looks 
 Turn ever to Fame's sunlit hill, 
 Chafes at defeat, and sorely brooks 
 The fate that makes his triumphs nil. 
 He loathes the phrase, politely chill, 
 'Declined with thanks.' So let him mourn, 
 Whose bosom disappointments fill 
 For books that never may be born. 
 
 V Envoi. 
 Princes (who publish books), distill 
 Some drops of pity, not of scorn, 
 For those poor toilers of the quill 
 Whose books are waiting to be born ! 
 54 
 
TO THE AUTHOR OF 'OLD-WORLD 
 IDYLLS' 
 
 [a valentine] 
 
 A NIMBLE wit, fancy's abundant flow, 
 Neatness of touch, an airy verve or * go,' 
 Humor and pathos blending smiles with 
 
 tears, 
 A sympathy with common hopes and fears. 
 Sincerity that reinforces art 
 With wisdom studied from the human 
 
 heart, — 
 Such are the gifts and graces that combine 
 To lend a charm to Dobson's sparkling 
 
 line. 
 
 55 
 
A POET AND HIS INTERVIEWER 
 
 Our dear ex- Minister Russell Lowell 
 Can't make our modern prospects show well ; 
 Thinks all our days are fallen on evil, 
 And we are going to the devil ; 
 Lamenting like that dubious frump, 
 A universalist Mugwump. 
 He grumbles at Professor Huxley 
 Because he can't tell what makes ducks lay, 
 Nor bridge with solid fact the chasm 
 'Twixt us and primal protoplasm ; 
 He hates to see us merge afar in 
 The monkey pedigrees of Darwin, — 
 Referring all our powers extensile 
 Back to that ancestor prehensile 
 56 
 
A Poet and his Interviewer 
 
 Who hung head foremost from the boughs 
 And chattered with his ring-tailed spouse. 
 All this, and more, our scholar-poet 
 ( Whose verses never fail to show wit, 
 Though now and then a bit pedantic) 
 Sets forth at length in * The Atlantic,' 
 With humor keen, and satire drastic. 
 And rhyme and metre Hudibrastic. 
 
 Yet while he views with grave concern 
 Our pedigrees that downward turn 
 (Or upward) from a modern flunkey 
 Back to a patriarchal monkey. 
 There's one thing that he does n't show, 
 We 'd give up all the rest to know : 
 If he were going to air his views 
 Of English cronies, would he choose 
 For confidant an ape or flunkey — 
 An ' interviewer ' or a monkey ? 
 57 
 
GREETING TO LOWELL 
 
 {A hint to Chicago.) We welcome to-day 
 A visitor who, though but brief be his stay 
 In our Western metropolis, yet should 
 
 receive 
 A greeting will make him reluctant to leave. 
 A sincere, unobtrusive, unforced hospitality 
 Will no doubt please him more than too 
 
 great prodigality 
 Of attentions, or keeping too much on the 
 
 Or making too great an exertion to show 
 How unique the career of our wonderful 
 
 city, 
 Which is still in its infancy (more is the 
 
 pity). 
 
 58 
 
Greeting to Lowell 
 
 Don't pile up statistics, — the schooners and 
 
 brigs 
 That enter our port, or the number of pigs 
 And of cattle and other brutes killed in a 
 
 year; 
 And especially let us keep well in the rear 
 Those two-legged animals that make their 
 
 jaw go. 
 Incessantly braying the praise of Chicago. 
 Spare our guest the details of our startling 
 
 chronology. 
 And stand as we are, without brag or 
 
 apology. 
 He will find a community, though hard at 
 
 work. 
 Not engaging en masse in the packing of 
 
 pork. 
 With a few here and there who have even 
 
 inferred 
 
 59 
 
Greeting to Lowell 
 
 There are some things in life that are nobler 
 than lard. 
 
 We shall find him — but who in our midst 
 does not know him ? 
 
 If such creature exists, fetch him out, let us 
 show him ! 
 
 No one but a dense and confirmed igno- 
 ramus 
 
 Could deny that he knew of an author so 
 famous ; 
 
 Or even if literature set its bar sinister 
 
 On him, he would know our distinguished 
 ex-Minister, — 
 
 He who at the fashionable Court of St. James 
 
 Moved, a gentleman born, with the lords 
 and the dames ; 
 
 And while it was not to his taste to geologize 
 
 Among buried scores, yet he did not apolo- 
 gize 
 
 60 
 
Greeting to Lowell 
 
 For the plain words he'd said when our 
 hearts were all full 
 
 Of anger and bitterness toward John Bull. 
 
 With the whole human race his quick sym- 
 pathies ever ran, 
 
 Yet he is, first and foremost of all, an 
 American; 
 
 And while his survey is as wide as crea- 
 tion, 
 
 He keeps in the foreground the great 
 Yankee nation. 
 
 For his country his genius rose highest, and 
 glowed 
 
 In his Xrisis,' and 'Washers,' and memo- 
 rial Ode ; 
 
 These poems flashed out like a fire in the 
 dark, 
 
 And went straight to our hearts as a ball to 
 its mark. 
 
 6i 
 
Greeting to Lowell 
 
 In prose or in verse, how he makes words 
 effectual ; 
 
 What a vigor he has, this athlete intellec- 
 tual! 
 
 Then how charming his fancy, how brilliant 
 his jest. 
 
 How flashing his wit, in his quips what a 
 zest ! 
 
 How delicious his humor! — may the mo- 
 ment come slow 
 
 When we cease to admire dear old Hosea 
 Bigelow. 
 
 As poet and patriot, teacher and scholar. 
 
 His career stands as full and as round as a 
 dollar; 
 
 And clearly among the immortals who 
 grace 
 
 American letters, he holds a first place. 
 
 NuUi secundus: there always will show well 
 62 
 
Greeting to Lowell 
 
 Beside our best names, that of James 
 
 Russell Lowell. 
 May each year that passes more lightly 
 
 assess him, 
 And the prayer of our hearts will be ever, 
 
 God bless him. 
 
 63 
 
WELCOME THE PRESIDENT 
 
 Not as some conquering Hero comes, 
 With noise of trumpet and of drums, 
 And many a battle-scar. 
 And trophies gained in war, — 
 
 But in his civic honors great. 
 
 We welcome our Chief Magistrate ; 
 
 Let banners wave, bands play. 
 And all be joy to-day. 
 
 Not to the warrior chief alone 
 
 A people's homage should be shown. 
 
 New times need leaders new; 
 
 Peace hath her victories too. 
 64 
 
Welcome the President 
 
 Honor the man whose simple art 
 Trusts the good rule, Act well your part ; 
 The man of ready power 
 To fit Occasion's hour; 
 
 Of steady brain, of tireless hand. 
 Of will to work whate'er is planned; 
 Of steady purpose true 
 His honest task to do. 
 
 Such is the man whose simple strength 
 Has won the People's heart at length, 
 That all with glad intent 
 Welcome their President ; 
 
 And open wide their stores and marts. 
 And open wide their doors and hearts. 
 And proudly greet the guest 
 Of the hospitable West. 
 
 65 
 
WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY 
 
 [hymn for the union league celebration, 
 
 CHICAGO, 1887] 
 
 Light that led our Fathers' ways, 
 Guide us in these later days. 
 
 Once again on Freedom's shrine 
 Burn the oil and pour the wine. 
 
 Pledge the faith of Washington — 
 For our Country we are one. 
 
 South and North and East and West, 
 Patriot zeal fill every breast. 
 
 West and East and South and North, 
 Fling the Nation's banner forth. 
 66 
 
Washington's Birthday 
 
 Discord and dissension cease ; 
 Liberty and Law increase, 
 
 As of old the legend ran, — 
 Freedom and the Rights of Man. 
 
 Through the Southland's paradise 
 To Alaska's realms of ice, 
 
 Over Western prairies wide 
 To the glad Pacific's side. 
 
 Freedom's breath waft sweet perfume 
 From Washington's immortal tomb. 
 
 Patriots of our happier time. 
 Keep the trinity sublime 
 
 That in dreams our Fathers saw, — 
 Union, Liberty, and Law. 
 
 67 
 
THE WICKED FISHERMAN 
 
 [to a fellow-angler : g. m. m.] 
 
 That man a perilous course doth keep, 
 Swept on like tides of Fundy, 
 
 Who preys, while others pray (or sleep), 
 Upon the trout on Sunday. 
 
 A prayer or sermon, led by some 
 
 Good psalm-tune like old * Dundee,' 
 
 His sinful state would more become 
 Than catching trout on Sunday. 
 
 Has he no dread of what is said 
 
 By pious Mrs. Grundy.'' — 
 * How ever can that wicked man 
 
 Go fishing on a Sunday ? ' 
 68 
 
The Wicked Fisherman 
 
 But there's an angler shrewd as he 
 (And craftier could none be), 
 
 Who sets a bait for sinners straight 
 That fishing go on Sunday. 
 
 Then let him heed his wicked deed, 
 Put by his rod till Monday, 
 
 Or he'll be fish for the Devil's dish, 
 And served up hot some Sunday. 
 
 69 
 
VISTAS 
 
 [lines on a fly-leaf : to m. b. a.] 
 
 As one in city streets, amidst the noise, 
 The din and tumult of the discordant 
 scene, 
 Viewing a lovely flower, yearns for the joys 
 Of roaming free o'er fields of living 
 ' green,— 
 
 So in my dusty ways of toil and care. 
 
 This book, O Friend, brings to my 
 fancy's flights 
 Longings for larger quests amidst these fair 
 And splendid fields thick blossoming with 
 delights. 
 
 yo