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 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 HENRY D. MUIR 
 
 CHICAGO: 
 
 1897
 
 Copyright, 1897, 
 
 by 
 HENRY D. MUIR.
 
 /fin 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 These verses have been selected from among 
 those contributed to various local publications dur 
 ing the past seven years. The critical reader 
 scarce needs to be informed that the poems in the 
 latter portion of the volume were the first written. 
 
 Chicago, September 30, 1897.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Title. Page. 
 
 The Bower of Death 9 
 
 An Invitation 14 
 
 Sand 15 
 
 Earth s Secrets 16 
 
 Health 17 
 
 Orsino s Court 18 
 
 Two Voices *9 
 
 At Sunset Hour 21 
 
 Nature s Voice 22 
 
 The Dim-Seen Torch 23 
 
 The Giants 24 
 
 Plutus the World-Conqueror 28 
 
 Ariel s Visit 3 2 
 
 SONNETS: 
 
 Through Half-Shut Eyes 36 
 
 An Illinois Prairie 37 
 
 The Sleeping Lake 38 
 
 Poetry 39 
 
 To the Decadents 4 
 
 Ada Rehan as Viola 4 1 
 
 Ada Rehan as Rosalind 42 
 
 King Lear 43 
 
 To Sir John Falstaff 44 
 
 John Keats 45 
 
 Springtime Musings 5 
 
 Where? 55 
 
 Mammon s Bride 56 
 
 Bookland 57 
 
 Cupid s Prayer 59 
 
 Sylvius and Phebe 61
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Title. Page. 
 
 A Madrigal 64 
 
 Song 65 
 
 Joy and Sorrow 66 
 
 Autumn 67 
 
 Literary Musings 68 
 
 The Man Who Liked a Joke 69 
 
 Great Caesar s Ghost 70 
 
 SONNETS: 
 
 A Piece of Blue 75 
 
 Thoreau 76 
 
 The Thought of Death 77 
 
 A Rainy May 78 
 
 June Greeting 79 
 
 Slaves of Mammon 80 
 
 Fancy 81 
 
 Music 82 
 
 The Captive Spring 83 
 
 The Lilac Bush 84 
 
 Morning 85 
 
 On the River 87 
 
 Song of the Butterfly 89 
 
 The Soldier s Grave 90 
 
 Morning-Glories 92 
 
 Sleep 94 
 
 Glory 95 
 
 Hope , 96 
 
 Sparks from Sappho 97 
 
 Thistledown 100 
 
 Inconstancy 101 
 
 Discord 102 
 
 April Weather 103 
 
 A Morning Incident 104 
 
 Belated Flowers 105 
 
 The Waifs 106 
 
 All Is Said 107 
 
 Squibs 109
 
 POEMS.
 
 THE BOWER OF DEATH. 
 
 Summer s breath is sweet and warm 
 
 With full life and languid charm; 
 
 There s no taint or thought of death 
 
 In the air-enriching breath 
 
 Of Summer: her dwindled streams 
 
 Sing for joy to the bright beams 
 
 That rob them; her river coves 
 
 Hang green with health; fields, hills, groves, 
 
 Everything Nature possesses, 
 
 Summer blesses and caresses 
 
 With the touch of life complete. 
 
 But I know a lone retreat, 
 Where wild flowers blossom rarer, 
 Where the trees grow taller, fairer, 
 In their undisturbed grace, 
 Than elsewhere; and in that place 
 Death hath framed himself a bower. 
 Twas one sultry noontime hour, 
 When the sun through fainting air 
 Shot heat-arrows everywhere, 
 That my boat s prow turned aside 
 Screening leaves, and I did glide, 
 Like a shade through shadows whirled, 
 To meet the king of the shade world. 
 
 9
 
 Let the fabling poets tell 
 Of the dangers that befell 
 Proserpine, ere she came forth 
 From dusk regions of the earth; 
 Let them paint, in colors somber, 
 Fierce and horrid shapes that slumber 
 In dark cells and drowsy caves 
 Pluto s murder-willing slaves 
 Yet the mind will not believe them, 
 And the soul will not receive them. 
 Earth, to senses world-oppressed, 
 Is a treasury of rest, 
 In which quietness is stored 
 By silent gnomes a vast hoard, 
 Shared in peace and amity. 
 Though Earth s face be fair to see, 
 And the sun and moon adore it, 
 And the stars glow bright before it, 
 She hath beauty hid within 
 Her head, her breast neath the skin 
 Of mountain, plain and shining sea, 
 Which hides her soul s sublimity. 
 
 Thus, when gulping caves of gloom 
 Swallowed me, no thought did come 
 On the eagle wings of fear 
 To my mind, but all was clear 
 And terrorless; as though day 
 Scattered freely in my way 
 Lavish sunbeams and the sky 
 Arched blue above my head. I, 
 In a strange half-swoon of peace, 
 
 10
 
 Heard the dark waves chafe and tease 
 
 Jagged ledges of cold rock 
 
 And the roar and mighty shock 
 
 Of vast sunless waterfalls, 
 
 Till those subterranean halls 
 
 Were threaded and I was borne, 
 
 Like a sea-plant gently torn 
 
 From loose rootage neath the ocean, 
 
 Surfaceward with easy motion; 
 
 Guided, by a viewless power, 
 
 To Death s dim and covert bower. 
 
 There the stream was all o erhung 
 With withered vines; dead moss clung 
 To the pine trees tall and dark, 
 And was seen no vital spark 
 Of plant-life in grass or flower. 
 Ev n the faint wind wrought a shower 
 Of dry leaves and brittle cones, 
 Twigs, and sapless boughs the bones 
 And the bark-flesh of dying trees 
 And this pungent-odored breeze, 
 Gaining strength for lower rambles 
 O er decay-sweet brush and brambles, 
 Scattered snake sloughs through the brown 
 And seared aisles, like thistledown ; 
 Pillaging the serpent-dead, 
 Midst the reeds, on muddy bed. 
 So this spot, verdure-surroiimded, 
 And by health and beauty bounded, 
 Like a sorrow that doth keep 
 In the heart securely deep, 
 
 n
 
 Neath the shifting surface joys; 
 Like a blight which, hid, destroys, 
 In a garden rich and fair, 
 Lay all desolate, all bare: 
 For King Thanatos, at rest 
 On a couch by wood-nymphs drest 
 For his sole and regal use, 
 Could not choose but work abuse; 
 Blighting, ev n with inert presence, 
 Every sweet and lifeful essense, 
 
 Yet this bower of gloom possessed 
 Charms, and every sense confessed 
 The potency of subtile spell; . 
 For a web of quiet fell 
 O er the sore and restless mind, 
 Shutting out the world behind, 
 With its care and pain and hurry. 
 Lulled by Death, secure from worry, 
 Here forever had I lain, 
 And the earth had found again 
 Her poor loan of dust and clay, 
 Had no faint and truant ray 
 Of the heaven-sweeping sun 
 Pierced the mystic woof and won 
 My soul back to life and duty. 
 
 Out into the vernal beauty 
 Of the world I paddled forth, 
 Tasting of the forest mirth 
 With new zest, till every sound 
 In my heart its echo found. 
 And the air was never sweeter, 
 
 12
 
 Or the summer scene completer 
 In fair fantasies of bloom, 
 Than then, ere contrasting gloom 
 Of that nook so late forsaken 
 From my passive mind was shaken. 
 And ev n then, as since, a flow 
 Of underthought, beneath the glow 
 Of free sense, came pulsating; 
 Taming, molding, leavening, 
 With slow, melancholy motion, 
 All that wild and formless ocean 
 Of rare joy, and chastening 
 The rank earth and everything; 
 Making death-thoughts sweet as life, 
 And life-thoughts less passion-rife; 
 Binding, twining, in one wreath, 
 The best flow rs of life and death.
 
 AN INVITATION. 
 
 All this golden day is mine; 
 
 Mine the pure, life-giving air; 
 
 And the prodigal sunshine, 
 
 It is mine, O, it is mine 
 
 Mine to feel, and mine to share 
 With all leaping hearts that dare 
 
 To meet its touch divine! 
 
 Let this golden day be ours, 
 
 Brothers of the smoke-grimed town ! 
 
 And the swift, unloitering hours, 
 
 Let, O let them all be ours ! 
 
 Though the- tyrant Labor frown, 
 Come and lay your burdens down 
 
 Among these trees and flowers. 
 
 For this golden day may hold 
 
 All the best that Earth can give 
 
 From her treasures manifold; 
 
 O, this passing day may hold 
 
 Regal joys, strong to outlive 
 Sorrows keenly sensitive 
 
 In hearts grown weak and old.
 
 SAND. 
 
 Out .on the light-brown seabeach glad children are playing, 
 Romping in clean, soft sand, with spirits flowing and high ; 
 
 Digging, tunneling, building, the whim of the moment 
 
 obeying, 
 Unawed by the protean blues of sea and of sky. 
 
 In jar and blur of the fierce, untamable city 
 
 Children play with sand of the builders, happy and loud; 
 Nature-starved, they seek not, expect not, your pity 
 
 Anxious only to delve unmolested amidst noise and 
 crowd. 
 
 So may man s valorous soul, if given, for shaping, 
 The rich sand of life 1 by Time ever scattered and 
 
 whirled 
 Break fated environments, unconsciously scaping, 
 
 Glow unabashed before nature, live unsubdued by the 
 world.
 
 EARTH S SECRETS. 
 
 No secret, Earth, thine ample breast 
 
 In Summer s prime canst hold; 
 Thy dreams of peace, thy vague unrest, 
 To the wide world are told; 
 
 For each small traitorous flower 
 
 Thou nursed and gav st life-power, 
 And even now foldest into thy bosom kind, 
 
 Doth breathe to arching trees 
 
 Thy closest secrecies, 
 And the trees whisper them to the all-telling wind. 
 
 Not till grim Winter s ice and snow 
 
 Lock droop-boughs rigid-tight, 
 And lay those tiny traitors low 
 
 Beneath the prisoning white 
 O Earth, canst thy proud dreaming, 
 Thy planning and thy scheming 
 How to array the Spring, to crown and garland her, 
 Be safe in thy deep heart; 
 And no wind mayst impart 
 
 To the cold world thy thoughts, nor guess their 
 quickening stir. 
 
 16
 
 HEALTH. 
 
 To the healthy eye 
 
 The earth is never old, 
 The sky is rich with changing hues, 
 
 The fields with floral gold; 
 Each grove a world of beauty is, 
 
 Each stream a long delight, 
 A universe of joy is found 
 
 On every mountain height. 
 
 To the healthy mind 
 
 How deep, how full, is life; 
 How lifted up by noble aims 
 
 Above all aimless strife; 
 Piercing through Art for Nature s best, 
 
 But dearly loving both 
 To such a mind her close-kept gates 
 
 Truth opens, nothing loth. 
 
 Come, O stranger Health! 
 
 O, come and bathe the earth 
 With a warm flood of ruby blood, 
 
 Cleansing Man s morbid hearth; 
 Leap like new fire within his veins, 
 
 And rouse his drooping soul, 
 Till he stands erect with spirit pure 
 
 And frame that s strong and whole.
 
 ORSINO S COURT. 
 
 In Orsino s lavish court 
 
 Gold doth shine and silver gleameth, 
 Tapestries of rarest sort 
 
 Deck those walls, and music streameth, 
 In sweet rivulets of sound, 
 From above, below, around; 
 Beauty walks, and Youth doth sport 
 
 In Orsino s court. 
 
 But Orsino s dreamy court 
 
 Holdeth dearer, prouder treasure 
 
 Than bright gems, or Beauty s port, 
 Or the careless smiles of Pleasure; 
 
 Love is there, and there is found 
 
 Deep soul-patience without bound, 
 
 Whilst Viola makes resort 
 At Orsino s court. 
 
 18
 
 TWO VOICES. 
 
 You are weary of rhyming, O Poet, you are wearied, are 
 
 worn, 
 With Art, its close boundaries, its gyves and its fetters ; 
 
 Your verses, ev n while you write them, do glance at each 
 
 other with scorn 
 
 The sentences despise their words and the despised 
 words their letters; 
 
 And the completed legions pf lines seem to wish they had 
 never been born, 
 
 For they stand to the past and its poets like rows of impov 
 erished debtors. 
 
 You are weary of life, too, O Poet, nigh wearied to death 
 With the dull, brazen stare of the world and its soul- 
 smirching glitter; 
 And Earth hath a slow, morbid voice, and her morbid voice 
 
 saith : 
 
 "Thou, Poet, who, living thy life, hast found it so bitter, 
 Why dost thou wrestle and fight for a poisonous mouthful 
 
 of breath? 
 To lie in my bosom forever and sleep would be fitter." 
 
 But, Poet, believe not the false and sophistical voice of 
 the earth 
 
 19
 
 The myriad tongues of" the air the weird winds are 
 
 singing; 
 Some shrill with the fierceness of passion, some soft with 
 
 the newness of birth; 
 But all truthfully bringing the message consigned to 
 
 their bringing: 
 "Though the wide sea of life should be choked with the 
 
 perilous bergs of the North, 
 Be thou, as a storm-beaten bell, through mist-walls 
 
 still ringing." 
 
 20
 
 AT SUNSET HOUR. 
 
 Could I but live this hour 
 
 Careless and free; 
 Be like a bird or flow r, 
 
 Or cease to be; 
 
 Sweep with unresting wing 
 Heaven s blue dome, 
 
 Or drowse, low nestling 
 In Earth s perfume, 
 
 Then would ignoble years 
 
 Of soul-decrease 
 Dissolve, like outgrown fears, 
 
 Before the peace 
 
 Of one brief sunset hour, 
 
 Fleeting away, 
 But yielding mightier dower 
 
 Than all the day. 
 
 21
 
 NATURE S VOICE. 
 
 We live in Nature s ceaseless sound; 
 
 Although we note it not, 
 Her melodies and discords round 
 
 Our every act and thought; 
 Making kind deeds more kind in kindness, 
 Mazing blind thoughts in blinder blindness, 
 
 Coloring pale threads of fate 
 To joy adding joy, to grief s grieving 
 More grief, love to fond love, and breathing 
 
 Hate into the soul of hate. 
 
 Nature s proud voice is but a chirp 
 
 In the mighty choir of Time, 
 But no earth-child can e er extirp 
 
 From his heart the rhythm sublime 
 Of sound-surges that beat and fill it, 
 Of passion-notes that stir and thrill it, 
 
 In endless pulse and free; 
 
 But still must sweep with the wave s wild reaches- 
 High, low, gainst rocks, up fair palm beaches 
 
 At whim of the fateful sea. 
 
 22
 
 THE DIM-SEEN TORCH. 
 
 Above the wreck and carnage of slow years, 
 
 And all their clinging fears, 
 
 Through fire, through smoke, through stanchless streams 
 of blood, 
 
 Cuba! at last I see 
 
 The torch of Liberty 
 Shine, though hid her face in war s tempestuous flood. 
 
 Soon on thy dripping hearthstone will she kneel, 
 
 And thy sad wounds will heal; 
 Thy death-white cheeks will glow with coloring life: 
 
 Fresh flow rs will star thy hair; 
 
 Thy heart new hopes will share 
 
 With those warm sister hearts that bought their peace with 
 strife. 
 
 Cuba! thy cherished sons lie prone and dead, 
 
 But lift thy pensive head: 
 From the safe mountain, from the matted grove, 
 
 From plantain-shaded caves, 
 
 From o er the ocean waves 
 Rally heroic souls, each worthy of thy love. 
 
 Already, Cuba, in thy watchful eyes 
 
 The lights of felt power rise; 
 Up from the earth thou rearest thy proud form : 
 
 Thou, too, dost dimly see 
 
 The torch of Liberty 
 O ertop, with cheering glow, the dark and cheerless storm,
 
 THE GIANTS. 
 I. 
 
 The grim and massy giants of the town 
 
 Lift their proud heads amid the swirling smoke 
 
 And view the clear blue sky with envious frown: 
 They cannot strike or mar, with tyrant stroke, 
 
 The mild, sweet face of Nature, or pull down 
 The spirits of the air to gasp and choke; 
 
 So on the prisoned earth they straightway turn 
 
 Their gaze stern brows and eyes grown doubly stern. 
 
 II. 
 
 And all year long, around their pillared feet, 
 
 They watch the ant-like swarms that creep below; 
 
 That thin not for the summer s languid heat, 
 Nor fail when keen-teethed winds of winter blow: 
 
 There master, slave, the cheated and the cheat, 
 The millionaire, the beggar come and go 
 
 Self-stung by life s Nemesis, the desire 
 
 To girt their very souls with Mammon s fire. 
 
 III. 
 
 These stalwart brothers seem to stand and mock 
 Their pygmy masters with disdainful look, 
 
 As though their mighty hearts of quarried rock 
 Retained some impulse of the power that shook 
 
 24
 
 The mountains with unanswerable shock 
 Some light and poetry of canyon brook, 
 Some majesty of cliff and sea-swept cave, 
 Which all the race of earth could ne er enslave. 
 
 IV. 
 
 What scenes of pride and pulsing pageantry 
 
 Have lived their minute-life beneath those eyes; 
 
 Yielding their lofty place, their color high, 
 To changeless trade and pale realities? 
 
 What foreign sounds have joined in company 
 To feed those giant ears with music-sighs, 
 
 With riot echoes, with slow-tolling bell? 
 
 What have they heard, seen, felt? No tongue can tell. 
 
 V. 
 
 Ev n should some Titan god (his age-dead youth 
 
 Recalling) animate each stony breast 
 With fire, and stir to speech those lips uncouth, 
 
 What language passion-warm could bear the test 
 Of their recited themes? tales dark with truth 
 
 Stories of fouled ambition, cold unrest; 
 Of glowing roses robbed of scent and bloom, 
 Of heart-threads broken in the world s vast loom. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Of all the fated lives these monsters guard 
 In sturdy silence, with reluctant care, 
 Could we mark one and follow to the hard 
 
 Completion of its journey; could we tear 
 One throbbing heart ensnared, outwitted, marred 
 
 By destiny from the mute thousands there, 
 
 25
 
 And hold it warm and close O, what a story 
 Might press on our near hearts its record gory ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 Colossal, dark, impenetrable, they stand, 
 
 Locking their gloomy secrets safe and deep ; 
 
 Each bulk a sphinx, though no Egyptian sand 
 Engrains its firm-fixed feet: their eyes o ersweep 
 
 A wide and shifting desert, ever fanned 
 
 By Fortune s gustful breath; where men may sleep 
 
 One night in an oasis of content 
 
 The next may wander, weary, jaded, spent. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 O, if proud banners of the progressed years, 
 Mocking lost days of voiceless savagery, 
 
 Unfurl but this: "The world s imperial ears 
 Hearken to none but Fortune s progeny;" 
 
 If worthy vessels sink where one uprears 
 Its ensign on the crest of the chafed sea 
 
 Then blush, O years, for ye have much to learn 
 
 Ev n from those simple days ye mock and spurn! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Around these swarthy forms these giants wear 
 The noble spoils of many an ancient state ; 
 
 The clear-cut gems of Athens sparkle there, 
 
 And Rome s huge splendors and the easy weight 
 
 Of wrought Venetian wealth alike they bear 
 Stolid, indifferent the mute guards of Fate. 
 
 Yet ever, neath the chains and veiling dress, 
 
 Is seen their own strong limbs vast sturdiness. 
 
 26
 
 X. 
 
 Time stops, aghast, before this mighty band; 
 
 They heed him not, nor heed they anything, 
 Save that dull-prisoned earth o er which they stand 
 
 At sleepless watch ; the winds of night may sing 
 Weird songs they hear not; the lake s surly hand 
 
 May lash her white-maned coursers till they spring 
 High on the quivering shore they move not: lost 
 In their sure selves, a world-ignoring host. 
 
 27
 
 PLUTUS THE WORLD-CONQUERER. 
 
 I. 
 
 This quiet sanctuary, this my wood 
 That bowered me late in serene solitude, 
 And did inform my soul with visions clear 
 Of life s removed sphere 
 Sways now in quivering fear 
 
 For see! 
 Down the fair vale, from mountain-cleft emerging, 
 
 In proud-hued pageantry, 
 
 Fierce singers of fierce songs of wild barbaric glee 
 Tumultuously surging, 
 Rhapsodically urging, 
 
 Over sweet clover-heads and grasses waving free, 
 A mighty force 
 Of foot and horse 
 And rattling chariotry. 
 
 II. 
 
 Behold! 
 
 In burnished car, 
 A-flash with studding gems and curious-figured gold,- 
 
 Afar; 
 
 But visibly clear, as ray 
 Of shafted light, above the morning play 
 Of broken beams, is clear 
 And goldenly austere 
 
 28
 
 Gigantic, proud 
 
 A scornful figure views the sycophantic crowd. 
 On either side 
 Earth s monarchs ride 
 King, emperor, and heavy-sceptered queen; 
 Columbia s self is there 
 Bowing, her forehead bare 
 And the maidens bright, 
 In simple white 
 
 Or draped in rainbow robes of rich and silken sheen: 
 All hearts applaud, 
 All minds are awed, 
 All heads low bend before the car-borne god. 
 
 III. 
 
 And is it thou, 
 
 Plutus ! to whom the clustered nations bow 
 With reverence, or sing their heart-inflaming joy 
 Thou, Ceres son, but yesterday 
 
 A prankish boy, 
 
 In high Olympus schooled to listen and obey! 
 With cornucopia, teeming 
 With an exhaustless treasure, 
 Thou roved the world at pleasure, 
 And showered a golden gleaming 
 O er the fertile plain and hill, 
 Withdrawing all at will 
 
 But now ; 
 
 Now, in thy massy form and stern, imperious brow, 
 I see the complete god, 
 
 The sole world-ruling king, 
 Feared conqueror of heavenly synod, 
 Master of man and brute and every earthly thing. 
 29
 
 In lone exile the lofty Thunderer grumbles, 
 And his fierce spirit humbles; 
 Apollo sulks aloof, 
 Beneath his own bright roof; 
 Neptune doth keep 
 In deepest deep, 
 
 Where, through eternal gloom, the sullen waters sweep. 
 All scattered? No; the passion gods are here 
 That tease the human breast with hope and fear 
 Love waits thy granting nod ere he may speak, 
 Justice before thee kneels, a suppliant meek; 
 
 Religion, too, 
 At thy proud feet doth sue. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Frenzied desire 
 To leap into the throng, 
 To join the madd ning song, 
 
 Engulfs my quickened heart in passion-fanning fire. 
 In swirl and glare my mind is overthrown 
 The senses rule alone : 
 A gold-bright key 
 Is handed me; 
 Strange imageries, 
 Soft harmonies, 
 Invite me on and on. 
 I ope the doors of Pleasure s palaces, 
 Loosing a thousand joys and dull satieties; 
 I thread secluded groves and bowers, faint 
 With odors rare and music s dreamy plaint; 
 I find- wide dunes of all-neglected treasure, 
 Beyond the eye to measure; 
 
 30
 
 My breast expands with domineering tide 
 Of ecstasy and pride; 
 
 For round me cower, 
 Soliciting my wish, the abject slaves of Power. 
 
 V. 
 
 Is this my sanctuary? this my wood 
 That clasps me once again in solitude? 
 Is this the outcast Reason that doth brood 
 In old didactic mood, 
 Quelling the feverish blood? 
 
 I hear, 
 Borne from haze-hills, through trees no longer swaying 
 
 In gaunt and shadowy fear, 
 
 The surge of that wild band in cadence faint, but clear : 
 Their march for naught delaying, 
 But Plutus laws obeying, 
 
 They follow o er the world their lord and idol dear. 
 All sounds are gone; 
 I muse alone 
 On life and life s mad sphere.
 
 ARIEL S VISIT. 
 
 Why, that s my dainty Ariel: I shall miss thec ; 
 But yet thou shalt have freedom ." Tempest. 
 
 Ariel again has come 
 
 To Earth : he has left his home 
 
 In the cloud-pavilioned sky 
 
 Where the daintiest spirits fly 
 
 With light, never-weary wings. 
 
 Hark! his every motion flings 
 
 On the gross and heavy air 
 
 Sweetest music: everywhere, 
 
 Over forest, meadow, lake, 
 
 Grassy hill and matted brake, 
 
 Throbs a melody divine ; 
 
 Simple, lucid like a fine 
 
 Thread of sound, dropped down by chance 
 
 From Apollo s realm to dance 
 
 Through the cold Earth s frozen veins 
 
 And feeble heart. All the chains 
 
 Man has bound to Nature s limbs 
 
 Broken are where Ariel skims 
 
 Through the dark and sullen world; 
 
 All the evil thoughts uncurled 
 
 In Man s ever-active brain 
 
 Now are lulled to sleep again. 
 
 Simple truth and gentleness, 
 
 And the soul-born arts that bless 
 
 Earthly life and lift it higher, 
 
 Warm with true celestial fire 
 
 These alone seem now alive, 
 
 These alone do now survive. 
 
 32
 
 Tiny spirit, fleet and fair, 
 Sporting in our lower air, 
 Linger! though it please thee not 
 To forsake thy heavenly lot, 
 Leaving all thy high delights 
 For such poor-contrasting sights. 
 Earth to us is rich and grand 
 Sweet the fragrant-fruited land, 
 Beautiful the changing skies, 
 Dear the sea s uncertainties; 
 But we cannot gauge thy pleasures 
 By our own untruthful measures. 
 One can almost hear thee say: 
 "Lo, what heaviness doth weigh 
 On my once so nimble wings! 
 O, what wild complaining rings 
 In mine ears ! What vulgar light 
 Dims the broad harmony of sight! 
 O, these mortals, close confined, 
 Stinted so in soul and mind, 
 Flesh-clogged, moving sad and slow, 
 Mind me of the long-ago; 
 Mind me of the island-days 
 When witch Sycorax did raise 
 Fiendish spells and did confine 
 My limbs into a cloven pine 
 There to weep twelve winters through, 
 Pitied by the forest crew, 
 Even the rough-appearing bear 
 W r himpered in his rocky lair, 
 Sympathizing with my woe, 
 Until mighty Prospero 
 
 33
 
 Broke the charm and set me free. 
 
 O, with what exultant glee 
 
 Glided I through airy spaces, 
 
 Seeking well-remembered places 
 
 Of past pleasures and delights! 
 
 Then returning in the Night s 
 
 Vast arms, I did sing, and sing, 
 
 Making all the island ring 
 
 With sweet peals of fairy-sound. 
 
 Caliban upon the ground 
 
 Threw himself and listened long 
 
 To the air-enchanting song; 
 
 And his monster eyes did glisten, 
 
 As he raised his head to listen. 
 
 Pure Miranda, in the cell 
 
 Of her father, heard the swell 
 
 Of the music and did glide, 
 
 Fresh and beautiful, outside 
 
 Neath the moonbeam-checker d trees; 
 
 And I wove strange fantasies 
 
 Of high spiritual gladness. 
 
 Till the earthly look of sadness 
 
 Left her face and it grew soft 
 
 Like an angel s. Thus, aloft, 
 
 All the night I circled round 
 
 The dreamy isle, living in sound; 
 
 And all life rejoiced with me 
 
 In my new-found liberty." 
 
 Ariel from Earth has gone, 
 And the golden light that shone 
 From the myriad atoms where, 
 
 34
 
 Through the music-haunted air, 
 He had whirled his fearless flight 
 Now has paled or vanished quite; 
 And the glowing harmonies, 
 Dying on the dying breeze, 
 Throb and sigh in echo-play, 
 As they faintly pulse away 
 Ariel from Earth has gone, 
 Leaving the sad world alone 
 With its sorrow-weighted load, 
 Leaving Man, perplexed and bowed, 
 To his thousand sins and follies, 
 To his gnawing melancholies, 
 To his coarse and bloody food, 
 To his pleasures, fierce and rude, 
 To his slavish worshiping 
 Of the golden-throned king. 
 O, swift Spirit! when will he 
 Shake these bonds off and be free 
 Free from all low-brooding care, 
 Free as thou art, now in air? 
 Must, O must he wait till Death 
 Claims him and his hoarded breath 
 Ere his spirit, fleshed and dull, 
 Can be lightly beautiful! 
 
 35
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 THROUGH HALF-SHUT EYES. 
 
 When couched at ease in sweet, far-swelling vale 
 Youth lies, in summer, and beholds the skies 
 Through the lash dream-gates of half-open eyes, 
 
 Thrice whiter droop the clouds, all pearly pale, 
 
 Thrice bluer the sky-seas, wherein they sail 
 Like fair-rigged ships in squadron companies, 
 Than when, in saner and gross common wise, 
 
 Full-eyed is read the heavens azure tale. 
 
 Thus, when the mingled senses of the brain, 
 
 Having but waked to life s strange ebb and flow, 
 Do half forget the truths to which they bow 
 
 In tame submission, and so dream again, 
 
 More beauty in that false mind-world will glow 
 
 Than in all Wisdom s courts and wide domain.
 
 AN ILLINOIS PRAIRIE. 
 
 No antique verse from Saadi s garden-dreams, 
 No sensuous song from Hafiz s Persian lyre, 
 Could stir to-day one heart-leap of quick fire 
 
 Within my breast no; not the orient gleams 
 
 Of fancy from the sweet rose-arbored streams 
 Where Omar sang and stilled the woodland choir, 
 Could rouse unwonted pulse-beat or inspire 
 
 My thoughts to other than their native themes. 
 
 For here the prairie stretches far and wide, 
 And here cool green with white and gold is pied, 
 
 And here a thousand happy minstrels sing; 
 Here hang blue skies, and odorous winds are sent 
 To balm the restless mind ; here is content, 
 
 For here is home and love life s everything. 
 
 37
 
 THE SLEEPING LAKE. 
 
 The lake doth dream a quiet water-dream; 
 
 For moon-sent spirits smooth her golden pillows, 
 Fearful lest lawless winds should roughly seam 
 
 That tranced smoothness with unruly billows 
 And stir weird fancies of the glaciered past. 
 
 The tall shore-trees, awake in watchful numbers, 
 Across the beach their blue-black shadows cast, 
 
 And guard, with zealous care, those silent slumbers. 
 There the June-breath of Summer s drowsy fields 
 
 In cooler fragrance doth dissolve and mingle, 
 Till all the odors that the sweet land yields 
 
 Are purified to essence rare and single 
 Fit perfume for the gentle night to shake 
 Above the sleep-lulled senses of the lake.
 
 POETRY 
 
 In winter time, when close-imprisoning snows 
 
 Fright the chill earth with ghostly shapes of white, 
 Oft have I felt clear fire, the hopeful glows 
 
 That heaven-high thoughts, on poets scrolls, excite; 
 But now, when every breath of the sweet air 
 
 Carries life-vigor to my laboring heart, 
 Quelling to silence all foul rebels there 
 
 Grim Hate, swift Passion, and each proud upstart; 
 Now, when my soul, bove its own disarray, 
 
 Hangs for a moment s throb in self-true poise, 
 Lapsing in sunshine, like a beam at play, 
 
 Seeking the core of quiet summer joys, 
 O, now I find, along one river bold, 
 More poetry than all the books do hold! 
 
 39
 
 TO THE DECADENTS. 
 
 Ye scan the lettered relics of the past 
 
 Poor tremulous and morbid-darkened tribe 
 Saying, "This is not Art." Ye read, aghast, 
 
 The vigorous records of some time-worn scribe, 
 Filled with bloodmen and action muscular. 
 
 Know twas that robust spirit, rude and strong, 
 That bred a Caesar for the fields of war, 
 
 That nursed a Shakespeare for the groves of song! 
 O, while the healthful pulses of the world 
 
 Still throb with life, unquenchable and sweet, 
 Leave the insidious poison-dart unhurled 
 
 Speak out pure-toned, or silently retreat: 
 Away with sickly symbols of foul lust 
 And crimes that gloom the heart with low distrust! 
 
 40
 
 ADA REHAN AS VIOLA. 
 
 Ev n now we wandered, grossly passion-tost, 
 
 Mad with the fierce desire for pow r and gold; 
 
 Strange peace has fallen on our hearts Behold! 
 Like care-free children on Illyria s coast 
 We sit, and all the troubled past is lost 
 
 Lost in the silver lapping of the waves ; 
 
 Whilst the tone-music of a voice enslaves 
 The ear and our numb spirit-sense is loosed. 
 
 This is the same Viola, love-perplexed, 
 That stirred the fancy of our poet-king; 
 
 Shipwrecked, bewildered, sorely tried and vexed, 
 Yet gentle-souled, with heart unaltering; 
 
 Masking as man, but never once unsexed; 
 Modest and pure, woman in everything!
 
 ADA REHAN AS ROSALIND. 
 
 Content, in quiet hermitage, I d dwell, 
 
 Gleaning fresh beauty from the serious days, 
 Could I but meet at times, in forest-ways, 
 
 Such forms as cluster in this woody dell 
 
 Quaint Touchstone, with his jester cap and bell; 
 Love-lorn Orlando; Jaques, in a maze 
 Of melancholy, whilst free huntsmen raise 
 
 Their song and Arden s bound in music-spell. 
 
 What voice may venture boldly to unbind 
 This woven charm with no art-chanted wiles? 
 
 What voice but one the voice of Rosalind! 
 Behold! she comes adown the leafy aisles, 
 
 Happy in perfect poise of soul and mind, 
 
 Rich in clear health and care-subduing smiles! 
 
 42
 
 KING LEAR. 
 
 In wakeful dreaminess I lie and read; 
 Through the thick branchery, cloudless and clear, 
 Peers the blue summer sky, sweet birds hop near, 
 
 And low brook music soothes the neighboring mead ; 
 
 Yet am I storm-lost, yet my heart does bleed 
 For pity Hark! how the wind howls! O, hear, 
 Above the tempest s voice, the voice of Lear 
 
 Rave to the unlistening void then, faint, recede! 
 
 Faint, and more faint, booms the spent storm away; 
 Again the skies hang clear, the groves rejoice, 
 And quiet fields again reflect the grace 
 
 And beauty of the gentle Summer s sway; 
 And now I hear Cordelia s soft, low voice, 
 And see Cordelia s patient-loving face. 
 
 43
 
 TO SIR JOHN FALSTAFF. 
 
 Since Comus and the laughter-loving gods 
 Sang their last song in nectarous delight, 
 What pranks have equaled thine, thou fat-paunched 
 knight? 
 
 What madcap revels, what wild episodes 
 
 In life s tame round, what solemn, drunk-wise nods, 
 What braggart boasting softened by the bright, 
 Quick glow of wit, can be compared aright 
 
 To thine, dear knave, in thy convivial moods? 
 
 We love thee, Jack, thou gross, thou sensual rogue ! 
 
 We d rather see thy round and ruddy face 
 Than many a sainted countenance in vogue 
 
 Long-drawn and prim with a self-conscious grace; 
 So lead the way, thou sly and jolly dog, 
 
 To the Boar s Head we ll follow thee apace.
 
 JOHN KEATS. 
 
 One Hundredth Anniversary of His Birth, Oct. 29, 1895. 
 "0, Weep for Adonaisj He is Dead." Shelley 
 
 APOLLO. 
 
 Ye who have long in mossy caverns kept 
 
 Your brightness from the world, ye who have slept 
 
 Away the empty and slow-creeping hours 
 
 In dim vine-curtained bowers, 
 O, all ye woodland spirits, light and fleet, 
 Who throng the thick-leaved groves and meadows 
 
 sweet 
 
 Rough-bearded satyrs and young sprightly fauns, 
 Guarding Pan s fleecy flocks on close-cropped 
 
 lawns 
 
 Among the secret hills; dryads, scarce seen 
 Through giant ferns and clumps of speary green; 
 Shy nymphs and naiads, whom the friendly streams 
 Enroof luxuriously from prying beams 
 Lift from your essences this slavish fear; 
 
 Appear! appear! 
 
 Leave forest coverts and cool dusky caves, 
 Green mountain valleys and the foam- white waves; 
 Spirits of earth, air, sea afar, anear 
 
 Stand forth and hear! 
 
 CHORUS OF SPIRITS. 
 
 The music-echoes of Apollo s voice 
 
 We hear, and we rejoice; 
 
 From glaciered mountains, shivering and numb ; 
 From Southern valleys, from old Ocean s foam 
 
 We come, we come! 
 
 45
 
 APOLLO. 
 
 Listen! 
 
 The modest face of the approaching Day 
 Peers through the veiling clouds and earth-mist 
 
 gray, 
 
 And on her brow I see 
 Contentment and serenity divine, 
 And her blue eyeballs shine 
 
 With luster heavenly. 
 O, this fair daughter of the favored Year 
 
 A child of light did rear 
 A son with high and beauty-passioned soul, 
 With penetrating eyes to see 
 The dim spirituality 
 That holds the natural world in mild but firm 
 
 control. 
 
 Men said that ye were dead, 
 That all the grace had fled 
 
 From Hellas, and that silent stood the lone Par 
 nassian mount; 
 But Adonais spoke, 
 And his clear tones awoke 
 The past Jove reigned, bright water gushed 
 
 from dry Pieria s fount. 
 Then we, who long in trance had lain, 
 
 Did leap to life again! 
 
 Aroused by one who loved us, who did rove, 
 In fond imagination, through each grove 
 And wilderness we haunted, did ev n fare 
 Undaunted through the phantom-peopled air; 
 Yea, cleft the briny secret-hoarding seas 
 And, in great Neptune s coral palaces 
 46
 
 Of quaint sea-masonry, such music made 
 That keen-eared nereids eager homage paid 
 And Triton held his spiral horn suspended 
 Soundless, until that sweetest sound had ended. 
 He died his mortal days were few and we 
 Again grew cold in the world s memory. 
 O, now, before that churlish world ye spurn 
 And to your silent homes in sadness turn, 
 From its dumb shrine the Delphian lyre take r 
 Of the faint past one faintest echo 1 wake 
 And sing a song of joy for his dear sake. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 As when Aurora, rising, doth behold, 
 Great Archer, thy first shaft of purpled gold, 
 
 Tinting base objects with a heavenly fire; 
 Her eyes grow wonder-large, her spirit glows 
 With emulation, round the orb she goes 
 
 To dress each pallid cloud in bright attire: 
 Ev n so thy arrow-swift and burning flow 
 Of words doth cover all our thoughts, we glow 
 
 With thy reflected light, again we shake 
 Our limbs with old-time freedom; and, Apollo, 
 For thy loved son the swiftest star we d follow, 
 
 Singing a song of joy for his dear sake. 
 
 SEMI-CHORUS I. 
 
 The full-praised glories of the Spring 
 
 Had died Summer s sweet self had fled, 
 
 When Autumn, flushed with harvesting, 
 Lifted her gold-brown head 
 
 And saw such color-perfect skies 
 
 47
 
 And heard such sylvan harmonies 
 
 Wind through the vivid air 
 That from her hand the sickle fell 
 Unnoted; in her breast did swell 
 
 Keen joy; she questioned there 
 Why this one day should be so more than earthly fair. 
 
 SEMI-CHORUS II. 
 
 Then we, who ever love to haunt 
 
 Beauty s abode, the while we chant 
 Song that may soothe and ease, 
 
 Did speak; and to the mazed Season 
 
 Divulged calm Nature s secret reason 
 For such dear vagaries 
 
 How that the sober Earth, 
 
 Hearing of thy rich birth, 
 O, Adonais. started up as one long dazed with sleep; 
 
 And felt quick gladness glow 
 
 In her roused heart, and flow 
 Through her chill arteries with warm impetuous sweep. 
 
 SEMI-CHORUS I. 
 
 Hearing thy voice, thou sanguine child 
 
 Of harmony, the Titans bold, 
 Though vanquished, shook with passion wild 
 
 And spoke as gods of old. 
 Prone Saturn reared his drowsy head 
 To listen, proud Hyperion s tread 
 
 Made all the mountains quake, 
 Thea and gentle Clymene 
 Rejoiced; from his dark reverie 
 
 Did Oceanus wake, 
 
 48
 
 And deemed his truant seas from Neptune s rule would 
 break. 
 
 SEMI-CHORUS II. 
 
 Thou, who didst hear Endymion 
 
 Sigh to the chaste and lovely moon, 
 When nightingales did grieve; 
 
 Thou, who beheld st Madeline dreaming, 
 
 Beneath that same moon s wintry beaming, 
 On pure St. Agnes Eve; 
 
 Thou, who didst lightly cull, 
 
 From gardens beautiful, 
 
 Fancy s immortal flow rs to wreathe round thy re 
 sponsive lute, 
 
 For thee, could our high praise 
 
 Avail, sweet song we d raise 
 
 Ere through the air we softly fade, dispersed, forlorn, 
 and mute. 
 
 APOLLO. 
 
 No; not mute! 
 
 For should ye glide invisible 
 To where the hiving mortals dwell, 
 
 Charm man and bird and brute 
 With Adonais sounding name, 
 
 Till citied plain grows glad again, 
 And craggy hill and mountain hollow 
 Reverberate his fame. 
 
 VOICES. 
 We hear; farewell, Apollo! 
 
 49
 
 SPRINGTIME MUSINGS. 
 
 Can the man whose senses five 
 Are sensitive and all alive 
 With a ruddy flush of health 
 View the Spring s unfolded wealth 
 That beneath his feet doth lie 
 Grasses of the greenest dye, . 
 Dainty ferns of quaint designs, 
 Tangled in a mesh of vines; 
 White-cupped blossoms that in time, 
 When the year has "reached its prime, 
 Will blush into strawberries ; 
 Sunny spaces, rich for bees 
 Harvesting their flower-sweets; 
 Leafy nooks and cool retreats, 
 Where the clear, bough-shaded stream 
 Shuns awhile the garish beam, 
 Only to leap forth more brightly; 
 Birds that fly and sing so lightly 
 Throughout all the happy day: 
 Can he view these things, I say, 
 These ! aye, and a hundred more 
 From rich Nature s teeming store, 
 Scattered upon field and meadow, 
 Underneath the forest shadow, 
 On hillside and bank of river, 
 
 50
 
 Without some uplifting quiver 
 Of delight and simple joy? 
 
 At such times what thoughts can cloy 
 
 With their subtle influence 
 
 The serenity of sense 
 
 And smooth surface of the mind? 
 
 Everything is left behind 
 
 In the world that fostered it ; 
 
 All the brain s uphoarded wit 
 
 Thoughts of earth-directed fame, 
 
 Plans of wealth-amassing aim, 
 
 Dreams ambitious, proud and fell, 
 
 Sin-born fantasies from hell, 
 
 Doubts and conflicts of the soul, 
 
 All alike do fade and roll 
 
 Far away from mortal feeling 
 
 And recall, as softly stealing 
 
 O er the late sore-anguished heart, 
 
 Comes sweet balm for every smart 
 
 Made by angry Fortune s spite. 
 
 Then it is each fresh delight 
 
 That the waking earth affords 
 
 Strikes upon our being s chords 
 
 Songs of light and symphonies 
 
 Of unforced melodies, 
 
 And the opened eyes discern 
 
 On the tip of frailest fern 
 
 Shapes for spirit-alchemy; 
 
 Then emotions pure, and free 
 
 From stern thought s impertinence, 
 
 Live and glow with joy intense.
 
 Many golden songs were sung, 
 When the world was fresh and young, 
 Of the emerald-vested Spring; 
 Many more will poets sing, 
 Ere God Mammon s fingers cold 
 Grasp all hearts in greedy hold; 
 Or, ere Earth, in Time s hard vise 
 Compressed to a ball of ice, 
 Lies beneath her cloak of air, 
 Bleak and dreary, lifeless, bare. 
 
 O, what cares the soul for creeds, 
 
 When, on every side, it reads 
 
 Lessons of divinest truth, 
 
 And beholds the radiant youth 
 
 Of the new upstarting year! 
 
 All the sorrows that appear 
 
 On the calendar of life, 
 
 All the dark historic strife 
 
 That mankind have waged for ages, 
 
 All philosophy of sages, 
 
 Songs of poets, heavenly tender, 
 
 Prophets visions, and the splendor 
 
 That inspired minds have wrought 
 
 In the highest fanes of thought, 
 
 Now but seem of little worth; 
 
 For sweet Spring has decked the earth 
 
 In a new array of treasures, 
 
 And we feel a thousand pleasures, 
 
 Born of sunlight and the air, 
 
 Floating round us everywhere.
 
 Though the past is gone, is dead, 
 Yet the blue sky overhead 
 Gazes on this lower place 
 With a clear, unfurrowed face, 
 Canopying all our pleasure 
 With its never-fading azure. 
 Ev n as now I, musing, lean 
 Arm-propped on this bank of green, 
 Viewing varied joys and pains, 
 Struggles, triumphs, losses, gains, 
 Of a little insect world, 
 With its minute life unfurled 
 For my all-too-careless eye; 
 So above our heads the sky 
 An impenetrable screen 
 Hangs untroubled and serene, 
 Studying our human lot 
 With a brow that wrinkles not. 
 
 By the spirit-soothing power 
 
 Of each sweetly-breathing flower, 
 
 By the song of lark and thrush, 
 
 By the purl of brooks that rush 
 
 On their ever restless way, 
 
 By the warmth of sunny ray, 
 
 By the leaves of greenest trees, 
 
 By the hum of active bees, 
 
 By the wings of butterflies, 
 
 By all beauty that now lies 
 
 On the earth this present hour, 
 
 I do swear that Spring s sweet dower 
 
 To the world does put to shame 
 
 53
 
 Seasons of a prouder name 
 With its prodigal excess 
 Shaming Summer s languidness, 
 Autumn s sad and sober face, 
 Winter s stiffly-feeble pace. 
 Higher praise I cannot sing 
 Than this O, accept it, Spring! 
 
 54
 
 WHERE? 
 
 Where s life s sweet harmony- 
 
 Where has it flown? 
 Far under Discord s sea 
 
 It may have gone; 
 Or to a desert free 
 
 Wandered alone: 
 O, where s life s harmony! 
 
 Where has it flown? 
 
 Where s life s simplicity 
 
 Where has it fled? 
 To some Arcadian lea, 
 
 Which shepherds tread? 
 Or can, O, misery! 
 
 Can it be dead? 
 Where s life s simplicity 
 
 Where has it fled? 
 
 Where s life s sincerity 
 
 Where does it dwell? 
 In some few hearts, maybe, 
 
 That hide it well. 
 In souls, unconsciously? 
 
 But who can tell! 
 Where s life s sincerity 
 
 Where does it dwell? 
 
 55
 
 MAMMON S BRIDE. 
 
 The world that once so freely danced 
 With Nature through unmeasured space, 
 
 Lies now bewildered and entranced 
 In Mammon s hard and cold embrace. 
 
 And all those flow rs that brightly grew 
 In Fancy s rich and healthy meads, 
 
 Have sucked the common swamp-born dew 
 That changes all to loathsome weeds. 
 
 O Bride! thou art too poorly matched, 
 Though Plutus riches all are thine; 
 
 Although with gold thy roof is thatched 
 And gems unnumbered for thee shine. 
 
 Forsake that palace, proudly cold, 
 
 With all its killing selfishness; 
 Return to thy dear haunts of old 
 
 To dwell a simple shepherdess! 
 
 There joyous Pan will welcome thee 
 To scentful realms of freshest green, 
 
 And nymphs and dryads lovingly 
 
 Will crown thee as their sylvan queen. 
 
 The shepherd swains will blithely dance, 
 And all their songs for thee will sing, 
 
 Till Nature warms before thy glance, 
 And life becomes one golden Spring.
 
 BOOKLAND. 
 
 Let s travel through Bookland together; 
 
 Tis a pleasanter land than you think, 
 Though the ground is all paper and leather 
 
 And the streams and the rivers are ink. 
 
 Shall we enter the gates of that city? 
 
 Fair Athens! o erwatched by her hill; 
 And, in spirit, her orators witty, 
 
 Her poets, are dwelling there still. 
 
 Come, sit neath this plane tree and listen 
 To the teachings of Plato the wise, 
 
 Till philosophy s grandeur does glisten 
 As it ne er did before to our eyes. 
 
 Or, if you are too great a roamer 
 To sit in that grove of cool thought, 
 
 We ll travel through Greece with old Homer 
 To the fields where his proud heroes fought. 
 
 We ll speak to Jason and Medea ; 
 
 With Plutarch at Rome we will feast; 
 Then we ll take a short trip through Judea, 
 
 And drink of the streams of the East. 
 
 Over the dark desert of Ages 
 We ll journey, with hardly a glance, 
 
 Till we come to where Dante s stern pages 
 Awoke the sad Muse from her trance. 
 
 57
 
 With Chaucer we ll merrily wander, 
 
 Until Spencer takes us in hand 
 To lead us where Shakespeare does ponder 
 
 Shakespeare, the bright king of the land. 
 
 His throne is of mosses and flowers; 
 
 His scepter a simple goose quill; 
 His crown of the laurel that towers 
 
 O er the famed Parnassian hill. 
 
 Around him are spirits immortal, 
 Whose music still lightens the earth; 
 
 They have passed through Death s misty portal, 
 And have risen in happier birth. 
 
 There are Chatterton, Byron and Shelley; 
 
 And Burns, with soul like a flame; 
 And throughout that heavenly valley 
 
 Are dwelling bright children of Fame. 
 
 O, could we but live midst those beauties 
 That the souls of immortals do weave ; 
 
 But hark! the cold world and its duties 
 Are calling us, and we must leave.
 
 CUPID S PRAYER. 
 
 Through fair Arcadia blindly wandering, 
 
 Led by the siren Fancy far astray, 
 I chanced near by a vine-embowered spring, 
 
 Where, half-asleep, the tiny Love-God lay 
 His unstrung bow lay loosely at his side, 
 And down his cheeks two sun-bright tears did glide. 
 
 Starting at length from his uneasy dream, 
 
 He shook those watery splendors from his eyes, 
 
 Which, falling to the earth, did hiss and gleam, 
 Till in their place a stainless spring did rise; 
 
 Compared to which its purling neighbor s spray 
 
 Was as the night-cloud to the sky of day. 
 
 Then did young Cupid break his dainty bow, 
 And all his arrows into bits did shiver; 
 
 And, with a sigh of deep heart-rending woe, 
 Into the stream he cast his empty quiver: 
 
 Then wearily he lifted up his eyes, 
 
 In earnest invocation to the skies. 
 
 "Great Jove!" he cried, "I now resign all power 
 To kindle love-sparks in these earthly hearts, 
 
 Since the harsh world grows colder every hour, 
 And turns aside my nectar-scented darts. 
 
 O, let me die! for men have grown so cold 
 
 That darts fall blunted unless tipped with gold. 
 
 59
 
 "The subtle magic of my utmost art 
 
 Can force no entrance to these breasts of flint; 
 Or if by chance I touch a mellow heart, 
 
 The world soon kills all tender passion in t: 
 Poor bruised Love stands weeping at the gate, 
 While Mammon feasts in rich, but gloomy state. 
 
 "Gone are those days, forever, ever gone, 
 
 When shepherd-kings did worship at my shrine, 
 
 When my warm name to every swain was known, 
 And the best honors of the world were mine. 
 
 Jove! my vain breath to dull oblivion give 
 
 Since my life s life is dead, why should I live?" 
 
 60
 
 SYLVIUS AND PHEBE. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 Sylvius to Phebe said, 
 As their flocks together fed, 
 On the green mead s tenderness, 
 "Phebe, my own shepherdess, 
 Dearer to my love-swayed heart 
 Than the violets that start 
 From beneath the hedge are dear 
 To the common grasses near! 
 Phebe, how this simple scene 
 Pastures, sun-kissed and serene, 
 Nursed by their cool guardian springs- 
 Sinks into my mind, and brings 
 From the cells of memory 
 Strains of life s past melody! 
 How when I, a sighing swain, 
 Loved thee, and thou didst disdain 
 That strong love I breathed from me, 
 With passion s purest purity; 
 How thou scoffed at all my vows, 
 Under Arden s pitying boughs, 
 Until dainty Rosalind 
 Did our hearts together bind." 
 
 61
 
 Phebe said to Sylvius, 
 "What if I did treat thee thus, 
 In my girlish fickleness? 
 Surely thou hadst wit to guess 
 That a woman s dearest pleasure 
 Is to spite her heart s true treasure; 
 Otherwise how could she prove 
 ,The unselfishness of love? 
 But enough of bygone sorrow! 
 Joy is present, and to-morrow 
 Will be like a bright reflection 
 Of to-day s unveiled perfection. 
 Ev n as this young meadow brook 
 Counterfeits the flowers that look 
 On its laughing loveliness, 
 So each day will wear the dress 
 Of the one that dies before it, 
 That o>ur eyes may e er adore it!" 
 
 Sylvius to Phebe said, 
 
 "As we through these meadows tread, 
 
 Let us send our thoughts, in sport, 
 
 To Orlando s distant court. 
 
 Canst imagine Rosalind, 
 
 Free and joyous as the wind, 
 
 Cased in rich and silken gown, 
 
 Slow of gait and sobered down 
 
 To a staid and courtly dame? 
 
 Phebe, no; it were a shame 
 
 Thus to image to the mind 
 
 The lithe form of Rosalind ! 
 
 She shall dance before our eyes 
 
 62
 
 In her simple shepherd guise, 
 As the saucy Ganymede. 
 Ah! I see that name doth breed 
 On each cheek a crimson rose 
 Let me steal one ere it goes!" 
 
 What that shepherd bold did steal 
 The chaste Muse will not reveal; 
 But, tis said the pretty sheep, 
 In the clover, half asleep 
 Slowly raised their dreamy eyes, 
 With a sort of mild surprise ; 
 Then, in wisest manner, they 
 Turned their heads the other way: 
 For sheep, spite of Slander s book, 
 Aren t as foolish as they look.
 
 A MADRIGAL. 
 
 O the sky, how blue it is! 
 O thy love, how true it is! 
 O the earth, how fair it is! 
 O our life, how rare it is! 
 
 And though Time reaps all of them, 
 Now we ll heed the call of them, 
 Mid the heart s delicious strife 
 Nature, Love and Life.
 
 SONG. 
 
 O, and what were the joy o the fields 
 
 The bird-notes loose and free, 
 The perfumes light and the flowers bright, 
 
 To hear, and to breathe, and to see, 
 If thou shared not with me, my Love, 
 
 If thou shared not with me! 
 
 But thou stand st clear i the golden warmth, 
 
 And hear, and breathe, and see ; 
 And the world s complete, and life s as sweet 
 
 As the life of the roving bee: 
 For thou shar st all with me, my Love, 
 
 O, thou shar st all with me!
 
 JOY AND SORROW. 
 
 Winged Joy, as light and brisk 
 
 As a summer fly, 
 In the heart can dive and frisk 
 
 O, so restlessly! 
 
 Quick to come, and quick at play; 
 Quicker still to dart away. 
 
 Sorrow s feet are weak and slow, 
 Like the tedious snail s; 
 
 O er the bleeding heart they go, 
 Leaving crooked trails: 
 
 Slow to come is truest Pain, 
 
 Slow how slow! to leave again. 
 
 66
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 Tis the Autumn of the year! 
 The air is cool and clear; 
 The world is colored new 
 In yellow, white and blue 
 Frosty ground and azure sky 
 
 And golden stubble-field: 
 Pictures rich for soul and eye 
 
 Are now revealed. 
 
 What though lusty Summer s green 
 No more on trees is seen 
 The branches flame instead 
 With leaves of gold and red; 
 What though singing-birds forsake 
 
 The woods and meadows bare 
 The wild fowl rustle in the brake 
 
 Arid whirr through air. 
 
 Wine of life! O tingling air! 
 Away with every care! 
 Bounding o er field and hill, 
 We ll breathe, we ll breathe our fill: 
 Clambering the river-bank, 
 
 Shaking the nut-rich trees 
 O, what city joys can rank 
 
 With joys like these!
 
 LITERARY MUSINGS. 
 
 Corked up in Memory s bottle, 
 
 I ve gems from Aristotle; 
 
 I have gone through Homer s epics and have stuck my 
 nose in Plato; 
 
 I have formed a good idea 
 
 Of Euripides "Medea," 
 Aristophanes and ^Eschylus, and Smith on "The Potato." 
 
 Sappho, Ovid, Virgil, Horace, 
 
 And many a Grecian chorus, 
 
 Are jumbled up together with Josh Billings, Twain and 
 Nye; 
 
 While Shakespeare, Scott and Dickens, 
 
 And "The Way to Raise Young Chickens," 
 All mix within my head to form a literary pie. 
 
 But ne er in verse or story, 
 
 Nor in the drama s glory, 
 Nor in the bright, romantic tale, nor in the briny yarn, 
 
 Have I found that satisfaction, 
 
 Which I drew in youth s abstraction 
 
 From the blood-and-thunder novel that I read behind the 
 barn. 
 
 68
 
 THE MAN WHO LIKED A JOKE. 
 
 His life had bright and cheerful been, 
 
 Good fortune on him smiled, 
 His brow was smooth, his eyes serene, 
 
 His temper soft and mild; 
 No trouble ever came his way, 
 
 His patience to provoke, 
 Until he said to friends one day, 
 
 "I like to hear a joke." 
 
 From that time forth he was a wreck, 
 
 His life was dark and sad; 
 He lost his peace and self-respect 
 
 And drifted to the bad. 
 And men would point to him and say: 
 
 "There goes the weary poke, 
 With figure bowed and hair so gray, 
 
 Who likes to hear a joke." 
 
 For wits of every sort and class 
 
 Each with his funny tale 
 Would seize him as he tried to pass, 
 
 Their humor to unveil. 
 And so it chanced one day, alas ! 
 
 His heart in anguish broke: 
 They laid beneath the frozen grass 
 
 The man who liked a joke. 
 
 69
 
 GREAT CJESAR S GHOST. 
 
 A lobster salad I devoured that night; 
 
 A dozen oysters disappeared from sight > 
 
 Some soft-shelled crabs, a piece of hot mince pie, 
 
 And divers things that charmed the hungry eye 
 
 Soon followed in due time : then home I sped, 
 
 Took off my clothes, and rolled into my bed. 
 
 No wonder twas that in my troubled sleep 
 
 I fought with sharks and monsters of the deep; 
 
 Waded through blood, was killed a thousand times,- 
 
 The living victim of a thousand crimes. 
 
 At length my visions took a milder turn 
 
 Tied to a stake I had begun to burn, 
 
 When suddenly I woke or seemed to wake 
 
 And saw a sight that fairly made me shake. 
 
 There by the bed a silent image stood 
 That was not formed of mortal flesh and blood ; 
 A vapor tall and mystical and white, 
 Shaped like a man, yet unlike human wight. 
 Its features stern were softened by a wreath 
 Of laurel branches, while the eyes beneath 
 Were dull and beamless as the eyes of Death. 
 
 Kind reader, tis superfluous to write 
 How my hair rose at such a fearful sight, 
 To talk of quills on fretful porcupine, 
 Of chattering teeth and chills along the spine; 
 70
 
 Suffice to say that, in my fear and dread, 
 
 I pulled the bed-clothes high above my head. 
 
 Alas ! all efforts to escape were vain 
 I felt the blankets slipping down again; 
 Then growing brave, in my extreme despair, 
 I asked the specter if he d take a chair. 
 "Thanks," said the ghost, "I don t care if I do. 
 A thousand pardons for disturbing you; 
 But, grown full weary of my midnight walk, 
 I just dropped in to have a social talk." 
 
 "And who," said I, my fears somewhat allayed, 
 
 "Has to my house this flattering visit made?" 
 
 The phantom searched his misty robe awhile, 
 
 And then exclaimed: "Confound your modern style! 
 
 I must have left my calling-cards at home 
 
 In some dark corner of my musty tomb. 
 
 Well, Julius Caesar was my mortal name 
 
 Still found,! think, upon the rolls of fame. 
 
 I was a hero in that elder day, 
 
 And managed generally to have my way. 
 
 I made the world a cushion for my feet, 
 
 And fought more battles than I need repeat, 
 
 Making things hum, till greedy Death one day, 
 
 With sudden roughness, snatched my soul away: 
 
 But of my earthly deeds I ll speak no more, 
 
 As you, no doubt, have heard of them before." 
 
 "Indeed I have," I hastened to reply, 
 "And (beg your pardon) thought them very dry : 
 The tortured youth who languishes in school 
 Must read his Csesar or remain a fool." 
 
 71
 
 "Ev n in these times," remarked the social ghost, 
 "The ancient customs are esteemed the most. 
 Men ever love to gaze on things behind, 
 And with dead lumber load the living mind ; 
 And as, my friend, the more I strive to keep 
 Up with your time I grow the more antique 
 In thought I mean, for modern enterprise 
 Has bade new wonders from the dust arise; 
 Invented steamships, chained lectricity, 
 Laid rails on land and cables neath the sea: 
 Still, do I find your greatest minds employ 
 The self-same themes I discussed when a boy; 
 See in your papers, newly dressed each week, 
 The same old jokes that pleased the ancient Greek. 
 If once again I could have mortal breath, 
 I am afraid I d soon be bored to death." 
 
 "Hold on!" I cried, "Some demon, I suspect, 
 
 Has prejudiced your failing intellect 
 
 Against this country, or you deem it smart 
 
 To rail, like Kipling, o er our lack of art. 
 
 No doubt the slaves who slaughtered hogs at Rome 
 
 Were more expert than we can e er become." 
 
 "Hogs!" cried great Caesar. "I would fain depart 
 To talk of such things makes me sick at heart. 
 O, what a soul that finds no higher flight 
 Than sticking pigs and feasting late at night! 
 I will away and seek some nobler mind, 
 To reasoning given and to thought inclined. 
 Farewell, base clod! I leave you now with speed. 
 Great heavens, what a person! Hogs, indeed!" 
 72
 
 "I beg your pardon," I remarked; "restrain 
 Your righteous anger and your seat retain; 
 And, in the place of lowly hogs and pelf, 
 We ll talk about your deeds, sir, and yourself." 
 
 This last suggestion charmed the ghostly man; 
 
 He kept his seat, and I straightway began: 
 
 "So thou wert Caesar, equally as great 
 
 In field of battle as in hall of state; 
 
 Wise as an author, as a ruler fit 
 
 To judge the world with thy imperious wit: 
 
 So thou wert he, who now, a lonely ghost, 
 
 Wander around as though your head were lost 
 
 I d rather be, safe in his cozy bed, 
 
 John Smith alive than Julius Csesar dead. 
 
 What wilt thou gain from earthly pomp and fame 
 
 When unborn mortals ponder o er thy name? 
 
 What use is it to stand austerely proud, 
 
 The lofty hero to a gaping crowd? 
 
 What use is it " But here my guest arose. 
 
 "Young man," he said, "I think you d better close 
 
 Your wild harangue; your flighty mind is dense 
 
 With stupid thoughts, and quite devoid of sense. 
 
 Profane not things you ll never feel or know; 
 
 Your brain s as shallow as your thoughts are low; 
 
 And all " What his ghostship would next have said 
 
 I never knew; he turned and weirdly fled. 
 
 "Adieu!" he cried, " tis time I should be hence." 
 
 Thrice screamed a tom-cat on a neighbor s fence, 
 
 The town clock struck, a rooster loudly crew, 
 
 An officer woke, but did his sleep renew; 
 
 A sand-bagged pilgrim moaned in his despair, 
 
 73
 
 And blue-streaked lightning zigzagged through the air. 
 ***** 
 
 Chill morning broke : behold me on the floor 
 
 A tangled mass ! My father at the door 
 
 Was entering my room, and as he crost 
 
 The threshold he exclaimed, "Great Caesar s Ghost!" 
 
 74
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 A PIECE OF BLUE. 
 
 Between two clouds a piece of heaven s pure blue 
 
 Stands like an angel twixt opposing- hosts; 
 
 Or, like unchanging God mong wavering 
 
 ghosts ; 
 Or, like a glimpse of glory, showing through 
 
 The cloud-framed window of a paradise 
 But no; all similes do prove untrue, 
 And he too bold! who writes of that rare hue 
 
 Must first steal ink from heaven s own violet 
 skies. 
 
 O, were I a light cloud ! then would I soar, 
 Serenely borne, through that ethereous main; 
 
 Though earthly lusts might seize me as before, 
 And hurl me down in bud-awakening rain, 
 
 Still the kind sun my being would restore, 
 Lifting me free to that blue dome again. 
 
 75
 
 THOREAU. 
 
 Few are free Nature s children few, indeed, 
 In these cold days, when all-pervading Art 
 Brushes the morning 1 freshness from the heart 
 
 And in conventional gardens sows life-seed: 
 
 Few are the minds that break from custom s lead 
 To hew rough paths, far from the central 
 
 mart, 
 Seeking to form of God s pure work a part, 
 
 And on the living truths of nature feed. 
 
 But thou, Thoreau, wert made for life s free plan! 
 Wert brother to the flow rs, the rocks, the 
 
 trees! 
 
 Spurning the tongue-born flatteries of man, 
 To learn the language of each tongueless 
 
 breeze, 
 Thou, aft the feet of universal Pan, 
 
 Gleaned vibrant truth-notes from Earth s 
 melodies.
 
 THE THOUGHT OF DEATH. 
 (Decoration Day 1892.) 
 
 The thought of death is dreamlike, for it keeps 
 Apart from the Mind s children, like a ghost, 
 Ev n unto shadows. All the brain-born host, 
 
 Save it, rise, live and die, like mist that sweeps 
 
 Into the sunlight and dissolves. It sleeps, 
 But wakes again now stilled, now tost 
 Tis hid by Pleasure s phantoms, but ne er lost, 
 
 Till Death himself the final harvest reaps. 
 
 And on this day to every mind it conies 
 And bids us pause a moment, as we strew 
 
 The Spring s fair blossoms o er heroic tombs, 
 To question if our hearts be loyal and true, 
 
 And not vain, hollow, superficial rooms 
 To shelter folly from the keen world s view. 
 
 77
 
 A RAINY MAY. 
 
 Thou hast, cruel May, with strange perversity, 
 
 Belied the promise of thy dainty name 
 
 And changed thy former glory into shame; 
 For whilst, expectant, we did wait for thee, 
 Longing with eager hearts thy smiles to see, 
 
 Cam st thou attired like the Storm-King s 
 dame, 
 
 In cloud-hued dress and mantle of the same, 
 And wept more tears than sad-eyed Niobe 
 Ere she was turned to marble. So, farewell! 
 
 But when the cycle of another year 
 Shows us thy face again, may the soft spell 
 
 Of thy remembered charms in thee appear: 
 Then our loud welcomes will the glad wind tell, 
 
 And blow sweet praises in thy pardoned ear.
 
 JUNE GREETING. 
 
 Much has been sung of June, and honeyed phrases 
 Have fall n so often on her flattered ear 
 That she may greet this tribute with a sneer, 
 
 And turn her head to seek those richer praises 
 
 That round her buzz, like bees round garden vases; 
 Yet, if her mood be kindly, she may hear, 
 For few there are who hold the rose so dear 
 
 That they would look disdain upon the daisies. 
 
 Therefore, sweet month, I dare to give thee greet 
 ing 
 Thou first mild child of Summer, whose caress 
 
 Cradles those laggard buds that Spring in fleeting 
 Left still unnursed in lonely friendlessness, 
 
 Until they bloom to beauty, and, repeating 
 Their fragrant thanks, bless thee who did them 
 bless! 
 
 79
 
 SLAVES OF MAMMON. 
 
 I d rather dwell with satyrs in a wood, 
 And tread brisk measures to an ill-tuned lute ; 
 Yes, rather range half man and half a brute, 
 
 Dreaming away my life in solitude, 
 
 Giving free rein to every passing mood, 
 Than mix with those who lead the mad pursuit 
 In chase of wealth ; who tramp on good repute, 
 
 Break noble hearts, and track their way in blood. 
 
 By heaven ! it is a sin a black, foul sin 
 A sin too foul and black to find a name 
 To grind down hearts into a golden dust; 
 
 To mount on souls, and lightly step within 
 That heartless kingdom, where jointly do reign 
 The twin-born monarchs, deformed Wealth 
 and Lust. 
 
 80
 
 FANCY. 
 
 Who has not met at times, on Life s rough road, 
 The fairy Fancy at her busy play, 
 Spinning light webs and painting pictures gay 
 
 O er Nature s wayside screen? Tis then the load 
 
 Of perplexed thought that finds its deep abode 
 In human minds yields to the magic sway 
 Of calmer, softer themes and glides away, 
 
 While airy dreams are in its place bestowed. 
 
 Dreams only gainless dreams but yet how 
 
 sweet ! 
 How full of peace and soothing pow r they are! 
 
 Lifting the soul above the grimy street, 
 
 Where toil and strife and worldly scheming 
 jar 
 
 Life s higher music; for young Fancy s feet 
 
 Climb up the moonbeam path and rove from star 
 to star. 
 
 81
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 The world is rich with music. Every stream 
 
 Outpurls its song with voiceful eloquence ; 
 
 The winds that whistle through the forest dense 
 Strike on the harp-like trees some ghostly theme; 
 The ocean waves in mournful dirges seem 
 
 To vent their sorrows and their griefs intense ; 
 The caves with lengthy echoes charm the sense 
 All nature is encased in Music s dream. 
 The birds, the bees, the crickets, all proclaim, 
 
 In grateful numbers, their accustomed song; 
 While, like sweet Orpheus of ancient fame, 
 
 Who thrilled the senseless rocks with passion 
 
 strong, 
 The human soul, kindled by heavenly flame, 
 
 Hath caught those sounds which to the gods 
 belong. 
 
 82
 
 THE CAPTIVE SPRING. 
 
 The captive Spring is fettered in green moss 
 
 And bound with woven lengths of viny sweet 
 ness, 
 As though the old Earth, fearful of the loss 
 
 Of her fair child, had checked the eager fleet- 
 ness 
 
 Of those lithe limbs (dancing to Time s quick 
 measure) 
 
 In bonds more intricate than aught e er shaped 
 By Daedalus art from Vulcan s melted treasure : 
 
 But lo! already she has half escaped 
 From those bright meshes and is wandering, 
 
 New garlanded and with fresh violets crowned, 
 Through budding forest, and by shady spring, 
 
 And o er the meadow s emerald-dusted ground. 
 Linger, mild Season, pray no further roam, 
 Nor heed old Saturn in his airy dome !
 
 THE LILAC BUSH. 
 
 A lilac bush under my window grows, 
 
 And I deem it sweeter far 
 Than the fragrant breath of the cultured rose 
 
 That blooms in a gilded jar. 
 
 For it gazes at me with its hundred eyes 
 
 Of the richest purple hue, 
 Like bunches of stars of a miniature size, 
 
 Torn down from the heavens of blue. 
 
 It nods a "good morning" and "how do you do" 
 
 To flowers that flourish near by, 
 And has a kind look for the whole floral crew 
 
 And the birds that over it fly. 
 
 It breathes on the air with so sweet a perfume, 
 
 Suggestive of regions more blest, 
 That though many flowers in the universe bloom, 
 
 I love the fair lilac the best. 
 
 84
 
 MORNING. 
 
 Young Morning combed her tresses 
 
 And drank a cup of dew; 
 Then from her many dresses 
 
 She chose a robe of blue, 
 And o er her shoulders fair a golden mantle threw. 
 
 The baby stars were sleeping 
 
 Behind a purple bank, 
 As, through the thin clouds creeping, 
 Down to the earth she sank; 
 Down through the heavy air, so still and cold and 
 dank. 
 
 But soon, beneath her touches, 
 
 The cold gray shadows died, 
 And from Night s gloomy clutches 
 
 The joyful world did glide, 
 While Nature s rarest scenes sprang up on every 
 side. 
 
 Twas then the roguish Morning, 
 With wild and healthful glee 
 
 All crude assistance scorning 
 
 Sprang down upon the sea, 
 Tinting with gold the waves so clear and silvery. 
 
 Then up the seabeach gliding, 
 
 She plunged into a wood 
 Where flowers wild were hiding 
 
 In tangled solitude, 
 And bade each tender face peep from its dewy hood. 
 
 85
 
 A moment did she linger 
 
 Among the blossoms fair, 
 Op ning with gentle ringer 
 
 The sick and dying there; 
 
 Then on her journey sped sweet phantom of the 
 air! 
 
 The birds, with happy singing, 
 
 Did greet her rosy face, 
 As on high branches swinging 
 
 They viewed the lightsome grace 
 With which she rode the sea or moved from place 
 to place. 
 
 And so the fair Aurora, 
 
 All beautiful and light, 
 Drove Darkness far before her 
 
 With unrelenting might, 
 
 And dressed the chilly world in garments warm 
 and bright. 
 
 But when old Sol was shining 
 From golden throne on high, 
 Upon a beam reclining 
 
 She mounted to the sky, 
 
 Bidding her earthly friends a fond and soft good 
 bye. 
 
 86
 
 ON THE RIVER. 
 
 Drifting 
 
 Down the shallow, lazy river, 
 Through the reeds that gently quiver 
 
 Near the shore, 
 And the water-lily lifting 
 
 With my oar. 
 
 Dreaming 
 
 Neath an overhanging willow, 
 Where my boat has found a pillow 
 
 In the moss, 
 Dreams all free from worldly scheming 
 
 And earth-dross. 
 
 Framing 
 
 Visions fraught with truer pleasure 
 For the soul than golden treasure, 
 
 Sparkling bright; 
 And life s petty troubles shaming 
 
 With their light. 
 
 Rowing 
 
 O er the waters calm and gleaming, 
 When the evening stars are beaming 
 
 Far above 
 And a spicy breeze is blowing 
 
 From the grove. 
 
 87
 
 Ever 
 
 In my mind a scene is dwelling- 
 Its true beauty far excelling 
 
 All the rest 
 Tis a modest, peaceful river 
 
 In the West. 
 
 88
 
 SONG OF THE BUTTERFLY. 
 
 I m a golden butterfly, 
 
 Freed from my dark cocoon; 
 I spread my wings beneath the sky 
 
 Of rosy June; 
 
 To flit a while from flow r to flow r, 
 In wild ravine and woodland bower; 
 To live the pleasures of an hour, 
 
 And perish soon. 
 
 But ever gay and light of heart, 
 
 I rest by verdant springs, 
 Or over field and meadow dart 
 
 On gauzy wings. 
 The children chase me in delight, 
 And try to stop my swerving flight, 
 But soon I flutter from their sight 
 Poor, clumsy things! 
 
 And when the day has passed away, 
 With all its warm sunshine, 
 
 And, dark and gray, the shadows play 
 On tree and vine, 
 
 Within a cozy flower I creep, 
 
 And fold my wings and drowse to sleep ; 
 
 There s not a joy more true or deep 
 Than this of mine! 
 
 89
 
 THE SOLDIER S GRAVE. 
 
 Strew lightly o er the soldier s grave 
 
 The springtime blossoms fresh and white, 
 And deck with wreaths and garlands 
 bright 
 
 The silent couches of the brave. 
 
 They fought they died they lie at rest 
 Beneath yon low and grassy mounds ; 
 No more for them the trumpet sounds 
 
 To thrill the patriotic breast. 
 
 But though they mingle with the dust 
 In that dark kingdom, where Decay 
 Sits throned in his halls of clay, 
 
 Their memory is free from rust. 
 
 For well we love to honor those 
 Who bravely fell amid the fight, 
 Who sank in all their vanquished might 
 
 Upon the field among their foes. 
 
 We honor both the blue, the gray 
 For time hath blotted from the mind 
 All bitter thoughts and words unkind 
 
 And washed all prejudice away. 
 
 90
 
 And we remember only this, 
 
 They bravely fought they bravely died; 
 
 And, hero-like, their souls should ride 
 Along the ether seas of bliss. 
 
 Then spread upon each grave to-day 
 The fragrant blossoms of the spring, 
 And simple wreaths and garlands fling 
 
 Above the soldier s honored clay. 
 
 May 30, 1891.
 
 MORNING-GLORIES. 
 
 O, ye frail and pretty blossoms that beneath my window 
 
 bloom, 
 
 I love the dewy beauty of your fresh and cultured heads ; 
 And your brightly-tinted petals, sleeping in their own per 
 fume, 
 Ye fair, but lazy flowers, that are ever in your beds! 
 
 But the eager morning-glory is too full of life to stay 
 
 In the bowers of her sisters and the soil that gave her 
 
 birth; 
 
 She has reared her leafy ladder long before the break of day, 
 And now is climbing lightly from her playmates on the 
 earth. 
 
 And as I raise my window in the daydawn calm and still, 
 When mist floats o er the garden, like a canopy of lace, 
 
 The ambitious little rover scrambles down upon the sill, 
 And gazes boldly alt me with her round and open face. 
 
 A welcome, pretty climber! and a thousand welcomes more, 
 For the early morning freshness that encircles thee 
 
 around, 
 As in robes of pink and purple, wrought at Nature s choicest 
 
 store, 
 
 Thou wav st thy fragile brightness far above the lowly 
 ground. 
 
 92
 
 And although the wind will tear thee, and the frost subdue 
 
 and blight, 
 
 And thy glory fade as quickly as all earthly glory here, 
 Still, this sharing of thy beauty may redeem thy fading 
 
 plight; 
 Creating glories, richer far, around thy leafy bier. 
 
 93
 
 SLEEP. 
 
 Like tossing ships, which, far out on the bay, 
 
 Sail whitely through the evening s purple light; 
 In- dusk and distance fading slow away, 
 
 Neath the drooped mantle of approaching Night ; 
 So do the senses gradually forsake 
 
 The weary and exhausted mind, 
 And, borne upon a drowsy wind, 
 
 Fade into cells unknown, but leave sweet Sleep behind. 
 And Sleep, kind Goddess from the azure lake 
 
 Of dim forgetfulness ! does sit and weave 
 Wild thoughts and fancies into dreams that make 
 
 The present bright and happy, though they leave 
 No clear impression on the brain defined; 
 
 But, like the misty clouds which form at eve, 
 Take all the hues and shapes that Fancy can conceive. 
 
 Then, free, the poorest dweller on proud earth 
 
 May stroll in raptures through celestial bowers ; 
 May feast in palaces mid light and mirth, 
 
 Hear sweet-voiced birds, and gather fragrant flowers; 
 May live in dreams such joy-encompassed hours, 
 That when he does awake again 
 To earthly care and toil and pain, 
 Tis with a braver heart he bears Life s galling chain. 
 Thrice-blessed Sleep ! what were the heart s frail powers 
 
 To suffer or resist, to fight or bear, 
 To brave the drench of Fortune s chilling showers, 
 
 Without thy near regard, thy tender care? 
 No quiet hand but thine couldst balm the brain 
 With touch more delicate than sweetest air, 
 Or robe the somber world in colors light and fair. 
 94
 
 GLORY. 
 
 There s scarce a path to glory 
 That is not dark and gory, 
 That is not strewn with broken hearts and 
 
 red with human blood: 
 Upon Life s stormy ocean 
 The waves, with ceaseless motion, 
 Bear down the weak and frailer barks, and 
 sink them neath the flood. 
 
 Fame s crown is shining brightly, 
 But to touch it e er so lightly 
 The soul must meet a thousand ills and tramp 
 
 them sternly down; 
 Must ward off Envy s arrow 
 And darts that prod and harrow, 
 And bravely thrust all foes aside to seize the 
 sacred crown. 
 
 O, thousand times twere better 
 To live as Glory s debtor, 
 To walk the common paths of life and bear 
 
 the common load, 
 Than to strive, with endless pining, 
 To excel the stars at shining, 
 And raise but clouds of blinding dust on 
 Reputation s road. 
 
 95
 
 HOPE. 
 
 As some wild bird that sweeps the lonely lake 
 
 At eventide, in search of place to rest, 
 And finds a shelter in the tangled brake 
 
 Where twining branches form a natural nest; 
 So Hope, sweet comforter of the oppressed! 
 
 May skim but lightly o er the troubled mind. 
 But claims a refuge deep within the breast 
 
 Its native home. There, clear and well defined, 
 It mingles with our lives, braving cold Fortune s wind. 
 
 And when Life s leaden skies appall the heart 
 
 And care and grief engross the gloomy hour, 
 Tis then that Hope new courage doth impart, 
 
 And cheers the mind with true consoling power: 
 So have I seen in some dim forest bower 
 
 A sickly blossom raise its drooping head, 
 As o er it sprayed the cool, refreshing shower 
 
 That brought it strength, when all its strength had fled ; 
 Gave it new life and hope, and saved it from the dead. 
 
 96
 
 SPARKS FROM SAPPHO. 
 I. 
 
 The stars that glitter round the moon, 
 When she unveils her lovely face, 
 
 Grow pale and sickly, fading soon 
 In dim and unregarded space: 
 
 Alone the radiant Queen doth glow, 
 
 And silvers all the earth below. 
 
 II. 
 
 Among the bending apple trees, 
 Where coolly winds the river, 
 
 Down streams a sleep-inducing breeze, 
 Through leaves of drowsy quiver. 
 
 in. 
 Come, Venus, show thy features bright; 
 
 And, in this golden cup, 
 Serve nectar, mixed for love s delight 
 
 Come; fill the goblet up! 
 
 IV. 
 
 O Muse! enthroned on seat of gold, 
 Breathe forth that strain of music old 
 
 The sage of Teos sung; 
 That strain so soft with cadence rare, 
 Which, fraught with themes that witched 
 the air, 
 
 Rolled sweetly from his tongue. 
 
 97
 
 V. 
 
 The moon has set; the Pleiades 
 To far gloom-vaults have gone; 
 
 Tis dark midnight ; Time s tread is light 
 I lie on my couch alone. 
 
 VI. 
 
 When thou art dead, 
 Then art thou ever dead 
 Cold in neglect thy nameless dust shalt lie; 
 
 No tears in reverence shed, 
 No loving tongue to hymn thy memory 
 
 Out of the tomb; 
 
 For thou disdain st the lovely flowers that bloom 
 Round Pieria s springs. 
 Lo, this thy doom: 
 
 To flit with lonely ghosts through Hades gloom 
 On loneliest wings. 
 
 VII. 
 
 O, Dica, crown thy flowing hair 
 With parsley green and flowers fair, 
 And with thy hands, so soft and white, 
 Form wreaths of blossoms dewy bright; 
 For all the gods that dwell above 
 Such floral tributes dearly love; 
 But from the clouds they sternly frown 
 On those who lack the perfumed crown. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 My daughter Cleis is as fair 
 
 As flow rs with golden petals rare; 
 
 98
 
 If Lydia s treasures all were mine, 
 For her my wealth I would resign. 
 
 IX. 
 The evening bringeth home again 
 
 What rosy morning scattered wide, 
 The goats and sheep forsake the plain, 
 
 And children seek their mother s side. 
 
 x. 
 
 "Bright youthful days, bright youthful days,- 
 Ah, tell me whither art thou fled?" 
 
 "Time ne er retracks the once-trod ways; 
 The past is dead, the past is dead!" 
 
 99
 
 THISTLEDOWN. 
 
 See the silky thistledown 
 
 Drifting through the air! 
 O, how could it have come to town 
 
 Where all is dark and bare? 
 Where grimy walls and smoke entomb 
 Much stronger things than pappus plume. 
 
 See it floating down the street, 
 
 Like a flake of snow; 
 Only it doth scorn the feet 
 
 Of the crowd below, 
 Preferring on the wind to ride 
 A dainty snowflake vivified. 
 
 But the kindly breeze will die 
 
 In the heat of noon 
 Crushed upon the ground twill lie, 
 
 O, too soon, too soon ! 
 For it is too frail and pretty 
 For the harsh and busy city. 
 
 100
 
 INCONSTANCY. 
 
 What we would not do, we do; 
 
 What we would do stays undone; 
 For the mind of changeful hue 
 
 A mental chameleon 
 Now is brilliant, rich and gay, 
 Now a dull, lack-luster gray. 
 
 E en the shadows in the wood 
 
 Show more constancy 
 Than the brain-begotten brood, 
 
 Whose wings are never free; 
 But, close-clipped for Custom s gaze, 
 Flit through an unworthy maze. 
 
 101
 
 DISCORD. 
 
 Schoolboys did hear a robin sing, 
 
 Out in the happy field, 
 Whose clear and unrestrained notes 
 
 A wealth of joy revealed. 
 
 While one, with rapt, uplifted face, 
 Shared in that free delight, 
 
 The others quickly searched for stones 
 And put the bird to flight. 
 
 What need of further words to tell 
 
 The instincts of mankind; 
 How neath the rays of Beauty s sun 
 
 We wander, cold and blind! 
 
 A few may catch a passing glimpse 
 Of light, and thrill with joy; 
 
 But most do spurn fair Nature s work, 
 And blaspheme and destroy. 
 
 102
 
 APRIL WEATHER. 
 
 MORNING. 
 
 The violet folds its petals blue, 
 
 All shivering with pain; 
 The redbreast lifts his head to sing, 
 But soon beneath the downy wing 
 
 He thrusts it back again; 
 The rabbit furls its haughty ears 
 
 And looks for hollow stumps; 
 The cynic raven seeks an oak, 
 Too miserable for scarce a croak, 
 
 And sits there in the dumps; 
 Even the frogs, in soggy heather, 
 Are croaking at this April weather. 
 
 AFTERNOON. 
 
 The violet turns its purple face 
 
 To breathe the sunny air; 
 The redbreast, on a budding tree, 
 Pipes forth its grateful melody, 
 
 Or sweeps the meadows fair; 
 The rabbit skips with lively pace 
 
 Adown the fragrant vale; 
 The cynic raven now doth long 
 To imitate the linnet s song 
 
 And change its dismal wail: 
 All Nature s children stand together 
 In praising April s lovely weather. 
 
 103
 
 A MORNING INCIDENT. 
 
 Now Aurora rose up from her crystalline bed, 
 
 In her airy pearl-spangled pavilion; 
 And she threw a rich cloak o er her shoulders and 
 head, 
 
 With a scarf of the rarest vermilion; 
 And she said, with a yawn that undimpled her 
 
 smile, 
 
 "I fear I have slept for a very long while ; 
 I went to bed last on a bright April day, 
 And now, I declare, tis the middle of May!" 
 Then she harnessed her horses without more ado, 
 And down the empyrean highway she flew, 
 Till she met the great Earth, in her mantle of blue, 
 A-rolling around like a creature demented, 
 Bewildered with mist, by storm-fiends circum 
 vented. 
 
 Then the child of Hyperion, the poor wretch con 
 doling, 
 
 Prayed to her proud father for aid; 
 And the lazy old god, in his high palace lolling, 
 
 Heard the prayer of the pitying maid: 
 So together they scattered the mist and the night, 
 And the rheumatic Earth danced a jig in delight. 
 
 104
 
 BELATED FLOWERS. 
 
 Those floral stars that should have shown 
 
 Their beauty to the Spring alone, 
 
 Or but have felt, with nearing death, 
 
 The brief delight of Summer s breath, 
 
 Now lift their dainty petals up 
 
 To catch the dew in fragrant cup, 
 
 And bloom near Flora s scented booth 
 
 In all the glory of their youth; 
 
 For though the Spring, in sullen mood, 
 
 Refused to nurse the pretty brood, 
 
 And tried, like Saturn, to devour 
 
 Her children in their natal hour, 
 
 They did escape her cruel wrath 
 
 To spread their brightness round our path; 
 
 Telling the world that joy, though late, 
 
 Will triumph o er the blights of fate. 
 
 June, 1892. 
 
 105
 
 THE WAIFS. 
 
 O, think of the waifs, the poor outcasts of Fortune, 
 
 Who fight for their lives mid the gold-greedy throng; 
 Where the trumpet of Gain sounds the popular war-tune, 
 
 And the choirs of Mammon all join in the song. 
 They are launched pilotless on the dimest of pools, 
 Where even the shrewdest of men are but fools, 
 To encounter the storms of this life, and the gales 
 That may tear into tatters the strongest of sails. 
 
 Then help not to banish that unconscious fragrance 
 That Nature has placed in the heart of each child, 
 
 Whether born in a palace, or raised among vagrants, 
 Or bred in the tent of the Indian wild: 
 
 O, seek not to crush the sweet softness of youth 
 
 In a premature mold of a shallow untruth; 
 
 But cherish the bud, as its petals unfold, 
 
 And the heart of the flow r will be fair to behold. 
 
 That sneer or that blow is the acme of sinning 
 
 That raises fierce thoughts in the mind of the young, 
 While the kind word of praise, or the smile that is winning, 
 Are the diamonds that drop from the lips and the tongue. 
 So think of the waifs who are braving the storm, 
 Nor make it more dark with the shade of your form; 
 But hold your best torch o er their perilous way 
 That they may see to live by the light of its ray. 
 
 1 06
 
 ALL IS SAID. 
 
 Shall I let this day 
 Slip away? 
 
 Its gentle azure hours, O, shall they die! 
 And not one word to weave 
 The mysteries that cleave 
 Unto the soul into that great life-mystery? 
 
 Let this perfect day 
 Slip away; 
 
 A million words are said on every side: 
 The earth, the air, the sea, 
 Have solved the mystery 
 Ages ago they sing it now; all is supplied.
 
 SQUIBS.
 
 THE WORLD. 
 
 The world is like a crowded bus; 
 
 A few good men, perhaps, 
 May find a seat, but most of us 
 
 Must hang on by the straps. 
 
 O, WHY? 
 
 "O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?" 
 The haughtiest man whom we meet in the crowd 
 May think we are scanning his beauty and clothes, 
 When we see but the soot on the end of his nose. 
 
 IN MAZING PATHS. 
 
 What man should flee from he would fain attack; 
 What most we value are the things we lack. 
 As o er Life s plain in mazing paths we stray, 
 The sweetest flow rs are trampled in the way 
 Our native talents weaken and decay. 
 
 A DIFFERENCE. 
 
 "Fair tresses man s imperial race ensnare, 
 And Beauty draws us with a single hair." 
 But when, alas! we are beguiled to wed, 
 Then Beauty drags us by our hair instead. 
 
 in
 
 CRANKS. 
 
 The town is overrun with cranks we find them every 
 where 
 
 We meet them on the cable-cars, and on the thorough 
 fare; 
 
 But, O! the greatest freaks of all that blot poor Nature s 
 ranks, 
 
 Are those that notice what we do, and say that we are 
 cranks. 
 
 PATRIOTIC MARCHERS. 
 
 The patriotic marchers may indeed look rather fine, 
 When they start out in the morning 
 
 In 
 A 
 
 Long 
 Straight 
 Line; 
 But it shocks us, in the evening, more than tongue 
 
 or pen can say, 
 To see them straggle back again 
 
 In 
 A 
 
 Zig- 
 Zag 
 Way. 
 
 WISEACRES. 
 
 Some men, with sayings wise and trite, 
 Our heads would fain be stuffing; 
 
 Yet strange! we feel the most delight 
 When they are saying nothing. 
 112
 
 TWO POETS. 
 
 Two poets live upon our street 
 Whose fancies have poetic feet, 
 With which to rove the universe 
 And prove a blessing or a curse. 
 Now, one is healthy, sleek and fat, 
 And sports a high and silky hat; 
 His scribbling neighbor s lank and lean, 
 And wears a slouch that s fading green. 
 The former writes poetic "ads" 
 About the latest business fads; 
 His fingers play with heaps of pelf 
 The other rhymer is myself. 
 
 SAFE. 
 
 Sarcastic Pope once wrote, with bitter sting, 
 "A little learning is a dangerous thing." 
 If this be true, there live some men we know 
 Who ll ne er meet danger in this world below. 
 
 MY DIARY. 
 
 January 2 
 
 Got up to-day 
 
 Ate breakfast caught the train 
 Worked ate lunch drew my pay 
 And now am home again! 
 Confound a diary!
 
 THAT DREADFUL LIST. 
 
 O, can it be some secret woe 
 
 That clouds her lovely face? 
 Or is it fever s hectic glow 
 
 That leaves its dreaded trace? 
 Perchance, from strange and sudden fright 
 
 Her mind through chaos drifts: 
 But no she s sitting down to write 
 
 A list of Christmas gifts. 
 
 THE POET S TURKEY. 
 
 "Matilda," cried a poet, "they rejected all I wrote; 
 But we had to have a turkey, so I pawned my overcoat; 
 I thought we d have a dinner one day at least this year, 
 So I stopped in at the butcher s and bought this birdie, 
 
 dear." 
 
 But his wife cried out in anguish as she tore the paper loose, 
 "Great Scott! it s not a turkey it s an 
 
 Old 
 
 Tough 
 
 Goose." 
 
 SILENCE. 
 
 "Silence is golden" tis agreed 
 
 By moralists and scholars, 
 And also by my friend in need 
 Who borrowed fifty dollars. 
 
 114
 
 A SOLID FACT. 
 
 Poets may tell us that Life s but a dream, 
 A walking shadow, or a runaway stream; 
 But we poor toilers, by our troubles racked, 
 Consider Life a more substantial fact. 
 
 HIS VALENTINE. 
 
 He bought a gorgeous valentine 
 
 With two pierced hearts upon it. 
 He wrote: "To Lily, nymph divine!" 
 
 And then composed a sonnet. 
 He put it in his pocket-book 
 
 (You know he might have lost it) 
 And now, alas! it meets his look; 
 For, after all the pains he took, 
 
 He quite forgot to post it. 
 
 FOILED. 
 
 One night a brave copper was walking his beat, 
 When his form so majestic was o ercome by the heat. 
 As he lay in a hallway a large vicious cat 
 Crept in at the door, and on top of him sat. 
 Like a demon incarnate it drank in his breath, 
 While the poor fellow snored all unconscious of death : 
 But his nature so hardy such danger defied, 
 And the cat soon lay drunk at the officer s side. 
 
 "5
 
 CLUBS. 
 
 Alas! that man may truly grieve, 
 And strive his breath to smother, 
 
 Who only has one club to leave 
 To come home to another. 
 
 THOSE INCANDESCENT LAMPS. 
 
 Old Zep and his wife Hannah, 
 From the wilds of Indiana, 
 
 Came in to see our city, and to take in all 
 
 the sights. 
 
 And he said: "We re not that class 
 O folks who blow out gas; 
 
 Yit people here put cases round their 
 darned ole lights." 
 
 TO CRANKYVILLE. 
 
 
 The short-haired women and the long-haired men 
 
 March up the hill to Crankyville, and then march down 
 again. 
 
 WOMAN. 
 ( With apologies to Sir Walter. ) 
 
 O Woman! in our hours of sprees, 
 As sharp and fitful as the breeze: 
 But when the fates have laid us low, 
 And stretched us on the couch of woe, 
 Thou giv st us drugs and liquids cruel 
 And make us live on horrid gruel. 
 
 116
 
 WHAT MAKES THE MAN. 
 
 In a slow-going time twas thought and said: 
 "Worth makes the man, the want of it the fellow." 
 
 But in this age that proverb should be read: 
 
 "Naught makes the man but ducats bright and yellow." 
 
 Men miss not worth amid their toil and greed, 
 
 But want of gold is noticed soon indeed. 
 
 NO PACE TOO SWIFT. 
 
 Sinners at first seek Satan in a hesitating way, 
 
 With a sort of ling ring feeling that badness will not pay; 
 
 But when they once get started, and the conscience has 
 
 grown black, 
 They gallop to perdition on the 
 
 Kite- 
 Shaped 
 
 Track. 
 
 YOU VE SEEN HIM. 
 
 Alas ! this is the saddest thing 
 That heartless fate imposes, 
 
 To meet the man who loves to ring 
 His money neath our noses. 
 
 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 The rhymer sat down o,n his rickety chair, 
 
 In front of his rickety table; 
 He snapped at his pencil, he pulled at his hair, 
 
 117
 
 And tried to revise an old fable. 
 Then the back of his chair gave a groan of despair, 
 
 And fell to the floor with a clatter; 
 And the table it creaked, till he thought that it squeaked 
 
 "Why don t you turn out some new matter?" 
 
 BEAUTY S LIMITATIONS. 
 
 What power is there moire eloquent 
 Than Beauty, pure and innocent, 
 
 To stir the soul with love? 
 Life s other attributes are meant 
 The grosser body to content; 
 For Beauty will not pay the rent, 
 
 Or clean the kitchen stove. 
 
 CRUSHED. 
 
 I have sneered at lovely woman and at her many freaks; 
 Have cynically viewed the faults with which her nature 
 
 reeks ; 
 But when, last night, I fell in line, and through a store did 
 
 drift, 
 
 And roved a labyrinth of aisles to buy a Christmas gift, 
 I sank down on a bench a wreck with all my nerves 
 
 unstrung, 
 And watched the way those women bought, and meekly 
 
 held my tongue. 
 
 118
 
 A PROPHECY FULFILLED. 
 
 An old man once in sorrow said: 
 
 "My son s a wayward youth; 
 I fear some day he ll go astray 
 
 He cannot tell the truth." 
 Alas! his prophecy came true. 
 
 His son soon went to work: 
 And now he lies in manner wise, 
 
 For he s a weather clerk. 
 
 TOO TOUGH. 
 
 A wild, bloody ranger came out of the West; 
 
 On all the wide border his gun was the best: 
 
 He had shot the poor Indians, he had shot down his 
 
 pards, 
 
 And could snuff out a candle at a cool hundred yards. 
 But when upon Clark street one night he did roam, 
 The place was so tough that he lit out for home. 
 
 THE SKATER. 
 
 See the skater, blithe and merry, 
 Skimming, whirling, like a fairy, 
 Or an eagle, swift and airy, 
 
 On the wing! 
 
 See her cut those neat devices, 
 Where all clear and smooth the ice is,- 
 Figures, forms, and names, and prices,- 
 
 In a ring! 
 
 119
 
 But look now O, sight appalling! 
 She is falling, falling, falling, 
 And upon the ice is sprawling 
 O, poor thing! 
 
 THE PRODUCE MAN S GIRL. 
 
 Her eyes are like twin drops of dew 
 
 That glisten on an onion 
 Her hair? tis brownish, like the fig 
 
 That s wrapped around my bunion: 
 Her cheeks are like the rosy beet 
 
 Like these we have for sale, sir: 
 Her brow, her neck, her dainty ears, 
 
 Are like those turnips, pale, sir: 
 Her breath is like a carrot, sweet; 
 
 In fact, she is so pretty 
 The jealous girls upon her street 
 
 Are moving from the city. 
 
 KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 Man s boasted knowledge is as thin 
 As city milk in pails of tin, 
 Although at times its flow may seem 
 As thick and rich as country cream: 
 At first we may be prone to doubt; 
 But, with the years, we find it out. 
 
 1 20
 
 YE RIME OF YE ANCIENT SILVERITE. 
 
 It is an ancient Silverite, 
 
 And he stoppeth one of three, 
 "By thy long gray beard, I am afeard; 
 Why dost thoti stare at me?" 
 
 He holds me with his glittering eye, 
 
 "There was a time," quoth he, 
 "When the flowing bowl did warm my soul, 
 .As it flowed full plenteously. 
 
 "Election past, my good vote cast, 
 
 O now no man doth think, 
 That, though there s whisky all around, 
 
 I ve not one drop to drink!" 
 
 A SUMMER TRAGEDY. 
 
 The portly landlord of the Lake Breeze House 
 
 Stood out on his chilly veranda; 
 And the Goddess of Sorrow his spirit did douse, 
 With a cold, foggy wind that swept through his blouse, 
 
 As he wept, like the great Alexander. 
 And he cried: "O, ye Powers, from celestial bowers 
 
 Look down on your shivering slave: 
 O, send me a boarder, ye mighty Recorder, 
 
 Or I sink in a premature grave!" 
 But the wind and the tide were all that replied; 
 
 And, buttoning up his greatcoat, 
 He leaped to the sea * * * the fishes, in glee, 
 
 Soon enjoyed a fine table d hote. 
 
 121
 
 
 (
 
 PS 
 
 3525 
 
 M8965A17 
 
 1897 
 
 A 000 927 667 6