They do not pine for forest wilds Within the "blue Canary isles," As exiles from their native home, For in a foreign domicile They first essayed their gamut-trill Beneath a cage's gilded dome; But maybe some sad throbbing Betimes their spirits stirs, Who love as we Dear liberty, That they, admired and petted, Are only—prisoners.



Cuba.

As one long struggling to be free, O suffering isle! we look to thee In sympathy and deep desire That thy fair borders yet shall hold A people happy, self-controlled, Saved and exalted—as by fire.

Burning like thine own tropic heat Thousands of lips afar repeat The story of thy wrongs and woes; While argosies to thee shall bear, Of men and money everywhere, Strength to withstand thy stubborn foes.

Hispaniola waves her plume Defiant over many a tomb Where sleep thy sons, the true and brave; But, lo! an army coming on The places fill of heroes gone, For liberty their lives who gave.

The nations wait to hear thy shout Of "Independence!" ringing out, Chief of the Antilles, what wilt thou? Buffets and gyves from your effete Old monarchy dilapidate, Or freedom's laurels for thy brow?

In man's extremity it is That Heaven's opportunities Shine forth like jewels from the mine; Then, Cuba, in thy hour of need, With vision clear the tokens read And trust for aid that power divine.



The Sangamon River.

O sunny Sangamon! thy name to me, Soft-syllabled like some sweet melody, Familiar is since adolescent years As household phrases ringing in my ears; Its measured cadence sounding to and fro From the dim corridors of long ago.

There was a time in happy days gone by, That rosy interval of youth, when I The scholar ardent early learned to trace Great tributaries to their starting place; And thine some prairie hollow obsolete Whose name how few remember or repeat.

Like thee, meandering, yet wafted back From distant hearth and lonely bivouac, From strange vicissitudes in other lands, From half-wrought labors and unfinished plans I come, in thy cool depths my brow to lave, And rest a moment by thy silver wave.

But, ah! what means thy muddy, muggy hue? I thought thee limpid as yon ether blue; I thought an angel's wing might dip below Thy sparkling surface and be white as snow; And of thy current I had dared to drink If not as one imbibing draughts of ink.

Has some rough element of horrid clay That spoils the earth like lava beds, they say, Come sliding down, as avalanches do, And thy fair bosom percolated through? Or some apothecary's compound vile Polluted thee so many a murky mile?

Why not, proud State, beneficence insure, Selling thy soil or giving to the poor? For sad it is that dust of Illinois, With coal and compost its conjoint alloy, A morceau washed from Mississippi's mouth, Should build up acres for our neighbors south.

River! I grieve, but not for loss of dirt— Once stainless, just because of what thou wert. Thus on thy banks I linger and reflect That, surely as all waterways connect, Forever flowing onward to the sea, Shall the great billow thy redemption be.

And now, dear Sangamon, farewell! I wait On that Elysian scene to meditate When, separated from the dregs of earth, Life's stream shall sweeter be, of better worth; And, like the ocean with its restless tide, By its own action cleansed and purified.



Syringas.

The smallest flower beside my path, In loveliness of bloom, Some element of comfort hath To rid my heart of gloom; But these, of spotless purity, And fragrant as the rose, As sad a sight recall to me As time shall e'er disclose.

Oh, there are pictures on the brain Sometimes by shadows made, Till dust is blent with dust again, That never, never fade; And things supremely bright and fair As ever known in life Suggest the darkness of despair, And sanguinary strife.

I shut my eyes; 'tis all in vain— The battle-field appears, And one among the thousands slain In manhood's brilliant years; An elbow pillowing his head, And on the crimson sand Syringa-blooms, distained and dead, Within his rigid hand.

Could she foresee, who from the stem Had plucked that little spray Of flowers, that he would cherish them Unto his dying day? "Give these to M——;—'tis almost night— And tell her—that—I love—" Alas! the letter he would write Was finished up above.

And so, with each recurring spring, On Decoration day, When to our heroes' graves we bring The blossom-wealth of May, While martial strains are soft and low, And music seems a prayer, Unto a hallowed spot I go, And leave syringas there.



Storm-bound.

My careful plans all storm-subdued, In disappointing solitude The weary hours began; And scarce I deemed when time had sped, Marked only by the passing tread Of some pedestrian.

But with the morrow's tranquil dawn, A fairy scene I looked upon That filled me with delight; Far-reaching from my own abode, The world in matchless splendor glowed, Arrayed in spotless white.

The surface of the hillside slope Gleamed in my farthest vision's scope Like opalescent stone; Rich jewels hung on every tree, Whose crystalline transparency Golconda's gems outshone.

Beyond the line where wayside posts Stood up, like fear-inspiring ghosts Of awful form and mien, A mansion tall, my neighbor's pride, A seeming castle fortified, Uprose in wondrous sheen.

The evergreens loomed up before My staunch and storm-defying door, Like snowy palaces That one dare only penetrate With reverence—as at Heaven's gate, Awed by its mysteries.

The apple trees' extended arms Upheld a thousand varied charms; The curious tracery Of trellised grapevine seemed to me A rare network of filigree In silver drapery.

And I no longer thought it hard From favorite pursuits debarred, Nor gazed with rueful face; For every object seemed to be Invested with the witchery Of magic art and grace.

And, though a multitude of cares, Perplexing, profitless affairs, Absorbed the hours, it seems That on the golden steps of thought I mounted heavenward, and wrought Out many hopeful schemes.

Thus every day, though it may span The gulf wherein some cherished plan Lies disarranged and crossed, If, ere its close, we shall have trod The path that leads us nearer God, Cannot be counted lost.



The Master of the Grange.

The type of enterprise is he, Of sense and thrift and toil; Who reckons less on pedigree Than rich, productive soil; And no "blue blood"—if such there be— His veins can ever spoil.

And yet on blood his heart is set; He has his sacred cow, Some Alderney or Jersey pet, The mistress of the mow; His favorite pig is (by brevet) "Lord Suffolk"—of the slough.

To points of stock is he alive As keenest cattle king; A thoroughbred he deigns to drive, But not a mongrel thing; The very bees within his hive Are crossed—without a sting.

If apple-boughs drop pumpkins and Tomatoes grow on trees, It is because his grafting hand Has so diverted these That alien shoots with native stand Like twin-born Siamese.

No neater farm a nabob owns, Its care his chief employ, To find fertility in bones And briers to destroy, Where once he lightly skipped the stones A whistling, happy boy.

The ancient plough and awkward flail He banished long ago; The zigzag fence with ponderous rail He dares to overthrow; And wields, with sinews strong and hale, The latest style of hoe.

The household, founded as it were Upon the Decalogue, He classes with the minister, The rural pedagogue, And as a sort of angel-cur Regards his spotted dog.

His wife reviews the magazines, His children lead the school, He tries a thousand new machines (And keeps his temper cool), But bristles at Kentucky jeans, And her impressive mule.

With Science letting down the bars, Enlightening ignorance, Enigmas deeper than the stars He solves as by a glance, And raises cinnamon cigars From poor tobacco plants!

By no decree of fashion dressed, And busier than Fate, The student-farmer keeps abreast With mighty men of state, And treasures, like his Sunday vest, The motto "Educate!"

Beyond encircling hills of blue, Where I may never range, This monarch in his realm I view, Of title new and strange, And make profound obeisance to "The Master of the Grange."



A Friend Indeed.

If every friend who meditates In soft, unspoken thought With winning courtesy and tact The doing of a kindly act To cheer some lonely lot, Were like the friend of whom I dream, Then hardship but a myth would seem.

If sympathy were always thus Oblivious of space, And, like the tendrils of the vine, Could just as lovingly incline To one in distant place, 'Twould draw the world together so Might none the name of stranger know.

If every throb responsive that My ardent spirit thrills Could, like the skylark's ecstasy, Be vocal in sweet melody, Beyond dividing hills In octaves of the atmosphere Were music wafted to his ear.

If every friendship were like one, So helpful and so true, To other hearts as sad as mine 'Twould bring the joy so near divine, And hope revive anew; So life's dull path would it illume, And radiate beyond the tomb.



The Needed One.

'Twas not rare versatility, Nor gift of poesy or art, Nor piquant, sparkling jeux d'esprit Which at the call of fancy come, That touched the universal heart, And won the world's encomium.

It was not beauty's potent charm; For admiration followed her Unmindful of the rounded arm, The fair complexion's brilliancy, If form and features shapely were Or lacked the grace of symmetry.

So not by marked, especial power She grew endeared to human thought, But just because, in trial's hour, Was loving service to be done Or sympathy and counsel sought, She made herself the needed one.

Oh, great the blessedness must be Of heart and hand and brain alert In projects wise and manifold, Impending sorrow to avert That duller natures fail to see, Or stand aloof severe and cold!

And who shall doubt that this is why In womanhood's florescent prime She passed the portals of the sky? As if a life thus truly given To purpose pure and act sublime Were needed also up in Heaven.



"Thy Will Be Done."

Sometimes the silver cord of life Is loosed at one brief stroke; As when the elements at strife, With Nature's wild contentions rife, Uproot the sturdy oak.

Or fell disease, in patience borne, Attenuates the frame Till the meek sufferer, wan and worn, Of energy and beauty shorn, Death's sweet release would claim.

By instant touch or long decay Is dissolution wrought; When, lost to earth, the grave and gay, The young and old who pass away, Abide in hallowed thought.

In dear regard together drawn, Affection's debt to pay, Fond greetings we exchange at dawn With one who, ere the day be gone, Is bruised and lifeless clay.

O thou in manhood's morning-time With health and hope elate, For whom in youth's enchanting prime The bells of promise seemed to chime, We mourn thy early fate!

To us how sudden—yet to thee Perchance God kindly gave Some warning, ere the fatal key Unlocked the door of mystery That lies beyond the grave.

Then let us hope that one who found Such favor, trust, and love, And cordial praise from all around, For rare fidelity renowned, Found favor, too, above.

So "all is well," though swift or slow God's will be done; and we Draw near to him, for close and low Beneath his chastening hand, the blow Will fall less heavily.



Snowflakes.

Of specious weight like tissue freight The snowflakes are—in sparkle pure As the rich parure A lovely queen were proud to wear; As volatile, as fine and rare As thistle-down dispersed in air, Or bits of filmy lace; Like nature's tear-drops strewn around That beautify and warm the ground, But melt upon my face.

A ton or more against my door They lie, and look, in form and tint, Like piles of lint, When war's alarum roused the land, Wrought out by woman's loyal hand From linen rag, and robe, and band— From garments cast aside— In hospital, on battle-field The shattered limb that bound and healed, Or stanched life's ebbing tide.

I see the gleam of lake and stream, The silver glint in frost portrayed Of the bright cascade; They bear the moisture of marshes dank, The dew of the lawn, or river bank, The river itself by sunlight drank; All these in frigid air, That strange alembic, crystallize In odd, fantastic shape and size Like gems of dazzling glare.

Oh, of the snow such fancies grow, 'Till thought is lost in wandering, And wondering If portions of their drapery The angel beings, sad to see So much of earth's impurity, Have dropped from clearer skies As snowflakes, hiding stain and blot To make this world a fairer spot, And more like Paradise.



Monadnock.

One summer time, with love imbued, To climb the mount, explore the wood, Or rove from pole to pole, Upon Monadnock's brow I stood— A lone, adventurous soul.

Beyond the Bay State border-line A sweeping vista, grand and fine, Embraced the Berkshire hills; Embosomed hamlets, clumps of pine, And country domiciles.

Afar, Mount Tom, in verdantique, And Holyoke, twin companion peak, Appeared gigantic cones; The burning sunlight scorched my cheek, And seemed to melt the stones.

Beneath a gnarled and twisted root I loosed a pebble with my foot That leaped the precipice, And like an arrow seemed to shoot Adown the deep abyss.

Beside the base that solstice day A city chap who chanced to stray Was shooting somewhat, too; Who, when the nugget sped that way, His firelock quickly drew.

While right and left he sought the quail, Or the timid hare that crossed his trail, Rang out a wild "Ha! ha!" That might have turned the visage pale Of a red-skinned Chippewa.

The game was his—for it made him quail; He flung his gun and fled the vale, The mountain-dwellers say, As though pursued by a comet's tail— And disappeared for aye.



Never Had a Chance

Fresh from piano, school, and books, A happy girl with rosy looks Young Plowman wooed and won; despite Her pretty, pouting prejudice, Her deep distaste for rural bliss Or countryfied delight.

Romance through all her nature ran— Indeed, to wed a husband-man Suffused her ardent maiden thought; But lofty fancy dwelt upon A new "Queen Anne," a terraced lawn, A city's corner lot.

Her lily fingers that so well Could paint a scene—in aquarelle— Or broider plush with leaves and vines, No more of real labor knew Than waxen petals of the dew On native eglantines.

Anon, with lapse of tender ways That emphasized the courting days, The housewife in her apron blue, As mistress of her new abode, By frequent lachrymations showed Her grief and blunders too.

The butter-making, bread and cheese, The old folks difficult to please, The harvest hands—voracious bears!— The infantry, a parent's pride, By duos proudly classified: So multiplied her cares.

The treadmill round of duties that Makes any life inane and flat, Without diversion sandwiched in, The drudgery, the overplus Of toil and trouble arduous, Were rugged discipline.

What time for books and music, when The lambs were bleating in their pen, The chickens peeping at the door; The rodent gnawing at the churn, The buckwheat wafers crisped to burn, The kettle boiling o'er?

To hers, so far between and few, What resting-spells the farmer knew! What intervals for culture! and When intellect assumed the race, He peerless held the foremost place— No nobler in the land.

By virtue of exalted rank "The brilliant senator from——" Adorns society's expanse; While by his side with folded hands, Her beauty gone, the woman stands Who "never had a chance."



Sorrow and Joy.

In sad procession borne away To sound of funeral knell, Affection's tribute thus we pay, And in earth's shelt'ring bosom lay The friend to whom but yesterday We gave the sad farewell.

But scarce the melancholy sound Has died upon the ear, Before the mournful dirge is drowned By wedding-anthems' glad rebound, That stir the solemn air around With merry peals and clear.

Within our home doth gladness tread So closely upon grief That, in the tears of sorrow shed O'er our beloved, lamented dead, We see reflected joy instead That gives a blest relief.

A father and a daughter gone Beyond our fireside— For one we loved and leaned upon The skillful archer Death had drawn His bow; and one in life's sweet dawn Went out a happy bride.

We gave to Heaven, in manhood's prime, Him whose brave strength and worth Life's rugged steeps had taught to climb; And her, for whom a tuneful rhyme The bells of promise sweetly chime, We consecrate to earth.

Thus each a mystic path, untried, Has entered—God is just! We leave with him our friend who died, With him we leave our fair young bride Who shall no more with us abide, And in His goodness trust.

Oh, life and death, uncertainty, Bright hopes and anxious fears, Commingle so bewilderingly, That perfect joy we may not see Till all shall reunited be Beyond this vale of tears!



Watch Hill.

Fair summer home peninsula, Enriched by every breeze From fragrant islands, wafted far Across the sunny seas!

A profile rare! a height of land Outlined 'gainst heaven's blue With bolder touch than skillful hand Of artist ever drew.

In "mountain billows" that parade The grandeur of the deep, Is His supremacy displayed Whose hands the waters keep.

No sweep of waves, in broad expanse, With wild, weird melody, Shall thus an unseen world enhance— "There shall be no more sea!"

A wealth of joy-perfected days, Where glorious sunset dyes, Resplendent in declining rays, Surpass Italia's skies!

Proud caravansaries that compete In studied arts to please The multitude, with restless feet, From earth's antipodes!

A motley company astray: The sojourner for health, The grave, serene, the devotee Of fashion and of wealth.

Artistic cottages upreared In beauty, strength, and skill— The happy, healthful homes endeared To lovers of Watch Hill!

A golden crown adorns the spot; Forever blessed be The hand beneficent that wrought "A temple by the sea!"

A star in some bright diadem In glory it shall be, For truly, "I will honor them," Saith God, "who honor me."

When Christians meet to praise and pray, May feet that never trod The sanctuary learn the way Unto the house of God.

Glad paeans down the centuries With joy the world shall thrill: "The Lord, revered and honored, is The glory of Watch Hill!"



Supplicating.

One morn I looked across the way, And saw you fling your window wide To welcome in the breath of May In breezes from the mountain-side, And greet the sunlight's earliest ray With happy look and satisfied.

The pansies on your window-sill In terra cotta flowerpot, Like royal gold and purple frill Upon the stony casement wrought, Adorned your tasteful domicile And claimed your time and care and thought.

In cherry trees the robins sang Their sweetest carol to your ear, And shouts of merry children rang Out on the dewy atmosphere, But to my heart there came a pang That my salute you did not hear.

I envied then the favored breeze That dallied with your flowing hair, Begrudged the songsters in the trees And longed to be a flow'ret fair— Some favorite blossom like heartease— Within your miniature parterre.

O heart, that finds such ample room Within thy confines broad and true, For song and sunshine and perfume And all benign impulses—go, I pray thee, dissipate my gloom— And take in thy petitioner too!



"Honest John."

He was a man whose lot was cast, As some might think, in lines severe; In humble toil whose life was passed From week to week, from year to year; And yet, by wife and children blessed, He labored on with cheerful zest.

As one revered and set apart, A quaint, unusual name he bore That well became the frugal heart; While plain habiliments he wore Without a tremor or a chill At thought of some uncanceled bill.

A king might not disdain to wear The title so appropriate To one who never sought to share Exalted station 'mong the great, Nor cared if on the scroll of fame Were never traced his worthy name.

As bound by honor's righteous law In strictest rectitude he wrought— The man who calmly, clearly saw His duty, and who dallied not— To garner life's necessities For those whose comfort heightened his.

The parent bird its brood protects As fledglings in their downy nest, Until a Power their flight directs From trial trips to distant quest, Through trackless zones of ether blue, For bird companions strange and new.

But ere his babes from prattlers grew, Upon his knee or by his side, To womanhood and manhood true— Too soon we thought—the father died; How could we know, when Death was nigh Those little wings were taught to fly?

Another name his boyhood knew, So seldom heard that lapse of years Had made it seem a thing untrue, Unmusical to friendly ears; And thus his appellation odd His passport was where'er he trod.

So long, on every lip and tongue As if by universal whim, To him had his cognomen clung, And like a garment fitted him, That angels even must have heard Of one, like them, in love preferred.

And when he came to Heaven's door, To Peter's self or acolyte, The holy warder looking o'er, "'Tis 'Honest John!'" he said aright; And his pilgrim spirit passed within Because his walk with God had been.



Bushnell Park.

Sweet resting place! that long hath been A boon Elysian 'mid the din Of city life, 'mid city smoke; Where weary ones who toil and spin Have turned aside as to an inn Whose swinging sign a welcome spoke; Where misanthropes find medicine In peals of laughter that begin With ancient, resurrected joke, Or ready wit of harlequin; Where children, free from discipline, Take on Diversion's easy yoke.

Fair oasis! to view aright Its charming paths, its sloping height, Its beautiful and broad expanse, Must one approach in witching night When, like abodes of airy sprite Revealed unto the wondering glance, O'erflooded with electric light Than Luna's beams more dazzling bright, Illumined nooks the scene enhance; While zephyrs mischievous unite The timid stroller to affright By swaying boughs in shadow dance.

The Capitol that crowns the hill Where Boreas sweeps with icy chill, A masterpiece of studied art Conceived by genius versatile And fashioned with unerring skill, O'erlooks the busy, crowded mart, And, like a kingly domicile, Its burnished dome and sculpture thrill With admiration every heart; And strangers pause beyond the rill To view its grandeur, lingering still, And with reluctant steps depart.

O Bushnell Park, memorial soil! That marks success (though near to foil) Of one who with prophetic ken, With honest zeal and ceaseless toil, Opposed the vandal wish to spoil This lovely bit of vale and glen; Who, 'mid discussion and turmoil Of adverse minds, did not recoil From vigorous stroke of tongue and pen; And then, till passion ceased to boil, On troubled waters poured out oil And to his plans won other men.

So when, fatigued and overwrought, In summer time when skies are hot We seek its verdant, velvet sward, Oh may we hold in reverent thought The debt we owe, forgetting not The spirit passed to its reward Of one whose giant soul was fraught With true benignity—who sought To touch humanity's quick chord With fire from Heaven's altar brought, That love and zeal and being caught As inspiration from the Lord.



At General Grant's Tomb.

Afar my loyal spirit stirred At mention of his name; Afar in ringing notes I heard The clarion voice of fame; So to his tomb, hope long deferred, With reverent step I came.

The pilgrim muse revivified A half-forgotten day: A slow procession, tearful-eyed, In funeral array, And from MacGregor's lonely side A hero borne away.

Here sleeps he now, where long ago Hath nature raised his mound: A mighty channel far below, Divided hills around, Where countless thousands come and go As to a shrine renowned.

With awe do strangers' eyes discern A casket mid the green Luxuriance of flower and fern; Airy and cool and clean, Unchanged from spring to spring's return, This charnel chamber scene.

His country's weal his care and thought, Beloved in peace was he; Magnanimous in war—shall not The nation grateful be, And render at his burial spot A testimonial free?

Oh, let us, ere the days come on When energy is spent, To him, the silent soldier gone, Statesman and President, On Riverside's majestic lawn Uprear a monument.



"Be Courteous."

Ah, yes; why not? Is one more adventitious born Than others—shekels richer, honors fuller, and all that— That he can pass his fellows by with lofty scorn, Nor even show this slight regard—the lifting of the hat?

Why prate of social status, class, or rank when earth Is common tenting-ground, the heritage of all mankind? Except in purity is there no royal birth, No true nobility but nobleness of heart and mind.

Life is so short—one journey long, a pilgrimage That we cannot retrace, nor ever pass this way again; Then why not turn for some poor soul a brighter page, And line the way with courtesies unto our fellow-men?

To give a graceful word or smile, or lend a hand To one downcast and trembling on the borders of despair, May help him to look up and better understand Why God has made the sky so bright and put the rainbow there.

Be courteous! is nothing helpful half so cheap As kind urbanity that doth so much of gladness bring; More precious too than all the treasures of the deep, Making the winter of discomfort seem like joyous spring.

Be courteous and gentle! be serene and good! Those grand ennobling and enduring virtues all may claim; Of each may it be said, of the great multitude: Oh that my life were more like such an one of blessed fame!

Is it that over-crowding, care, anxiety, Vortex of pleasure, the incessant round of toil and strife, Beget indifference, repressing love and sympathy, Till we forget the beautiful amenities of life?

Then cometh a sad day, when with a poignant sting Lost opportunities shall speak to us reproachfully; And ours shall be the disapproval of the King— "Discourteous to these, my creatures, ye have wounded Me."



A New Suit.

The artist and the loom unseen, In textures soft as crepe de chine Spring weaves her royal robe of green, With grasses fringed and daisies dotted, With furzy tufts like mosses fine And showy clumps of eglantine, With dainty shrub and creeping vine Upon the verdant fabric knotted.

Oh, winter takes our love away For ashen hues of sober gray! So when the blooming, blushing May Comes out in bodice, cap, and kirtle, With arbutus her corsage laced, And roses clinging to her waist, We crown her charming queen of taste, Her chaplet-wreath of modest myrtle.

For eighteen centuries and more Her fairy hands have modeled o'er The same habiliments she wore At her primeval coronation; And still the pattern exquisite, For every age a perfect fit, In every land the favorite, Elicits world-wide admiration.

Gay butterflies of fashion, you Who wear a suit a year or two, Then agitate for something new, Look at Regina, the patrician! Her cleverness is more than gold Who so transforms from fabrics old The things a marvel to behold, And glories in the exhibition.

Why worry for an overdress, The acme of luxuriousness, Beyond all envy to possess, Renewed as oft as lambkin fleeces! Why flutter round in pretty pique To follow style's capricious freak, To match pongee or moire antique, And break your peace in hopeless pieces?

O mantua-maker, costumer, And fair-robed wearer! study her And imitate the conjurer So prettily economizing, Without demur, regret, or pout, Who always puts the bright side out And never frets at all about The world's penchant for criticizing.



The Little Clock.

Kind friend, you do not know how much I prize this time-ly treasure, So dainty, diligent, and such A constant source of pleasure.

The man of brains who could invent So true a chrono-meter Has set a charming precedent, And made a good repeater.

It speaks with clear, commanding clicks, Suggestive of the donor; And 'tends to business—never sick A bit more than the owner.

It goes when I do; when I stop (As by the dial showing) It never lets a second drop, But simply keeps on going.

It tells me when I am to eat, Which isn't necessary; When food with me is obsolete, I'll be a reliquary.

It tells me early when to rise, And bother with dejeuner; To sally forth and exercise, And fill up my porte-monnaie.

I hear it talking in the night, As if it were in clover: You've never lost your appetite, You've never been run over.

It makes me wish that I might live More faithful unto duty, And unto others something give Like this bijou of beauty.

It holds its hands before its face, So very modest is it; So like the people in the place Where I delight to visit.

Sometimes I wonder if it cries The course I am pursuing; Because it has so many I-s And must know what I'm doing.

Sometimes I fear it makes me cry— No matter, and no pity— Afraid at last I'll have to die In some far, foreign city.

It travels with me everywhere And chirrups like a cricket; As if it said with anxious air, "Don't lose your tick-tick-ticket!"

Companion of my loneliness Along my journey westward, It never leaves me comfortless, But has the last and best word.

I would not spoil its lovely face, And so I go behind it, And hold it like a china vase, So careful when I wind it.

A clock is always excellent That has its label on, And proves a fine advertisement For Waterbury, Conn.

Those Yankees—ah! they never shun A chance to make a dime, And counterfeit the very sun In keeping "Standard Time."

Ah, well! the little clock has proved The best of all bonanzas; And thus my happy heart is moved To these effusive stanzas.



Improvement.

Along the avenue I pass Huge piles of wood and stone, And glance at each amorphous mass, Whose cumbrous weight has crushed the grass, With half resentful groan.

Say I: "O labor, to despoil Some lovely forest scene, Or at the granite stratum toil, And desecrate whole roods of soil, Is vandal-like and mean!

"Than ever to disfigure thus Our prairie garden-land, Let me consort with Cerberus, Be chained to crags precipitous, Or seek an alien strand."

But while this pining, pouting Muse The interval ignores, Deft industry, no time to lose, Contrives and carries, hoists and hews, And symmetry restores.

Behold! of rock and pile and board A modern miracle, My neighbor's dwelling, roofed and floored, That rapid grew as Jonah's gourd, And far more beautiful.

The artisan's receding gait Has brushed the chips away, Where innocence shall recreate, Or like the flowers grow, and wait The balminess of May.

An arid spot, where careless feet Have long been wont to roam, Where cattle grazed, as if to eat Were life's delicious, richest treat, Becomes a charming home.

O man primeval! hadst thou known, Ere rude hands scooped thy grave, Of Homestead Act, or Building Loan, Thou wouldst have quite disdained to own A rugged cliff or cave.

And now I see how skill and art May cleave fair nature through, Disintegrate her breathing heart, And to the tissues torn impart A use and beauty new.

And this improvement is, to turn The things which God has given To their best purpose, as we learn To make the place where we sojourn Homelike and more like Heaven.



On Bancroft Height.

On Bancroft height Aurora's face Shines brighter than a star, As stepping forth in dewy grace, The gates of day unbar; And lo! the firmament, the hills, And the vales that intervene— Creation's self with gladness thrills To greet the matin queen.

On Bancroft height the atmosphere Is but an endless waft Of life's elixir, pure and clear As mortal ever quaffed; And such the sweet salubrity Of air and altitude, Is banished many a malady And suffering subdued.

On Bancroft height the sunset glow When day departing dies Outrivals all that tourists know Of famed Italian skies; And happy dwellers round about Who view the scene aright In admiration grow devout And laud the Lord of light.

Round Bancroft height rich memories Commingle earth's affairs, Among the world's celebrities, Of him whose name it bears; The scholar-wise compatriot Who left to later men The grand achievements unforgot Of that historic pen.

Fair Bancroft height revisited When all the land is white, A halo crowns its noble head Impelling fresh delight; The daring wish in winter-time The blizzard to defy Those shining slippery slopes to climb Up nearer to the sky.

Though Boreas abrade the cheek With buffetings of snow, He gives a vigor that the weak And languid never know; And with rejuvenescent thrill, Like children everywhere, Bestirs the rhapsody, the will To make a snow-man there.

On Bancroft height and Bancroft tower Such vistas charm the eye 'Twere life's consummate, glorious hour But to behold—and die; Yet in the sparkle and the glow Is earth so very fair The spirit lingers, loath to go, And dreams of heaven—up there.



A Reformer.

When I was young, my heart elate With ardent notions warm, I thirsted to inaugurate A spirit of reform; The universe was all awry, Philosophy despite, And mundane things disjointed I Was bound to set aright.

My mind conceived a million plans, For Hope was brave and strong, But dared not with unaided hands Combat a giant wrong; So with caress I sought to coax Those who had humored me In infancy—the dear old folks— And gain their sympathy.

But quarreling with extant laws They would have deemed a shame Who clung to error, just because Their fathers did the same. I sought in Pleasure's gilded halls, Where grace and beauty stirred At revelry's impetuous calls, To make my projects heard.

Then turned to stately palaces Of luxury and ease, Where wealth's absorbing object was The master's whim to please; And spoke of evils unredressed, Of danger yet to be— They only answered, like the rest: "But what is that to me?"

And even pious devotees Whom sacred walls immure Condemned me (as by feeble praise)— What more could I endure? Down by the stream, so pure and clear That sunbeams paused to drink, In loneliness and grief sincere I pressed its grassy brink.

Thick darkness seemed to veil the day; Beyond a realm of tears Utopia's land of promise lay; And not till later years I learned this lesson—that to win Results from labor sure, "Reformers" always must begin Among the lowly poor.

For they whose lot privation is And whose delights are few, Whose aggregate of miseries Is want of something new, The measure of whose happiness Is but an empty cup, For every novelty will press Alert to fill it up.

Transcriber's Notes: Page 27: Changed Galiee to Galilee (Printer's Error) Page 47: Indented 1st stanza to match others Page 173: Changed prarie to prairie (Printer's Error)

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