THE ROSE

It tossed its head at the wooing breeze; And the sun, like a bashful swain, Beamed on it through the waving trees With a passion all in vain,— For my rose laughed in a crimson glee, And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

The honey-bee came there to sing His love through the languid hours, And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king Might boast of his palace-towers: But my rose bowed in a mockery, And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

The humming-bird, like a courtier gay, Dipped down with a dalliant song, And twanged his wings through the roundelay Of love the whole day long: Yet my rose turned from his minstrelsy And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

The firefly came in the twilight dim My red, red rose to woo— Till quenched was the flame of love in him, And the light of his lantern too, As my rose wept with dewdrops three And hid in the leaves in wait for me.

And I said: I will cull my own sweet rose— Some day I will claim as mine The priceless worth of the flower that knows No change, but a bloom divine— The bloom of a fadeless constancy That hides in the leaves in wait for me!

But time passed by in a strange disguise, And I marked it not, but lay In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes, Till the summer slipped away, And a chill wind sang in a minor key: "Where is the rose that waits for thee?"

. . . . . . . .

I dream to-day, o'er a purple stain Of bloom on a withered stalk, Pelted down by the autumn rain In the dust of the garden-walk, That an Angel-rose in the world to be Will hide in the leaves in wait for me.

THE MERMAN

I

Who would be A merman gay, Singing alone, Sitting alone, With a mermaid's knee, For instance—hey— For a throne?

II

I would be a merman gay; I would sit and sing the whole day long; I would fill my lungs with the strongest brine, And squirt it up in a spray of song, And soak my head in my liquid voice; I'd curl my tail in curves divine, And let each curve in a kink rejoice. I'd tackle the mermaids under the sea, And yank 'em around till they yanked me, Sportively, sportively; And then we would wiggle away, away, To the pea-green groves on the coast of day, Chasing each other sportively.

III

There would be neither moon nor star; But the waves would twang like a wet guitar Low thunder and thrum in the darkness grum— Neither moon nor star; We would shriek aloud in the dismal dales— Shriek at each other and squawk and squeal, "All night!" rakishly, rakishly; They would pelt me with oysters and wiggletails, Laughing and clapping their hands at me, "All night!" prankishly, prankishly; But I would toss them back in mine, Lobsters and turtles of quaint design; Then leaping out in an abrupt way, I'd snatch them bald in my devilish glee, And skip away when they snatched at me, Fiendishly, fiendishly. O, what a jolly life I'd lead, Ah, what a "bang-up" life indeed! Soft are the mermaids under the sea— We would live merrily, merrily.

THE RAINY MORNING

The dawn of the day was dreary, And the lowering clouds o'erhead Wept in a silent sorrow Where the sweet sunshine lay dead; And a wind came out of the eastward Like an endless sigh of pain, And the leaves fell down in the pathway And writhed in the falling rain.

I had tried in a brave endeavor To chord my harp with the sun, But the strings would slacken ever, And the task was a weary one: And so, like a child impatient And sick of a discontent, I bowed in a shower of tear-drops And mourned with the instrument.

And lo! as I bowed, the splendor Of the sun bent over me, With a touch as warm and tender As a father's hand might be: And, even as I felt its presence, My clouded soul grew bright, And the tears, like the rain of morning, Melted in mists of light.

WE ARE NOT ALWAYS GLAD WHEN WE SMILE

We are not always glad when we smile: Though we wear a fair face and are gay, And the world we deceive May not ever believe We could laugh in a happier way.— Yet, down in the deeps of the soul, Ofttimes, with our faces aglow, There's an ache and a moan That we know of alone, And as only the hopeless may know.

We are not always glad when we smile,— For the heart, in a tempest of pain, May live in the guise Of a smile in the eyes As a rainbow may live in the rain; And the stormiest night of our woe May hang out a radiant star Whose light in the sky Of despair is a lie As black as the thunder-clouds are.

We are not always glad when we smile!— But the conscience is quick to record, All the sorrow and sin We are hiding within Is plain in the sight of the Lord: And ever, O ever, till pride And evasion shall cease to defile The sacred recess Of the soul, we confess We are not always glad when we smile.

A SUMMER SUNRISE

AFTER LEE O. HARRIS

The master-hand whose pencils trace This wondrous landscape of the morn, Is but the sun, whose glowing face Reflects the rapture and the grace Of inspiration Heaven-born.

And yet with vision-dazzled eyes, I see the lotus-lands of old, Where odorous breezes fall and rise, And mountains, peering in the skies, Stand ankle-deep in lakes of gold.

And, spangled with the shine and shade, I see the rivers raveled out In strands of silver, slowly fade In threads of light along the glade Where truant roses hide and pout.

The tamarind on gleaming sands Droops drowsily beneath the heat; And bowed as though aweary, stands The stately palm, with lazy hands That fold their shadows round his feet.

And mistily, as through a veil, I catch the glances of a sea Of sapphire, dimpled with a gale Toward Colch's blowing, where the sail Of Jason's Argo beckons me.

And gazing on and farther yet, I see the isles enchanted, bright With fretted spire and parapet, And gilded mosque and minaret, That glitter in the crimson light.

But as I gaze, the city's walls Are keenly smitten with a gleam Of pallid splendor, that appalls The fancy as the ruin falls In ashen embers of a dream.

Yet over all the waking earth The tears of night are brushed away, And eyes are lit with love and mirth, And benisons of richest worth Go up to bless the new-born day.

DAS KRIST KINDEL

I had fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles in delight Snapped their saucy little fingers at the chill December night; And in dressing-gown and slippers, I had tilted back "my throne"— The old split-bottomed rocker—and was musing all alone.

I could hear the hungry Winter prowling round the outer door, And the tread of muffled footsteps on the white piazza floor; But the sounds came to me only as the murmur of a stream That mingled with the current of a lazy-flowing dream.

Like a fragrant incense rising, curled the smoke of my cigar, With the lamplight gleaming through it like a mist-enfolded star;— And as I gazed, the vapor like a curtain rolled away, With a sound of bells that tinkled, and the clatter of a sleigh.

And in a vision, painted like a picture in the air, I saw the elfish figure of a man with frosty hair— A quaint old man that chuckled with a laugh as he appeared, And with ruddy cheeks like embers in the ashes of his beard.

He poised himself grotesquely, in an attitude of mirth, On a damask-covered hassock that was sitting on the hearth; And at a magic signal of his stubby little thumb, I saw the fireplace changing to a bright proscenium.

And looking there, I marveled as I saw a mimic stage Alive with little actors of a very tender age; And some so very tiny that they tottered as they walked, And lisped and purled and gurgled like the brooklets, when they talked.

And their faces were like lilies, and their eyes like purest dew, And their tresses like the shadows that the shine is woven through; And they each had little burdens, and a little tale to tell Of fairy lore, and giants, and delights delectable.

And they mixed and intermingled, weaving melody with joy, Till the magic circle clustered round a blooming baby-boy; And they threw aside their treasures in an ecstacy of glee, And bent, with dazzled faces and with parted lips, to see.

'Twas a wondrous little fellow, with a dainty double-chin, And chubby cheeks, and dimples for the smiles to blossom in; And he looked as ripe and rosy, on his bed of straw and reeds, As a mellow little pippin that had tumbled in the weeds.

And I saw the happy mother, and a group surrounding her That knelt with costly presents of frankincense and myrrh; And I thrilled with awe and wonder, as a murmur on the air Came drifting o'er the hearing in a melody of prayer:—

'By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee,— We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.

Thy messenger has spoken, and our doubts have fled and gone As the dark and spectral shadows of the night before the dawn; And, in the kindly shelter of the light around us drawn, We would nestle down forever in the breast we lean upon.

You have given us a shepherd—You have given us a guide, And the light of Heaven grew dimmer when You sent him from Your side,— But he comes to lead Thy children where the gates will open wide To welcome his returning when his works are glorified.

By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee,— We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee.'

Then the vision, slowly failing, with the words of the refrain, Fell swooning in the moonlight through the frosty window-pane; And I heard the clock proclaiming, like an eager sentinel Who brings the world good tidings,—"It is Christmas—all is well!"

AN OLD YEAR'S ADDRESS

"I have twankled the strings of the twinkering rain; I have burnished the meteor's mail; I have bridled the wind When he whinnied and whined With a bunch of stars tied to his tail; But my sky-rocket hopes, hanging over the past, Must fuzzle and fazzle and fizzle at last!"

I had waded far out in a drizzling dream, And my fancies had spattered my eyes With a vision of dread, With a number ten head, And a form of diminutive size— That wavered and wagged in a singular way As he wound himself up and proceeded to say,—

"I have trimmed all my corns with the blade of the moon; I have picked every tooth with a star: And I thrill to recall That I went through it all Like a tune through a tickled guitar. I have ripped up the rainbow and raveled the ends When the sun and myself were particular friends."

And pausing again, and producing a sponge And wiping the tears from his eyes, He sank in a chair With a technical air That he struggled in vain to disguise,— For a sigh that he breathed, as I over him leant, Was haunted and hot with a peppermint scent.

"Alas!" he continued in quavering tones As a pang rippled over his face, "The life was too fast For the pleasure to last In my very unfortunate case; And I'm going"—he said as he turned to adjust A fuse in his bosom,—"I'm going to—BUST!"

I shrieked and awoke with the sullen che-boom Of a five-pounder filling my ears; And a roseate bloom Of a light in the room I saw through the mist of my tears,— But my guest of the night never saw the display, He had fuzzled and fazzled and fizzled away!

A NEW YEAR'S PLAINT

In words like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold; But that large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more. —TENNYSON.

The bells that lift their yawning throats And lolling tongues with wrangling cries Flung up in harsh, discordant notes, As though in anger, at the skies,— Are filled with echoings replete, With purest tinkles of delight— So I would have a something sweet Ring in the song I sing to-night.

As when a blotch of ugly guise On some poor artist's naked floor Becomes a picture in his eyes, And he forgets that he is poor,— So I look out upon the night, That ushers in the dawning year, And in a vacant blur of light I see these fantasies appear.

I see a home whose windows gleam Like facets of a mighty gem That some poor king's distorted dream Has fastened in his diadem. And I behold a throng that reels In revelry of dance and mirth, With hearts of love beneath their heels, And in their bosoms hearts of earth.

O Luxury, as false and grand As in the mystic tales of old, When genii answered man's command, And built of nothing halls of gold! O Banquet, bright with pallid jets, And tropic blooms, and vases caught In palms of naked statuettes, Ye can not color as ye ought!

For, crouching in the storm without, I see the figure of a child, In little ragged roundabout, Who stares with eyes that never smiled— And he, in fancy can but taste The dainties of the kingly fare, And pick the crumbs that go to waste Where none have learned to kneel in prayer.

Go, Pride, and throw your goblet down— The "merry greeting" best appears On loving lips that never drown Its worth but in the wine of tears; Go, close your coffers like your hearts, And shut your hearts against the poor, Go, strut through all your pretty parts But take the "Welcome" from your door.

LUTHER BENSON

AFTER READING HIS AUTOBIOGRAPHY

POOR victim of that vulture curse That hovers o'er the universe, With ready talons quick to strike In every human heart alike, And cruel beak to stab and tear In virtue's vitals everywhere,— You need no sympathy of mine To aid you, for a strength divine Encircles you, and lifts you clear Above this earthly atmosphere.

And yet I can but call you poor, As, looking through the open door Of your sad life, I only see A broad landscape of misery, And catch through mists of pitying tears The ruins of your younger years, I see a father's shielding arm Thrown round you in a wild alarm— Struck down, and powerless to free Or aid you in your agony.

I see a happy home grow dark And desolate—the latest spark Of hope is passing in eclipse— The prayer upon a mother's lips Has fallen with her latest breath In ashes on the lips of death— I see a penitent who reels, And writhes, and clasps his hands, and kneels, And moans for mercy for the sake Of that fond heart he dared to break.

And lo! as when in Galilee A voice above the troubled sea Commanded "Peace; be still!" the flood That rolled in tempest-waves of blood Within you, fell in calm so sweet It ripples round the Saviour's feet; And all your noble nature thrilled With brightest hope and faith, and filled Your thirsty soul with joy and peace And praise to Him who gave release.

"DREAM"

Because her eyes were far too deep And holy for a laugh to leap Across the brink where sorrow tried To drown within the amber tide; Because the looks, whose ripples kissed The trembling lids through tender mist, Were dazzled with a radiant gleam— Because of this I called her "Dream."

Because the roses growing wild About her features when she smiled Were ever dewed with tears that fell With tenderness ineffable; Because her lips might spill a kiss That, dripping in a world like this, Would tincture death's myrrh-bitter stream To sweetness—so I called her "Dream."

Because I could not understand The magic touches of a hand That seemed, beneath her strange control, To smooth the plumage of the soul And calm it, till, with folded wings, It half forgot its flutterings, And, nestled in her palm, did seem To trill a song that called her "Dream."

Because I saw her, in a sleep As dark and desolate and deep And fleeting as the taunting night That flings a vision of delight To some lorn martyr as he lies In slumber ere the day he dies— Because she vanished like a gleam Of glory, do I call her "Dream."

WHEN EVENING SHADOWS FALL

When evening shadows fall, She hangs her cares away Like empty garments on the wall That hides her from the day; And while old memories throng, And vanished voices call, She lifts her grateful heart in song When evening shadows fall.

Her weary hands forget The burdens of the day. The weight of sorrow and regret In music rolls away; And from the day's dull tomb, That holds her in its thrall, Her soul springs up in lily bloom When evening shadows fall.

O weary heart and hand, Go bravely to the strife— No victory is half so grand As that which conquers life! One day shall yet be thine— The day that waits for all Whose prayerful eyes are things divine When evening shadows fall.

YLLADMAR

Her hair was, oh, so dense a blur Of darkness, midnight envied her; And stars grew dimmer in the skies To see the glory of her eyes; And all the summer rain of light That showered from the moon at night Fell o'er her features as the gloom Of twilight o'er a lily-bloom.

The crimson fruitage of her lips Was ripe and lush with sweeter wine Than burgundy or muscadine Or vintage that the burgher sips In some old garden on the Rhine: And I to taste of it could well Believe my heart a crucible Of molten love—and I could feel The drunken soul within me reel And rock and stagger till it fell.

And do you wonder that I bowed Before her splendor as a cloud Of storm the golden-sandaled sun Had set his conquering foot upon? And did she will it, I could lie In writhing rapture down and die A death so full of precious pain I'd waken up to die again.

A FANTASY

A fantasy that came to me As wild and wantonly designed As ever any dream might be Unraveled from a madman's mind,— A tangle-work of tissue, wrought By cunning of the spider-brain, And woven, in an hour of pain, To trap the giddy flies of thought.

I stood beneath a summer moon All swollen to uncanny girth, And hanging, like the sun at noon, Above the center of the earth; But with a sad and sallow light, As it had sickened of the night And fallen in a pallid swoon. Around me I could hear the rush Of sullen winds, and feel the whir Of unseen wings apast me brush Like phantoms round a sepulcher; And, like a carpeting of plush,0 A lawn unrolled beneath my feet, Bespangled o'er with flowers as sweet To look upon as those that nod Within the garden-fields of God, But odorless as those that blow In ashes in the shades below.

And on my hearing fell a storm Of gusty music, sadder yet Than every whimper of regret That sobbing utterance could form, And patched with scraps of sound that seemed Torn out of tunes that demons dreamed, And pitched to such a piercing key, It stabbed the ear with agony; And when at last it lulled and died, I stood aghast and terrified. I shuddered and I shut my eyes, And still could see, and feel aware Some mystic presence waited there; And staring, with a dazed surprise, I saw a creature so divine That never subtle thought of mine May reproduce to inner sight So fair a vision of delight.

A syllable of dew that drips From out a lily's laughing lips Could not be sweeter than the word I listened to, yet never heard.— For, oh, the woman hiding there Within the shadows of her hair, Spake to me in an undertone So delicate, my soul alone But understood it as a moan Of some weak melody of wind A heavenward breeze had left behind.

A tracery of trees, grotesque Against the sky, behind her seen, Like shapeless shapes of arabesque Wrought in an Oriental screen; And tall, austere and statuesque She loomed before it—e'en as though The spirit-hand of Angelo Had chiseled her to life complete, With chips of moonshine round her feet. And I grew jealous of the dusk, To see it softly touch her face, As lover-like, with fond embrace, It folded round her like a husk: But when the glitter of her hand, Like wasted glory, beckoned me, My eyes grew blurred and dull and dim— My vision failed—I could not see— I could not stir—I could but stand, Till, quivering in every limb, I flung me prone, as though to swim The tide of grass whose waves of green Went rolling ocean-wide between My helpless shipwrecked heart and her Who claimed me for a worshiper.

And writhing thus in my despair, I heard a weird, unearthly sound, That seemed to lift me from the ground And hold me floating in the air. I looked, and lo! I saw her bow Above a harp within her hands; A crown of blossoms bound her brow, And on her harp were twisted strands Of silken starlight, rippling o'er With music never heard before By mortal ears; and, at the strain, I felt my Spirit snap its chain And break away,—and I could see It as it turned and fled from me To greet its mistress, where she smiled To see the phantom dancing wild And wizard-like before the spell Her mystic fingers knew so well.

A DREAM

I dreamed I was a spider; A big, fat, hungry spider; A lusty, rusty spider With a dozen palsied limbs; With a dozen limbs that dangled Where three wretched flies were tangled And their buzzing wings were strangled In the middle of their hymns.

And I mocked them like a demon— A demoniacal demon Who delights to be a demon For the sake of sin alone; And with fondly false embraces Did I weave my mystic laces Round their horror-stricken faces Till I muffled every groan.

And I smiled to see them weeping, For to see an insect weeping, Sadly, sorrowfully weeping, Fattens every spider's mirth; And to note a fly's heart quaking, And with anguish ever aching Till you see it slowly breaking Is the sweetest thing on earth.

I experienced a pleasure, Such a highly-flavored pleasure, Such intoxicating pleasure, That I drank of it like wine; And my mortal soul engages That no spider on the pages Of the history of ages Felt a rapture more divine.

I careened around and capered— Madly, mystically capered— For three days and nights I capered Round my web in wild delight; Till with fierce ambition burning, And an inward thirst and yearning I hastened my returning With a fiendish appetite.

And I found my victims dying, "Ha!" they whispered, "we are dying!" Faintly whispered, "we are dying, And our earthly course is run." And the scene was so impressing That I breathed a special blessing, As I killed them with caressing And devoured them one by one.

DREAMER, SAY

Dreamer, say, will you dream for me A wild sweet dream of a foreign land, Whose border sips of a foaming sea With lips of coral and silver sand; Where warm winds loll on the shady deeps, Or lave themselves in the tearful mist The great wild wave of the breaker weeps O'er crags of opal and amethyst?

Dreamer, say, will you dream a dream Of tropic shades in the lands of shine, Where the lily leans o'er an amber stream That flows like a rill of wasted wine,— Where the palm-trees, lifting their shields of green, Parry the shafts of the Indian sun Whose splintering vengeance falls between The reeds below where the waters run?

Dreamer, say, will you dream of love That lives in a land of sweet perfume, Where the stars drip down from the skies above In molten spatters of bud and bloom? Where never the weary eyes are wet, And never a sob in the balmy air, And only the laugh of the paroquet Breaks the sleep of the silence there?

BRYANT

The harp has fallen from the master's hand; Mute is the music, voiceless are the strings, Save such faint discord as the wild wind flings In sad aeolian murmurs through the land. The tide of melody, whose billows grand Flowed o'er the world in clearest utterings, Now, in receding current, sobs and sings That song we never wholly understand. * * O, eyes where glorious prophecies belong, And gracious reverence to humbly bow, And kingly spirit, proud, and pure, and strong; O, pallid minstrel with the laureled brow, And lips so long attuned to sacred song, How sweet must be the Heavenly anthem now!

BABYHOOD

Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger! Let's toddle home again, for we have gone astray; Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger Back to the lotus-lands of the far-away!

Turn back the leaves of life.—Don't read the story.— Let's find the pictures, and fancy all the rest; We can fill the written pages with a brighter glory Than old Time, the story-teller, at his very best.

Turn to the brook where the honeysuckle tipping O'er its vase of perfume spills it on the breeze, And the bee and humming-bird in ecstacy are sipping From the fairy flagons of the blooming locust-trees.

Turn to the lane where we used to "teeter-totter," Printing little foot-palms in the mellow mold— Laughing at the lazy cattle wading in the water Where the ripples dimple round the buttercups of gold;

Where the dusky turtle lies basking on the gravel Of the sunny sand-bar in the middle tide, And the ghostly dragon-fly pauses in his travel To rest like a blossom where the water-lily died.

Heigh-ho! Babyhood! Tell me where you linger! Let's toddle home again, for we have gone astray; Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger Back to the lotus-lands of the far-away!

LIBERTY

NEW CASTLE, JULY 4, 1878

For a hundred years the pulse of time Has throbbed for Liberty; For a hundred years the grand old clime Columbia has been free; For a hundred years our country's love, The Stars and Stripes, has waved above.

Away far out on the gulf of years— Misty and faint and white Through the fogs of wrong—a sail appears, And the Mayflower heaves in sight, And drifts again, with its little flock Of a hundred souls, on Plymouth Rock.

Do you see them there—as long, long since— Through the lens of History; Do you see them there as their chieftain prints In the snow his bended knee, And lifts his voice through the wintry blast In thanks for a peaceful home at last?

Though the skies are dark and the coast is bleak, And the storm is wild and fierce, Its frozen flake on the upturned cheek Of the Pilgrim melts in tears, And the dawn that springs from the darkness there Is the morning light of an answered prayer.

The morning light of the day of Peace That gladdens the aching eyes, And gives to the soul that sweet release That the present verifies,— Nor a snow so deep, nor a wind so chill To quench the flame of a freeman's will!

II

Days of toil when the bleeding hand Of the pioneer grew numb, When the untilled tracts of the barren land Where the weary ones had come Could offer nought from a fruitful soil To stay the strength of the stranger's toil.

Days of pain, when the heart beat low, And the empty hours went by Pitiless, with the wail of woe And the moan of Hunger's cry— When the trembling hands upraised in prayer Had only the strength to hold them there.

Days when the voice of hope had fled— Days when the eyes grown weak Were folded to, and the tears they shed Were frost on a frozen cheek— When the storm bent down from the skies and gave A shroud of snow for the Pilgrim's grave.

Days at last when the smiling sun Glanced down from a summer sky, And a music rang where the rivers run, And the waves went laughing by; And the rose peeped over the mossy bank While the wild deer stood in the stream and drank.

And the birds sang out so loud and good, In a symphony so clear And pure and sweet that the woodman stood With his ax upraised to hear, And to shape the words of the tongue unknown Into a language all his own—

1

'Sing! every bird, to-day! Sing for the sky so clear, And the gracious breath of the atmosphere Shall waft our cares away. Sing! sing! for the sunshine free; Sing through the land from sea to sea; Lift each voice in the highest key And sing for Liberty!'

2

'Sing for the arms that fling Their fetters in the dust And lift their hands in higher trust Unto the one Great King; Sing for the patriot heart and hand; Sing for the country they have planned; Sing that the world may understand This is Freedom's land!'

3

'Sing in the tones of prayer, Sing till the soaring soul Shall float above the world's control In freedom everywhere! Sing for the good that is to be, Sing for the eyes that are to see The land where man at last is free, O sing for liberty!'

III

A holy quiet reigned, save where the hand Of labor sent a murmur through the land, And happy voices in a harmony Taught every lisping breeze a melody. A nest of cabins, where the smoke upcurled A breathing incense to the other world. A land of languor from the sun of noon, That fainted slowly to the pallid moon, Till stars, thick-scattered in the garden-land Of Heaven by the great Jehovah's hand, Had blossomed into light to look upon The dusky warrior with his arrow drawn, As skulking from the covert of the night With serpent cunning and a fiend's delight, With murderous spirit, and a yell of hate The voice of Hell might tremble to translate: When the fond mother's tender lullaby Went quavering in shrieks all suddenly, And baby-lips were dabbled with the stain Of crimson at the bosom of the slain, And peaceful homes and fortunes ruined—lost In smoldering embers of the holocaust. Yet on and on, through years of gloom and strife, Our country struggled into stronger life; Till colonies, like footprints in the sand, Marked Freedom's pathway winding through the land— And not the footprints to be swept away Before the storm we hatched in Boston Bay,— But footprints where the path of war begun That led to Bunker Hill and Lexington,— For he who "dared to lead where others dared To follow" found the promise there declared Of Liberty, in blood of Freedom's host Baptized to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost!

Oh, there were times when every patriot breast Was riotous with sentiments expressed In tones that swelled in volume till the sound Of lusty war itself was well-nigh drowned. Oh, those were times when happy eyes with tears Brimmed o'er as all the misty doubts and fears Were washed away, and Hope with gracious mien, Reigned from her throne again a sovereign queen. Until at last, upon a day like this When flowers were blushing at the summer's kiss, And when the sky was cloudless as the face Of some sweet infant in its angel grace,— There came a sound of music, thrown afloat Upon the balmy air—a clanging note Reiterated from the brazen throat Of Independence Bell: A sound so sweet, The clamoring throngs of people in the streets Were stilled as at the solemn voice of prayer, And heads were bowed, and lips were moving there That made no sound—until the spell had passed, And then, as when all sudden comes the blast Of some tornado, came the cheer on cheer Of every eager voice, while far and near The echoing bells upon the atmosphere Set glorious rumors floating, till the ear Of every listening patriot tingled clear, And thrilled with joy and jubilee to hear.

I

'Stir all your echoes up, O Independence Bell, And pour from your inverted cup The song we love so well.

'Lift high your happy voice, And swing your iron tongue Till syllables of praise rejoice That never yet were sung.

'Ring in the gleaming dawn Of Freedom—Toll the knell Of Tyranny, and then ring on, O Independence Bell.—

'Ring on, and drown the moan, Above the patriot slain, Till sorrow's voice shall catch the tone And join the glad refrain.

'Ring out the wounds of wrong And rankle in the breast; Your music like a slumber-song Will lull revenge to rest.

'Ring out from Occident To Orient, and peal From continent to continent The mighty joy you feel.

'Ring! Independence Bell! Ring on till worlds to be Shall listen to the tale you tell Of love and Liberty!'

IV

O Liberty—the dearest word A bleeding country ever heard,— We lay our hopes upon thy shrine And offer up our lives for thine. You gave us many happy years Of peace and plenty ere the tears A mourning country wept were dried Above the graves of those who died Upon thy threshold. And again When newer wars were bred, and men Went marching in the cannon's breath And died for thee and loved the death, While, high above them, gleaming bright, The dear old flag remained in sight, And lighted up their dying eyes With smiles that brightened paradise. O Liberty, it is thy power To gladden us in every hour Of gloom, and lead us by thy hand As little children through a land Of bud and blossom; while the days Are filled with sunshine, and thy praise Is warbled in the roundelays Of joyous birds, and in the song Of waters, murmuring along The paths of peace, whose flowery fringe Has roses finding deeper tinge Of crimson, looking on themselves Reflected—leaning from the shelves Of cliff and crag and mossy mound Of emerald splendor shadow-drowned.— We hail thy presence, as you come With bugle blast and rolling drum, And booming guns and shouts of glee Commingled in a symphony That thrills the worlds that throng to see The glory of thy pageantry. 0And with thy praise, we breathe a prayer That God who leaves you in our care May favor us from this day on With thy dear presence—till the dawn Of Heaven, breaking on thy face, Lights up thy first abiding place.

TOM VAN ARDEN

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Our warm fellowship is one Far too old to comprehend Where its bond was first begun: Mirage-like before my gaze Gleams a land of other days, Where two truant boys, astray, Dream their lazy lives away.

There's a vision, in the guise Of Midsummer, where the Past Like a weary beggar lies In the shadow Time has cast; And as blends the bloom of trees With the drowsy hum of bees, Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, All the pleasures we have known Thrill me now as I extend This old hand and grasp your own— Feeling, in the rude caress, All affection's tenderness; Feeling, though the touch be rough, Our old souls are soft enough.

So we'll make a mellow hour: Fill your pipe, and taste the wine— Warp your face, if it be sour, I can spare a smile from mine; If it sharpen up your wit, Let me feel the edge of it— I have eager ears to lend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Are we "lucky dogs," indeed? Are we all that we pretend In the jolly life we lead?— Bachelors, we must confess, Boast of "single blessedness" To the world, but not alone— Man's best sorrow is his own!

And the saddest truth is this,— Life to us has never proved What we tasted in the kiss Of the women we have loved: Vainly we congratulate Our escape from such a fate As their lying lips could send, Tom Van Arden, my old friend!

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Hearts, like fruit upon the stem, Ripen sweetest, I contend, As the frost falls over them: Your regard for me to-day Makes November taste of May, And through every vein of rhyme Pours the blood of summer-time.

When our souls are cramped with youth Happiness seems far away In the future, while, in truth,

We look back on it to-day Through our tears, nor dare to boast,— "Better to have loved and lost!" Broken hearts are hard to mend, Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, I grow prosy, and you tire; Fill the glasses while I bend To prod up the failing fire. . . . You are restless:—I presume There's a dampness in the room.— Much of warmth our nature begs, With rheumatics in our legs! . . .

Humph! the legs we used to fling Limber-jointed in the dance, When we heard the fiddle ring Up the curtain of Romance, And in crowded public halls Played with hearts like jugglers' balls.— FEATS OF MOUNTEBANKS, DEPEND!— Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, Pardon, then, this theme of mine: While the firelight leaps to lend Higher color to the wine,— I propose a health to those Who have HOMES, and home's repose, Wife- and child-love without end!... Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

THE END