MISCELLANEOUS.

HAVE you heard of the Valley of Babyland, The realm where the dear little darlings stay, Till the kind storks go, as all men know, And, oh, so tenderly bring them away? The paths are winding and past all finding, By all save the storks who understand The gates and the highways and the intricate byways That lead to Babyland. All over the Valley of Babyland Sweet flowers bloom in the soft green moss; And under the ferns fair, and under the plants there, Lie little heads like spools of floss. With a soothing number the river of slumber Flows o’er a bedway of silver sand; And angels are keeping watch o’er the sleeping Babes of Babyland. The path to the Valley of Babyland Only the kingly, kind storks know; If they fly over mountains, or wade through fountains. No man sees them come or go. But an angel maybe, who guards some baby, Or a fairy perhaps, with her magic wand, Brings them straightway to the wonderful gateway That leads to Babyland. And there in the Valley of Babyland, Under the mosses and leaves and ferns, Like an unfledged starling, they find the darling, For whom the heart of a mother yearns; And they lift him lightly, and snug him tightly In feathers soft as a lady’s hand; And off with a rockaway step they walk away Out of Babyland. As they go from the Valley of Babyland, Forth into the world of great unrest, Sometimes in weeping, he wakes from sleeping Before he reaches the mother’s breast. Ah, how she blesses him, how she caresses him, Bonniest bird in the bright home band That o’er land and water, the kind stork brought her From far off Babyland.

BETWEEN the curtains of snowy lace, Over the way is a baby’s face; It peeps forth, smiling in merry glee, And waves its pink little hand at me. My heart responds with a lonely cry— But in the wonderful By-and-By— Out from the window of God’s “To Be,” That other baby shall beckon to me. That ever haunting and longed-for face, That perfect vision of infant grace, Shall shine on me in a splendor of light, Never to fade from my eager sight. All that was taken shall be made good; All that puzzles me understood; And the wee white hand that I lost, one day, Shall lead me into the Better Way.

ALL suddenly between me and the light, That brightly shone, and warm, Robed in the pall-like garments of the night, There rose a shadowy form. “Stand back,” I said; “you quite obscure the sun; What do you want with me?” “Dost thou not know, then?” quoth the mystic one; “Look on my face and see!” I looked, and, lo! it was my old despair, Robed in a new disguise; In blacker garments than it used to wear, But with the same sad eyes. So ghostly were the memories it awoke, I shrank in fear away. “Nay, be more kind,” ’twas thus the dark shape spoke, “For I have come to stay. “So long thy feet have trod on sunny heights, Such joys thy heart has known, Perchance thou hast forgotten those long nights, When we two watched alone, “Though sweet and dear the pleasures thou hast met, And comely to thine eye, Has one of them, in all that bright throng yet, Been half so true as I? “And that last rapture which ensnared thee so With pleasure twin to pain, It was the swiftest of them all to go— But I—I will remain. “Again we two will live a thousand years, In desperate nights of grief, That shall refuse the bitter balm of tears, For thy bruised heart’s relief. “Again we two will watch the hopeless dawn Creep up a lonely sky— Again we’ll urge the drear day to be gone, Yet dread to see it die. “Nay, shrink not from me, for I am thy friend, One whom the Master sent; And I shall help thee, ere we reach the end, To find a great content. “And I will give thee courage to attain, The heights supremely fair, Wherein thou’lt cry, ‘How blessed was my pain! How God sent my Despair!’ ”

BETWEEN the acts while the orchestra played That sweet old waltz with the lilting measure, I drifted away to a dear dead day, When the dance, for me, was the sum of all pleasure; When my veins were rife with the fever of life, When hope ran high as an inswept ocean, And my heart’s great gladness was almost madness, As I floated off to the music’s motion. How little I cared for the world outside! How little I cared for the dull day after! The thought of trouble went up like a bubble, And burst in a sparkle of mirthful laughter. Oh! and the beat of it, oh! and the sweet of it— Melody, motion, and young blood melted; The dancers swaying, the players playing, The air song-deluged and music-pelted. I knew no weariness, no, not I— My step was as light as the waving grasses That flutter with ease on the strong-armed breeze, As it waltzes over the wild morasses. Life was all sound and swing; youth was a perfect thing; Night was the goddess of satisfaction. Oh, how I tripped away, right to the edge of day! Joy lay in motion, and rest lay in action. I dance no more on the music’s wave, I yield no more to its wildering power, That time has flown like a rose that is blown, Yet life is a garden forever in flower. Though storms of tears have watered the years, Between to-day and the day departed, Though trials have met me, and grief’s waves wet me, And I have been tired and trouble-hearted. Though under the sod of a wee green grave, A great, sweet hope in darkness perished, Yet life, to my thinking, is a cup worth drinking, A gift to be glad of, and loved, and cherished. There is deeper pleasure in the slower measure That Time’s grand orchestra now is playing. Its mellowed minor is sadder but finer, And life grows daily more worth the living.

COLUMBIA, large-hearted and tender, Too long for the good of your kin You have shared your home’s comfort and splendor With all who have asked to come in. The smile of your true eyes has lighted The way to your wide-open door. You have held out full hands, and invited The beggar to take from your store. Your overrun proud sister nations, Whose offspring you help them to keep, Are sending their poorest relations, Their unruly vicious black sheep; Unwashed and unlettered you take them, And lo! we are pushed from your knee; We are governed by laws as they make them, We are slaves in the land of the free. Columbia, you know the devotion Of those who have sprung from your soil; Shall aliens, born over the ocean, Dispute us the fruits of our toil? Most noble and gracious of mothers, Your children rise up and demand That you bring us no more foster brothers, To breed discontent in the land. Be prudent before you are zealous, Not generous only—but just. Our hearts are grown wrathful and jealous Toward those who have outraged your trust. They jostle and crowd in our places, They sneer at the comforts you gave. We say, shut the door in their faces— Until they have learned to behave! In hearts that are greedy and hateful, They harbor ill-will and deceit; They ask for more favors, ungrateful For those you have poured at their feet. Rise up in your grandeur, and straightway Bar out the bold, clamoring mass; Let sentinels stand at your gateway, To see who is worthy to pass. Give first to your own faithful toilers The freedom our birthright should claim, And take from these ruthless despoilers The power which they use to our shame. Columbia, too long you have dallied With foes whom you feed from your store; It is time that your wardens were rallied, And stationed outside the locked door.

SOMETIMES when I have dropped to sleep, Draped in a soft luxurious gloom, Across my drowsing mind will creep The memory of another room, Where resinous knots in roof boards made A frescoing of light and shade, And sighing poplars brushed their leaves Against the humbly sloping eaves. Again I fancy, in my dreams, I’m lying in my trundle bed; I seem to see the bare old beams And unhewn rafters overhead. The mud wasp’s shrill falsetto hum I hear again, and see him come Forth from his dark-walled hanging house, Dressed in his black and yellow blouse. There, summer dawns, in sleep I stirred, And wove into my fair dream’s woof The chattering of a martin bird, Or rain-drops pattering on the roof. Or half awake, and half in fear, I saw the spider spinning near His pretty castle where the fly Should come to ruin by-and-by. And there I fashioned from my brain Youth’s shining structures in the air. I did not wholly build in vain, For some were lasting, firm and fair. And I am one who lives to say My life has held more gold than gray, And that the splendor of the real Surpassed my early dream’s ideal. But still I love to wander back To that old time and that old place; To tread my way o’er memory’s track, And catch the early morning grace, In that quaint room beneath the rafter, That echoed to my childish laughter; To dream again the dreams that grew More beautiful as they came true.

SHE was my dream’s fulfilment and my joy, This lovely woman whom you call your wife. You sported at your play, an idle boy, When I first felt the stirring of her life Within my startled being. I was thrilled With such intensity of love, it filled The very universe! But words are vain— No man can comprehend that wild, sweet pain. You smiled in childhood’s slumber while I felt The agonies of labour; and the nights I, weeping, o’er the little sufferer knelt, You, wandering on through dreamland’s fair delights Flung out your lengthening limbs and slept and grew; While I, awake, saved this dear wife for you. She was my heart’s loved idle and my pride. I taught her all those graces which you praise, I dreamed of coming years, when at my side She should lend luster to my fading days, Should cling to me (as she to you clings now), The young fruit hanging to the withered bough. But lo! the blossom was so fair a sight, You plucked it from me—for your own delight. Well, you are worthy of her—oh, thank God— And yet I think you do not realize How burning were the sands o’er which I trod, To bear and rear this woman you so prize. It was no easy thing to see her go— Even into the arms of the one she worshiped so. How strong, how vast, how awful seems the power Of this new love which fills a maiden’s heart, For one who never bore a single hour Of pain for her; which tears her life apart From all its moorings, and controls her more Than all the ties the years have held before; Which crowns a stranger with a kingly grace— And give the one who bore her—second place! She loves me still! and yet, were Death to say, “Choose now between them!” you would be her choice. God meant it to be so—it is His way. But can you wonder if, while I rejoice In her content, this thought hurts like a knife— “No longer necessary to her life!” My pleasure in her joy is bitter sweet. Your very goodness sometimes hurts my heart, Because, for her, life’s drama seems complete Without the mother’s oft-repeated part. Be patient with me! She was mine so long Who now is yours. One must indeed be strong, To meet the loss without the least regret. And so, forgive me, if my eyes are wet.

IT is soiled and quite passe, Broken too, and out of fashion, But it stirs my heart some way, As I hold it here to-day, With a dead year’s grace and passion. Oh, my pretty fan! Precious dream and thrilling strain, Rise up from that vanished season; Back to heart and nerve and brain Sweeps the joy as keen as pain, Joy that asks no cause or reason. Oh, my dainty fan! Hopes that perished in a night Gaze at me like spectral faces; Grim despair and lost delight, Sorrow long since gone from sight— All are hiding in these laces. Oh, my broken fan! Let us lay the thing away— I am sadder now and older; Fled the ball-room and the play— You have had your foolish day, And the night and life are colder. Exit—little fan!

NO classes here! Why, that is idle talk. The village beau sneers at the country boor; The importuning mendicants who walk Our cities’ streets despise the parish poor. The daily toiler at some noisy loom Holds back her garments from the kitchen aid. Meanwhile the latter leans upon her broom, Unconscious of the bow the laundress made. The grocer’s daughter eyes the farmer’s lass With haughty glances; and the lawyer’s wife Would pay no visits to the trading class, If policy were not her creed in life. The merchant’s son nods coldly at the clerk; The proud possessor of a pedigree Ignores the youth whose father rose by work; The title-seeking maiden scorns all three. The aristocracy of blood looks down Upon the “nouveau riche;” and in disdain, The lovers of the intellectual frown On both, and worship at the shrine of brain. “No classes here,” the clergyman has said; “We are one family.” Yet see his rage And horror when his favorite son would wed Some pure and pretty player on the stage. It is the vain but natural human way Of vaunting our weak selves, our pride, our worth! Not till the long-delayed millennial day Shall we behold “no classes” on God’s earth.

AS we hurry away to the end, my friend, Of this sad little farce called existence, We are sure that the future will bring one thing, And that is the grave in the distance. And so when our lives run along all wrong, And nothing seems real or certain, We can comfort ourselves with the thought (or not) Of that specter behind the curtain. But we haven’t much time to repine or whine, Or to wound or jostle each other; And the hour for us each is to-day, I say, If we mean to assist a brother. And there is no pleasure that earth gives birth, But the worry it brings is double; And all that repays for the strife of life, Is helping some soul in trouble. I tell you, if I could go back the track To my life’s morning hour, I would not set forth seeking name or fame, Or that poor bauble called power. I would be like the sunlight, and live to give; I would lend but I would not borrow; Nor would I be blind and complain of pain, Forgetting the meaning of sorrow. This world is a vaporous jest at best, Tossed off by the gods in laughter; And a cruel attempt at wit were it, If nothing better came after. It is reeking with hearts that ache and break, Which we ought to comfort and strengthen, As we hurry away to the end, my friend, And the shadows behind us lengthen.

BEFORE this scarf was faded, What hours of mirth it knew! How gaily it paraded For smiling eyes to view! The days were tinged with glory, The nights too quickly sped, And life was like a story Where all the people wed. Before this rosebud wilted, How passionately sweet The wild waltz swelled and lilted In time for flying feet! How loud the bassoons muttered! The horns grew madly shrill; And, oh, the vows lips uttered That hearts could not fulfill. Before this fan was broken, Behind its lace and pearl What whispered words were spoken— What hearts were in a whirl! What homesteads were selected In Fancy’s realm of Spain! What castles were erected, Without a room for pain! When this odd glove was mated, How thrilling seemed the play! May be our hearts are sated— They tire so soon to-day. Oh, shut away those treasures, They speak the dreary truth— We have outgrown the pleasures And keen delights of youth.

BACK in the box by the curtains shaded, She sits alone by the house unseen; Her eye is dim, her cheek is faded, She who was once the people’s queen. The curtain rolls up, and she sees before her A vision of beauty and youth and grace. Ah! no wonder all hearts adore her, Silver-throated and fair of face. Out of her box she leans and listens; Oh, is it with pleasure or with despair That her thin cheek pales and her dim eye glistens, While that fresh young voice sings the grand old air? She is back again in the Past’s bright splendor— When life seemed worth living, and love a truth, Ere Time had told her she must surrender Her double dower of fame and youth. It is she herself who stands there singing To that sea of faces that shines and stirs; And the cheers on cheers that go up ringing And rousing the echoes—are hers—all hers. Just for one moment the sweet delusion Quickens her pulses and blurs her sight, And wakes within her that wild confusion Of joy that is anguish and fierce delight. Then the curtain goes down and the lights are gleaming Brightly o’er circle and box and stall. She starts like a sleeper who wakes from dreaming— Her past lies under a funeral pall. Her day is dead and her star descended Never to rise or shine again; Her reign is over—her Queenship ended— A new name is sounded and sung by men. All the glitter and glow and splendor, All the glory of that lost day, With the friends that seemed true, and the love that seemed tender, Why, what is it all but a dead bouquet? She rises to go. Has the night turned colder? The new Queen answers to call and shout; And the old Queen looks back over her shoulder, Then all unnoticed she passes out.

I WILL not doubt, though all my ships at sea Come drifting home with broken masts and sails; I shall believe the Hand which never fails, From seeming evil worketh good for me; And though I weep because those sails are battered, Still will I cry, while my best hopes lie shattered, “I trust in thee.” I will not doubt, though all my prayers return Unanswered from the still, white Realm above; I shall believe it is an all-wise Love Which has refused those things for which I yearn; And though at times I cannot keep from grieving, Yet the pure ardor of my fixed believing Undimmed shall burn. I will not doubt, though sorrows fall like rain, And troubles swarm like bees about a hive; I shall believe the heights for which I strive Are only reached by anguish and by pain; And though I groan and tremble with my crosses, I yet shall see, through my severest losses, The greater gain. I will not doubt; well anchored in the faith, Like some staunch ship, my soul braves every gale, So strong its courage that it will not fail To breast the mighty unknown sea of Death. Oh, may I cry when body parts with spirit, “I do not doubt,” so listening worlds may hear it, With my last breath.

WE sigh above historic pages, Brave with the deeds of courtly men, And wish those peers of middle ages In our dull day could live again. And yet no knight or Troubadour began In chivalry with the American. He does not frequent joust or tourney, And flaunt his lady’s colors there; But in the tedium of a journey, He shows that deferential care— That thoughtful kindness to the sex at large, Which makes each woman feel herself his charge. He does not challenge foes to duel, To win his lady’s cast-off glove, But proves in ways less rash and cruel, The truth and fervor of his love. Not by bold deeds, but by his reverent mien, He pays his public tribute to his Queen. He may not shine with courtly graces, But yet, his kind, respectful air To woman, whatsoe’er her place is, It might be well if kings could share. So, for the chivalric true gentleman, Give me, I say, our own American.

I OWN the charms of lovely Nature; still, In human nature more delight I find. Though sweet the murmuring voices of the rill, I much prefer the voices of my kind. I like the roar of cities. In the mart, Where busy toilers strive for place and gain, I seem to read humanity’s great heart, And share its hopes, its pleasures, and its pain. The rush of hurrying trains that cannot wait, The tread of myriad feet, all say to me: “You are the architect of your own fate; Toil on, hope on, and dare to do and be.” I like the jangled music of the loud Bold bells; the whistle’s sudden shrill reply; And there is inspiration in a crowd— A magnetism flashed from eye to eye. My sorrows all seem lightened and my joys Augmented when the comrade world walks near; Close to mankind my soul best keeps its poise. Give me the great town’s bustle, strife, and noise And let who will, hold Nature’s calm more dear.

GIVE us that grand word “woman” once again, And let’s have done with “lady”: one’s a term Full of fine force, strong, beautiful, and firm, Fit for the noblest use of tongue or pen; And one’s a word for lackeys. One suggests The Mother, Wife, and Sister! One the dame Whose costly robe, mayhap, gives her the name. One word upon its own strength leans and rests; The other minces tiptoe. Who would be The perfect woman must grow brave of heart And broad of soul to play her troubled part Well in life’s drama. While each day we see The “perfect lady” skilled in what to do And what to say, grace in each tone and act (’Tis taught in schools, but needs some native tact), Yet narrow in her mind as in her shoe. Give the first place then to the nobler phrase, And leave the lesser word for lesser praise.

SO we must part forever; and although I long have beat my wings and cried to go, Free from your narrow limiting control, Forth into space, the true home of the soul, Yet now, yet now that hour is drawing near, I pause reluctant, finding you so dear. All joys await me in the realm of God— Must you, my comrade, moulder in the sod? I was your captive, yet you were my slave: Your prisoner, yet obedience you gave To all my earnest wishes and commands. Now to the worm I leave those willing hands That toiled for me or held the books I read, Those feet that trod where’er I wished to tread, Those arms that clasped my dear ones, and the breast On which one loved and loving heart found rest, Those lips through which my prayers to God have risen, Those eyes that were the windows to my prison. From these, all these, Death’s Angel bids me sever; Dear Comrade Body, fare thee well forever! I go to my inheritance, and go With joy that only the freed soul can know; Yet in my spirit wanderings I trust I may sometimes pause near your sacred dust.

BETWEEN the shore and the distant sky-lands, Where a ship’s dim shape seems etched on space, There lies this cluster of lovely islands, Like laughing mermaids grouped in grace. I look out over the waves and wonder, Are they not sirens who dwell in the sea? When the tide runs high they dip down under Like mirthful bathers who sport in glee. When the tide runs low they lift their shoulders Above the billows and gayly spread Their soft green garments along the boulders Of grim gray granite that form their bed. Close by the group, in sheltered places, Many a ship at anchor lies, And drinks the charm of their smiling faces, As lovers drink smiles from maidens’ eyes. But true to the harsh and stern old ocean, As maids in a harem are true to one, They give him all of their hearts’ devotion, Though wooed forever by moon and sun. A ship sails on that has bravely waded Through foaming billows to sue in vain; A whip-poor-will flies that has serenaded And sung unanswered his plaintive strain. In the sea’s great arms I see them lying, Bright and beaming and fond and fair, While the jealous July day is dying In a crimson fury of mad despair. The desolate moon drifts slowly over, And covers its face with the lace of a cloud, While the sea, like a glad triumphant lover, Clasps close his islands and laughs aloud.

IF, when I die, I must be buried, let No cemetery engulph me—no lone grot, Where the great palpitating world comes not, Save when, with heart bowed down and eyelids wet, It pays its last sad melancholy debt To some outjourneying pilgrim. May my lot Be rather to lie in some much-used spot, Where human life, with all its noise and fret, Throbs on about me. Let the roll of wheels, With all earth’s sounds of pleasure, commerce, love, And rush of hurrying feet surge o’er my head. Even in my grave I shall be one who feels Close kinship with the pulsing world above; And too deep silence would distress me, dead.

IT may be, yet I have not found it so. In those first golden dreams of future fame I did not find such happiness as came When toil was crowned with triumph. Now I know My words have recognition and will go Straight to some listening heart my early aim To win the idle glory of a name Pales like a candle in the noonday’s glow. So with the deeper joys of which I dreamed: Life yields more rapture than did childhood’s fancies, And each year brings more pleasure than I waited. Friendship proves truer than of old it seemed, And, all beyond youth’s passion-hued romances, Love is more perfect than anticipated.

THERE is a story of a beauteous land, Where fields were fertile and where flowers were bright; Where tall towers glistened in the morning light, Where happy children wandered hand in hand, Where lovers wrote their names upon the sand. They say it vanished from all human sight, The hungry sea devoured it in a night. You doubt the tale? ah, you will understand; For, as men muse upon that fable old, They give sad credence always at the last, However they have caviled at its truth, When with a tear-dimmed vision they behold, Swift sinking in the ocean of the Past, The lovely lost Atlantis of their Youth.

A QUEEN of indolence and idle grace, Robed in the vestments of a costly gown, She turns the languor of her lovely face Upon progression with a lazy frown. Her throne is built upon a marshy down; Malarial mosses wreathe her like old lace; With slim crossed feet, unshod and bare and brown. She sits indifferent to the world’s swift race. Across the seas there stalks an ogre grim: Too languid she for even fear’s alarms, While frightened nations rally in defence, She lifts her smiling Creole eyes to him, And reaching out her shapely unwashed arms, She clasps her rightful lover—Pestilence.

SUN in my lattice, and sun on the sea (Oh, but the sun is fair), And a sky of blue and a sea of green, And a ship with a white, white sail between, And a light wind blowing free— And back from the stern, and forth from the land, The last farewell of a waving hand. Mist on the window and mist on the sea (Oh, but the mist is gray), And the weird, tall shape of a spectral mast Gleams out of the fog like a ghost of my past, And the old hope stirs in me— The old, old hope that warred with doubt, While the years with the tides surged in and out. Rain on my window and rain on the sea (Oh, but the rain is sad), And only the dreams of a vanished barque And a vanished youth shine through the dark, And torture the night and me. But somewhere, I think, near some fair strand, That lost ship lies with its waving hand.

AS we speed out of youth’s sunny station, The track seems to shine in the light, But it suddenly shoots over chasms Or sinks into tunnels of night. And the hearts that were brave in the morning Are filled with repining and fears, As they pause at the City of Sorrow Or pass through the Valley of Tears. But the road of this perilous journey The hand of the Master has made; With all its discomforts and dangers, We need not be sad or afraid. Paths leading from light into darkness, Ways plunging from gloom to despair, Wind out through the tunnels of midnight To fields that are blooming and fair. Though the rocks and the shadows surround us. Though we catch not one gleam of the day, Above us fair cities are laughing, And dipping white feet in some bay. And always, eternal, forever, Down over the hills in the west, The last final end of our journey, There lies the Great Station of Rest. ’Tis the Grand Central point of all railways, All roads unite here when they end; ’Tis the final resort of all tourists, All rival lines meet here and blend. All tickets, all mile-books, all passes, If stolen or begged for or bought, On whatever road or division, Will bring you at last to this spot. If you pause at the City of Trouble, Or wait in the Valley of Tears, Be patient, the train will move onward, And rush down the track of the years. Whatever the place is you seek for, Whatever your game or your quest, You shall come at the last with rejoicing, To the beautiful City of Rest. You shall store all your baggage of worries, You shall feel perfect peace in this realm, You shall sail with old friends on fair waters, With joy and delight at the helm. You shall wander in cool, fragrant gardens With those who have loved you the best, And the hopes that were lost in life’s journey You shall find in the City of Rest.

THERE are songs enough for the hero Who dwells on the heights of fame; I sing for the disappointed— For those who missed their aim. I sing with a tearful cadence For one who stands in the dark, And knows that his last, best arrow Has bounded back from the mark. I sing for the breathless runner, The eager, anxious soul, Who falls with his strength exhausted, Almost in sight of the goal; For the hearts that break in silence, With a sorrow all unknown, For those who need companions, Yet walk their ways alone. There are songs enough for the lovers Who share love’s tender pain, I sing for the one whose passion Is given all in vain. For those whose spirit comrades Have missed them on the way, I sing, with a heart o’erflowing, This minor strain to-day. And I know the Solar system Must somewhere keep in space A prize for that spent runner Who barely lost the race. For the plan would be imperfect Unless it held some sphere That paid for the toil and talent And love that are wasted here.

MAYBE this is fun, sitting in the sun, With a book and parasol, as my Angler wishes, While he dips his line in the ocean brine, Under the impression that his bait will catch the fishes. ’Tis romantic, yes, but I must confess Thoughts of shady rooms at home somehow seem more inviting. But I dare not move—“Quiet, there, my love!” Says my Angler, “for I think a monster fish is biting.” Oh, of course it’s bliss, but how hot it is! And the rock I’m sitting on grows harder every minute; Still my fisher waits, trying various baits, But the basket at his side I see has nothing in it. Oh, it’s just the way to pass a July day, Arcadian and sentimental, dreamy, idle, charming, But how fierce the sunlight falls! and the way that insect crawls Along my neck and down my back is really quite alarming “Any luck?” I gently ask of the angler at his task, “There’s something pulling at my line,” he says; “I’ve almost caught it.” But when with blistered face, we our homeward steps retrace, We take the little basket just as empty as we brought it.

OH, I know a certain lady who is reckoned with the good, Yet she fills me with more terror than a raging lion would. The little chills run up and down my spine whene’er we meet, Though she seems a gentle creature, and she’s very trim and neat. And she has a thousand virtues and not one acknowledged sin, But she is the sort of person you could liken to a pin. And she pricks you and she sticks you in a way that can’t be said. If you seek for what has hurt you—why, you cannot find the head! But she fills you with discomfort and exasperating pain. If anybody asks you why, you really can’t explain! A pin is such a tiny thing, of that there is no doubt, Yet when it’s sticking in your flesh you’re wretched till it’s out. She is wonderfully observing—when she meets a pretty girl, She is always sure to tell her if her hair is out of curl; And she is so sympathetic to her friend who’s much admired, She is often heard remarking, “Dear, you look so worn and tired.” And she is an honest critic, for on yesterday she eyed The new dress I was airing with a woman’s natural pride, And she said, “Oh, how becoming!” and then gently added, “it Is really a misfortune that the basque is such a fit.” Then she said, “If you had heard me yester eve, I’m sure, my friend, You would say I was a champion who knows how to defend.” And she left me with the feeling—most unpleasant, I aver— That the whole world would despise me if it hadn’t been for her. Whenever I encounter her, in such a nameless way She gives me the impression I am at my worst that day. And the hat that was imported (and which cost me half a sonnet), With just one glance from her round eyes becomes a Bowery bonnet. She is always bright and smiling, sharp and pointed for a thrust. Use does not seem to blunt her point, nor does she gather rust, Oh! I wish some hapless specimen of mankind would begin To tidy up the world for me, by picking up this pin!

OH, man, with your wonderful dower, Oh, woman, with genius and grace, You can teach the whole world with your power, If you are but worthy the place. The stage is a force and a factor In moulding the thought of the day, If only the heart of the actor Is high as the theme of the play. No discourse or sermon can reach us Through feeling to reason like you; No author can stir us and teach us With lessons as subtle and true. Your words and your gestures obeying We weep or rejoice with your part, And the player, behind all his playing, He ought to be great as his art. No matter what role you are giving, No matter what skill you betray, The everyday life you are living, Is certain to color the play. The thoughts we call secret and hidden Are creatures of malice, in fact. They steal forth unseen and unbidden, And permeate motive and act. The genius that shines like a comet Fills only one part of God’s plan, If the lesson the world derives from it Is marred by the life of the man. Be worthy your work if you love it; The king should be fit for the crown; Stand high as your art, or above it, And make us look up and not down.

SHE stood beside me while I gave an order for a bonnet. She shuddered when I said, “And put a bright bird’s wing upon it.” A member of the Audubon Society was she; And cutting were her comments made on worldly folks like me. She spoke about the helpless birds we wickedly were harming; She quoted the statistics, and they really were alarming; She said God meant His little birds to sing in trees and skies; And there was pathos in her voice, and tears were in her eyes. “Oh, surely in this beauteous world you can find lovely things Enough to trim your hats,” she said, “with out the dear birds’ wings.” I sat beside her that same day, in her own house at dinner, Angelic being that she was to entertain a sinner! Her well-appointed table groaned beneath the ample spread Course followed appetizing course, and hunger sated fled; But still my charming hostess urged, “Do have a reed-bird, dear, They are so delicate and sweet at this time of the year.”

I SAW on the hills of the morning, The form of the New Year arise, He stood like a statue adorning The world with a background of skies. There were courage and grace in his beautiful face, And hope in his glorious eyes. “I come from Time’s boundless forever,” He said, with a voice like a song. “I come as a friend to endeavor, I come as a foe to all wrong. To the sad and afraid I bring promise of aid, And the weak I will gird and make strong. “I bring you more blessings than terrors, I bring you more sunlight than gloom, I tear out your page of old errors, And hide them away in Time’s tomb. I reach you clean hands, and lead on to the lands Where the lilies of peace are in bloom.”

AS the old year sinks down in Time’s ocean, Stand ready to launch with the new, And waste no regrets, no emotion, As the masts and the spars pass from view. Weep not if some treasures go under, And sink in the rotten ship’s hold, That blithe bonny barque sailing yonder May bring you more wealth than the old. For the world is forever improving, All the past is not worth one to-day, And whatever deserves our true loving. Is stronger than death or decay. Old love, was it wasted devotion? Old friends, were they weak or untrue? Well, let them sink there in mid ocean, And gaily sail on to the new. Throw overboard toil misdirected. Throw overboard ill-advised hope, With aims which, your soul has detected, Have self as their centre and scope. Throw overboard useless regretting For deeds which you cannot undo, And learn the great art of forgetting Old things which embitter the new. Sing who will of dead years departed, I shroud them and bid them adieu, And the song that I sing, happy-hearted, Is a song of the glorious new.

ONE looks behind him to some vanished time And says, “Ah, I was happy then, alack! I did not know it was my life’s best prime— Oh, if I could go back!” Another looks, with eager eyes aglow, To some glad day of joy that yet will dawn, And sighs, “I shall be happy then, I know; Oh, let me hurry on.” But I—I look out on my fair To-day; I clasp it close and kiss its radiant brow. Here with the perfect present let me stay, For I am happy now!