THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 V/ 7 v 
 
 ^^^L^^JL
 
 BOOK TREASURES 
 
 OF 
 
 JVLECENAS 
 
 BY 
 JOHN PAUL BOCOCK 
 
 flew Korft 
 
 Ube "fcnicfterbocfeer press 
 1904
 
 COPYRIGHT 1904 
 
 BY 
 
 CAROLINE R. BOCOCK
 
 PS 
 
 POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 JOHN PAUL BOCOCK 
 
 DEDICATED TO HIS CHILDREN 
 
 BY 
 THEIR MOTHER
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 1TJAREWELL! since never more for thee 
 The sun comes up our eastern skies ; 
 Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be 
 To some fond hearts and saddened eyes. 
 
 There are who for thy last long sleep 
 Shall sleep as sweetly never more ; 
 
 Shall weep because thou canst not weep, 
 And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er. 
 
 Sad thrift of love! the loving breast 
 On which the aching head was thrown 
 
 Gave up the weary head to rest 
 But kept the aching for its own." 
 
 448033
 
 JOHN PAUL Bo COCK, who died in Wayne, Penn- 
 sylvania, on the seventeenth of June, in a cottage in 
 which, he wrote a friend three months ago, he had 
 expected "to spend some happy days," was a man of 
 singularly fine taste and of unusual attainments. Born 
 and educated in the capital of the Old Dominion, 
 where his family had long been prominent in political 
 and social circles, he brought with him to his work in 
 the North the best elements of Southern culture. For 
 many years he labored successfully in journalism, 
 having been connected editorially with several of the 
 leading papers of Philadelphia and New York. His 
 talents were of the most versatile nature, his contribu- 
 tions to the periodicals, which were numerous, com- 
 prising stories, essays, and articles on a great variety 
 of subjects, and poetry of an excellent quality. His 
 writings even on commonplace topics bore the marks 
 vii
 
 of literary purpose and effort. All through his career, 
 he was deeply influenced by a love for the classics, and 
 there were not many men in the country who out- 
 ranked him as a Horatian scholar. He has left behind 
 him one of the largest collections in the world of edi- 
 tions of his favorite Latin poet, which he gathered from 
 all quarters. Personally, he was of the most lovable 
 character, and possessed of a happy faculty of humor 
 which enabled him to make light even of the dire pain 
 and distress of the long and severe illness which brought 
 his bright and useful life prematurely to an end. 
 
 GEORGE HARVEY. 
 Harper's Weekly, July 4, 1903. 
 
 viii
 
 Acknowledgment is due to the publishers of the following 
 periodicals for their courteous permission to reprint certain 
 of the poems contained in this volume : Scribner's Magazine, 
 The Critic, Leslie's Weekly, The Reader, Truth, Town Topics, 
 New York Tribune, New York Sun, New York World, and 
 The Boston Globe.
 
 THE BOOK TREASURES OF MAECENAS 
 
 /^ OLDEN Gospels of King Henry, 
 vj Writ in uncials of gold 
 On the vellum's royal purple, 
 
 By the cloistered scribes of old, 
 In these pages Kings and sages 
 
 For a thousand years have pondered 
 On the Book that still is deathless 
 
 When the gold of earth is squandered. 
 
 How a splendid, patient cunning 
 
 Decked "the Romance of the Rose!" 
 In clear gold and gorgeous colors 
 
 Every page immortal glows ; 
 Charles the Ninth has pored upon them, 
 
 But no trace of cruel fingers 
 Mars the fair leaves where the fragrance 
 
 Of the rose of love still lingers. 
 
 Shade of Gutenberg, bear witness 
 
 To the Bible twice immortal : 
 First and fairest book imprinted, 
 
 Lamp that guides to Heaven's portal; 
 
 i
 
 THE BOOK TREASURES OF MAECENAS 
 
 Fust and Schoeffer, fit companion 
 
 To the Bible is your Psalter, 
 "Grandest treasure ever offered 
 
 Upon learning's holy altar." 
 
 Here the 1470 Virgil 
 
 Shows his face illuminated; 
 Here the Doge's vellum Livy 
 
 Tintoretto-decorated, 
 And St. Augustine, on vellum, 
 
 Men would die for one such treasure, 
 Stand with rows of priceless Caxtons 
 
 Waiting on Maecenas' pleasure.
 
 A CHRISTMAS HYMN 
 
 SWEET as she sat in the twilight dim 
 Echoed the strains of her Christmas hymn, 
 Swelling soft through the cozy gloom 
 And the wreathed grace of the firelit room, 
 Swelling and falling ; and still it rang 
 To the tune of the song that the angels sang: 
 
 "Now, O Lord, for Thy tender grace, 
 
 For the deathless love in Thy pitying face, 
 
 For the pangs Thou hast borne that we might not bear, 
 
 For the blessed sense of Thy constant care 
 
 For Thy dear sake be our sins forgot; 
 
 Change our hearts, Thou who changest not! 
 
 "Help us, Lord, in the dark and cold, 
 
 To feed Thy lambs. From the sheltering fold 
 
 Some have wandered and lost their way, 
 
 Some have found that the wolves betray, 
 
 Some its shelter have never known 
 
 And yet, and yet they are all Thine own! 
 
 "Now, in the glow of the Christmas-tide, 
 For the sake of that tree on which Thou hast died, 
 May there be never a Christmas tree 
 But is blessed with the love we would learn from Thee 
 For the poor, and the weak, and the lost for them, 
 As for us, rose the Star over Bethlehem."
 
 IN THE LIBRARY 
 
 HERE in immemorial peace 
 Sorrow finds a swift surcease, 
 And Care knits her "ravelled sleeve" 
 With the dreams that poets weave. 
 
 Here the vines that Virgil trained 
 Hang with clusters purple- veined ; 
 Here the ilex starts to view 
 Murmuring songs that Horace knew; 
 
 And that famed Bandusian font, 
 Crystal-clear, as was its wont, 
 Bubbles over with the glee 
 Of a lilt to Lalage\ 
 
 Here, from its Arcadian wood, 
 Pan, half seen, half understood, 
 Pipes his wild, bewitching strain 
 Till the Dryads dance again. 
 
 Charlemagne comes hunting here, 
 Roland, too, and Oliver; 
 Hark! the music of that horn 
 "On Fontarabia's echoes borne." 
 
 Old-world phantoms, dearer far 
 Than the new world's creatures are 
 Let the glittering riot pass, 
 Hie manet felicitas.
 
 TO THE BANDUSIAN FOUNTAIN 
 
 Horace, Lib. III., Ode XIII. 
 
 FOUNTAIN of Bandusia, shimmering crystal clear, 
 Here is wine that should be thine, flowers, too, are here; 
 Thine to-morrow be a kid 
 In whose budding brow are hid 
 Horns that hint of dalliance and of battle's shock 
 All in vain : poor firstling of the wanton flock 
 His the sacrificial blood 
 That shall stain thy sparkling flood. 
 
 When the Dog Star rages, Summer's burning heat 
 
 Leaves untouched thy cooling wave and dewy shadows, sweet 
 
 To the ploughman's weary ox 
 
 And the thirst-tormented flocks. 
 One among the famous fountains thou shalt be; 
 Lo, I sing the rocky cleft beneath the ilex tree 
 
 From whose hollow, rooted deep, 
 
 All thy babbling waters leap.
 
 THE PALISADES 
 
 NOW bright, now dark, now swift, now slow 
 The lordly Hudson sweeps below 
 The everlasting hills, that stood 
 When Hendrik's ship first ploughed the flood. 
 
 High on each battlemented crest 
 The eagle built his lonely nest; 
 
 With loving awe the Indian viewed 
 
 Their immemorial solitude. 
 
 Prone at their feet the ocean tide 
 Beats vainly at the vast divide; 
 
 Far past their castellated walls 
 
 The Adirondack fountain falls. 
 
 Farewell, ye mountain grenadiers, 
 
 Ye, too, are "food for powder"; years, 
 
 Grace, grandeur, into fragments blown, 
 
 To make a vandal's paving-stone.
 
 SPRING 
 
 Q WALLOWS from the balmy South 
 O Brought the roses of her mouth, 
 Spirits from the flashing seas 
 Lent her eyes their witcheries. 
 
 All the world 's renewed for her, 
 Youth's perennial pulses stir, 
 
 Thrilling through the frozen ground. 
 
 Laughing to the blue profound. 
 
 From the graves of yesteryear, 
 That hold all we once held dear, 
 From the vale and mountainside 
 Where earth's fairest children died, 
 
 Lo, now blossoming to birth, 
 The new offspring of the earth 
 
 Gone the yellow leaf of wo 
 
 In eternal beauty glow.
 
 A BATTLE-HYMN 
 
 GOD of our country, with Thy might 
 Bless Thou the battle for the right! 
 Let every thundering turret-gun 
 Proclaim Thy righteous will be done. 
 Through hail of shot and clang of steel, 
 From flaming deck and quivering keel, 
 To Thee our hearts we lift. Oh, Thou 
 Who helped our fathers, help us now! 
 
 To Thee we dip our colors low 
 That never yet have bowed to foe ; 
 Then to the bullets and the breeze, 
 The stern contention of the seas, 
 We fling their starry folds on high, 
 And this must be our battle-cry: 
 
 " Old Glory flew above the Maine 
 Ten foemen for each comrade slain! " 
 
 On our proud banner be no stain 
 
 Of secret fraud, of sordid gain, 
 Of struggling patriots betrayed, 
 Of free men's blood in lucre paid; 
 8
 
 A BATTLE-HYMN 
 
 Blue be its azure as the skies, 
 
 As rich its red as honor's dyes, 
 
 As bright its stars as those that keep 
 Their vigil where our martyrs sleep. 
 
 To none but Thee, oh Lord, we bow, 
 
 Nor ever did, and will not now; 
 Nor ever has our standard been 
 Dragged in the dust by king or queen. 
 
 This flag we serve east, west, north, south, 
 
 And now proclaim from cannon's mouth : 
 ' ' Let vengeance still be Thine ; and we 
 Thy sword to scour the western sea."
 
 BOHEMIA 
 
 SORACTE stands no longer deep 
 In snow, but budding to the Spring 
 Where the boy Flaccus lay asleep, 
 
 On Vultur's side, the doves take wing; 
 
 Bandusia's fountain, crystal clear, 
 Leaps to the south wind's soft caress, 
 
 And Faunus hails the youthful year, 
 Blithe in his glad, green wilderness. 
 
 Come, let us follow gaily where 
 The smiling, short, gray poet trod ; 
 
 Hark! Aufidus rolls on the air 
 And headlong Anio gems the sod ; 
 
 Beneath this ilex, Tyndaris, 
 
 Her classic beauty all aglow, 
 Sings to her lute of Circe's kiss, 
 
 A love-song of the long ago. 
 
 Is this Bohemia? Aye, the moon 
 Spells her white magic on the air, 
 
 And on the water writes a rune 
 
 That laughs away old Time and Care. 
 10
 
 BOHEMIA 1 1 
 
 Here come the loves of other days, 
 Yea, even the dead whom we hold dear; 
 
 Here every poet wears the bays 
 
 And every warrior shakes the spear. 
 
 High o'er this vale thy cold, white star, 
 Oh, Destiny, stay for to-night! 
 Fame, from thy temple shining far, 
 Blot out for us the garish light. 
 
 To-morrow we 11 attack the height, 
 
 Brave a new wound for every scar, 
 Wage a new battle for the right 
 
 And hitch our wagons to the star, 
 
 But, oh, to-night we would forget, 
 
 Here, 'mid the clusters of the vine, 
 That even this glorious rose is wet 
 
 With the fond dews of Auld Lang Syne !
 
 A LITTLE GIRL'S FEVER-DREAM 
 
 (To Pauline) 
 
 I DREAMED I was up there! 
 And I saw a lovely stream 
 Run bubbling by in the meadow of sky, 
 And it sang to me in my dream 
 
 A strange, sweet song of rest 
 
 I think I can hear it now 
 "Come, cool your burning breast 
 
 And bathe your fevered brow; 
 
 Wash, and you shall be clean, 
 
 Whiter even than snow." 
 I wondered what it could mean, 
 
 And I longed so much to go! 
 
 Oh, for the cooling bliss 
 
 Of that current, crystal clear, 
 To plunge to its gentle kiss 
 
 With never a thought of fear! 
 
 Once more, perhaps, I may 
 See that sweet land and then 
 
 I will lie and drink on that crystal brink 
 And I '11 never be thirsty again!
 
 HORACE IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY 
 
 Book I., Ode XII. 
 
 " Quern virum aut heroa lyra vel acri." 
 Ad Theodorum Augustum 
 
 WHAT man, what hero, Muse of mine, 
 What god shall we, in notes divine 
 Of harp or thrilling flute proclaim, 
 Till joyous echo sound his name 
 In Helicon's umbrageous coasts, 
 On Pindus, or where Haemus boasts 
 Of trees that rushed in eager throng, 
 Of streams that paused at Orpheus' song; 
 Orpheus, Calliope's own child, 
 Whose wondrous art the winds beguiled, 
 And even the listening oaks inclined 
 To follow down the charmed wind. 
 
 To Romulus, and Numa's reign, 
 Cato, and Tarquin's haughty strain, 
 To Regulus, and valorous Scaur, 
 To unkempt Curius, great in war; 
 Old Hickory, aye, and him we call 
 Old Abe, best Romans of them all, 
 Log-cabin boys, low-sprung, high-souled 
 Sing, Clio, to the great of old; 
 
 13
 
 14 HORACE IN THE TWENTIETH CENTURY 
 
 To whom, when Time shall speak the word, 
 Columbia adds a glorious third, 
 Whose age matures through storm and strife, 
 While Duty crowns the strenuous life. 
 
 Scholar uncloistered, man of might, 
 
 Statesman and warrior for the right, 
 
 Administrator, this thy son, 
 
 Columbia, merits thy "Well done!" 
 
 He brought our conquering banner home 
 
 As Honor bade, across the foam 
 
 Cervera dyed ; by his decree 
 
 A new Republic gems the sea. 
 
 He keeps Old Glory flying far 
 
 As Honor bids, above the war 
 
 Which the brown bandit foe maintains 
 
 Against the hand that broke his chains. 
 
 As a Rough Rider leaps to meet 
 
 The fiery bronco's flying feet, 
 
 Bits the red mouth and grips the mane, 
 
 Bounds on the beast and scours the plain, 
 
 Subduing force by force, until 
 
 He wins a courser to his will ; 
 
 So may each influence malign 
 
 Be moulded to his high design, 
 
 Each foe o'ercome in righteous wrath, 
 
 Each traitor driven from his path, 
 
 And this his People's will decreed: 
 
 " Success was thine, thyself succeed."
 
 LINCOLN'S BIRTHDAY 
 
 OH day of all the circling year 
 To manhood and to duty dear 
 To us who love the flag he saved, 
 To us who felt the pangs he braved, 
 To those whose veins are tingling still 
 With the red war's immortal thrill, 
 Thy glorious dawn shall ever be 
 A lasting pledge that we are free! 
 
 Free from the slave's ignoble fate, 
 Free from base prejudice, and hate, 
 Free to fling out the Stripes and Stars 
 Full to the rapturous airs of Heaven, 
 And know there 's not a stain that mars 
 The heritage to free men given! 
 Oh, sacred day, our latest breath 
 Shall honor Lincoln's life and death. 
 
 No pride nor pomp nor circumstance 
 Removed him from the humblest chance ; 
 
 To the plain people whom he loved 
 
 His great soul ever faithful proved. 
 The land he saved, the homes he blest, 
 Delight to hail him first and best, 
 
 Molded upon God's noblest plan, 
 
 Emancipator, martyr, man!
 
 FUNSTON OF KANSAS 
 
 THE sunflowers bloom on the prairies, afar 
 From the blood and the bluster of tropical war ; 
 The green fields of Kansas smile up to the sun, 
 The water-wheels whirr and the long furrows run ; 
 The sunshine of Kansas is flooding the earth 
 With the splendor of springtime, creation's new birth; 
 The prairie winds whisper of ripening sheaves, 
 The barn swallows chirp 'round the nests in the leaves, 
 And Funston of Kansas is charging the foe 
 With a sword and a banner, a song and a blow. 
 
 Funston of Kansas, the right sort of man, 
 Right at the front when the fighting began, 
 Rushing an ambuscade, charging on faith ; 
 Swimming a river, a rope in his teeth, 
 
 Crossing a bullet-swept bridge on a lope, 
 Running a race up the death-haunted slope ; 
 Plunging right into the jungle ahead, 
 Leading his men as brave men should be led 
 Oh, "young Lochinvar," in the brown khaki vest, 
 When came such a cavalier "out of the West"? 
 16
 
 FUNSTON OF KANSAS If 
 
 Here 's health to the Funstons of Kansas, the men, 
 
 Who 've carried Old Glory again and again 
 Wherever their country has called them to go, 
 Hot blood for the flag and cold steel for the men 
 Oh, mother of heroes, Columbia, for thee 
 
 A new song swells up from the isles of the sea. 
 
 The stars of thy flag in new glory shall rise 
 
 Through the battle-smoke clouding the Philippine skies, 
 And the graves of thy sons, slain for thee, shall attest 
 That of all they have loved, they still love thee best!
 
 THE HOLIDAY SPIRIT 
 
 MEN in the elder times 
 Baited the beasts in play, 
 And found it good to shed men's blood 
 To make a holiday. 
 
 The happiest to-day, 
 
 Since men and times have changed, 
 Is he whose feet on errands sweet 
 
 Have widest range. 
 
 The wretched, by the path 
 
 That leads to happiness, 
 Still stand on guard; their prayers reward 
 
 Those who help their distress. 
 
 But those who heedlessly 
 
 Pursue Life's narrow way 
 Intent on self alone, and pelf, 
 
 Miss the soul's holiday. 
 
 18
 
 THE " NEW YORK " 
 
 BLUE be the billows thy proud keel 
 Shall furrow with its share of steel, 
 And brisk the breeze and blue the sky 
 'Neath which thy glorious flag shall fly! 
 Stout be the hearts that beat beneath 
 Each frowning turret's armored sheath, 
 And may the God of Battles pave 
 With fame thy path across the wave! 
 
 Faint o'er Lake Erie's shores the boom 
 Of Perry's guns salutes the tomb 
 Where 'neath the waves of Misery Bay 
 The Lawrence and Niagara lay; 
 And while a keel our waters rides 
 Who can forget Old Ironsides'! 
 But none or all of them could vex 
 The calm of thy tremendous decks! 
 
 Glide glorious down thy launching ways 
 On this thy history's day of days, 
 Great cruiser, whose baptismal name 
 Ere it was thine was dear to Fame! 
 Go forth in all thy splendid might 
 To stop the wrong and speed the right, 
 And may thy thunderous broadside be 
 The trumpet-call of Victory!
 
 OLD-FASHIONED WINTER 
 
 HAIL, genial glow of frosty health, 
 Old-fashioned Winter, hail! 
 Here 's welcome to thine icy wealth 
 And all thy glittering mail! 
 
 The ozone crackles overhead, 
 
 The runnel 'neath the hill 
 Crisps blithely in its little bed 
 
 And all at once is still! 
 
 What though thy snow be slush below, 
 Thy breath be sleet above 
 
 Just for the sake of long ago 
 Here 's welcome and our love!
 
 TO BARINE 
 
 (Horace, Carm. II., VIII). 
 
 BARINE, if your loveliness 
 Were by one perjury the less, 
 If your white hand or rosy smile 
 Betrayed one blemish for your guile, 
 
 I 'd trust you. But alas! instead, 
 Once you Ve forsworn your pretty head, 
 With charms that still the brighter burn, 
 The heads of all our youth you turn. 
 
 Fair perjurer, would you be more fair, 
 Your mother's ashes quick forswear; 
 
 Mock heaven, night's silent pageant, aye, 
 The deathless gods enthroned on high. 
 
 Venus will jeer, the Nymphs applaud, 
 While Cupid, laughing at your fraud, 
 Still fiercely whets his burning darts 
 With blood from faithful lovers' hearts. 
 
 And still young wooers throng in droves, 
 New slaves! Not even your cast-off loves 
 Can bear to quit your faithless door, 
 Though threatening oft to come no more. 
 
 The mothers fear you for their boys ; 
 
 Age dreads you! Cold amid their joys, 
 The young wives shudder lest your spell 
 Bewitch their lords who love them well.
 
 THINGS TO BE THANKFUL FOR 
 
 FOR eyes whose vision can pierce the blue, 
 Where the sparrowhawk hangs like a mote in view. 
 For ears in which Nature's harmonies ring 
 As sweet as the music that sounds for a king. 
 
 For hands that grapple the nearest task, 
 And, tearing from Duty's face the mask 
 Selfishness set there long ago, 
 Show us the smile that we all would know. 
 
 For feet that are firm and swift and strong, 
 Tho' the way be rough and the race be long. 
 For sinews sturdy to stand the strain 
 Of a struggle with weariness and pain. 
 
 For a heart whose chords are attuned to love 
 The brute below and the God above, 
 That yearns to infancy's frightened cry 
 And the moan of the beggar passing by. 
 
 For Life, Hope's nurse, and for Hope herself; 
 For a modest share of the great world's pelf; 
 For friendship's grasp and a hearthstone bright 
 With the spark that kindles the darkest night.
 
 HONOR-BOUND 
 
 (Broadway, October 31, 1896) 
 
 DOWN the deep canon of the street, 
 Where continents in commerce meet, 
 A thunderburst of color swept, 
 A hundred thousand pulses leapt, 
 As patriots cheered with rapturous cry 
 Their best and bravest marching by. 
 
 Red, white, and blue, from curb to dome, 
 
 Old Glory flew, for God and home ; 
 
 For all whose loss true hearts must break, 
 For country's and for honor's sake ; 
 
 Nor yet with sword and booming gun, 
 
 As in the days of '61. 
 
 Flag of the free, who can forget 
 
 That once thy glorious folds were wet 
 
 With freemen's blood? And for all years 
 Since that dread time, our hopes and fears, 
 
 Our homes, and our fond hearts shall be 
 
 Forever honor-bound to thee!
 
 THE EASTER LILY 
 
 EARTH, tender, sinful earth, had trembled at the shock. 
 But up in heaven there had been no weeping; 
 Its awful mystery the tomb of rock 
 
 In the black hush before the dawn was keeping; 
 Prone on their shields the weary guards lay sleeping; 
 
 A rose of Jericho, not far away, 
 Stirred in its petals, as a breeze came creeping 
 O'er Galilee, to greet the coming day! 
 
 Over the garden 'round that tomb, 
 
 Where never man had lain, 
 There breathed a promise in the gloom, 
 
 A thrill of rapturous pain! 
 The winged hosts, with bated breath, 
 To see Him triumph over Death, 
 
 From their high heaven looked down, 
 The universe in ecstasy 
 Waited for this His victory, 
 
 Whose brow should wear the crown! 
 
 Man, heedless man, slept on; and one 
 Wee angel stole from near the throne 
 And sobbed a vigil by the stone. 
 24
 
 THE EASTER LILY 2$ 
 
 A tiny tear, clear as a drop of dew, 
 
 Round as a pearl, rolled down an angel's tear 
 
 Fell in the mould and so was lost to view 
 
 A moment. 
 In that moment all things new 
 
 Became ! And as afar proud chanticleer 
 To hail the risen Lord exultant crew, 
 The heavens glowed, as their dear king they knew, 
 Vanished the shades! High in th' empyrean's blue 
 A mighty paean sounded, and there grew 
 
 Up from the ground where that small tear had rolled 
 
 An Easter lily with its heart of gold.
 
 THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT 
 
 NOT the joy of money-bags and not the pride of pelf, 
 Not the glow of righteous satisfaction with one's self; 
 Not the fervent Amen in a well- upholstered pew; 
 Nor a self-indulgence in the excellent and true! 
 
 Not a lofty pity for vice in her squalid den ; 
 
 Not a thankfulness that we are not as other men 
 But a warming into action of the cockles of the heart 
 And a generous intention to take some poor fellow's part! 
 
 Not in checks to buy red flannel for the little Hottentots, 
 Nor in sermons for the Crofters, up among the thrifty Scots, 
 Nor in richly crocheted mottoes in all kinds of colored wools, 
 Nor illuminated vellums, good advice, and praying-stools! 
 
 But in little acts of kindness, which like flowers 'neath the 
 
 snow 
 
 Raise a little mist of gratitude to show the heart below, 
 And in shaking hands sincerely with some sufferer and 
 
 leaving 
 In his palm, or hers, a trifle, just to help to stop the grieving! 
 
 26
 
 MEMORIAL DAY, 1892 
 
 AGAIN they summon us, the years 
 Whose call was stormy once with tears, 
 Whose cry was fierce and wild with woe 
 How soft their voices now, and low, 
 Among the graves, where heart 's-ease grow! 
 
 No bugle stirs the blood to war, 
 
 No hillside shows the cannon's scar; 
 The winds are sweet with mignonette, 
 O gentle, healing years and yet 
 Ye would not have our hearts forget ! 
 
 Along the dear, accustomed way 
 Once more with wistful feet we stray, 
 Alone with our dead past ; no sounds 
 From the rough world may pass these bounds, 
 'T is calm beside the low, green mounds. 
 
 Toil, passion, pride not yours to sway 
 
 The heart on this its holy day ; 
 
 Here Grief has learned to love her seat, 
 Here youth and age with reverence meet, 
 Mingling in one communion sweet. 
 
 O years, how tender is your touch 
 
 To souls that sorrow overmuch! 
 
 Deep down the daisied sod beneath, 
 The sabre crumbles in its sheath, 
 But deathless is affection's wreath! 
 27
 
 THE PRISONER'S APPEAL 
 
 AH, pity me, sweet sisters, stricken more 
 Than is the common lot of womankind, 
 Shut in an alien dungeon, weeping sore 
 
 As one might weep who 'd left all hope behind 
 Yet never doubting that the constant mind 
 Of innocence may in time unblind 
 Justice, who turned her back on me before 
 Me, hapless me, alone and stricken sore! 
 
 Ah, pity me, all ye who never bore 
 
 Another's meed of sorrow; help unbind 
 
 The bonds of wrong that to its bleeding core 
 Cut my poor heart! See was the law designed 
 The weak and helpless to the dust to grind, 
 To seal the doom of innocence maligned, 
 
 The vials of decrepit spleen to pour 
 
 On hapless me, alone and stricken sore! 
 
 The long night shrouds my cell, and, being o'er, 
 The long day comes for which all night I pined, 
 
 The weary day dies on the night's black shore, 
 The long night comes again upon the wind 
 To shadow Hope, sweet Hope that still enshrined 
 In my fond soul your pity has divined 
 
 Ere yet with aid my freedom to restore 
 
 Ye succor me, alone and stricken sore. 
 
 28
 
 A MADONNA OF THE HOSPITALS 
 
 MADONNA of the proud, pale face, 
 Beneath the cap of snow; 
 A minister of pitying grace, 
 You softly come and go. 
 Divine compassion's in the touch 
 
 Of your serene white hand ; 
 They love you much who suffer much 
 Along life's borderland. 
 
 Madonna of the hospital, 
 
 Gowned all in spotless white ; 
 However dark the day befal, 
 
 Your presence makes it bright. 
 There 's healing in your calm, dark eyes, 
 
 So grave, so deep, so true; 
 Oh, well the invalids may prize 
 
 Their bondage sweet to you! 
 
 29
 
 THE CHRISTMAS BLESSING 
 
 (The Original Legend of the Christ-Child and the Chrysanthemum) 
 
 A LAGGARD morn! and the sombre wood 
 /~\ Shivered to wild flakes wearily flying, 
 For Earth was donning her weird white hood 
 Under the trees where the snow was lying! 
 Black were the ravens across the sky 
 
 And chimes from the castle rang merrily 
 As tinder the trees, where the faggots lay, 
 An old man groped and 't was Xmas day! 
 
 High o'er the vale where his poor hut stood 
 
 The castle reared its wonderful towers, 
 The sun that should shine on the evil and good 
 
 Alike, shone first on its tropical bowers, 
 Cherished and kissed them, so brave and bold 
 
 And lingered there with, a golden spark 
 After the hunt in the vale was cold, 
 
 And the sombre forest was dim and dark, 
 Save for the elves : and the sinister gnomes, 
 
 That in the Black Forest made their homes! 
 30
 
 THE CHRISTMAS BLESSING 31 
 
 "Grandfather," cried the little ones, 
 
 At dawn in the hut by the meagre fire 
 "There are no jewels like the sun's, 
 
 We know but they vanish away, and we tire ; 
 May not the Christ- Child's goodness bring, 
 
 Even to us, of His bountiful joys 
 A real feast, and a song to sing, 
 
 And a real blessing and real toys? " 
 And they swallowed their black bread eagerly 
 
 As the old man kissed them and hurried away 
 With tears in his eyes, that they might not see 
 
 For the poverty of their Xmas day! 
 
 The mournful song of the soughing pines 
 
 And the melody of the swirling snow 
 Soothed the gnomes in their mouldy mines, 
 
 And filled the air with its music low; 
 On the old man's ear came a tiny cry 
 
 Out of the gloom, where the forest slept, 
 And ever anon, as the wind moaned by, 
 
 It came again as an infant wept! 
 
 Quick to the rescue he hurried, and there, 
 
 All in the snow-drift at his feet, 
 Lay a nursling with golden hair, 
 
 And a smile that was strange and divinely sweet ; 
 Came the thought to his 'wildered sense: 
 
 "What if the Christ-Child so hath come? " 
 He snatched the waif and back through the dense 
 
 And threatening forest he sped him home!
 
 32 THE CHRISTMAS BLESSING 
 
 "Grandfather, hasten! The table is spread 
 
 Oh the grace of this stranger child! 
 See, there 's a glory about his head, 
 
 And the sunset lingers where he has smiled! 
 Tell us, whence came this wondrous one," 
 
 But the old man answered never a word, 
 And a melody died with the setting sun 
 
 Soft as the "song of a secret bird"! 
 
 Up from the graybeard's loving hold 
 
 Rose and hovered that babe in air, 
 Blessing the board and the bread so cold, 
 
 Blessing the little ones gathered there! 
 Into the twilight faded then 
 
 The sudden grace of that heavenly glow 
 But the grandfather hurried forth again 
 
 And followed it into the night and snow. 
 
 Out from the forest vast and grim 
 
 Over the drift whence the Christ-Child s prang, 
 Lo! the strains of a heavenly hymn, 
 
 The thrilling music the shepherds sang 
 The Christmas anthem! On he sped 
 
 But sudden paused in a new surprise, 
 Blooming there in the Child's snow bed 
 
 Grew wondrous flowers before his eyes! 
 
 "Christ's Anthems! " As he kneels and prays, 
 The hymns die out in the peaceful night.
 
 THE CHRISTMAS BLESSING 33 
 
 How his old face in their golden blaze 
 Shines as he plucks the petals of light! 
 
 There were songs and a feast in the castle high 
 On the cliffs; but the faggot-gleaner's hearth 
 
 Glowed with the blessings of the sky 
 Love and Mercy and "Peace on Earth."
 
 THE OLD FLAG AGAIN 
 
 (March 4, 1897) 
 
 FLING out her glorious folds again, 
 Her Stripes and Stars exalt, 
 Until before the eyes of men 
 
 She glows from heaven's blue vault 
 Once more the banner of the free, 
 
 In deed, as well as name ; 
 And cursed let the craven be 
 Who furls our flag in shame ! 
 
 Fling out her folds ! Columbia knows 
 
 No dastards when the cry 
 Of her own sons, 'neath alien guns 
 
 Imprisoned, sounds hard by. 
 Fling out her folds! Let freemen feel 
 
 They 're not a living lie, 
 That rifled guns and ships of steel 
 
 Protect them where they fly. 
 
 There never was, nor shall there be 
 
 While winds and waters flow 
 A man, a State, by land or sea, 
 
 To lay their honor low! 
 And most we love their starry pride 
 
 When we remember how 
 To keep them stainless freemen died : 
 
 They shall be stainless now! 
 
 34
 
 COBBLE BLOSSOMS 
 
 DEEP in its moss of golden green, 
 Where sunlight pranked the laughing scene, 
 And every little wandering wind 
 Found ripples cool and flowerets kind, 
 The violet's and the rose's breath 
 Have faded softly out to death. 
 
 The daisy and the goldenrod 
 
 Have withered gently to the sod, 
 
 Above which, when the butterfly 
 
 In Summer's livery floated by, 
 
 They shone in beauty ; damp and cold 
 
 November breathed above their mould! 
 
 The wild flowers of the field and wood 
 Will bloom again, for God is good. 
 But what of man? The flowers that lie 
 Here in the streets, shall they, too, die 
 Starved, ragged, prematurely old 
 Of hunger and neglect and cold? 
 
 35
 
 FREE CUBA 
 
 HERE 'S a heart for thy heart and a prayer for thy prayer, 
 And a nation of freemen thy perils to share ; 
 Here 's joy for the news of thy victories won; 
 Now let thy machetes flash red to the sun! 
 Here 's a hand for thy hands, and a shout of acclaim 
 For the hour that free Cuba has won the proud name. 
 Oh, island of beauty, oh, gem of the sea, 
 May the stars in their courses do battle for thee ! 
 
 The women whose love is the light of our land, 
 
 The men who for freedom forever will stand, 
 The children whose sympathy quickens to see 
 A serf in our seas where a free State should be ; 
 
 The bone and the sinew, the brain and the heart 
 
 Of our glorious country have taken thy part, 
 Though doubter and dastard sit quibbling afar 
 On the rights of a tyrant, the court rules of war. 
 
 Thy sisters in bondage have long years ago 
 Won freedom, O Cuba, now strike the last blow! 
 
 Adown the long coast from the Lakes to the Horn 
 
 A continent waits for thy star to be born ; 
 And the winds of the forest, the tides of the main 
 Will bear the glad tidings to mountain and plain, 
 
 O Cuba, fair Cuba, free Cuba to be, 
 
 That the banner of liberty floats over thee !
 
 SOME DISHONORED DIVINITIES 
 I. VACUITY: 
 
 THERE 'S a wild spirit in the bowls that brim; 
 But over the spent chalice rests a spell 
 Of loveliness ; 't is to the empty shell 
 
 Chaos calls soft through aether's ocean dim. 
 
 II. HATE: 
 
 How dark and hot her blood is ! Hot it leaps 
 To sullen frenzy at a word, a name 
 Blotting out friendship, honor, love, and fame, 
 
 As one black cloud whelms over moonlit deeps! 
 
 III. TO HASHISCH: 
 
 Hail, dream elixir, Babylon's great king, 
 Pillowed on beauty's bosom, shod with gold 
 Once let thy torch inflame man's reason cold- 
 Is as a moth that 's like to burn his wing! 
 
 IV. ENVY: 
 
 Best spur to effort, foe to pale ennui, 
 Ambition were an orphan, and sweet Hope 
 A ghost still lingering on Avernus' slope, 
 
 If this dull, gray old world had none of thee! 
 
 37 
 
 448033
 
 38 SOME DISHONORED DIVINITIES 
 
 V. OBLIVION: 
 
 Sweet lotos-orbed, velvet- footed maid, 
 That slippest o'er the wrinkled ocean's brim, 
 Garlanded with blue flowers of distance dim 
 
 Is death the passport to thine Isles of Shade? 
 
 VI. WEARINESS: 
 
 Oh, the long, slow delight of rest begun 
 Of sinews all unbending, like the bow's 
 That from her neck at dawn Diana throws 
 
 Forgetting now even Endymion!
 
 AN APRIL DAWN 
 
 WHEN dawn unbars the pale gray gates 
 At which an April morning waits, 
 The west wind pauses, passing by, 
 To strew cloud blossoms in the sky, 
 And, perched upon a lonely pine, 
 A robin sings of auld lang syne. 
 
 The swift, wild horses of the sea 
 Toss their white manes in careless glee 
 Out on the bar, where all the night 
 They pawed, impatient for the light; 
 And, save their long and rhythmic tread, 
 Naught breaks the bird song's tiny thread. 
 
 Full on the background of the dawn 
 The stately pine's green crest is drawn, 
 In outlines bold and dark, but swift 
 As rough waves clash, or soft clouds lift, 
 The picture is forgot so shrill, 
 So sweet, the robin's morning trill! 
 
 What is it pictures to thine eye, 
 
 Afar, an orchard's greenery, 
 
 Below an old house, gabled low, 
 
 Around which spring flowers love to grow 
 
 Rare bird, whose earliest melody 
 
 Echoes the sadness of good-by! 
 
 39
 
 THE LADY OF DREAMS 
 
 HER voice comes along the wind 
 That falls at eve with fitful sighs, 
 Until I think I must be blind 
 
 Not to look up into her eyes; 
 Through all my veins the warm blood starts, 
 
 And then, and then alas, I know 
 Not all Dan Cupid's magic arts 
 Could bring her from the long ago! 
 
 I hear the slipper on the stair, 
 
 My heart beats, ah, once more "possest" 
 I turn, to greet my lady fair, 
 
 A pansy at her snowy breast, 
 A smile upon her warm red lips 
 
 Such as the moon smiles on the sea 
 And oh, the sight of her 'd eclipse 
 
 The sun of Austerlitz for me! 
 
 It 's odd, too, how the merest stir 
 Of young leaves in an idle breeze 
 
 Brings, out of nothing, thoughts of her, 
 And how I hear among the trees 
 40
 
 THE LADY OF DREAMS 41 
 
 The rustle of her skirts! No sound 
 
 Since Pan wooed Syrinx sets the air 
 So softly whispering to the ground 
 
 As does her fancied footfall there! 
 
 I '11 never meet her face to face, 
 
 My sweetheart with the breast of snow! 
 I may but conjure up her grace 
 
 And dream I loved her long ago ; 
 The sweetness of that lovelit dream 
 
 Alas, must still my soul's fond strife, 
 For, sad and strange as it may seem, 
 
 I never saw her in my life !
 
 SKIPPER BROWN EYES 
 THE TWILIGHT TALE OF HER VOYAGE TO SLUMBERLAND 
 
 (To Emilie) 
 
 SHE sails away on the sea of dreams, 
 This little skipper with eyes of brown, 
 As the firefly's torch in the twilight gleams, 
 
 And the garish sun goes down ; 
 Her bark floats over the grimy town 
 To Slumberland and its silver sea ; 
 The spotless folds of her slumber gown 
 Are no whit fairer than she. 
 
 There are angel birds in the warm, still air, 
 
 And the skipper laughs with her eyes of brown, 
 As they sing to her old songs, sweet and rare, 
 
 While her bark billows up and down ; 
 They sing of a prince of high renown, 
 
 And a princess ever so young and fair; 
 But where is the princess had ever a crown 
 
 Like the crown of her soft brown hair? 
 
 Cometh a storm o'er the silver sea, 
 That ebbs on the dreamer's land, 
 42
 
 SKIPPER BROWN EYES 43 
 
 And the angel birds fade out to the lee 
 
 Of this singular slumber-strand ; 
 Is there a harbor by angels planned, 
 
 From all storms, whatever they be, 
 From the wicked fairies of Slumberland 
 
 And the waves in its silver sea? 
 
 Up, like a flash, comes the little brown head, 
 
 And the brown eyes only see 
 A billowy blanket of silk outspread 
 
 On an ocean of dimity ; 
 But it 's fearlessly the skipper will flee, 
 
 With a soft little barefoot tread, 
 By the chart she learned on'her bended knee, 
 
 To the haven of mother's bed.
 
 JUNE 
 
 WHEN June unbinds her rosy zone 
 And fills the woods with rapture, 
 The poet knows his heart is gone 
 
 And glories in the capture! 
 The dumb world watches as she goes, 
 
 Her beauty sets it crazy 
 Now pausing here to pick a rose, 
 And there to drop a daisy! 
 
 Her eyes are deep as heaven's blue, 
 
 Now languishing, now laughing; 
 Now whispering: Oh, be true, be true 
 
 And now divinely chaffing! 
 The dimple in her milk-white chin, 
 
 So she but smile, discovers 
 A pit they all might tumble in 
 
 To be done for her lovers! 
 
 The amorous branches, overbold, 
 Catch at her as she passes, 
 
 Her tender footstep thrills the wold 
 And stirs the springing grasses; 
 
 44
 
 JUNE 45 
 
 The birds, with softly quivering wings, 
 
 Fly down on either shoulder: 
 No man may hear the song she sings, 
 
 No impious eye behold her! 
 
 But by the laughter of the brook, 
 
 The fragrance of the blossom, 
 We think we know the way she took 
 
 And how she leaped across 'em; 
 We hear her trailing robe so sweet 
 
 Its scent on hill and hollow, 
 We long to see her flying feet 
 
 And cannot choose but follow!
 
 ERICSSON'S RETURN 
 
 f^ RE AT Norseland, now all hail! 
 
 V_J Thou Viking-mother pale 
 
 Of heroes, on whose birth 
 
 The light not born of earth 
 Gleams from the shrouded pole ; Valhalla holds his soul. 
 
 And now his body speed we home 
 
 In conqueror's pomp across the foam ; 
 No blood-stained billows mark the progress of his bark, 
 
 But swift and silent o'er the sea 
 
 His war- ship bears him back to thee ! 
 
 A thousand years ago 
 Thy sons 'gainst wind and floe 
 Found out our western land; 
 
 Foam-flecked, their venturous sail flew on thro' night and gale, 
 And theirs the furrow free, 
 Though lurked in every sea 
 The iceberg's mailed hand! 
 
 Not so sailed he who homeward comes 
 To-day in state ; no beat of drums 
 
 Nor glint of spears, nor arrows' hail, nor bloody sword, nor 
 dinted in ail 
 
 46
 
 ERICSSON'S RETURN 47 
 
 Attest his triumphs! From the stars 
 Upon the flag that floats above him, 
 Her victories, more renowned than war's. 
 Peace heralds, and a Nation love him! 
 
 As from Valhalla's cloud-kissed dome 
 The shades of heroes hail thee home 
 We cry: God help thee, glorious Swede 
 Who helped us in our hour of need!
 
 THE NEW ALL SOULS' DAY 
 
 DEAR tmforgotten dead, whose day 
 Comes once more with the circling year, 
 With each new touch of tender May 
 A tenderer memory holds you dear. 
 
 Broad as the vault of heaven's blue 
 Wells this new sympathy, and sweet 
 
 As are the drops of pity's dew 
 
 Come footfalls still of reverend feet. 
 
 Fond pilgrimage! From East and West 
 And North and South, each to his own, 
 
 With love for those we love the best 
 And tears for those who left us lone! 
 
 Columbia loves her soldier sons 
 
 Who died that she might live ; each grave 
 Grows dearer as their echoing guns 
 
 Boom faint o'er fields they fought to save! 
 
 And so, with memories fond, and flowers 
 
 A grateful nation's grief has led 
 All chastened hearts these sacred hours 
 
 To dedicate to their dear dead! 
 
 48
 
 IN MEMORIAM 
 
 J. R. B. 
 
 HUSHED are now the tender sighs 
 In the silence sweet of rest, 
 Gone the question from the eyes, 
 
 And the fever from the breast 
 Where white violet and rose 
 
 Fading, too, in all their charms, 
 Find their loveliest repose 
 Nestling in my baby's arms. 
 
 On the brow so smooth and white 
 
 Dawns the beauty of a day 
 Hidden still from mortal sight 
 
 That shall shine for him alwav ; 
 Blessing now his sweet release, 
 
 Folded by a higher will, 
 Here the dimpled hands at peace, 
 
 Show the angels' kisses still! 
 
 49
 
 THE CHRIST-MASS TREE 
 
 A CEDAR grew in Lebanon, 
 That goodly mount beside the sea, 
 And breathed out to the morning sun 
 
 Her balmy odors, faint yet free; 
 The air was fine as silver spun, 
 
 The breeze blew aye from Calvary. 
 
 Down in the valleys, far below, 
 The mulberry and bearded grain 
 
 And the gray olive loved to grow, 
 Betwixt the mountain and the main; 
 
 The cedar towered on high; her slow, 
 Sweet fragrance filled the air with pain. 
 
 It was on Calvary there grew 
 
 That tree from whose accursed bough 
 (Or was it cedar, cypress, yew, 
 
 It matters not, we love it now) 
 A cruel hand would one day hew 
 
 The cross on which He laid His brow. 
 
 And, lo! the thorn had leagues afar 
 
 With brooding sadness filled the breeze 
 50
 
 THE CHRIST-MASS TREE 51 
 
 And thrilled to greet the herald star, 
 That marked it lone among the trees 
 
 And so, fond sinners that we are, 
 May we, too, share these memories! 
 
 Are there no wanderers by the way, 
 
 No little ones with bleeding feet, 
 No fainting souls that Hope might stay, 
 
 No hungry hearts that Love might greet? 
 Blow, breeze from Calv'ry, so we may 
 
 Aye find the Master's labor sweet ! 
 
 Sweet pain that thrills the world with bliss, 
 
 Fond agony, that ransomed sin, 
 Whene'er the winds of Heaven kiss 
 
 The hills that shut the blue seas in, 
 May we, too, deem no pang amiss, 
 
 If to His love some soul we win!
 
 EASTER 
 THE SONG OF THE ROBIN REDBREAST 
 
 HUSHED were the waves that through the long 
 night sighing 
 
 Had flung themselves on the complaining shore ; 
 In the dark west the restless winds were dying, 
 For winds must rave and die, forevermore. 
 
 Far in the east, where foolish, fond Tithonus 
 
 Once more released from his unwilling arms 
 The roseate Dawn for he has never known us 
 
 More Modern mortals who adore her charms 
 There rose and fainted on the air, that trembled 
 
 With prescience of a Day, of days the best, 
 The golden song of spirits, half dissembled, 
 
 Half swelling in a melody confest, 
 
 By all the air and sea forever blest. 
 
 Under their caps of snow the mountains quivered 
 And shook with joy at that soft, swelling strain; 
 
 The brooks, in their half-frozen runnels, shivered, 
 Then bounded on to the expectant main ; 
 52
 
 EASTER 53 
 
 The silvery clouds that hung 
 
 Where those sweet notes were sung 
 Vibrated in a symphony divine. 
 
 The shadows 'gan to flee 
 
 Like ghosts across the sea, 
 And one wee bird, perched on a lonely pine, 
 Took up the theme and sang this song of mine: 
 
 Oh, mother dear, Jerusalem, 
 
 My heart goes out to thee ! 
 The Nations pass and fail; to them 
 Thou art not even Bethelehem! 
 And yet, to me, thou art the gem 
 
 That sets His memory! 
 
 Prone 'gainst the Eastern sky He hung 
 
 On an accursed tree ; 
 A thief on either side Him swung, 
 While soldiers on His mantle flung 
 Their dice, and Nature's heart was wrung 
 
 Such fearful sights to see! 
 
 Oh, cruel cross! oh, bleeding side! 
 
 Oh, brow of agony! 
 
 See, nails His poor white hands divide, 
 And ruddy drops pour in a tide! 
 While men, for whom He even died, 
 
 Doubt still if it be He!
 
 54 EASTER 
 
 Oh, stars and night and woe divine, 
 
 'T was more than I could bear! 
 My own breast for each cruel tine 
 Bled, and I would His wounds were mine, 
 And mine the veins that poured that wine 
 Of blood beyond compare ! 
 
 Oh, agony! oh, cursed tree! 
 
 Oh, Mary's mother- wails ! 
 In vain I fluttered there to see 
 If but my beak could set Him free : 
 His torture was too strong for me 
 
 I could not draw the nails! 
 
 Yet here upon my breast I wear 
 
 Thy seal, oh Blood of God! 
 Here the blest fount, that dyed the air 
 And crimsoned all the world so fair, 
 Since He has risen, I too may share 
 
 With those for whom it flowed!
 
 THE MIDWINTER GIRL 
 
 O RAVE midwinter roses 
 D Bloom red in her cheeks, 
 Where the wind's kiss discloses 
 The posies he seeks. 
 
 There 's a fine faery clangor, 
 
 A wedding-bell tone, 
 All about her ; her languor 
 
 Of lounging is flown. 
 
 ' ' Incedit regina I ' ' 
 
 No queen to her throne 
 
 Walks with majesty finer, 
 Yet all of her own! 
 
 Oh, where in all nature 
 
 Is beauty like hers 
 A flower-fair creature 
 
 So bonny 'mid furs! 
 
 55
 
 AN INVOCATION TO MARCH 
 
 MONTH the almanacs style vernal, 
 Meteorologic fraud, 
 By thy fits and starts infernal, 
 By thy blizzards blown abroad ; 
 
 By the hearts thy conduct 's frozen 
 And then broken into pieces, 
 
 By the symbols thou hast chosen 
 Lion's claws and lambkin's fleeces; 
 
 By thy wrecks upon old ocean, 
 By the flowrets thou hast frosted, 
 
 By thy bluster and commotion, 
 By our patience long exhausted; 
 
 By thy windy, wintry, wilful, 
 
 Wanton waste of worthless weather, 
 
 From our spring, already chillful, 
 Vamoose get out altogether!
 
 A LETTER TO MY WIFE 
 
 INTO the ranks of the Saracen horde, 
 Marking the way for his flashing sword; 
 Into the maze of the fight and the dance 
 
 Of the steely sparks from the smitten lance ; 
 Into the rush where the Arab steed 
 
 Shivered to feel his rider bleed ; 
 Into the thick of the fray he cast 
 
 With a loving look, if, so be, his last, 
 With a clinging look that not death might loose, 
 
 The Douglas cast the Heart of the Bruce! 
 
 Into the battles of life he wore, 
 
 Into the din of the fight he bore, 
 Ever close to his faithful breast, 
 
 The heart of hearts that he loved the best ! 
 And the heathen raged, and the sirens sang, 
 
 And the song of the sword on his armour rang, 
 And the cynics laughed that he wore that charm, 
 
 To nerve for the battle his good right arm! 
 For there 's never a charm in their smoothest art 
 
 Nor a shield to scatter their keenest dart 
 Like the charm of the shield of the loving heart! 
 
 57
 
 58 A LETTEK TO MY WIFE 
 
 Into the whirl of the busy town 
 
 Where the lord of to-day is the morrow's clown, 
 And lips that are false may be warm and red, 
 
 And a halo may shine 'round a wanton's head; 
 Where smiles are all that a friend may give 
 
 And love is but water that 's poured in a sieve, 
 There 's a charm I wear like the Heart of the Bruce, 
 
 In a clasp of love that no other may loose, 
 A heart bound fast by a golden chain 
 
 To my own, and I long with a tender pain 
 To be with you, my dearest, at home again!
 
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