Part 3

The nations all their day shall have; Yet each in turn shall rise and fall, As falls the dark brown autumn leaf; Or as those dread sky-kissing tides, Which toss frail barks high upon Some ghastly, frowning storm-beat shore,-- Though slowly, yet quite surely ebb away. --Aye! Egypt fair once spread the Nile, And green-bay-tree-like proudly flourished; Her snowy sails sea-ports bedecked, And deeply ploughed the rolling main, Or clave the placid lakes, as does The gentle swan, when some soft breeze The bulrush stirs, flings its perfume Upon the rippling silver waves! Fair cities dotted here and there Her vast domain. Her royal line Of Pharaohs held the sceptre gold Upon her all-emblazoned throne. Now Egypt fair is wreck and ruin. For, as fled on the flight of years, The unrelenting Hand of time Wiped her sweet visage off the globe! Naught save the grim, grey pyramid, Sublimest work of man, yet stands To greet the rosy morn, with proud Uplifted head, expanded chest-- A death defiant scoff at time! Yet hoary Time in his wild rage Of wreck and ruin, like Jove shall hurl His fiery bolts upon the head Of pyramid with ire, and crush And raze it to its base with scorn!

Next Greece, the fairest nymph that trod This belted globe upon, once shone As shines the Morning Orb, long ere The Dawn the rosy East has kissed; High reared her sacred temples in Olympia's shady groves, and built There sacred altars to her gods. Old Zeus and Phoebus oft here sat In council with their fellow gods. And Homer, fiery bard, was first To smite the chords of nature's lyre; Sweet sang he till the earth was filled With rarest strains of rapturous song! Then art and letters blew and blushed, The fairest flowers of ages past, Whose essence, spilled upon the breeze, Is wafted still forever on The twin deft with the flight of years; And man in calm delight inhales The fragrance of pure classic lore! But Greece is gone! Her statues fair Are mingled with the dust; each god Has flown some fairer clime to rule, Or, subdued, walks the dark abyss.

Then Rome, the gaudy Southern Queen, On seven rugged, rock-ribbed hills Securely built her throne. The world Then saw a mighty power rise In splendor great, as does the sun On some young, swift-winged morn of June. A brighter dawning seemed to break; Another life was lived,--for through The Roman vein there coursed a blood, A fiery burning blood of ire, That rose and conquered all the world. Great Cæsar led her legions forth From victory on to victory, And hung her royal pennons high In tower, palace-hall, and throne; The Roman sceptre swayed the globe. Soft music soothed her savage ear, Fine arts and sculptor were her toys, And glory was her "starry crown." But now we read the "Fall of Rome," The doleful lay that tells the tale Of all who thus have passed away.

VII

To thee, fair Dame, we thus relate The things which were but are no more; That thou mightest know the worldly way, And knowing, have no timid fear To ever stir thy peaceful breast. No fate like theirs awaits for thee; For Fortune's maid shall tend with care Thy every nod and beck--yes, place Upon thy queenly brow a crown, The "starry crown" by Freedom worn! 'Tis true no flint rock ribs thy base, No stone thy corner marks; for that What carest thou? For boasted pride? Thy frame is of the sturdy oak, Inlaid with ribs of stately pine; The Prince and Princess twain are they Of all Columbia's giant woods. The sylvan songsters sing thy praise From dawn till set of sun, and then The nightingale, the queen of song, In praise of thee poureth forth her lay Till every mellow silver note, Far floating in the silent trees, Is taken by an elfish choir, And chanted softly to the moon. The eagle her wee eaglets tells Of thee, that they may freedom love; Then soaring full beyond the clouds, She looks with vaunted pride on thee. So must thy spirit fill the hearts Of all Columbia's youth, as once It filled old "Honest Abe," thy son, Thy pride--the first-born of thy love. For when each lowly lad well knows That ever upwards he may soar, Beyond vain tyrants' galling sway To fairer climes where Freedom reigns: Then will the shadow of thy wing For aye to them a shelter be!

LIFE IN A DREAM

There is nothing so sweet as our life in our dreams, When we soar far on fancy's swift wing; For a thing in our dreams is all that it seems, And the songs are so sweet that we sing. Ah! the sun shines the brightest, and stars twinkle lightest At the moon in her silvery beams!

There is nothing so gay as the life in our dreams, With its joy and its laughter and mirth; For the pleasure that teems is far greater, one deems, Than any he finds in the earth. There are homes are our natal, and nothing is fatal In the beautiful land of our dreams!

There is nothing so bright as the life in our dreams, Far away from earth's trickery chance; There the music's wild screams and the wine in its streams Are both lost in the song and the dance. Oh! our joy is the sweetest and life is completest, Ah! the life in our beautiful dreams!

There is nothing serene as the life in our dreams, When the dove to his mate softly cooes In the groves by the streams and the moon's silver beams, Where the swain oft his maid gently wooes. There the swains are the rarest and maids are the fairest, And their love is as true as it seems!

THE MORNING STAR

TO A. B. B.

Thou art, fair maid, the Morning Star, The guide of dawning day, And sendest diamond sparkles far To wake the flowers of May.

Thou makest earth to bloom anew, A boon thou'rt wont to give, And spillest out the morning dew, That all may blush and live.

Thou guardest with thy hand of might, And never showeth frown; Earth lullest sleep when cometh night, And wak'st her with the dawn.

Fair maiden, God hast given thee All power near and far,-- The rosy dawning's light to be, The brightest Morning Star.

TO ESTELLE

Coy, sweet maid, I love so well, Fair Estelle. How much I love thee tongue can't tell, Sweet Estelle. But I love thee--love thee true-- More than violets love the dew, More than roses love the sun-- Do I love thee, dearest one, Dear Estelle!

Ah! my heart love's passions swell For Estelle! How I love my actions tell Thee, Estelle: That I love thy smiling face, And thy captivating grace-- Love thy dreamy 'witching eyes More than planets love the skies, Wee Estelle!

Now I smite my lyre to swell For Estelle; Music's most entrancing spell O'er Estelle. With my fingers on my keys, Like the balmy morning breeze Stealing softly through the grain, Will I gently wake a strain For Estelle!

How I love my little belle, My Estelle! Deepest in my sacred dell Is Estelle! I esteem my maiden love More than angels high above, More than demons in the sea; Love is light and life to me, And Estelle!

A SONG OF THANKS

For the sun that shone at the dawn of spring, For the flowers which bloom and the birds that sing, For the verdant robe of the gray old earth, For her coffers filled with their countless worth, For the flocks which feed on a thousand hills, For the rippling streams which turn the mills, For the lowing herds in the lovely vale, For the songs of gladness on the gale,-- From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,-- Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the farmer reaping his whitened fields, For the bounty which the rich soil yields, For the cooling dews and refreshing rains, For the sun which ripens the golden grains, For the beaded wheat and the fattened swine, For the stallèd ox and the fruitful vine, For the tubers large and cotton white, For the kid and the lambkin frisk and blithe, For the swan which floats near the river-banks,-- Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the pumpkin sweet and the yellow yam, For the corn and beans and the sugared ham, For the plum and the peach and the apple red, For the dear old press where the wine is tread, For the cock which crows at the breaking dawn, And the proud old "turk" of the farmer's barn, For the fish which swim in the babbling brooks, For the game which hide in the shady nooks,-- From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,-- Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the sturdy oaks and the stately pines, For the lead and the coal from the deep, dark mines, For the silver ores of a thousand fold, For the diamond bright and the yellow gold, For the river boat and the flying train, For the fleecy sail of the rolling main, For the velvet sponge and the glossy pearl, For the flag of peace which we now unfurl,-- From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,-- Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the lowly cot and the mansion fair, For the peace and plenty together share, For the Hand which guides us from above, For Thy tender mercies, abiding love, For the blessed home with its children gay, For returnings of Thanksgiving Day, For the bearing toils and the sharing cares, We lift up our hearts in our songs and our prayers,-- From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,-- Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

NOT YET A POET