Part 4

Aye! many a rhyme my pen has flown, In oblivion, all unknown; Still many more, perchance, I say, Float on in one unbroken lay-- But ask me naught of where or when, Long as they ring in hearts of men! Dear friend, I say these words to you, Which through the ages will be true: Though I have power to combine These subtle rhymes of each sweet line-- Yet, I shall never live to see, The title "POET" given me!

A BOUQUET

A blossom pink, a blossom blue, Make all there is in love so true. 'Tis fit, methinks, my heart to move, To give it thee, sweet girl, I love! Now, take it, dear, this morn and wear A wreath of beauty in thy hair; Think on it, when from bliss we part-- The emblem of my wooing heart!

AN ODE TO THE SOLDIERS' AND SAILORS' MONUMENT

Thou most majestic Queen of sculptural art, What learnèd architect designed thy throne? Who traced thy stately form in head and heart, And sent the sculptor forth to carve the stone? O speak, fair Queen, for thou art not alone; Ten thousand unseen voices join refrain That softly floats in one melodious tone, As sweet as any ancient harper's strain In odes to Indiana's silent victors slain.

Thy court well marks the conquest of the West, A citadel sprung out the forest wild, A mecca where the pilgrims quietly rest: Each dame's content--content each sportive child; The fiery redmen nevermore revile, Nor haunt the footprints of thy daring sons, Whose noble spheres are widening all the while, Like as some brilliant star its orbit runs And sheds on earth its light down from a thousand suns.

Thy throne emblazoned with the rarest jewels, Each wall adorned with battered coats of mail, Choice relics of some bloody fields or duels, A legend or some untold battle tale. I see the scouts go forth upon the trail, And soldiers charging over battlements-- The weeping mother sends to God her wail; While passion's rage the mortal heart laments, The dove of peace is caged in direst banishments.

But see yon arms, full flushing victory Brings hope, and joy is ringing everywhere Beneath the "starry banner of the free," That shields her children from the tyrant's snare. The peasant turns him to his lowly fare, The rich pursues wild phantoms at his ease, The rustic plies his long-forsaken share, And lo! the dove is cooing, "Peace, sweet peace;" For Mars has snatched his bolts from out the rosy East.

And when the last familiar scene has gone, And brightest dawn has kissed the sable night, Then thou shalt smile on faces yet unborn, And be to them a gleaming beacon light; For Might shall fall and on his throne sit Right, When bloody wars and petty strifes have ceased; Then thou shalt don thy spotless robe of white, And say to man as hostess of the feast: "My brother, sheath thy sword; the end of life is peace."

TO A FADED FLOWER

To a violet that faded on my coat at Natchez, Miss. March 8th, 1902.

Alas! thou lovely floweret wee, Fate blew a blighting breath Upon the delicate form of thee,-- Thou'st met untimely death! Thou blowest, blushest nevermore, To drink the dews of night; Thy sweet though short-lived life is o'er, Thou seest no more the light.

'Twas vain! aye, vain! the selfish strife That drooped thy purple crest; Some swain or maiden took thy life, To deck a love-lorn breast. Ah, floweret wee, the God who made All in the earth and sky, Decreed that thou should blow and fade,-- All else should live and die!

Now, he who wails the floweret's fate, And all the rest of man, Must meet that fate, aye soon or late, And scale their measured span. We are but flowers that blush and blow, As flight of years rolls on, With time and tide's cold ebb and flow-- 'Tis said--"He's dead and gone!"

For as the maid clips off the stems Where once the flowers have been, So angels pluck earth's rarest gems, Immortal souls of men! The flower fadeth into air, From whence its life is given-- But man's soul shining rich and rare Ascendeth into heaven.

DAINTY DORA

TO D. M. M.

Greeks once sang a lovely song To their maiden Cora; But my lay floats soft along To my Dainty Dora.

Frenchmen sing of Anne Belle, Romans sang of Flora; But I sing my song to tell Of my Dainty Dora.

Scotchmen sing their songs to move Mary or Debora; But I sing my song of love-- Love for Dainty Dora.

Poets now a song may give Psyche or Lenora; But I'll sing long as I live Just for Dainty Dora!

THE VIOLIN

Thrice hail the still unconquered King of Song! For all adore and love the Master Art That reareth his throne in temple of the heart; And smiteth chords of passion full and strong Till music sweet allures the sorrowing throng! Then by the gentle curving of his bow Maketh every mellow note in cadence flow, To recompense the world of all its wrong. Although the earth is full of cares and throes That tempt the crimson stream of life to cloy, Thou mak'st glad hearts and trip'st "fantastic toes," And fillest weary souls with mirth and joy-- The soul-entrancing cadence of thy strings Proclaims thee Song's unconquered "King of kings"!

WOMAN

I call thee angel of this earth, For angel true thou art In noble deeds and sterling worth And sympathetic heart. I, therefore, seek none from afar For what they might have been, But sing the praise of those which are That dwell on earth with men.

For when man was a tottling wee, Snug nestling on thy breast, Or sporting gay upon thy knee, Oh, thou who lovest him best; An overflowing stream of love, Sprung at his very birth, And made thee gentle as a dove, Fair angel of this earth.

Thou cheerest ever blithesome youth With songs and fervent prayers, And fillest heart with love and truth A store for future cares. Thou lead'st him safely in his prime, True guide of every stage, And then at last, as fades the time, Thou comfortest his age.

Like as the sunshine after rain, Far chasing 'way the mist, Thou soothest human grief and pain, Fleet messenger of bliss. In battles where the sword and shield Full lay the mighty low, Thou hov'rest ever o'er the field, To ease life's ebb and flow!