TO M.P.

The Critic grieves at Virtue's loss, And rails at Evil's stride, But Love still holds aloft the Cross, And shows the Crucified.

One, safe in a secure retreat, Disdains the maddened throng; The other braves the seething street, And strives to right the wrong.

Self shudders at the angry waves, And dreams of what should be, But Love the sinking sinner saves, And stills the stormy sea.

TO MISS MARY C. LOW

A thousand eyes, by thee made bright, Have read thy cheering lines; A thousand hearts have felt the light That through thy poetry shines; Thou dost not know them all, 'tis true, But they all wait for thee, As wait the rosebuds for the dew, Queen of the Christmas Tree!

IN MEMORIAM. G.M.M.

His letter lies before me here, Scarce written ere the hand grew cold That traced the lines so fine and clear, Which still of love and friendship told.

This fragile film of black and white,-- A traveller over land and sea--, Is all the bond I have to-night Between the friend I loved and me.

I know not where his form may rest, Yet well I know Death cannot take His memory from the Central West And its proud city by the lake.

But where are now his loyal soul, His loving heart and gifted mind; Do they survive--a conscious whole-- The dwelling they have left behind?

Beyond this tiny orb we tread Who can the spirit's pathway trace, Or find a haven for our dead In seas of interstellar s.p.a.ce?

O silent stars, that flash and burn Across the bridgeless vault of blue, Ye may receive, but ne'er return, The dead we sadly yield to you.

In vain we urge the old request; In vain the darkness we explore; Light lie the turf above thy breast, O friend, whom I shall see no more!

TO C.M.D.

If it be true, as some have dreamed, That all have lived and loved before, I cannot wonder it hath seemed That on some other sh.o.r.e, In former ages long ago, Our souls had met and learned to know The truths that now upon the sea Establish our affinity.

Heart leaps to heart and mind to mind: A look, a word, a smile, a phrase,-- And we at once a kinship find, A relic of those days, When we both watched the sunset kiss The storied Bay of Salamis, Or paced beside the cla.s.sic stream That borders Plato's Academe.--

Perhaps our spirits met again, When Virgil wrote his deathless lines, And Horace praised, in lighter vein, His farm amid the Apennines; Or else we walked this old, old Earth When Grecian learning found new birth, And arm in arm watched Giotto's tower Rise heavenward, like a peerless flower.

Enough that we have surely met, No matter in what land or age; For, if such trifles we forget, We share a common heritage: And though in this brief life stern Fate Shall bid us once more separate, O brother poet, it must be That kindred spirits such as we Shall sail another ocean blue, Still you with me and I with you.

Sent with a Copy of "Red Letter Days Abroad"

To J.C.Y.

Book of my youth, I send thee to a friend Met, comprehended, loved, alas! too late,-- Too near the sad, inevitable end Decreed by life's inexorable fate; Yet though an ocean's billows roll between, And two great continents our paths divide, The unseen subtly triumphs o'er the seen, We walk in spirit, ever side by side; He on the stately Mississippi's sh.o.r.e, I 'mid the snow and roses of Tyrol, But in my heart he dwells forevermore,-- Beloved friend, and double of my soul.

To HON. JESSE HOLDOM OF CHICAGO,

on receipt of his picture and that of his baby in his arms.

Far from the great lake's pride, Over the ocean vast, Two faces picture, side by side, The future and the past.

On one is the flush of dawn And the light of the morning star; On the other a shade, from knowledge drawn And the dusk of the sunset bar.

One brow has the spotless sweep Of a page that is white and fair; The other forehead is graven deep With lines of thought and care.

The eyes of the child look out On a world all pure and sweet; But those of the man are sad from doubt And a knowledge of men's deceit.

To the baby's dainty ears Only love's accents flow; Through the man's alas! have surged for years Stories of crime and woe.

Held in the infant's grasp Is a tiny, lifeless toy; In the father's firm yet tender clasp Is his last great hope,--his boy!

Wisely the parent peers Through the future's unknown skies, For knowledge of life has awakened fears Of the storms that may arise

When his darling boy no more Can cling to his father's breast, But when on the strand of the silent sh.o.r.e That father shall be at rest.

Ah me! could the wisdom won Through the father's fateful years Be but transmitted to the son, There were little need for fears.

But each must tread alone The wine-press of his life; Into each cup by Fate is thrown The bitter drops of strife.

Forth from that fond embrace Must the little stranger go; For the rising sun must mount through s.p.a.ce.

And the waning sun sink low.

TRANSLATIONS

THE KISS TO THE FLAG

Ta ra! Boom boom! A regiment is coming down the street; From every side an eager throng is hurrying to greet From overflowing sidewalk and densely crowded square, A brilliant, uniformed cortege whose music fills the air; For such a gorgeous spectacle is not seen every day; It gives the town a festival to view the fine array; All hearts are filled with happiness, and no one seems to lag, When he has thus a chance to see the soldiers ... and the flag.

The old retired officers, their hats like helmets worn, Have thrust them gaily on one side at sound of drum and horn; The eldest, whose brave heart is stirred by that familiar strain, Surmounts, with stifled sigh, his chair, a better view to gain; Cafes, salons, mansards alike their windows open throw, And pretty girls wear radiant smiles to greet the pa.s.sing show.

Ah, here they are! Yes, here they come! preceded by the boys, Who imitate in fashion droll, yet with no actual noise, But merely by the gesturing of finger or of hand, The cymbals, flute, and (best of all) the trombones of the band.