The life of man is short, but Art is long, And labor is the lot of mortal man, Ordained by G.o.d since human time began: Day follows day and brings its toil and song.

Behind the western mountains sinks the moon, The silver dawn steals in upon the dark, Up from the dewy meadow wheels the lark And trills his welcome to the rising sun, And lo another day of labor is begun.

Poets are born, not made, some scribbler said, And every rhymester thinks the saying true: Better unborn than wanting labor's aid: Aye, all great poets--all great men--are made Between the hammer and the anvil. Few Have the true metal, many have the fire.

No slave or savage ever proved a bard; Men have their bent, but labor its reward, And untaught fingers cannot tune the lyre.

The poet's brain with spirit-vision teems; The voice of nature warbles in his heart; A sage, a seer, he moves from men apart, And walks among the shadows of his dreams; He sees G.o.d's light that in all nature beams; And when he touches with the hand of art The song of nature welling from his heart, And guides it forth in pure and limpid streams, Truth sparkles in the song and like a diamond gleams.

Time and patience change the mulberry-leaf To shining silk; the lapidary's skill Makes the rough diamond sparkle at his will, And cuts a gem from quartz or coral-reef.

Better a skillful cobbler at his last Than unlearned poet tw.a.n.gling on the lyre; Who sails on land and gallops on the blast, And mounts the welkin on a braying a.s.s, Clattering a shattered cymbal bright with bra.s.s, And slips his girth and tumbles in the mire.

All poetry must be, if it be true, Like the keen arrows of the--Grecian G.o.d Apollo, that caught fire as they flew.

Ah, such was Byron's, but alas he trod Ofttimes among the brambles and the rue, And sometimes dived full deep and brought up mud.

But when he touched with tears, as only he Could touch, the tender chords of sympathy, His coldest critics warmed and marveled much, And all old England's heart throbbed to his thrilling touch.

Truth is the touchstone of all genius Art, In poet, painter, sculptor, is the same: What cometh from the heart goes to the heart, What comes from effort only is but tame.

Nature the only perfect artist is: Who studies Nature may approach her skill; Perfection hers, but never can be his, Though her sweet voice his very marrow thrill; The finest works of art are Nature's shadows still.

Look not for faultless men or faultless art; Small faults are ever virtue's parasites: As in a picture shadows show the lights, So human foibles show a human heart.

O while I live and linger on the brink Let the dear Muses be my company; Their nectared goblets let my parched lips drink; Ah, let me drink the _soma_ of their lips!

As humming-bird the lily's nectar sips, Or _Houris_ sip the wine of Salsabil.

Aye, let me to their throbbing music thrill, And let me never for one moment think, Although no laurel crown my constancy, Their gracious smiles are false, their dearest kiss a lie.

TWENTY YEARS AGO

I am growing old and weary Ere yet my locks are gray; Before me lies eternity, Behind me--but a day.

How fast the years are vanishing!

They melt like April snow: It seems to me but yesterday-- Twenty years ago.

There's the school-house on the hill-side, And the romping scholars all; Where we used to con our daily tasks, And play our games of ball.

They rise to me in visions-- In sunny dreams--and ho'

I sport among the boys and girls Twenty years ago.

We played at ball in summer time-- We boys--with hearty will; With merry shouts in winter time We coasted on the hill.

We would choose our chiefs, divide in bands, And build our forts of snow, And storm those forts right gallantly-- Twenty years ago.

Last year in June I visited That dear old sacred spot, But the school-house on the hill-side And the merry shouts were not.

A church was standing where it stood; I looked around, but no-- I could not see the boys and girls Of twenty years ago.

There was sister dear, and brother, Around the old home-hearth; And a tender, Christian mother, Too angel-like for earth.

She used to warn me from the paths Where thorns and brambles grow, And lead me in the "narrow way"-- Twenty years ago.

I loved her and I honored her Through all my boyhood years; I knew her joys--I knew her cares-- I knew her hopes and fears.

But alas, one autumn morning She left her home below, And she left us there a-weeping-- Twenty years ago.

They bore her to the church-yard, With slow and solemn pace; And there I took my last fond look On her dear, peaceful face.

They lowered her in her silent grave, While we bowed our heads in woe, And they heaped the sods above her head-- Twenty years ago.

That low, sweet voice--my mother's voice-- I never can forget; And in those loving eyes I see The big tears trembling yet.

I try to tread the "narrow way;"

I stumble oft I know: I miss--how much!--the helping hand Of twenty years ago.

Mary--(Mary I will call you-- 'Tis not the old-time name) Sainted Mary--blue-eyed Mary-- Are you in heaven the same?

Are your eyes as bright and beautiful, Your cheeks as full of glow, As when the school-boy kissed you, May, Twenty years ago?

How we swung upon the grape-vine Down by the Genesee; And I caught the speckled trout for you, While you gathered flowers for me: How we rambled o'er the meadows With brows and cheeks aglow, And hearts like G.o.d's own angels-- Twenty years ago.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HOW, WE SWUNG UPON THE GRAPE-VINE DOWN BY THE GENESEE, AND I CAUGHT THE SPECKLED TROUT FOR YOU, WHILE YOU GATHERED FLOWERS FOR ME]

How our young hearts grew together Until they beat as one; Distrust it could not enter; Cares and fears were none.

All my love was yours, dear Mary, 'Twas boyish love, I know; But I ne'er have loved as then I loved-- Twenty years ago.

How we pictured out the future-- The golden coming years, And saw no cloud in all our sky, No gloomy mist of tears; But ah--how vain are human hopes!

The angels came--and O-- They bore my darling up to heaven-- Twenty years ago.

I will not tell--I cannot tell-- What anguish wrung my soul; But a silent grief is on my heart Though the years so swiftly roll; And I cannot shake it off, May, This lingering sense of woe, Though I try to drown the memory Of twenty years ago.

I am fighting life's stern battle, May, With all my might and main; But a seat by you and mother there Is the dearest prize to gain; And I know you both are near me, Whatever winds may blow, For I feel your spirits cheer me Like twenty years ago.

BETZKO

A HUNGARIAN LEGEND

Stibor had led in many a fight, And broken a score of swords In furious frays and b.l.o.o.d.y raids Against the Turkish hordes.

And Sigismund, the Polish king, Who joined the Magyar bands, Bestowed upon the valiant knight A broad estate of lands.

Once when the wars were o'er, the knight Was holding wa.s.sail high, And the valiant men that followed him Were at the revelry.

Betzko, his Jester, pleased him so He vowed it his the task To do whatever in human power His witty Fool might ask.

"Build on yon cliff," the Jester cried, In drunken jollity, "A mighty castle high and wide, And name it after me."

"Ah, verily a Jester's prayer,"

Exclaimed the knightly crew, "To ask of such a n.o.ble lord What you know he cannot do."

"Who says I cannot," Stibor cried, "Do whatsoe'er I will?

Within one year a castle shall stand On yonder rocky hill--

"A castle built of ponderous stones, To give me future fame; In honor of my witty Fool, Betzko shall be its name."

Now the cliff was high three hundred feet, And perpendicular; And the skill that could build a castle there Must come from lands afar.

And craftsmen came from foreign lands, Italian, German and Jew-- Apprentices and fellow-craftsmen, And master-masons, too.