Epithalamium.

From other men he stands apart,Wrapped in sublimity of thoughtWhere futile fancies enter not;With starlike purpose pressing onWhere Agassiz and AudubonLabored, and sped that noble artYet in its pristine dawn.Something to conquer, to achieve,Makes life well worth the struggle hard;Its petty ills to disregard,In high endeavor day by dayWith this incentive—that he maySomehow mankind the richer leaveWhen he has passed away.Forest and field he treads alone,Finding companionship in birds,In reptiles, rodents, yea, in herdsOf drowsy cattle fat and sleek;For these to him a language speakTo common multitudes unknownAs tones of classic Greek.Unthinking creatures and untaught,They to his nature answer backSomething his fellow mortals lack;And oft educe from him the sighThat they unnoticed soon must die,Leaving of their existence naughtTo be remembered by.Man may aspire though in the slough;May dream of glory, strive for fame,Thirst for the prestige of a name.And shall these friends, that so inviteThe study of the erudite,Ever as he beholds them nowPerish like sparks of light?Nay, 'tis his purpose and designTo keep them: not like mummies oldPapyrus-mantled fold on fold,But elephant, or dove, or swan,Its native hue and raiment on,In effigy of plumage fine,Or skin its native tawn.What God hath wrought thus time shall tell,And thus endowment rich and vastBe rescued from the buried past;And rare reliques that never fadeBe in the manikin portrayedTill taxidermy witness wellThe debt to science paid.Lo! one appeareth unforetold—This re-creator, yea, of men;Making him feel as born againWho looketh up with reverent eyes,Through wonders that his soul surprise,That great Creator to beholdAll-powerful, all-wise.

Something to conquer, to achieve,Makes life well worth the struggle hard;Its petty ills to disregard,In high endeavor day by dayWith this incentive—that he maySomehow mankind the richer leaveWhen he has passed away.

Forest and field he treads alone,Finding companionship in birds,In reptiles, rodents, yea, in herdsOf drowsy cattle fat and sleek;For these to him a language speakTo common multitudes unknownAs tones of classic Greek.

Unthinking creatures and untaught,They to his nature answer backSomething his fellow mortals lack;And oft educe from him the sighThat they unnoticed soon must die,Leaving of their existence naughtTo be remembered by.

Man may aspire though in the slough;May dream of glory, strive for fame,Thirst for the prestige of a name.And shall these friends, that so inviteThe study of the erudite,Ever as he beholds them nowPerish like sparks of light?

Nay, 'tis his purpose and designTo keep them: not like mummies oldPapyrus-mantled fold on fold,But elephant, or dove, or swan,Its native hue and raiment on,In effigy of plumage fine,Or skin its native tawn.

What God hath wrought thus time shall tell,And thus endowment rich and vastBe rescued from the buried past;And rare reliques that never fadeBe in the manikin portrayedTill taxidermy witness wellThe debt to science paid.

Lo! one appeareth unforetold—This re-creator, yea, of men;Making him feel as born againWho looketh up with reverent eyes,Through wonders that his soul surprise,That great Creator to beholdAll-powerful, all-wise.

"Whom God hath joined"—ah, this sententious phraseA meaning deeper than the sea conveys,And of a sweet and solemn service tellsWith the rich resonance of wedding-bells;It speaks of vows and obligations givenAs if amid the harmony of heaven,While seraph lips approving seem to say,"Love, honor, and obey."

Is Hymen then ambassador divine,His mission, matrimonial and benign,The heart to counsel, ardor to incite,Convert the nun, rebuke the eremite?As if were this his mandate from the throne:"It is not good for them to be alone;Behold the land! its fruitage and its flowers,Not mine and thine, but ours."

Did not great Paul aver, in lucid spell,That they of conjugal intent "do well"?But hinted at a better state,—'tis oneWith which two loving souls have naught to do.For, in well-doing being quite content,Be there another state more excellentTo which the celibate doth fain repair,They neither know nor care.

And does the Lord of all become High Priest,And with his presence grace the wedding-feast?Then must the whole celestial throng draw nigh,For nuptials there are none beyond the sky;So is the union sanctified and blest,>For Love is host, and Love is welcome guest;So may the joyous bridal season beLike that of Galilee.

Sweet Mary, of the blessed name so dearTo all the loving Saviour who revere,Madonna-like be thou in every graceThat shall adorn thee in exalted place,And thine the happy privilege to proveThe depth, the tenderness of woman's love;So shall the heart that honors thee todayBow down to thee alway.

O radiant June, in wealth of light and air,With leaf and bud and blossom everywhere,Let all bright tokens affluent combine,And round the bridal pair in splendor shine;Let sweethearts coy and lovers fond and trueOn this glad day their tender vows renew,And all in wedlock's bond rejoice as theyWhom God hath joined for aye.

I hope I'm not too orthodoxTo give a joke away,That took me like the chicken-poxAnd left a debt to pay.Let argument ignore the cost,If it be dear or cheap,And only claim that naught be lostWhen it's too good to keep.The proverb says "All flesh is grass,"But this I do deny,Because of that which came to pass,But not to pass me by.A body weighing by the poundInside of half a score,In case and cordage safely bound,Was landed at my door.What could it be? for friends are slack,And give, I rather trow,When they are sure of getting backAs much as they bestow.

I hope I'm not too orthodoxTo give a joke away,That took me like the chicken-poxAnd left a debt to pay.

Let argument ignore the cost,If it be dear or cheap,And only claim that naught be lostWhen it's too good to keep.

The proverb says "All flesh is grass,"But this I do deny,Because of that which came to pass,But not to pass me by.

A body weighing by the poundInside of half a score,In case and cordage safely bound,Was landed at my door.

What could it be? for friends are slack,And give, I rather trow,When they are sure of getting backAs much as they bestow.

My hair, at thought of dark design,Or dynamitish fate,Stood up like quills of porcupine,But more than twice as straight.Anon, I mused on something rare,Like duck or terrapin,But dreamed not, of the parcel, thereMight be a pullet-in.A mighty jerk,—the string that brokeThe fowl affair revealed,The victim of a cruel choke,Its neck completely peeled.The biped in its paper cof-Fin, cramped and plump and neat,Had scratched its very toenails offIn making both ends meat.The only part I always ate,That never made me ill,Had gone away decapitateAnd carried off the bill.I pondered o'er the sacrifice,The merry-thought, the wings,On giblet gravy, salad nice,And chicken-pie-ous things.

My hair, at thought of dark design,Or dynamitish fate,Stood up like quills of porcupine,But more than twice as straight.

Anon, I mused on something rare,Like duck or terrapin,But dreamed not, of the parcel, thereMight be a pullet-in.

A mighty jerk,—the string that brokeThe fowl affair revealed,The victim of a cruel choke,Its neck completely peeled.

The biped in its paper cof-Fin, cramped and plump and neat,Had scratched its very toenails offIn making both ends meat.

The only part I always ate,That never made me ill,Had gone away decapitateAnd carried off the bill.

I pondered o'er the sacrifice,The merry-thought, the wings,On giblet gravy, salad nice,And chicken-pie-ous things.

In heat of Fahrenheit degreeTwo hundred twelve or more,Where its grandsire, defying me,Had crowed the year before,I thrust it with a hope forlorn,—I knew what toughness meant,And sighed that ever I was bornTo die of roasting scent.But presto! whatdénouementgrandOf cookery sublime!'Twas done as by the second hand,The drumsticks beating thyme.And now the moral—he who buysWill comprehend its worth,—Look not so much to weight and sizeAs to the date of birth.In fowls there is a difference;"The good die young," they say,And for the death of innocenceTo make us meat, we pray.

In heat of Fahrenheit degreeTwo hundred twelve or more,Where its grandsire, defying me,Had crowed the year before,

I thrust it with a hope forlorn,—I knew what toughness meant,And sighed that ever I was bornTo die of roasting scent.

But presto! whatdénouementgrandOf cookery sublime!'Twas done as by the second hand,The drumsticks beating thyme.

And now the moral—he who buysWill comprehend its worth,—Look not so much to weight and sizeAs to the date of birth.

In fowls there is a difference;"The good die young," they say,And for the death of innocenceTo make us meat, we pray.

Of all the sweet visions that come unto meOf happy refreshment by land or by sea,Like oases where in life's desert I roam,Is nothing so pleasant as Holiday Home.I climb to the top of the highest of hillsAnd look to the west with affectionate thrills,And fancy I stand by the emerald sideOf charming Geneva, like Switzerland's pride.In distant perspective unruffled it lies,Except for the packet that paddles and plies,And puffing its way like a pioneer makesIts daily go-round o'er this pearl of the lakes.Untroubled except for the urchins that comeFrom many a haunt that is never a home,Instinctive as ducklings to swim and to wade,Scarce knowing aforetime why water was made.All placid except for the dip of the oarOf the skiff, or the barge striking out from the shore,While merry excursionists shout till the galeReverberates laughter through rigging and sail.

Of all the sweet visions that come unto meOf happy refreshment by land or by sea,Like oases where in life's desert I roam,Is nothing so pleasant as Holiday Home.

I climb to the top of the highest of hillsAnd look to the west with affectionate thrills,And fancy I stand by the emerald sideOf charming Geneva, like Switzerland's pride.

In distant perspective unruffled it lies,Except for the packet that paddles and plies,And puffing its way like a pioneer makesIts daily go-round o'er this pearl of the lakes.

Untroubled except for the urchins that comeFrom many a haunt that is never a home,Instinctive as ducklings to swim and to wade,Scarce knowing aforetime why water was made.

All placid except for the dip of the oarOf the skiff, or the barge striking out from the shore,While merry excursionists shout till the galeReverberates laughter through rigging and sail.

How it scallops its basin and shimmers and shinesLike a salver of silver encompassed with vines,In crystal illusion reflecting the skiesAnd the mountain that seems from its bosom to rise.There stands a great house on a summit so high,Like an eyrie of safety enroofed by the sky;And I think of the rest and the comfort up thereTo sleep, and to breathe that empyreal air.Oh, the charm of the glen and the stream and the woodCan never be written, nor be understood,Except by the weary and languid who comeTo bask in the quiet of Holiday Home.From prisonlike cellars unwholesome and drear,From attic and alley, from labor severe,For the poor and the famished doth kindness prepareA world of diversion and excellent fare.To swing in the hammock, disport in the breeze,To lie in the shade of magnificent trees—Oh, this is like quaffing from luxury's bowlThe life-giving essence for body and soul!

How it scallops its basin and shimmers and shinesLike a salver of silver encompassed with vines,In crystal illusion reflecting the skiesAnd the mountain that seems from its bosom to rise.

There stands a great house on a summit so high,Like an eyrie of safety enroofed by the sky;And I think of the rest and the comfort up thereTo sleep, and to breathe that empyreal air.

Oh, the charm of the glen and the stream and the woodCan never be written, nor be understood,Except by the weary and languid who comeTo bask in the quiet of Holiday Home.

From prisonlike cellars unwholesome and drear,From attic and alley, from labor severe,For the poor and the famished doth kindness prepareA world of diversion and excellent fare.

To swing in the hammock, disport in the breeze,To lie in the shade of magnificent trees—Oh, this is like quaffing from luxury's bowlThe life-giving essence for body and soul!

Nor distance nor time shall efface from the mindThe influence gentle, the ministry kind;While gratitude fondly enhallows the thoughtOf a home and a holiday never forgot.Ah, one is remembered of saintliest menTo lovely Geneva who comes not again;Who left a sweet impress wherever he trod,Humanity's helper, companion of God.In the hearts of the many there sheltered and fed,As unto a hospice by Providence led,Does often a thought like a sunbeam intrudeOf the bounty so free, and the donors so good?Who of their abundance have cheerfully givenWherewith to develop an embryo heaven—To brighten conditions too hard and too sadAnd make the unhappy contented and glad.Be blessedness theirs, who like knights of renownThus scatter such largesse o'er country and town,Their monument building in many a domeLike healthful and beautiful Holiday Home.

Nor distance nor time shall efface from the mindThe influence gentle, the ministry kind;While gratitude fondly enhallows the thoughtOf a home and a holiday never forgot.

Ah, one is remembered of saintliest menTo lovely Geneva who comes not again;Who left a sweet impress wherever he trod,Humanity's helper, companion of God.

In the hearts of the many there sheltered and fed,As unto a hospice by Providence led,Does often a thought like a sunbeam intrudeOf the bounty so free, and the donors so good?

Who of their abundance have cheerfully givenWherewith to develop an embryo heaven—To brighten conditions too hard and too sadAnd make the unhappy contented and glad.

Be blessedness theirs, who like knights of renownThus scatter such largesse o'er country and town,Their monument building in many a domeLike healthful and beautiful Holiday Home.

The days are long and lonely,The weary eve comes on,And the nights are filled with dreamingOf one beloved and gone.I reach out in the darknessAnd clasp but empty air,For Rutha dear has vanished—I wonder, wonder where.Yet must it be: her natureSo lovely, pure, and true;So nearly like the angels,Is she an angel too.The cottage is dismantledOf all that made it bright;Beyond its silent portalNo love, nor life, nor light.Where are the hopes I cherished,The joys that once I knew,The dreams, the aspirations?All, all are perished too.

The days are long and lonely,The weary eve comes on,And the nights are filled with dreamingOf one beloved and gone.

I reach out in the darknessAnd clasp but empty air,For Rutha dear has vanished—I wonder, wonder where.

Yet must it be: her natureSo lovely, pure, and true;So nearly like the angels,Is she an angel too.

The cottage is dismantledOf all that made it bright;Beyond its silent portalNo love, nor life, nor light.

Where are the hopes I cherished,The joys that once I knew,The dreams, the aspirations?All, all are perished too.

Yes, love's dear chain is broken;From shore to shore I roam—No comfort, no companion,No happiness, no home.Oh could I but enfold herUnto my heart once more,If aught could e'er restore meMy darling as before;If God would only tell me—Such myriads above—Why He must needs have takenThe one I loved to love;If God would only tell meWhy multitudes are left,Unhappy and unlovely,And I am thus bereft;If—O my soul, be silentAnd some day thou shalt seeThrough mystery and shadow,And know why it must be.To every cry of anguishFrom every heart distressed,Can be no other answerThan this—God knoweth best.

Yes, love's dear chain is broken;From shore to shore I roam—No comfort, no companion,No happiness, no home.

Oh could I but enfold herUnto my heart once more,If aught could e'er restore meMy darling as before;

If God would only tell me—Such myriads above—Why He must needs have takenThe one I loved to love;

If God would only tell meWhy multitudes are left,Unhappy and unlovely,And I am thus bereft;

If—O my soul, be silentAnd some day thou shalt seeThrough mystery and shadow,And know why it must be.

To every cry of anguishFrom every heart distressed,Can be no other answerThan this—God knoweth best.

So soon he fell, the world will never knowWhat possibilities within him lay,What hopes irradiated his young life,With high ambition and with ardor rife;But ah! the speedy summons came, and soHe passed away.So soon he fell, there lie unfinished plansBy others misapplied, misunderstood;And doors are barred that wait the master-key—That wait his magic Open Sesame!—To that assertive power that commandsThe multitude.Too soon he fell! Was he not born to proveWhat manhood and integrity might be—How one from all base elements apartMight walk serene, in purity of heart,His face the bright transparency of loveAnd sympathy?The student ranks are closed, there is no gap;Of other brave aspirants is no dearth;Prowess, fidelity, and truth go on,And few shall miss or mourn the student gone,Reposing in the all-protecting lapOf Mother Earth.Too soon—O God! was it thy will that oneOf such endeavor and of noble mien,Enrapt with living, should thus early goFrom all he loved and all who loved him so,Mid life's activities no longer known,No longer seen?Oh, not for aye should agonizing lipsQuiver with questionings they dare not frame;Though in the dark penumbra of despairSeemeth no light, nor comfort anywhere—All things enshadowed as in dense eclipse,No more the same.Could we but know, in that Elysian loreOf happy exercise still going onCould we but know of glorious heights attained,Of his reward, of mysteries explained,—Ah! but to know were to lament no moreThe student gone.

So soon he fell, there lie unfinished plansBy others misapplied, misunderstood;And doors are barred that wait the master-key—That wait his magic Open Sesame!—To that assertive power that commandsThe multitude.

Too soon he fell! Was he not born to proveWhat manhood and integrity might be—How one from all base elements apartMight walk serene, in purity of heart,His face the bright transparency of loveAnd sympathy?

The student ranks are closed, there is no gap;Of other brave aspirants is no dearth;Prowess, fidelity, and truth go on,And few shall miss or mourn the student gone,Reposing in the all-protecting lapOf Mother Earth.

Too soon—O God! was it thy will that oneOf such endeavor and of noble mien,Enrapt with living, should thus early goFrom all he loved and all who loved him so,Mid life's activities no longer known,No longer seen?

Oh, not for aye should agonizing lipsQuiver with questionings they dare not frame;Though in the dark penumbra of despairSeemeth no light, nor comfort anywhere—All things enshadowed as in dense eclipse,No more the same.

Could we but know, in that Elysian loreOf happy exercise still going onCould we but know of glorious heights attained,Of his reward, of mysteries explained,—Ah! but to know were to lament no moreThe student gone.

Lo! carpet-bag and bagger occupy the land,And prove the touring season actively begun;His personnel and purpose can none misunderstand,For each upon his frontlet bears his honest brand—The fool-ish one!By caravan and car, from country and from town,A great grasshopper army fell foraging the land;Like bumblebees that know not where to settle down,Impossible it is to curb or scare or drownThe tourist band.With guidebook, camera, with rod and gun, to shoot,To lure the deer, the hare, the bird, the speckled trout,The pauper or the prince unbidden they salute,And everywhere their royal right dare none dispute—To roam about.From dark immuring walls and dingy ways of trade,From high society's luxurious stately homes,From lounging places by the park or promenade,From rural dwellings canopied in sylvan shade,The tourist comes.To every mountain peak within the antipodes,To sweet, sequestered spots no other mortal knows;To every island fair engirt by sunny seas,To forest-centers unexplored by birds or bees,The tourist goes.For Summer's fingers all the land have richly dressed,Resplendent in regalia of scent and bloom,And stirred in every heart the spirit of unrest,Like that of untamed fledglings in the parent nestFor ampler room.What is it prompts the roving mania—is it loveOf wild adventure fanciful, unique, and odd?Is it to be in fashion, and to others proveOne's social standing, that impels the madness ofThe tramp abroad?The question hangs unanswered, like an unwise prayer,Importunate, but powerless response to bring;Go ask the voyagers, the rovers everywhere—They only say it is their rest-time, outing, theirVacationing.So is the world's eccentric round of joy completeWhen happy tourist-traveler, no more to roam,His fascinating, thrilling story shall repeatTo impecunious, luckless multitudes who greetThe tourist home.

By caravan and car, from country and from town,A great grasshopper army fell foraging the land;Like bumblebees that know not where to settle down,Impossible it is to curb or scare or drownThe tourist band.

With guidebook, camera, with rod and gun, to shoot,To lure the deer, the hare, the bird, the speckled trout,The pauper or the prince unbidden they salute,And everywhere their royal right dare none dispute—To roam about.

From dark immuring walls and dingy ways of trade,From high society's luxurious stately homes,From lounging places by the park or promenade,From rural dwellings canopied in sylvan shade,The tourist comes.

To every mountain peak within the antipodes,To sweet, sequestered spots no other mortal knows;To every island fair engirt by sunny seas,To forest-centers unexplored by birds or bees,The tourist goes.

For Summer's fingers all the land have richly dressed,Resplendent in regalia of scent and bloom,And stirred in every heart the spirit of unrest,Like that of untamed fledglings in the parent nestFor ampler room.

What is it prompts the roving mania—is it loveOf wild adventure fanciful, unique, and odd?Is it to be in fashion, and to others proveOne's social standing, that impels the madness ofThe tramp abroad?

The question hangs unanswered, like an unwise prayer,Importunate, but powerless response to bring;Go ask the voyagers, the rovers everywhere—They only say it is their rest-time, outing, theirVacationing.

So is the world's eccentric round of joy completeWhen happy tourist-traveler, no more to roam,His fascinating, thrilling story shall repeatTo impecunious, luckless multitudes who greetThe tourist home.

Millions have been and passed from viewBenignity who never knew;No aspiration theirs, nor aim;Existence soulless as the clayFrom whence they sprang, what right have theyTo eulogy or fame?So multitudes have been forgot—But drones or dunces, good for naught;Like clinging parasites or burrsTaking from others all they dared,Yet little they for others caredExcept as pilferers.Not so with that majestic manThe all-round antiquarian—No model his nor parallel;From selfishness inviolateAre his achievements good and great,And thus shall ages tell.A love for the antiquitiesHis honest hold, his birthright is!And things unheard of or unread,Defaced by moth or rust or mold,To him are treasures more than gold,Ay, than his daily bread.At neither ghost nor ghoul aghastHe echoes voices of the past,And tones like melancholy knellsOf years departed to his earAre sweeter than of kindred dear,Sweeter than Florimel's.He delves through centuries of dustTo resurrect some unknown bust,A torso, or a goddess whole;Maybe like Venus, minus arms—Haply to find those missing charms;But not the lost, lost soul.He dotes on aboriginesWho lived in caves and hollow trees,And barters for their trinkets rare;Exchanging with those dusky breedsFor arrow-heads and shells and beadsA scalplock of his hair.Had he been born—thus he laments—Along with other great events,Coeval say with Noah's flood,A proud relationship to traceWith Hittites—or with any raceOf blue archaic blood!Much he adores that Pilgrim flock,The same that split old Plymouth rock,Their "Bay Psalm" when they tried to sing.Devoid of metre, sense, and tune,Who but a Puritanic loonCould have devised the thing?He revels in a pedigree,The sprouting of a noble tree'Way back in prehistoric times;And for the "Family Record" trueOf scions all that ever grewWould give a billion dimes.There is a language fossils speak:'Tis not like Latin, much less Greek,But quite as dead and antiquateIts silent syllables, and cold;But ah, what meanings they unfold,What histories relate!The earthquake is his best ally—It shows up things he cannot buy,And gives him raw materialFor making mastodons and such,Enough to beat that ancient "DutchRepublic's Rise and Fall."A piece of bone can never lie:A rib, a femur, or a thighIs but a dislocated signOf something hybrid, half and halfBetwixt a crocodile and calf—Maybe a porcupine.The stately "Antiquarium"Is his emporium, his home.He wonders if when he is goneWill people look with mournful prideOn him done up and classified,And the right label on.He dreams of an emblazoned page,The calendar of every ageDown from Creation's primal dawn;With archetypes of spears and bones,And tons of undeciphered stonesIts illustrations drawn.Labor a blessing, not a curse,His hunting ground the Universe,So much the more his nature cravesTo sound the fathoms of the sea:What mighty wonders there must beDown in those hidden caves!So toils this dauntless man, alertAmid the ruins and the dirt,That other men to endless dayThemselves uplifted from the clodMay see, and learn and know that GodIs greater far than they.And thus, of mighty ken and plan,The all-round antiquarianPursues his happy ministry;And on the world's progressive trackAdvances, always going back—Back to antiquity.

Millions have been and passed from viewBenignity who never knew;No aspiration theirs, nor aim;Existence soulless as the clayFrom whence they sprang, what right have theyTo eulogy or fame?

So multitudes have been forgot—But drones or dunces, good for naught;Like clinging parasites or burrsTaking from others all they dared,Yet little they for others caredExcept as pilferers.

Not so with that majestic manThe all-round antiquarian—No model his nor parallel;From selfishness inviolateAre his achievements good and great,And thus shall ages tell.

A love for the antiquitiesHis honest hold, his birthright is!And things unheard of or unread,Defaced by moth or rust or mold,To him are treasures more than gold,Ay, than his daily bread.

At neither ghost nor ghoul aghastHe echoes voices of the past,And tones like melancholy knellsOf years departed to his earAre sweeter than of kindred dear,Sweeter than Florimel's.

He delves through centuries of dustTo resurrect some unknown bust,A torso, or a goddess whole;Maybe like Venus, minus arms—Haply to find those missing charms;But not the lost, lost soul.

He dotes on aboriginesWho lived in caves and hollow trees,And barters for their trinkets rare;Exchanging with those dusky breedsFor arrow-heads and shells and beadsA scalplock of his hair.

Had he been born—thus he laments—Along with other great events,Coeval say with Noah's flood,A proud relationship to traceWith Hittites—or with any raceOf blue archaic blood!

Much he adores that Pilgrim flock,The same that split old Plymouth rock,Their "Bay Psalm" when they tried to sing.Devoid of metre, sense, and tune,Who but a Puritanic loonCould have devised the thing?

He revels in a pedigree,The sprouting of a noble tree'Way back in prehistoric times;And for the "Family Record" trueOf scions all that ever grewWould give a billion dimes.

There is a language fossils speak:'Tis not like Latin, much less Greek,But quite as dead and antiquateIts silent syllables, and cold;But ah, what meanings they unfold,What histories relate!

The earthquake is his best ally—It shows up things he cannot buy,And gives him raw materialFor making mastodons and such,Enough to beat that ancient "DutchRepublic's Rise and Fall."

A piece of bone can never lie:A rib, a femur, or a thighIs but a dislocated signOf something hybrid, half and halfBetwixt a crocodile and calf—Maybe a porcupine.

The stately "Antiquarium"Is his emporium, his home.He wonders if when he is goneWill people look with mournful prideOn him done up and classified,And the right label on.

He dreams of an emblazoned page,The calendar of every ageDown from Creation's primal dawn;With archetypes of spears and bones,And tons of undeciphered stonesIts illustrations drawn.

Labor a blessing, not a curse,His hunting ground the Universe,So much the more his nature cravesTo sound the fathoms of the sea:What mighty wonders there must beDown in those hidden caves!

So toils this dauntless man, alertAmid the ruins and the dirt,That other men to endless dayThemselves uplifted from the clodMay see, and learn and know that GodIs greater far than they.

And thus, of mighty ken and plan,The all-round antiquarianPursues his happy ministry;And on the world's progressive trackAdvances, always going back—Back to antiquity.

If there is one gift that I prize above others,That tinges with brightness whatever I do,And gives to the sombre a roseate hue,'Tis a legacy mine from the nicest of mothers,Who haply the beauty of housewifery knew,And taught me her neatness and diligence too.So is my discomfort a house in disorder:The service uncleanly, the linen distained,The children like infantry rude and untrained;The portieres dusty and frayed at the border,By lavish expenses the pocketbook drained,And miseries numberless never explained.I dream not of pleasure in visions untidy,A wrapper all hole-y, a buttonless shoe,A slatternly matron with nothing to do;And all the ill-luck charged to ominous FridayCan never compare with the ills that ensueOn wretched housekeeping and cookery too.There's many a husband, a patient bread-winner,Gets up from the table with look of despair,And something akin to the growl of a bear;Not the saint he might be, but a querulous sinner—One driven to fasting but not unto prayer—Till epitaphed thus—"Indigestible Fare."There's many a child, from the roof-tree diurnal,A scene of distraction or dullness severe,With the longing of youth for diversion and cheer,That comes like the spring-time refreshing and vernal,Goes out on a ruinous, reckless career,Returning, if ever, not many a year.O negligent female, imperfect housekeeper,Though faultless in figure and charming of face,In ruffles of ribbon and trailings of laceUsurping the part of a common street-sweeper,You never can pose as a type of your raceIn frowsy appearance mid things out of place.O fashion-bred damsel, with folly a-flutter,Until you have learned how to manage a broom,If never you know how to tidy a room,Manipulate bread or decide about butter,The duties of matron how dare you assume,Or ever be bride to a sensible groom?

So is my discomfort a house in disorder:The service uncleanly, the linen distained,The children like infantry rude and untrained;The portieres dusty and frayed at the border,By lavish expenses the pocketbook drained,And miseries numberless never explained.

I dream not of pleasure in visions untidy,A wrapper all hole-y, a buttonless shoe,A slatternly matron with nothing to do;And all the ill-luck charged to ominous FridayCan never compare with the ills that ensueOn wretched housekeeping and cookery too.

There's many a husband, a patient bread-winner,Gets up from the table with look of despair,And something akin to the growl of a bear;Not the saint he might be, but a querulous sinner—One driven to fasting but not unto prayer—Till epitaphed thus—"Indigestible Fare."

There's many a child, from the roof-tree diurnal,A scene of distraction or dullness severe,With the longing of youth for diversion and cheer,That comes like the spring-time refreshing and vernal,Goes out on a ruinous, reckless career,Returning, if ever, not many a year.

O negligent female, imperfect housekeeper,Though faultless in figure and charming of face,In ruffles of ribbon and trailings of laceUsurping the part of a common street-sweeper,You never can pose as a type of your raceIn frowsy appearance mid things out of place.

O fashion-bred damsel, with folly a-flutter,Until you have learned how to manage a broom,If never you know how to tidy a room,Manipulate bread or decide about butter,The duties of matron how dare you assume,Or ever be bride to a sensible groom?

I covet no part with that army of shirkersAll down at the heels in their slipper-y tread,Who hunt for the rolling-pin under the bed,Who look with disdain on intelligent workersAnd take to the club or the circus insteadOf mending a stocking or laying the spread.Oh, I dream of a system of perfect housekeeping,Where mistress and helper together competeIn excellent management, quiet and neat;And though in the bosom of earth I am sleeping,Shall somebody live to whom life will be sweetAnd home an ideal, idyllic retreat.

Oh, I dream of a system of perfect housekeeping,Where mistress and helper together competeIn excellent management, quiet and neat;And though in the bosom of earth I am sleeping,Shall somebody live to whom life will be sweetAnd home an ideal, idyllic retreat.

Into my disappointment-cupThe snowflakes fell and blocked the road,And so I thought I'd finish upThe latest style of Christmas ode;When she, the charming little lassWith eyes as bright as isinglass,Before a line my pen had wroughtIn strange attire came bounding in,As if she had with Bruno fought,And robbed him of his shaggy skin.

She came to me robedcap-à-pieIn her bewitching "blanket-suit,"In moccasin and toggery,All ready for "that icy chute,"And asked me if I thought she'd do;I shake with love of mischief true:"For what?—a polar bear?—why, yes!""No, no!" she said, with half a pout."Why, one would think so, by your dress—Say, does your mother know you're out?""No, I'm not out," she said, and sighed;"Because the storm so wildly raged—But for the first delightful rideFor half a year I've been engaged.""Engaged to what?—an Esquimau?To ride a glacier, or a floe?""Why, don't you know"—her color glowed,In expectation all agog—"The reason why I'm glad it snowed?Because—I'm going to tobog."

"No, I'm not out," she said, and sighed;"Because the storm so wildly raged—But for the first delightful rideFor half a year I've been engaged.""Engaged to what?—an Esquimau?To ride a glacier, or a floe?""Why, don't you know"—her color glowed,In expectation all agog—"The reason why I'm glad it snowed?Because—I'm going to tobog."

Sothat'sthe way you pass your time!Indeed your charming, frank confessionBetrays no sort of heinous crime,But marks a wonderful digressionFrom puritanic views, less bold,That we were early taught to hold."Passer le temps," of course, impliesA little cycle of flirtations,Wherein the actors never riseTo sober, serious relations,But play just for amusement's sakeA harmless game of "give and take."While moments pass on pinions fleet,And youth in beauty effloresces,The joy that finds itself completeIn honeyed words and soft caresses,Alas! an index seems to beOf perilous inconstancy.It may be with disdainful smileYou greet this comment from a stranger,Your pleasure-paths pursuing whileA siren voice discounts the danger,Until, some day, in sadder rhymeYou rue your mode of "passing time."

"Passer le temps," of course, impliesA little cycle of flirtations,Wherein the actors never riseTo sober, serious relations,But play just for amusement's sakeA harmless game of "give and take."

While moments pass on pinions fleet,And youth in beauty effloresces,The joy that finds itself completeIn honeyed words and soft caresses,Alas! an index seems to beOf perilous inconstancy.

It may be with disdainful smileYou greet this comment from a stranger,Your pleasure-paths pursuing whileA siren voice discounts the danger,Until, some day, in sadder rhymeYou rue your mode of "passing time."

Valiant sons of the sea,All the vast deep, your home,Holds no terror so dreadAs this novel and unseen foe,Lurking under the foamOf some dangerous channel—As the torpedo, the scourge of ships.Through the rigging may roarÆolus' thousand gales,Yet the mariner's heartShrinketh not from the howling blast;Though with battle-rent sails,Flames and carnage around him,Cowardice never shall pale his lips.But when powers concealed,Threatening with death the crew,Pave each eddy below,E'en the bravest are chilled with fear,Lest yon wizard in blue,Who their progress is spying,Touch but the key with his finger-tips.

Valiant sons of the sea,All the vast deep, your home,Holds no terror so dreadAs this novel and unseen foe,Lurking under the foamOf some dangerous channel—As the torpedo, the scourge of ships.

Through the rigging may roarÆolus' thousand gales,Yet the mariner's heartShrinketh not from the howling blast;Though with battle-rent sails,Flames and carnage around him,Cowardice never shall pale his lips.

But when powers concealed,Threatening with death the crew,Pave each eddy below,E'en the bravest are chilled with fear,Lest yon wizard in blue,Who their progress is spying,Touch but the key with his finger-tips.

Lo! with thunderous boomTowers a column bright,And the vessel is gone!In that ocean of blinding spraySink her turrets from sight,By thy potency broken,O irresistible scourge of ships!—Harry Howard.

Lo! with thunderous boomTowers a column bright,And the vessel is gone!In that ocean of blinding spraySink her turrets from sight,By thy potency broken,O irresistible scourge of ships!

—Harry Howard.

I saw her for a moment,Her presence haunts me yet,In oft-recurring visionsOf grace and gladness metThat marked the sweet demeanorOf dainty Margaret.Like gossamer her robe wasAround her lightly drawn,A filmy summer-garmentThat fairy maidens donTo make them look like angelsCroqueting on the lawn.

I saw her for a moment,Her presence haunts me yet,In oft-recurring visionsOf grace and gladness metThat marked the sweet demeanorOf dainty Margaret.

Like gossamer her robe wasAround her lightly drawn,A filmy summer-garmentThat fairy maidens donTo make them look like angelsCroqueting on the lawn.

The mallet-sport became herIn hue of exerciseThat tinged her cheek with roses;And, dancing in her eyes,Were pantomime suggestionsOf having won—a prize.No more to me a strangerIs she who occupiesA place in all my musings;And brings in tender guiseA thought of one so like her—Long years in Paradise.Dear Margaret! that "pearl-name"Is thine—and may it beThe synonym of goodness,Of truth and purity,And all ennobling gracesExemplified in thee.

The mallet-sport became herIn hue of exerciseThat tinged her cheek with roses;And, dancing in her eyes,Were pantomime suggestionsOf having won—a prize.

No more to me a strangerIs she who occupiesA place in all my musings;And brings in tender guiseA thought of one so like her—Long years in Paradise.

Dear Margaret! that "pearl-name"Is thine—and may it beThe synonym of goodness,Of truth and purity,And all ennobling gracesExemplified in thee.

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