I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead And mountains of wearisome height; That the road passes on through the long afternoon And stretches away to the night. But still I rejoice when the travellers rejoice, And weep with the strangers that moan, Nor live in my house by the side of the road Like a man who dwells alone. Let me live in my house by the side of the road Where the race of men go by-- They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong, Wise, foolish--so am I. Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat Or hurl the cynic's ban?-- Let me live in my house by the side of the road And be a friend to man. Mr. Foss's attribution to Homer used as a motto preceding his poem, "The House by the Side of the Road," is, no doubt, his translation of a passage from the _Iliad_, book vi., which, as done into English prose in the translation of Lang, Leaf and Myers, is as follows: Then Diomedes of the loud war-cry slew Axylos, Teuthranos' son that dwelt in stablished Arisbe, a man of substance dear to his fellows; _for his dwelling was by the road-side and he entertained all men_. * * * * * SAM WALTER FOSS Sam Walter Foss was a poet of gentle heart. His keen wit never had any sting. He has described our Yankee folk with as clever humour as Bret Harte delineated Rocky Mountain life. Like Harte, Mr. Foss had no unkindness in his make-up. He told me that he never had received an anonymous letter in his life. Our American nation is wonderful in science and mechanical invention. It was the aim of Sam Walter Foss to immortalize the age of steel. "Harness all your rivers above the cataracts' brink, and then unharness man." He told me he thought the subject of mechanics was as poetical as the song of the lark. "The Cosmos wrought for a billion years to make glad for a day," reminds us of the most resonant periods of Tennyson. "The House by the Side of the Road," is from a text of Homer. "The Lunkhead" shows Foss in his happiest mood: gently satirizing the foibles and harmless, foolish fancies of his fellow-men. There is a haunting misty tenderness in such a poem as "The Tree Lover." "Who loves a tree he loves the life That springs in flower and clover; He loves the love that gilds the cloud, And greens the April sod; He loves the wide beneficence, His soul takes hold of God." We have too little love for the tender out-of-door nature. "The world is too much with us."