THE TRUE KNIGHT. We sigh above historic pages, Brave with the deeds of courtly men, And wish those peers of middle ages In our dull day could live again. And yet no knight or Troubadour began In chivalry with the American. He does not frequent joust or tourney, And flaunt his lady’s colors there; But in the tedium of a journey, He shows that deferential care-- That thoughtful kindness to the sex at large, Which makes each woman feel herself his charge. He does not challenge foes to duel, To win his lady’s cast-off glove, But proves in ways less rash and cruel, The truth and fervor of his love. Not by bold deeds, but by his reverent mien, He pays his public tribute to his Queen. He may not shine with courtly graces, But yet, his kind, respectful air To woman, whatsoe’er her place is, It might be well if kings could share. So, for the chivalric true gentleman, Give me, I say, our own American. THE CITY. I own the charms of lovely Nature; still, In human nature more delight I find. Though sweet the murmuring voices of the rill, I much prefer the voices of my kind. I like the roar of cities. In the mart, Where busy toilers strive for place and gain, I seem to read humanity’s great heart, And share its hopes, its pleasures, and its pain. The rush of hurrying trains that cannot wait, The tread of myriad feet, all say to me: “You are the architect of your own fate; Toil on, hope on, and dare to do and be.” I like the jangled music of the loud Bold bells; the whistle’s sudden shrill reply; And there is inspiration in a crowd-- A magnetism flashed from eye to eye. My sorrows all seem lightened and my joys Augmented when the comrade world walks near; Close to mankind my soul best keeps its poise. Give me the great town’s bustle, strife, and noise And let who will, hold Nature’s calm more dear. WOMAN. Give us that grand word “woman” once again, And let’s have done with “lady”: one’s a term Full of fine force, strong, beautiful, and firm, Fit for the noblest use of tongue or pen; And one’s a word for lackeys. One suggests The Mother, Wife, and Sister! One the dame Whose costly robe, mayhap, gives her the name. One word upon its own strength leans and rests; The other minces tiptoe. Who would be The perfect woman must grow brave of heart And broad of soul to play her troubled part Well in life’s drama. While each day we see The “perfect lady” skilled in what to do And what to say, grace in each tone and act (’Tis taught in schools, but needs some native tact), Yet narrow in her mind as in her shoe. Give the first place then to the nobler phrase, And leave the lesser word for lesser praise.