Click, Click Like the beat of a death-watch, sharp and quick, 'Tis the last note struck, 'tis the first wild touch He gives the key, as he feels the vague An creeping chill of the deadly plague. Ere its burns with the strength of its fever clutch. He falters, falls, and his work is done, And the fiend has marked his victim won, Not long he dallies with those who fall Beneath the curse of his yellow thrall, O city, beneath his merciless sway, Mourn, mourn, for your hero dies today. Passing several poems of genuine humor and two or three more lengthy ones of epic cast and tragic interest, this appreciation of William Ward's life and poetry, though incomplete must find an end. What poetry in the abstract is, the world has not yet determined, and probably never will. Whether it be "the rhythmical creation of beauty" or the "lyrical expression of emotion," or both; whether its end be truth or beauty or merely sensuous delight, one or all, each will decide for himself, according as he is provincial or cosmopolitan in his culture. What is poetry to one is doggerel or riming prose to another. "The Ring and the Book" is intolerable to many who enjoy "The Idylls of the King." Wordsworth is for the most part childish or meaningless to numbers who delight in Scott or Byron. Where Poe is lauded, Whitman very likely will be scouted. Individual estimates of William Ward's poems will, therefore, vary according to the tastes and training of the reader. But it can hardly be doubted that they will appeal strongly to a majority of the lovers of true poetry. If imagery be preferred, it is conspicuous throughout his verse; if emotion be specially sought for, it too in almost every type pulsates in these poems; if music be the criterion, in that also they will not be found wanting, for the melody and harmony of most of them is a striking characteristic. That they might be judged on their own merits, and not so much on the opinion of one who might be deemed more advocate than critic, fuller selections by way of illustration have been offered than would have been the case, if the poems could readily be found. They were published mostly in the Philadelphia American Courier, the Macon Beacon, and the New Orleans Times-Democrat, and have not been collected in book form, as it is earnestly hoped they yet will be. Better known, it is confidently believed that they will place their author high on the roll of Southern poets. As a summary and a conclusion, the following Report of the Committee on Necrology to the Press Convention of Mississippi in 1888 is here appended: