His sacred Muse, on soaring rapture’s wings, Aspired the radiant empyrean high, And bore to earth the splendor of the sky! Durante’s spirit to my senses brings The excessive beauty of transcendent things That thrill imagination’s ear and eye; With joy I hear the blissful carolings Of angel hosts in robes of dazzling white; My soul partakes the poet’s ecstasy! Through all my meditation and my prayer Steals reminiscence of the Stream of Light, And of the Rose unutterably fair,-- And O! the threefold glory of The One, The Love that moves the circling stars and sun! WAGNER’S KAISER MARCH. TO THEODORE THOMAS. What diapasons from the hush profound Thy magic wand, O Master, summons forth To laud imperial Kaiser, robed and crowned! Hail! multitudinous music of the North! Titanic Wagner’s soul informs the sound! Ho! instruments triumphant, trump and drum, And cymbal clanging where the troopers come! The Gothic valor now is set to score; I hear the tramp of Saxon thought unbound, The victor’s cry, disdaining death or wound,-- I hear the saber ring, the cannon roar! This is the throbbing tune for Halfred’s rhyme, The symphony of glorious war sublime, Valhalla’s martial joy forevermore! DEFOE IN THE PILLORY. On to the Pillory, ho! To punish bold Daniel Defoe! Come on to the place Of shame and disgrace! Bring rose-garlands sweet To cast at his feet! Fill glasses! Fill, ho! Here’s to Daniel Defoe! On to the Pillory, ho! To punish bold Daniel Defoe! His fate he has earned, His book we have burned, That its soul may fly forth, East, west, south and north! Blow, trumpeter, blow! Here’s to Daniel Defoe! On to the Pillory, ho! To punish bold Daniel Defoe! Shout him greeting full loud! Sing his praise to the crowd! The sentries may swear, But what do we care? More roses we’ll throw! Here’s to Daniel Defoe! On to the Pillory, ho! To punish rogue Daniel Defoe! Pelt him, maidens and men! For he thinks with a pen, And his thought is too free! God bless him! See! See! Fill glasses! Fill, ho! Here’s to Daniel Defoe! WE THE PEOPLE. We the People, not the Crown, Not the surplice nor the brand, Noble’s crest nor schoolman’s gown, Burse nor rostrum, grange nor town,-- We the People rule our land. We the People, not the Few, High nor low nor middle class, High and low and middle too, Freemen, he and I and you, We the multitude, the mass. Dumb we plodded feudal years, Goaded by the lash of scorn; Groaning, wept a sea of tears; Lo! at last our day appears, Dawn of the millennial morn!