A poet born, not made, By Nature taught, she knew, And, knowing, still obeyed The Beautiful, the True. Hers was the seeing eye, The sympathetic heart, The subtle art whereby Lone genius summons art. She caught the primal charm Of every rural scene,-- Of river, cottage, farm, Blue sky, and woodland green. Baptized in Sorrow’s stream, She sang, how sweetly well, Of true Love’s tender dream, And Death’s pale asphodel. Her pensive muse has fled From hill and meadow-brook; No more her footsteps tread Thy paths, fair Clovernook. No more may she behold The dew-crowned Summer morn On wings of sunrise gold Fly o’er the bending corn. No more her mournful gaze Shall seek the twilight sky, When parting Autumn days Flush hectic ere they die. Nor note of joyous bird, Nor April’s fragrant breath, Nor tear, nor loving word, May break the spell of Death. Sleep on! and take thy rest, In Greenwood by the sea! Dear Poet of the West, Thy West remembers thee. THE GREENFIELD WIZARD. (J. W. R.) Two things there are in heaven above And earth below--the greater, Love, The lesser, Death--and therefor grew Heart’s-ease and rosemary and rue And myrrh and moly, magic plants; These, and a common rose or two Besprent with Indiana dew, My wizard gathers from their haunts; Distils the balmy, subtle juice To make a spell of potent use; Filters a seeming simple wine Nectared with some drops most rare-- (How he finds the tinct or where, Not the critics can divine!) Whoso gives the wine his lips, Sipping smiles, and laughing sips; But, before he drinks it up, Tears have trickled in the cup. WILLIAM BAIRD OF RIDGEVILLE. Now who is the delightfulest Old soldier that shakes hands with you? The genial host, the welcome guest, The teeming brain, the bosom true, The soul of song and merry jest? The prince of all good fellows, who? “Why, William Baird of Ridgeville!” Whenever meets the G. A. R., Through rain or dust he hies to town; He gladdens the excursion car, And, as his regiment tramps down The gala street, you hear afar The marching measure, “Old John Brown,” From William Baird of Ridgeville. Then all the casements open wide, A thousand flags are shaken free, The balconies on either side Are loud with shouts of jubilee, And thrilling maidens wave with pride Their kerchiefs, laughing, crying: “See! That’s William Baird of Ridgeville!”