For urns of memory, treasured, perhaps, as themes For hearts heroic, fearless singers and livers— Delphic Apollo! The Spooniad [_The late Mr. Jonathan Swift Somers, laureate of Spoon River (see page 111), planned The Spooniad as an epic in twenty-four books, but unfortunately did not live to complete even the first book. The fragment was found among his papers by William Marion Reedy and was for the first time published in Reedy’s Mirror of December 18th, 1914._] Of John Cabanis’ wrath and of the strife Of hostile parties, and his dire defeat Who led the common people in the cause Of freedom for Spoon River, and the fall Of Rhodes, bank that brought unnumbered woes And loss to many, with engendered hate That flamed into the torch in Anarch hands To burn the court-house, on whose blackened wreck A fairer temple rose and Progress stood— Sing, muse, that lit the Chian’s face with smiles Who saw the ant-like Greeks and Trojans crawl About Scamander, over walls, pursued Or else pursuing, and the funeral pyres And sacred hecatombs, and first because Of Helen who with Paris fled to Troy As soul-mate; and the wrath of Peleus, son, Decreed to lose Chryseis, lovely spoil Of war, and dearest concubine. Say first, Thou son of night, called Momus, from whose eyes No secret hides, and Thalia, smiling one, What bred ’twixt Thomas Rhodes and John Cabanis The deadly strife? His daughter Flossie, she, Returning from her wandering with a troop Of strolling players, walked the village streets, Her bracelets tinkling and with sparkling rings And words of serpent wisdom and a smile Of cunning in her eyes. Then Thomas Rhodes, Who ruled the church and ruled the bank as well, Made known his disapproval of the maid; And all Spoon River whispered and the eyes Of all the church frowned on her, till she knew They feared her and condemned. But them to flout She gave a dance to viols and to flutes, Brought from Peoria, and many youths, But lately made regenerate through the prayers Of zealous preachers and of earnest souls, Danced merrily, and sought her in the dance, Who wore a dress so low of neck that eyes Down straying might survey the snowy swale ’Till it was lost in whiteness.