Marshes of Hackensack, See, I am going back Where the Quinnipiac Winds to the bay, Down its long meadow track, Piled in the myriad stack, Where in wide bivouac Camps the salt hay. Spire of old Trinity, Never again to be Seamark and goal to me As I walk down; Chimes on the upper air, Calling in vain to prayer, Squandering your music where Roars the black town: Bless me once ere I ride Off to God's countryside, Where in the treetops hide Belfry and bell; Tongues of the steeple towers, Telling the slow-paced hours-- Hail, thou still town of ours-- Bedlam, farewell! Those who are familiar with Professor Beers's humour, as expressed in _The Ways of Yale,_ will wish that he had preserved also in this later book some of his whimsicalities, as in the poem _A Fish Story,_ which begins: A whale of great porosity, And small specific gravity, Dived down with much velocity Beneath the sea's concavity. But soon the weight of water Squeezed in his fat immensity, Which varied--as it ought to-- Inversely as his density. Professor Charlton M. Lewis was born at Brooklyn on the fourth of March, 1866. He took his B.A. at Yale in 1886, and an LL.B at Columbia in 1889. For some years he was a practising lawyer in New York; in 1895 he became a member of the Yale Faculty. In 1903 he published _Gawayne and the Green Knight_, a long poem, in which humour and imagination are delightfully mingled. His lyric _Pro Patria_ (1937) is a good illustration of his poetic powers; it is indeed one of America's finest literary contributions to the war. PRO PATRIA Remember, as the flaming car Of ruin nearer rolls, That of our country's substance are Our bodies and our souls. Her dust we are, and to her dust Our ashes shall descend: Who craves a lineage more august Or a diviner end? By blessing of her fruitful dews, Her suns and winds and rains, We have her granite in our thews, Her iron in our veins. And, sleeping in her sacred earth, The ever-living dead On the dark miracle of birth Their holy influence shed.... So, in the faith our fathers kept, We live, and long to die; To sleep forever, as they have slept, Under a sunlit sky; Close-folded to our mother's heart To find our souls' release-- A secret coeternal part Of her eternal peace;-- Where Hood, Saint Helen's and Rainier, In vestal raiment, keep Inviolate through the varying year Their immemorial sleep; Or where the meadow-lark, in coy But calm profusion, pours The liquid fragments of his joy On old colonial shores.