Some day our town will grow old, Filled with the fullness of time, Treasure on treasure heaped Of beauty’s tradition sublime. Proud and gay and grey Like Hannah with Samuel blest. Humble and girlish and white Like Mary, the manger guest. Like Mary the manger queen Bringing the God of Light Till Christmas is here indeed And earth has no more of night, And hosts of Magi come, The wisest under the sun Bringing frankincense and praise For her gift of the Infinite One. AFTER READING THE SAD STORY OF THE FALL OF BABYLON Oh Lady, my city, and new flower of the prairie, What have we to do with this long time ago? Oh lady love, Bud of tomorrow, With eyes that hold the hundred years Yet to ebb and flow, And breasts that burn With great great grandsons All their valor, all their tears, A century hence shall know, What have we to do With this long time ago? ALEXANDER CAMPBELL “The present material universe, yet unrevealed in all its area, in all its tenantries, in all its riches, beauty and grandeur will be wholly regenerated. Of this fact we have full assurance since He that now sits upon the throne of the Universe has pledged His word for it, saying: ‘Behold I will create all things new,’ consequently, ‘new heavens, new earth,’ consequently, new tenantries, new employments, new pleasures, new joys, new ecstasies. There is a fullness of joy, a fullness of glory and a fullness of blessedness of which no living man, however enlightened, however enlarged, however gifted, ever formed or entertained one adequate conception.” The above is the closing paragraph in Alexander Campbell’s last essay in the _Millennial Harbinger_, which he had edited thirty-five years. This paragraph appeared November, 1865, four months before his death. I--MY FATHERS CAME FROM KENTUCKY I was born in Illinois,-- Have lived there many days. And I have Northern words, And thoughts, And ways. But my great grandfathers came To the west with Daniel Boone, And taught his babes to read, And heard the red-bird’s tune; And heard the turkey’s call, And stilled the panther’s cry, And rolled on the blue-grass hills, And looked God in the eye. And feud and Hell were theirs; Love, like the moon’s desire, Love like a burning mine, Love like rifle-fire. I tell tales out of school Till these Yankees hate my style. Why should the young cad cry, Shout with joy for a mile? Why do I faint with love Till the prairies dip and reel? My heart is a kicking horse Shod with Kentucky steel. No drop of my blood from north Of Mason and Dixon’s line. And this racer in my breast Tears my ribs for a sign. But I ran in Kentucky hills Last week. They were hearth and home.... And the church at Grassy Springs, Under the red-bird’s wings Was peace and honeycomb. II--WRITTEN IN A YEAR WHEN MANY OF MY PEOPLE DIED