Whist yez! Dan O'Sullivan!-- Him that made the Irishman Mixt the birds in wid the dough, And the dew and mistletoe Wid the whusky in the quare Muggs av us--and here we air, Three parts right, and three parts wrong, Shpiked wid beauty, wit, and song! JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY SEPULTURE--BOSTON, AUGUST 13, 1890 Dead? this peerless man of men-- Patriot, Poet, Citizen!-- Dead? and ye weep where he lies Mute, with folded eyes! Courage! All his tears are done; Mark him, dauntless, face the sun! He hath led you.--Still, as true, He is leading you. Folded eyes and folded hands Typify divine commands He is hearkening to, intent Beyond wonderment. 'Tis promotion that has come Thus upon him. Stricken dumb Be your moanings dolorous! God knows what He does. Rather as your chief, _aspire_!-- Rise and seize his toppling lyre, And sing Freedom, Home, and Love, And the rights thereof! Ere in selfish grief ye sink, Come! catch rapturous breath and think-- Think what sweep of wing hath he, Loosed in endless liberty. MEREDITH NICHOLSON Keats, and Kirk White, David Gray and the rest of you Heavened and blest of you young singers gone,-- Slender in sooth though the theme unexpressed of you, Leave us this like of you yet to sing on! Let your Muse mother him and your souls brother him, Even as now, or in fancy, you do: Still let him sing to us ever, and bring to us Musical musings of glory and--you. Never a note to do evil or wrong to us-- Beauty of melody--beauty of words,-- Sweet and yet strong to us comes his young song to us Rippled along to us clear as the bird's. No fame elating him falsely, nor sating him-- Feasting and fêting him faint of her joys, But singing on where the laurels are waiting him, Young yet in art, and his heart yet a boy's. GOD'S MERCY Behold, one faith endureth still-- Let factions rail and creeds contend-- God's mercy _was_, and _is_, and _will_ Be with us, foe and friend. CHRISTMAS GREETING A word of Godspeed and good cheer To all on earth--or far or near, Or friend or foe, or thine or mine-- In echo of the voice divine, Heard when the Star bloomed forth and lit The world's face, with God's smile on it. TO RUDYARD KIPLING To do some worthy deed of charity In secret and then have it found out by Sheer accident, held gentle Elia-- That--that was the best thing beneath the sky! Confirmed in part, yet somewhat differing-- (Grant that his gracious wraith will pardon me If impious!)--I think a better thing Is: being found out when one strives to be.