His presence, all-commanding, as his thought Into unconscious eloquence was wrought, Until the utterance became a spell That awed us as a spoken miracle. Learning, to him, was native--was, in truth, The earliest playmate of his lisping youth, Likewise, throughout a life of toil and stress, It was as laughter, health and happiness: And so he played with it--joyed at its call-- Ran rioting with it, forgetting all Delights of childhood, and of age and fame,-- A devotee of learning, still the same! In fancy, even now we catch the glance Of the rapt eye and radiant countenance, As when his discourse, like a woodland stream, Flowed musically on from theme to theme: The skies, the stars, the mountains, and the sea, He worshipped as their high divinity-- Nor did his reverent spirit find one thing On earth too lowly for his worshipping. The weed, the rose, the wildwood or the plain, The teeming harvest, or the blighted grain-- All--all were fashioned beautiful and good, As the soul saw and senses understood. Thus broadly based, his spacious faith and love Enfolded all below as all above-- Nay, ev'n if overmuch he loved mankind, He gave his love's vast largess as designed. Therefore, in fondest, faithful service, he Wrought ever bravely for humanity-- Stood, first of heroes for the Right allied-- Foes, even, grieving, when (for them) he died. This was the man we loved--are loving yet, And still shall love while longing eyes are wet With selfish tears that well were brushed away Remembering his smile of yesterday.-- For, even as we knew him, smiling still, Somewhere beyond all earthly ache or ill, He waits with the old welcome--just as when We met him smiling, we shall meet again. NEW YEAR'S NURSERY JINGLE Of all the rhymes of all the climes Of where and when and how, We best and most can boost and boast The Golden Age of NOW! TO THE MOTHER The mother-hands no further toil may know; The mother-eyes smile not on you and me; The mother-heart is stilled, alas!--But O The mother-love abides eternally. TO MY SISTER A BELATED OFFERING FOR HER BIRTHDAY These books you find three weeks behind Your honored anniversary Make me, I fear, to here appear Mayhap a trifle cursory.-- Yet while the Muse must thus refuse The chords that fall caressfully, She seems to stir the publisher And dealer quite successfully. As to our _birthdays_--let 'em run Until they whir and whiz! Read Robert Louis Stevenson, And hum these lines of his:-- "The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt, Shall break on hill and plain And put all stars and candles out Ere we be young again." A MOTTO