He fell asleep when in the century's skies The paling stars proclaimed another day-- He, genial still, amidst the chill and gray, With smiling lips and trustful, dauntless eyes; He, the Columbus of a vast emprise, Whose realization in the future lay; He, who stepped from the well-worn, narrow way To walk with Poetry in larger guise. And fortunate, despite of transient griefs, The years announce him in a new born age; The ship of his fair fame, past crags and reefs, Sails bravely on, and less and less the rage Of gainsaying winds becomes; while to his phrase The world each day gives ampler heed and praise! --_William Struthers_ Here health we pledge you in one draught of song, Caught in this rhymster's cup from earth's delight, Where English fields are green the whole year long-- The wine of might, That the new-come spring distills, most sweet and strong, In the viewless air's alembic, that's wrought too fine for sight. Good health! we pledge, that care may lightly sleep, And pain of age be gone for this one day, As of this loving cup you take, and, drinking deep, Are glad at heart straightway To feel once more the friendly heat of the sun Creative in you (as when in youth it shone), And pulsing brainward with the rhythmic wealth Of all the summer whose high minstrelsy Shall soon crown field and tree, To call back age to youth again, and pain to perfect health. --_Ernest Rhys_ I loaf and invite my soul And what do I feel? An influx of life from the great central power That generates beauty from seedling to flower. I loaf and invite my soul And what do I hear? Original harmonies piercing the din Of measureless tragedy, sorrow and sin. I loaf and invite my soul And what do I see? The temple of God in the perfected man. Revealing the wisdom and end of earth's plan. --_Elizabeth Porter Gould_ He passed amid the noisy throngs, His elbow touched with theirs; They grumbled at their petty wrongs, Their woes and cares; They asked if "Princeton stood to win"; Or what they should invest; They told with gusto and with grin Some futile jest. They jostled him and passed him by, Nor slacked their eager pace; They did not mark that noble eye, That noble face. So carelessly they let him go, His mien they could not scan,-- Thinker whom all the world would know, Our greatest man. _Max J. Herzberg_ Here ends this book written by Henry Eduard Legler, arranged in this form by Laurence C. Woodworth, Scrivener, and printed for the Brothers of the Book at the press of The Faithorn Company, Chicago, 1916. _Incipit Vita Nova_