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TWILIGHT AT THE HEIGHTS

THE brave young city by the Balboa seas Lies compassed about by the hosts of night

Lies humming, low, like a hive of bees; And the day lies dead. And its spirit's flight

Is far to the west; while the golden bars That bound it are broken to a dust of stars.

Come under my oaks, oh, drowsy dusk !
The wolf and the dog; dear incense hour
When Mother Earth hath a smell of musk,
And things of the spirit assert their
power-

When candles are set to burn in the west
Set head and foot to the day at rest.

DEAD IN THE SIERRAS

HIS footprints have failed us, Where berries are red, And madroños are rankest, The hunter is dead!

The grizzly may pass By his half-open door; May pass and repass On his path, as of yore;

The panther may crouch In the leaves on his limb; May scream and may scream, It is nothing to him.

Prone, bearded, and breasted Like columns of stone; And tall as a pineAs a pine overthrown!

His camp-fires gone,
What else can be done
Than let him sleep on
Till the light of the sun?

Ay, tombless! what of it?
Marble is dust,
Cold and repellent;
And iron is rust.

PETER COOPER

GIVE honor and love for evermore

To this great man gone to rest;

Peace on the dim Plutonian shore, Rest in the land of the blest.

I reckon him greater than any man
That ever drew sword in war;

I reckon him nobler than king or khan,
Braver and better by far.

And wisest he in this whole wide land
Of hoarding till bent and gray;
For all you can hold in your cold dead hand
Is what you have given away.

So whether to wander the stars or to rest

Forever hushed and dumb,

He gave with a zest and he gave his bestGive him the best to come.

1883.

TO RUSSIA

WHO tamed your lawless Tartar blood?
What David bearded in her den
The Russian bear in ages when
You strode your black, unbridled stud,
A skin-clad savage of your steppes ?
Why, one who now sits low and weeps,
Why, one who now wails out to you,
The Jew, the Jew, the homeless Jew.

Who girt the thews of your young prime
And bound your fierce divided force?
Why, who but Moses shaped your course
United down the grooves of time?
Your mighty millions all to-day
The hated, homeless Jew obey.
Who taught all poetry to you?
The Jew, the Jew, the hated Jew.

Who taught you tender Bible tales
Of honey-lands, of milk and wine?
Of happy, peaceful Palestine ?
Of Jordan's holy harvest vales?
Who gave the patient Christ? I say,
Who gave your Christian creed? Yea, yea,
Who gave your very God to you?
Your Jew! Your Jew! Your hated Jew!

THE VOICE OF THE DOVE

COME listen, O Love, to the voice of the dove, Come, hearken and hear him say,

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As the things I eat are rather tough and dry;

For I live on toasted lizards,

Prickly pears, and parrot gizzards, And I'm really very fond of beetle-pie.

The clothes I had were furry, And it made me fret and worry When I found the moths were eating off the hair;

And I had to scrape and sand 'em,
And I boiled 'em and I tanned 'em,
Till I got the fine morocco suit I wear.

I sometimes seek diversion
In a family excursion

With the few domestic animals you see;
And we take along a carrot

As refreshments for the parrot,
And a little can of jungleberry tea.

Then we gather as we travel Bits of moss and dirty gravel, And we chip off little specimens of stone; And we carry home as prizes Funny bugs of handy sizes,

Just to give the day a scientific tone.

If the roads are wet and muddy We remain at home and study, For the Goat is very clever at a sum, And the Dog, instead of fighting, Studies ornamental writing,

While the Cat is taking lessons on the drum.

We retire at eleven,

And we rise again at seven;

And I wish to call attention, as I close,
To the fact that all the scholars
Are correct about their collars,
And particular in turning out their toes.

Sidney Lanier

SONG FOR "THE JAQUERIE"

BETRAYAL

THE sun has kissed the violet sea, And burned the violet to a rose.

O Sea! wouldst thou not better be
Mere violet still? Who knows? Who
knows?

Well hides the violet in the wood:
The dead leaf wrinkles her a hood,
And winter's ill is violet's good;

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