Helen Fiske Jackson CORONATION AT the king's gate the subtle noon Wove filmy yellow nets of sun; Into the drowsy snare too soon The guards fell one by one. ("H. H.") Through the king's gate, unquestioned then, A beggar went, and laughed, "This brings Me chance at last, to see if men Fare better, being kings." The king sat bowed beneath his crown, Too slow its shining sand. "Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?" The beggar turned, and, pitying, Replied like one in dream, "Of thee, Nothing. I want the king." Uprose the king, and from his head Shook off the crown and threw it by. "O man, thou must have known," he said, "A greater king than I." Through all the gates, unquestioned then, Went king and beggar hand in hand. Whispered the king, "Shall I know when Before Ilis throne I stand?” On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king camo not. They called him dead; And made his eldest son one day Slave in his father's stead. MORN IN what a strange bewilderment do we Awake each moru from out the brief night's sleep. Our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep Its slow way back, as if it could not free Before. I wonder if this is the way A brief bewilderment, and in dismay What cheer for him who goes, and him who stays! Fair skies, rich lands, new homes, and untried days Some go to seek: the rest but wait instead, Watching the way wherein their comrades led, Until the next stanch ship her flag doth raise. Who knows what myriad colonies there are Of fairest fields, and rich, undreamed-of gains Thick planted in the distant shining plains Which we call sky because they lie so far? Oh, write of me, not " Died in bitter pains," But "Emigrated to another star!" Franklin Benjamin Sanborn SAMUEL HOAR ARIANA' SWEET saint! whose rising dawned upon the sight Like fair Aurora chasing mists away, Ah! whither vanished that celestial light? But thou returnest not with days and years: Or is it thine, you clear and beckoning star, Seen o'er the hills that guarded once thy home? Dost guide thy friend's free steps that widely roam Toward that far country where his wishes are ? AT CHAPPAQUA Joel Benton His cherished woods are mute. The stream glides down The hill as when I knew it years ago; The silver springs are cupless, and the flow Of friendly feet no more bereaves the grass, For he is absent who was wont to pass Along this wooded path. His axe's blow No more disturbs the impertinent bole or bough; Nor moves his pen our heedless nation now, Which, sworn to justice, stirred the people 80. In some far world his much-loved face must glow With rapture still. This breeze once fanned his brow. This is the peaceful Mecca all men know! THE SCARLET TANAGER A BALL of fire shoots through the tamarack 1 Bee BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE, p. 819. |