Part 2

Come, Summer, come, and with thy magic breath Make consummation of the death of death; Complete the work of thy sweet sister, Spring; Life more abundantly give everything: Come, Summer, come.

SIR SUMMER.

When conquering Summer stalks the street, His eyes are eyes of fire, The pavement burns beneath his feet, Men droop before his ire; But yonder, out upon the land, His manners are not these: He is a courtier mild and bland Beneath the maple trees.

He throws his buckler on the grass, Unclasps his sheathed blade; He doffs his helmet and cuirass, And lounges in the shade; His pennon, fastened to a bough, Is fluttering in the breeze: He is at home and happy now Beneath the maple trees.

No furious rage disturbs his breast, No fever heats his brain; Right cheerily he takes his rest, And views his glad domain; His lady seated by his side, His children on his knees, His heart expands with joy and pride Beneath the maple trees.

He hears the happy farmer folk Who toss the fragrant hay; Blessings upon him they invoke, And beg of him to stay. The music of the feathered choirs, The murmur of the bees, Are sounds of which he never tires Beneath the maple trees.

He hums a sweet, melodious tune, His hand a garland weaves, He talks the while he feasts at noon, His laughter shakes the leaves. He tells of conquests in the south, Of triumphs overseas, Of realms redeemed and deeds of drouth, Beneath the maple trees.

He shouts and holds his jolly sides, And strikes his lusty thigh, To think of how Sir Winter hides His face when he is nigh, Or how with city exquisites His swagger disagrees: Thus glad Sir Summer gaily sits Beneath the maple trees.

I know where I can find his bower Upon a wooded hill, Where I can pluck his favorite flower, And bathe within his rill; And thither I will take my flight, And loiter at my ease, And pay my homage to the Knight Beneath the maple trees.

THE NIGHT.

A tremor, a quiver, Through her ran As over the river The dawn began. She drew her veil Over her eyes, And her face grew pale, As she watched the sun rise. She faded, turned To a ghost, was gone, As the morning burned And the day came on. With veiled, sad eye, And face still wan, She waited nigh When the dusk began. With her tears of bliss The earth was wet, And soothed with her kiss, When the sun had set. And with stately pride She sat on the throne Of her empire wide When the day had gone; And her robes she spread With their sable hem, And crowned her head With her diadem. And the mute earth saw That a Queen was she, And gazed with awe On her majesty.

TO BEAUTY.

Beauty, beloved of all gentle hearts And pure, and cherished of the gifted tribe Whose skill to canvas and even stone imparts Such things as words are powerless to describe. And bards, who woo thee in the silent shade And dote upon thee under moonlit skies, And lovers, who behold thee new-array'd, As our first parents did in Paradise!

These all have been thy priests. In times remote, In Athens and the cool Thessalian dells, They sung thy liturgy with dulcet note, And quaff'd thy chalice from the sacred wells Of leafy Helicon. Beneath the brows Of fam'd Olympus and among the isles Of the Aegean sea they paid their vows, And read thy lore in Nature's frowns and smiles.

Nor strange to Zion's sanctuaried hill Wast thou, embalmer of the holy page; Ambrosial odors from thy garments fill The garden where the amorous royal sage Walk'd and discours'd with his beloved; there Alluring in thy soft and sumptuous dress: And to his kinglier sire supremely fair, Companion sweet of meek-ey'd Holiness.

Thou hast no local temple, no set shrine; Thou art diffus'd o'er earth and sky and sea; In every land a thousand haunts are thine, Spirits of every race respond to thee. Here thy Olympus and thy Zion hill, Thy silvery Aegean, I survey; Thy majesty and loveliness at will I view, and own thy tranquilizing sway.

THE DOCTOR.

He bent above our darling's bed When her life was ebbing low, And in his serious look we read The truth we feared to know.

We knew a slender thread was all That held her now; we saw The dark, portentous shadow fall, And near and nearer draw.

Our hopes were centred all in him; We stood with bated breath As, pitiful and calm and grim, He fought and fought with Death.

We hung upon the desperate fight, And saw in him combined The tiger's stealth, the lion's might, The man's superior mind.

We saw the fearful hate he bore His old, relentless foe, His beautiful compassion for The one we cherished so.

No mortal ever waged alone A conflict so severe; The high-souled, stainless champion Finds heavenly succor near.

Legions of angels to his aid His pure devotion brought; Celestial strength his spirit swayed; 'Twas Life that in him fought.

The awful stillness of the night! The long and bitter hours!-- It seemed that Time had stayed his flight To watch the battling pow'rs.

And ere the ghastly night had fled He conquered in the strife, And gently took the slender thread, And drew her back to life.

MY VALENTINE.

O Dorothy, sweet Dorothy, You make my heart rejoice; Your presence is like Arcady, There's music in your voice; Heaven's purity is on your brow, Its light is in your eyne; I love you, and I ask you now To be my Valentine.

Your face is like the lily in The morning's ruddy light; Your dimpled cheeks and tiny chin Are blessings to my sight; Your lips are fairer than the rose And redder far than wine; Your teeth are whiter than the snows: You'll be my Valentine!

You are not quite so old as I, You've seen but summers three; And that's no doubt the reason why You are not coy with me. I'll come to you to-morrow, And on chocolates we'll dine; And you'll have no thought of sorrow When you are my Valentine.

MY FRIENDS.

"My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day." --_Southey_.

Some to and fro for converse flit And on their friends intrude, Or shun society and sit In cheerless solitude; But I can sit, when night descends, At home among a thousand friends.

The garish day is left behind, The scurry and the din; The hours of toil are out of mind, As if they had not been. No thought of morrow that impends Comes in between me and my friends.

We reck not of the flight of time, To them a subject strange; They pass their days in a sublime Indifference to change: Theirs is the life that never ends; Immortal beings are my friends.

They toil not, neither do they spin; Yet none is meanly drest; And some are clad in costly skin, And some in silken vest; And everyone who sees commends The decent habits of my friends.

And some are short, and some are tall; Some portly, and some spare; Here is a group of pygmies small, A Tom Thumb family; there A Brobdingnagian row extends, The best-informed among my friends.

Wot one among them all is low, A fellow to be spurned; And none is ever rude, although Their backs are often turned. No observation that offends Is dropped by any of my friends.

And some are steeped in classic lore; Some brim with wisdom sage; And some can trace a far-off shore, Or paint a former age; And each his talent freely lends, For talented are all my friends.

Some tell of deeds and lives sublime And triumphs over foes; Some weave a spell of lofty rhyme, Some charm with stately prose; And here and there a mind unbends Familiarly among my friends.

In diction antiquated, quaint, Or with a modern sound, They speak their thoughts without restraint, Although they're mostly bound; And cease to speak when none attends, A valued feature of my friends.

Although they shun the thoughtless crowd, The frivolous disdain, Their titles have not made them proud, Nor all their pages vain; No common mortal less pretends, None can be opener than my friends.

They care not that they've all been cut, A number by myself, And often taken down, and put As often on the shelf; My estimation makes amends For such ill-treatment of my friends.

An ever-fresh, unfailing source Of thought and sympathy, What hours of goodly intercourse They have afforded me! I cannot doubt that heaven still sends Us angels while I have my friends.

If he who sits at home in gloom, Or rushes here and there, Will put a bookshelf in his room And furnish it with care, He'll bless the evenings that he spends With such companions as my friends.

NOTHING TOO GOOD FOR THE IRISH.

It's the Emerald Isle is the beautiful land: There's nothing too good for the Irish. O'er the whole of it, Nature, at heaven's command, Has scattered her charms with a prodigal hand From Skibbereen town to the Donegal strand; For there's nothing too good for the Irish.

And it's many a hero the Irish can claim: There's nothing too good for the Irish. "Red Hugh" put his country's invaders to shame; Owen Roe was a fighter they never could tame; As a nation the Irish have glory and fame; For there's nothing too good for the Irish.

And the Irish are noted for piety, too: There's nothing too good for the Irish. In the far-away time before Brian Boru, The faith by Saint Patrick was planted and grew, And the "Island of Saints" has had saints not a few: For there's nothing too good for the Irish.

And the best of all orators Irishmen are: There's nothing too good for the Irish. The voice of Columba was heard from afar, Burke's eloquence rolled like a conquering car, And the name of O'Connell's a radiant star; For there's nothing too good for the Irish.

And the Irishman always is witty, of course; There's nothing too good for the Irish. And his wit is as genial and kind as its source; It never leaves anyone feeling the worse; He makes bulls, but a good Irish bull's a white horse; For there's nothing too good for the Irish.

You are thinking, no doubt, to the race I belong: There's nothing too good for the Irish. You think I am Irish, but that's where you're wrong; I am Scotch, but our love for the Irish is strong; We gave them a saint and we'll give them a song; For there's nothing too good for the Irish.

AN ENGLISH TOAST.

The English soil!--'tis hallowed ground: Its restless children roam The world, but they have never found So dear a land as home; Their passion for its hills and downs Nor space nor time can spoil; A golden mist of memory crowns The good old English soil.

The English race!--its pluck and pith, Its power to stay and win,-- Wise Alfred's, dauntless Harold's kith, And Coeur de Lion's kin! Sir Philip Sidney, Hampden, Noll, Who sat in kingly place! Wolfe, Nelson, Wellington and all The good old English race!

The English speech!--the copious tongue, Terse, vivid, plastic, fit, Which Chaucer, Spenser loved and sung, Which gave us Holy Writ; Which Shakespeare, Milton used, to write, Which Taylor used, to preach, And Pitt, to speak, as we to-night-- The good old English speech!

"St. George and Merrie England!"--still The stirring phrase imparts Warmth to the blood, and sends a thrill Through more than English hearts. God save Old England by His grace! We all alike beseech, Who know the English soil or race And speak the English speech.

THE SCOT.

That no Scotsman is perfect, we freely confess, Nor has been since the time of the fall; Yet we think, notwithstanding and nevertheless, He is "nae sheep-shank bane," after all. "Sic excellent pairts" as he has will atone For the lack of a tittle or jot; And, although we don't boast, it is very well known For some things you must go to a Scot.

If you want a sweet song that comes straight from the heart Of a man who had few for his peers, An approved son of genius and master of art. And a lover, with laughter and tears; A song that gives honor to personal worth, And ennobles the lowliest lot, And makes brothers of all who inhabit the earth; You must go "for a' that" to a Scot.

If you want a good story, entrancingly told, By a genuine king of the pen, A right royal dispenser of things new and old, And a faithful portrayer of men; A tale that will brighten your work and your play, And will do what some others do not,-- Give you knowledge and wisdom and heart for the fray; You will go to Sir Walter, the Scot.

If you want the high spirit that scorns to make truce With a foeman on suppliant knee, The untameable will of a Wallace or Bruce, Or the dash of a Bonnie Dundee; Fierce courage that nothing on earth can subdue, Sense of honor that shrinks from a blot, Inexhaustible loyalty, loving and true, You will find them to-day in a Scot.

If you want an intense love of country and kin, An attachment as tender as strong, That can gar the blood leap when the pipers begin, And the tear start at sound of a song; A grand patriotic devotion and pride, That makes sanctified ground of the spot Where a Scotsman for freedom has suffered and died; You will find what you want in a Scot.

If you want a hale-bodied and clear-headed chiel, Independent and honest and good, With a hand that can do and a heart that can feel, And tenacious of purpose--and shrewd; Whose thrift makes the face of prosperity smile, Who's contented with what he has got, But is ready and careful to add to his pile; You may find what you want in a Scot.

Gin ye wush a douce body, auldfarrant and gash, Unco' waukrife and couthie and braw, Ower eydent wi' daft clishmaclavers to fash, Or to thole whigmaleeries ava; Mak's nae collieshangie wad fley a bit flee, But is siccer and dour as a stot; Tak's the scone and the kebbuck and carries the gree; Ye'll be spierin', gude faith! for a Scot.

GLOSSARY.--"Nae sheep-shank bane" (Burns), no unimportant person; "gars," makes; "chiel," fellow; "gin," if; "wush," wish; "douce," sober; "auldfarrant," wise; "gash," sagacious; "unco," uncommonly; "waukrife," wideawake; "couthie," kindly; "braw," handsome; "ower," over; "eydent," busy; "daft," foolish; "clishmaclavers," idle talk; "fash," trouble; "thole," bear; "whigmaleeries," crotchets; "ava," at all; "collieshangie," commotion; "fley," disturb; "siccer," steady; "dour," stubborn; "stot," ox; "scone," a cake; "kebbuck," a cheese; "carries the gree" (Burns), has the pre-eminence; "spierin'," inquiring.

THE ROARIN' GAME.

The roarin' game, the roarin' game, From Scotland's bonnie land it came, The land of loch and firth and ben, And comely dames and stalwart men; It crossed the broad Atlantic tide With Scots who came to dwell this side, And bring our country wealth and fame, The roarin' game, the roarin' game.

The roarin' game, the roarin' game Makes every land to Scotsmen "hame"; Where'er the winter's breath congeals The water, see the sturdy "chiels" With "stane" and besom play and sweep, Intently gaze, and shout and leap, With genial fervor all aflame:-- The roarin' game, the roarin' game.

The roarin' game, the roarin' game, Though stupid folk may think it tame, Affect the smile that wisdom casts On rattle-brained enthusiasts, And jest in condescending tones Of boys and marbles, men and stones; 'Tis fine enjoyment just the same, The roarin' game, the roarin' game.

The roarin' game, the roarin' game Its meed of praise may justly claim: As firm as ice upon the pond It is of hearts a brother bond; It trains us to be wise and true In all we undertake to do, And fits for every higher aim, The roarin' game, the roarin' game,

The roarin' game, the roarin' game Will never give us cause for shame, No shattered nerves and aching heads, Bad consciences and nameless dreads, But health and strength and minds serene And kindly hearts and friendly mien: No honest tongue will e'er defame The roarin' game, the roarin' game.

THE OLD SCOTTISH MINISTER.

A man he was of Scottish race, And ancient Scottish name; Of common mould, but lofty mien, That dignified his frame. And he lived a humble, quiet life, Obscure, unknown to fame; God's glory and the good of man His constant, only aim: Like a fine old Scottish minister, All of the olden time.

He dearly loved his gentle wife, As everyone could tell; And watched his children as they grew, Lest any ill befell; And as he looked upon his boys His bosom oft would swell; For he reared them in the fear of God, And ruled his household well: Like a true old Scottish minister, All of the olden time.

A father, too, he was to all His congregation there: To all he felt a father's love, And showed a father's care: He wisely counselled them with speech, And pled for them in prayer; And ever for the needy ones He something had to spare: Like a kind old Scottish minister, All of the olden time.

The servant of the Lord he was, In hovel and in hall,-- The high ambassador of heaven Whom earth could not enthrall; Like Christ among the wedding guests, Or by the funeral pall; And he made his daily life sublime, A pattern unto all: Like a grand old Scottish minister, All of the olden time.

For truth and righteousness and love His voice was ever heard; And minds were kindled into thought, And consciences were stirred, And weary, heavy-laden hearts To faith and hope were spurred, As from the pulpit he proclaimed The everlasting Word: Like a faithful Scottish minister, All of the olden time.

And when, amid his elders grave, Extended in a line Beside the table of the Lord, He kept the rite divine, His face with a rapt, unearthly look Was seen to strangely shine, As he broke the white, symbolic bread, And passed the sacred wine: Like a saintly Scottish minister, All of the olden time.

His lot was hard, his task severe; He found the burden light: When darkly o'er his pathway hung The shadows of the night, His heart was steadfast, for he walked By faith, and not by sight; And ran triumphantly his course, And fought a goodly fight: Like a brave old Scottish minister, All of the olden time.

And when upon a summer's day He laid him down to die, He called his household to his side Without a moan or sigh, And blessed his children each in turn, And said a fond good-bye, And then consigned his soul to God, And went to live on high: Like a good old Scottish minister, All of the olden time.

THE MACS.

There's a race, or a part of a race, if you will, Of renown prehistoric, and vigorous still, Who back from their fastnesses scornfully hurl'd The redoubtable legions that trampled the world; They repelled, and they only, the Roman attacks, The stalwart, courageous, impetuous Macs.

When the red-bearded pirates, the Saxons and Danes And Angles, came swarming across the sea plains, And the old British stock to exterminate tried, Caledonia and Erin their efforts defied; And the conquering Normans were glad to make tracks From the Macs and the Mics (who are properly Macs).

Their proud patronymics, they rightfully hold, Proclaim them descended from heroes of old.-- Illustrious titles that throw in the shade The dukedoms and earldoms but yesterday made; And even the King with his royalty lacks A lineage as ancient as that of the Macs.

They are old and yet young, with a spirit possest By the dream of the East and the hope of the West; The earth is their country, the race is their kin; In populous cities their guerdon they win, And in gold miners' cabins and lumbermen's shacks You will find the ubiquitous, venturesome Macs.

Distinguished they've been with the sword and the pen; In pulpit and parliament, leaders of men; Prime ministers, presidents, merchants, viziers, They have manag'd the business of both hemispheres; And the Dago day-laborers laying the tracks Are boss'd by the Macs or the Mics (who are Macs).

'Twas thought by the ancients that Atlas upbore The sphere on his shoulders--'tis thought so no more; Prometheus and Atlas and all of their kith, The Titans, are now but a fable, a myth. The men who are bearing the world on their backs Are the Macs and the Mics (who are mixed with the Macs).

THE PARSON AT THE HOCKEY MATCH.

It's very disagreeable to sit here in the cold, And a sinful waste of time--ah, well, it's too late now to scold; I'll think about my sermon and my prayers for Sunday next, And the young folks may be happy--let me see--what was my text? But what a throng of people--an immortal soul in each: With such an audience this would be a splendid place to preach. I'd have the pulpit half-way down--what ice! without a smirch! Here are the men--I wonder if they ever go to church. "The teams?" Ah, yes, "the forwards, point, and cover-point and goal"; Thank you, my dear, I understand--is that a lump of coal? "Rubber?" Ah, yes, "The puck?" just so! One's holding it, I see-- That fellow with his clothes all on--ah, that's the referee. What was he whistling for--his dog? Why, they've begun to play; Well, well, that's rough; I really think we're doing wrong to stay. It's sickening, deafening; dear! I wish this uproar could be stilled. I do sincerely trust there'll not be anybody killed.

It's a wondrous exhibition of alertness, speed, and strength. I suppose there's not much danger--there's a fellow at full length. He's up again; that's plucky. Well, the little lad has pluck-- And now he's master of the ice, possessor of the puck. He dodges two opponents, but collides with one at last, A Philistine Goliath--David baffles him and fast Darts onward o'er the whitening sheet, while from each crowded row The crazed spectators cheer him on--Look!--has he lost it? No! He's clear again. Played, played, my boy. I'd like to see him score:-- (I'll have no voice for Sunday if I shout like this much more)-- But there his ruthless enemies o'erwhelm him in a shoal-- Well played, you hero, safely passed. Now for a shot on goal. Shoot, shoot, you duffer; shoot, you goose, you ass, you great galoot, You addle-pated idiot, you nincompoop, you--shoot! You've lost it! Never mind--well tried--that other dash was grand. Why do they stop? "Off side," you say? I don't quite understand. That's puzzling. I suppose it's right. I wish they'd not delay. This is a most provoking interruption to the play.