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AT THE FARRAGUT STATUE

 
To live a hero, then to stand
In bronze serene above the city’s throng;
Hero at sea, and now on land
Revered by thousands as they rush along;
 
 
If these were all the gifts of fame—
To be a shade amid alert reality,
And win a statue and a name—
How cold and cheerless immortality!
 
 
But when the sun shines in the Square,
And multitudes are swarming in the street,
Children are always gathered there,
Laughing and playing round the hero’s feet.
 
 
And in the crisis of the game—
With boyish grit and ardor it is played—
You’ll hear some youngster call his name:
“The Admiral—he never was afraid!”
 
 
And so the hero daily lives,
And boys grow braver as the Man they see!
The inspiration that he gives
Still helps to make them loyal, strong, and free!
 

NEWS FROM A MISSING LINER

TO A CONVALESCENT

 
Crawling back to port again, half her cargo shifted,
Just enough of fuel left to steam her to the pier;
Plunging through an icy gale when the fog has lifted,
Battered by the breakers, but her lights a-burning clear!
 
 
Hope almost abandoned, days and nights she floundered—
Nights when not a star was out and no sea-lights were near;
All the world believed her lost; men despaired, but wondered
How the liner could be wrecked and Kipling there to steer!
 
 
Now she makes her harbor-lights, glides through seas enchanted—
Whistles shrieking gayly and thousands at the pier;
On the bridge the Captain, pale and worn—undaunted!
“Welcome back to life again!” Hear the people cheer!
 

FOR A CLASSMATE DEAD AT SEA

(W. F. STOUTENBURGH)

 
His voice was gentle and his eyes were kind;
No one among us but did call him friend;
Fond woman’s heart and student’s thoughtful mind
Together in him did with fitness blend:
And now he is no more!
 
 
We blindly murmur at the bitter Fate
That summoned him in other lands to roam;
And when upon him Sickness wrought its hate
Half round the world, it brought him almost home,
To die when near our shore.
 
 
We blindly murmur—but we only know
Calm rests his body in old Ocean’s deeps;
While we are groping in the mists below,
Serene his soul on other, cloudless steeps—
Forever—evermore.
 

BRAMBLE BRAE

A TOAST TO OUR NATIVE LAND

 
Huge and alert, irascible yet strong,
We make our fitful way ’mid right and wrong.
One time we pour out millions to be free,
Then rashly sweep an empire from the sea!
One time we strike the shackles from the slaves,
And then, quiescent, we are ruled by knaves.
Often we rudely break restraining bars,
And confidently reach out toward the stars.
 
 
Yet under all there flows a hidden stream
Sprung from the Rock of Freedom, the great dream
Of Washington and Franklin, men of old
Who knew that freedom is not bought with gold.
This is the Land we love, our heritage,
Strange mixture of the gross and fine, yet sage
And full of promise—destined to be great.
Drink to Our Native Land! God Bless the State!
 

THE TOWERS OF PRINCETON

FROM THE TRAIN

 
There they are! above the green trees shining—
Old towers that top the castles of our dreams,
Their turrets bright with rays of sun declining—
A painted glory on the window gleams.
 
 
But, oh, the messages to travellers weary
They signal through the ether in the dark!
The years are long, the path is steep and dreary,
But there’s a bell that struck in boyhood—hark!
 
 
The note is faint—but ghosts are gayly trooping
From ivied halls and swarming ’neath the trees.
Old friends, you bring new life to spirits drooping—
Your laughter and your joy are in the breeze!
 
 
They’re gone in dusk,—the towers and dreams are faded,—
But something lingers of eternal Youth;
We’re strong again, though doubting, worn, and jaded;
We pledge anew to friends and love and truth!
 

ROOSEVELT IN WYOMING
TOLD BY A GUIDE—1899 ¹

 
Do you know Yancey’s? Where the winding trail
From Washburn Mountain strikes the old stage road,
And wagons from Cooke City and the mail
Unhitch awhile, and teamsters shift the load?
 
 
A handy bunch of men are round the stove
At Yancey’s—hunters back from Jackson’s Hole,
And Ed Hough telling of a mighty drove
Of elk that he ran down to Teton Bowl.
 
 
And Yancey he says: “Mr. Woody, there,
Can tell a hunting yarn or two—beside,
He guided Roosevelt when he shot a bear
And six bull elk with antlers spreading wide.”
 
 
But Woody is a guide who doesn’t brag;
He puffed his pipe awhile, then gravely said:
“I knew he’d put the Spaniards in a bag,
For Mister Roosevelt always picked a head.
 
 
“That man won’t slosh around in politics
And waste his time a-killing little game;
He studies elk, and men, and knows their tricks,
And when he picks a head he hits the same.”
 
 
Now, down at Yancey’s every man’s a sport,
And free to back his knowledge up with lead;
And each believes that Roosevelt is the sort
To run the State, because he “picks a head.”
 

UNCLE SAM TO KIPLING

(1899)

 
Take up the White Man’s burden!
Have done with childish days.
 

R. K.

 
Oh, thank you, Mr. Kipling,
For showing us the way
To buckle down to business
And end our “childish day.”
We know we’re young and frisky
And haven’t too much sense—
At least, not in the measure
We’ll have a few years hence.
 
 
Now, this same “White Man’s burden”
You’re asking us to tote
Is not so unfamiliar
As you’re inclined to note.
We freed three million negroes,
Their babies and their wives;
It cost a billion dollars
And near a million lives!
 
 
And while we were a-fighting
In all those “thankless years”
We did not get much helping—
Well, not from English “peers.”
And so—with best intentions—
We’re not exactly wild
To free the Filipino,
“Half devil and half child.”
 
 
Then, thank you, Mr. Kipling;
Though not disposed to groan
About the “White Man’s burden,”
We’ve troubles of our own;
Enough to keep us busy
When English friends inquire,
“Why don’t you use your talons?
There are chestnuts in the fire!”