The clamor of the clans is overawed,
To mourn the dead made perfect with his God.
Yet mourn we not the statesman’s death alone,
His hearthstone’s glory far exceeds a throne.
To mourn the dead made perfect with his God.
Yet mourn we not the statesman’s death alone,
His hearthstone’s glory far exceeds a throne.
Though crowned with civic honors is his name,
Husband and Father have a dearer fame;
Glory attends the leader to his rest,
But most she mourns the man who knew him best.
Husband and Father have a dearer fame;
Glory attends the leader to his rest,
But most she mourns the man who knew him best.
Nor swiftest wind, nor farthest ocean’s foam,
Visits a spot so dear to man as home;
O, you who mourn an upright President,
Mourn with a stricken wife in her lament.
Visits a spot so dear to man as home;
O, you who mourn an upright President,
Mourn with a stricken wife in her lament.
Lament a loving husband, nobler name
Than King or Czar or Emperor can claim.
Love, not oppression, built for her a throne—
The tribute, gladly paid, was love alone.
Than King or Czar or Emperor can claim.
Love, not oppression, built for her a throne—
The tribute, gladly paid, was love alone.
She needs no hollow pomp of heraldry;
God gave the wife the greatest majesty.
Pure as Madonna, whose celestial blush
Glows in the tints of Raphael’s magic brush,
Gems of the heart and jewels of the mind
Enriched the wife and all her acts refined,
And with a native majesty endued
“America’s uncrowned Queen of Womanhood,”[F]
For Home is ever woman’s grandest sphere,
Whose fruitful virtues make her memory dear,
While vice and ruin curse the falling land,
Where childhood lacks the mother’s plastic hand.
God gave the wife the greatest majesty.
Pure as Madonna, whose celestial blush
Glows in the tints of Raphael’s magic brush,
Gems of the heart and jewels of the mind
Enriched the wife and all her acts refined,
And with a native majesty endued
“America’s uncrowned Queen of Womanhood,”[F]
For Home is ever woman’s grandest sphere,
Whose fruitful virtues make her memory dear,
While vice and ruin curse the falling land,
Where childhood lacks the mother’s plastic hand.
Through many changing years of good and ill,
The name of Westfield shall be honored still.
Pure homes compose the country’s best defense,
The strongest, promptest, and of least expense,
And round its coasts a surer guard will keep
Than camps or forts or navies on the deep.
The name of Westfield shall be honored still.
Pure homes compose the country’s best defense,
The strongest, promptest, and of least expense,
And round its coasts a surer guard will keep
Than camps or forts or navies on the deep.
THE HARP IN THE AIR;
OR
A NIGHT WITH GERARDI IN SEELBACH’S ROOF-GARDEN.
(A Family Epistle from a Girl full of “Grace” to “Big Sis” in Cherokee Park.)
Dear Sis—
You’re losing fun galore, rusticating just at present,
Although fresh eggs and buttermilk and country fare are pleasant.
Music and mirth are in the air—not razors keen and sharp—
’Tis the touch of old Gerardi, a-twanging on his harp.
You’re losing fun galore, rusticating just at present,
Although fresh eggs and buttermilk and country fare are pleasant.
Music and mirth are in the air—not razors keen and sharp—
’Tis the touch of old Gerardi, a-twanging on his harp.
Love rages in his silver flute; love pines upon his viol;
Love pleads his cause with eloquence which lists to no denial;
And he or she who will not bow to Cupid’s charming mother,
I set him down a dullard—if you praise him, you’re another.
Love pleads his cause with eloquence which lists to no denial;
And he or she who will not bow to Cupid’s charming mother,
I set him down a dullard—if you praise him, you’re another.
The crowds keep sailing upward upon the elevators,
And the boys are very, very small and the girls all sweet potatoes;
There are taffetas and mousselines, and laces and illusion,
Like all the rainbows since the flood, crushed in one grand confusion.
And the boys are very, very small and the girls all sweet potatoes;
There are taffetas and mousselines, and laces and illusion,
Like all the rainbows since the flood, crushed in one grand confusion.
Gerardi’s high on Seelbach’s Roof, with harp and flute and fiddle;
Women divine crowd thickly round, and the devil’s in the middle.
Did you ever hear a harpist like the Florentine, pray tell me?
Like some sweet mocking-bird he soars, and his notes with rapture swell me.
Women divine crowd thickly round, and the devil’s in the middle.
Did you ever hear a harpist like the Florentine, pray tell me?
Like some sweet mocking-bird he soars, and his notes with rapture swell me.
The moon and stars shine bright aloft; “on such a night as this”
Lorenzo fled with Jessica, and kisses rhymed with bliss,
“As far as Belmont”—this hanging bower hath treasure
Of beauteous girls whose voice and glance are redolent of pleasure.
Lorenzo fled with Jessica, and kisses rhymed with bliss,
“As far as Belmont”—this hanging bower hath treasure
Of beauteous girls whose voice and glance are redolent of pleasure.
The waiters hurry, skurry, with ring and clink of glasses,
But the sparkling wines flow dimmer than the laughing eyes of lasses,
And the myriad golden planets which glitter in yon skies
Are eclipsed by eyes which soften at Gerardi’s melodies.
But the sparkling wines flow dimmer than the laughing eyes of lasses,
And the myriad golden planets which glitter in yon skies
Are eclipsed by eyes which soften at Gerardi’s melodies.
Sore heart of baffled hopes, against consolation proof,
Hast thou found life’s gilded web of rotten warp and woof?
Drink deep of the nepenthe of woman’s witching tongue,
And hear the Florentine repeat the songs which Petrarch sung.
Hast thou found life’s gilded web of rotten warp and woof?
Drink deep of the nepenthe of woman’s witching tongue,
And hear the Florentine repeat the songs which Petrarch sung.
He culls the flowers of Paradise and squeezes their aroma
With “Kentucky Home” and “Hearts and Flowers” and heavenly “La Paloma.”
The very stars stoop down to kiss this old Italian wizard,
While I—I just feel weak and faint and hollow round the gizzard.
With “Kentucky Home” and “Hearts and Flowers” and heavenly “La Paloma.”
The very stars stoop down to kiss this old Italian wizard,
While I—I just feel weak and faint and hollow round the gizzard.
I soar aloft among the stars, inhaling the aroma
Of the silver songs of Florence and Madrid’s “La Paloma,”
And “Love Me and the World is Mine” in melody divine
Breathes from Gerardi’s harp-strings like bouquet of Roman wine.
Of the silver songs of Florence and Madrid’s “La Paloma,”
And “Love Me and the World is Mine” in melody divine
Breathes from Gerardi’s harp-strings like bouquet of Roman wine.
And Weber’s “Invitation”—he pours it like old wine—
“Come right on in, oh stranger! the water’s very fine!”
And oh! my willing soul would stay ’mid girls and song like this
And dream and sigh itself away in everlasting bliss.
“Come right on in, oh stranger! the water’s very fine!”
And oh! my willing soul would stay ’mid girls and song like this
And dream and sigh itself away in everlasting bliss.
And there, within my vision’s range, I see a bearded “Colonel,”
With jingling spurs—he fears no peers—it is the Courier-Journal.
He mounts his foam-flecked war-steed, so spirited and gay;
He’s going for a whirl to-night, around the “Milky Way.”
With jingling spurs—he fears no peers—it is the Courier-Journal.
He mounts his foam-flecked war-steed, so spirited and gay;
He’s going for a whirl to-night, around the “Milky Way.”
He sings the old camp-meeting songs of Democratic Zion
And Salvation Army melodies in praise of Billy Bryan.
And from New England’s silver springs to the glaciers of Alaska
He calls on all to march behind bold Billy of Nebraska.
And Salvation Army melodies in praise of Billy Bryan.
And from New England’s silver springs to the glaciers of Alaska
He calls on all to march behind bold Billy of Nebraska.
I guess he’ll skim its richest cream for Democratic butter,
While many an unhorsed rival lies cussin’ in the gutter.
His paragraphs are golden lamps which flare around a palace,
And he pours the wine of genius from an overflowing chalice.
While many an unhorsed rival lies cussin’ in the gutter.
His paragraphs are golden lamps which flare around a palace,
And he pours the wine of genius from an overflowing chalice.
Strong-limbed, sound-winded “Dark Horse”—he’s “bearded like a pard”—(Good-bye, old Pard!)
An expert he in “sharps and flats”—the match of old Gerardi;
Both artists, those old boys, “by gum!” of copious variety—
Age can not wither, nor custom stale, their infinite—sobriety.
An expert he in “sharps and flats”—the match of old Gerardi;
Both artists, those old boys, “by gum!” of copious variety—
Age can not wither, nor custom stale, their infinite—sobriety.
DEDICATION HYMN.
Sung at the reopening of the Methodist Church, Hopkinsville, Ky., January 31, 1902.
Jesus, this earthly shrine once more
Opes wide in majesty;
The temple of our hearts anew
We consecrate to thee.
Redemption’s gates wide open swing,
All hail, thou Galilean King!
Opes wide in majesty;
The temple of our hearts anew
We consecrate to thee.
Redemption’s gates wide open swing,
All hail, thou Galilean King!
Faith laid the eternal corner-stone,
Hope built aloft the tower,
And Love shall call thy children, Lord,
At worship’s solemn hour.
Redemption’s glorious song they sing,
All hail, Life’s re-awakening Spring!
Hope built aloft the tower,
And Love shall call thy children, Lord,
At worship’s solemn hour.
Redemption’s glorious song they sing,
All hail, Life’s re-awakening Spring!
Here shall the Gospel’s splendor light
The Christian’s upward way,
From mortal to immortal life
Unto the perfect day.
The flowers and fruits of love we bring,
All hail, Life’s re-awakening Spring!
The Christian’s upward way,
From mortal to immortal life
Unto the perfect day.
The flowers and fruits of love we bring,
All hail, Life’s re-awakening Spring!
Bring, Holy Dove, to this pure shrine
The olive-branch of peace,
The perfect fruits of righteousness,
Love, joy, and rich increase.
Through Heaven’s blue vault her armies sing,
All hail, Life’s re-awakening Spring!
The olive-branch of peace,
The perfect fruits of righteousness,
Love, joy, and rich increase.
Through Heaven’s blue vault her armies sing,
All hail, Life’s re-awakening Spring!
LYING IN STATE AT PRINCETON.
What means this sudden hush of grief,
O, brother Americans?
This solemn silence, deep though brief,
’Twixt the mustering of the clans—
Twixt Denver and Chicago—
The shouting of the captains
And the thunder of the bands?
Some for Taft are shouting
And some for Bryan cheer;
Both pause to weep for the mighty dead
At Princeton on his bier.
The solemn shadow of a pall
Darkens each great convention hall,
While patriots, and spoilsmen, too,
The great quadrennial fight renew.
All bring their wreathes of laurel leaf
With tears of deep and honest grief;
Roosevelt and Bryan both in reverence stand
Beside that coffined form, once mighty in the land.
O, brother Americans?
This solemn silence, deep though brief,
’Twixt the mustering of the clans—
Twixt Denver and Chicago—
The shouting of the captains
And the thunder of the bands?
Some for Taft are shouting
And some for Bryan cheer;
Both pause to weep for the mighty dead
At Princeton on his bier.
The solemn shadow of a pall
Darkens each great convention hall,
While patriots, and spoilsmen, too,
The great quadrennial fight renew.
All bring their wreathes of laurel leaf
With tears of deep and honest grief;
Roosevelt and Bryan both in reverence stand
Beside that coffined form, once mighty in the land.
Shout, patriots and partisans,
Each for your favorite son,
But the people mourn with unfeigned grief
For the chief whose race is run;
No message has he for the Senate,
No office to give away,
But seldom the living wield the power
Of him who is lifeless clay—
It is as if the sun went down
In the splendor of the day.
Each for your favorite son,
But the people mourn with unfeigned grief
For the chief whose race is run;
No message has he for the Senate,
No office to give away,
But seldom the living wield the power
Of him who is lifeless clay—
It is as if the sun went down
In the splendor of the day.
Mourn, O, Venezuela,
With long and loud lament,
Lay in the dust thy beaming brow
And weep with vesture rent;
Remember how he stood for thee,
Prepared to strike the blow,
Teaching to South America
The wisdom of Monroe:
“Europe’s houses of royal blood
Who claim a throne divine
Shall forge no chains for freemen
Upon Columbia’s shrine.”
With long and loud lament,
Lay in the dust thy beaming brow
And weep with vesture rent;
Remember how he stood for thee,
Prepared to strike the blow,
Teaching to South America
The wisdom of Monroe:
“Europe’s houses of royal blood
Who claim a throne divine
Shall forge no chains for freemen
Upon Columbia’s shrine.”
Champion of all the sons of toil,
He crushed the Anarch’s serpent coil,
Made dark sedition quake with awe
And taught it reverence for law.
In cottage, court, or Senate hall,
He held one rule—Be just to all.
But still his heart-felt, chief desire
Centered around his household fire,
Where loving children, honored wife,
Dear idols of domestic life,
Diffused a cheering fragrance round
And made of Westland hallowed ground.
He crushed the Anarch’s serpent coil,
Made dark sedition quake with awe
And taught it reverence for law.
In cottage, court, or Senate hall,
He held one rule—Be just to all.
But still his heart-felt, chief desire
Centered around his household fire,
Where loving children, honored wife,
Dear idols of domestic life,
Diffused a cheering fragrance round
And made of Westland hallowed ground.
“Four years more of Grover!”
Was once a campaign song,
The battle-hymn of millions
In cadence loud and strong;
Sang you, O minstrel, “Four years more”?
Would you build a cage for the eagle to soar?
“Four years more of Grover!”
History shall proudly tell
He won and wore his laurels well;
“Four years more”—is all then over?
Is all this anxious toil and strife
But the short span of an infant’s life?
Upon its nurse’s lap an hour to dandle
And then—alas, the pity! Out, brief candle!
Was once a campaign song,
The battle-hymn of millions
In cadence loud and strong;
Sang you, O minstrel, “Four years more”?
Would you build a cage for the eagle to soar?
“Four years more of Grover!”
History shall proudly tell
He won and wore his laurels well;
“Four years more”—is all then over?
Is all this anxious toil and strife
But the short span of an infant’s life?
Upon its nurse’s lap an hour to dandle
And then—alas, the pity! Out, brief candle!
O friend, you do your manhood wrong,
You do the noble dead one wrong,
This just man’s, this wise statesman’s life
Is nobler than the mimic strife.
Of jesters in a Carnival,
The painted clowns in mimic brawl,
With wooden swords and buffoon song,
With grinning madness rife,
Driving the hopeless suicide
To poison or the knife.
I dare not look upon this form,
From which the breath has fled,
And say no life again shall warm
The dust of Cleveland dead.
You do the noble dead one wrong,
This just man’s, this wise statesman’s life
Is nobler than the mimic strife.
Of jesters in a Carnival,
The painted clowns in mimic brawl,
With wooden swords and buffoon song,
With grinning madness rife,
Driving the hopeless suicide
To poison or the knife.
I dare not look upon this form,
From which the breath has fled,
And say no life again shall warm
The dust of Cleveland dead.
But the high recording Angel
Sublimely calls above,
In eloquent words of love,
“A longer and a nobler date
Is the man’s who at Westland lies in state,
For Fame proclaims him truly great,
Far, far above all earthly fate—
The tumult and dust of mortal fate.
The verdict of posterity,
Written on a people’s heart, shall be:
“No brief Olympiad can measure
His fame who is a nation’s treasure,
And Cleveland’s years in Heaven shall be
A blissful immortality.”
Sublimely calls above,
In eloquent words of love,
“A longer and a nobler date
Is the man’s who at Westland lies in state,
For Fame proclaims him truly great,
Far, far above all earthly fate—
The tumult and dust of mortal fate.
The verdict of posterity,
Written on a people’s heart, shall be:
“No brief Olympiad can measure
His fame who is a nation’s treasure,
And Cleveland’s years in Heaven shall be
A blissful immortality.”
And from the far heights of the starry sky,
Higher than Roman eagles fly,
Comes the sweet echo, “Immortality!”
And golden comets blazing through the spheres
Of Heaven’s illimitable years
Repeat the echo—“Immortality!”
And in my ears still ringing seem
The dulcet measures of a dream—
“Virtue shall never die.”
In the pure gleam of God’s own eye
It slakes its thirst from the clear stream
Of Immortality.
Higher than Roman eagles fly,
Comes the sweet echo, “Immortality!”
And golden comets blazing through the spheres
Of Heaven’s illimitable years
Repeat the echo—“Immortality!”
And in my ears still ringing seem
The dulcet measures of a dream—
“Virtue shall never die.”
In the pure gleam of God’s own eye
It slakes its thirst from the clear stream
Of Immortality.
IN THE MORNING.
[Annie McRea, Paducah, 1902.]
I looked at the hills in the morning,
Sweet valleys lay smiling between.
Then I lifted my soul to the Blessed,
Whose love in His mercies are seen.
The sun brought a flush as of roses
To the green earth, and Heaven so blue,
But a cloud hid the beautiful sunlight,
And the sparkle died out of the dew.
Sweet valleys lay smiling between.
Then I lifted my soul to the Blessed,
Whose love in His mercies are seen.
The sun brought a flush as of roses
To the green earth, and Heaven so blue,
But a cloud hid the beautiful sunlight,
And the sparkle died out of the dew.
I prayed in my heart to the Savior
That His love might illumine my way,
That the sunshine and joy of His presence
Would brighten each wearisome day;
That strength for each duty be given,
And each action be prompted by love,
Till at last by the brightness of Heaven
I should dwell with the angels above.
That His love might illumine my way,
That the sunshine and joy of His presence
Would brighten each wearisome day;
That strength for each duty be given,
And each action be prompted by love,
Till at last by the brightness of Heaven
I should dwell with the angels above.
The joy that to me has been given
In language can never be told,
And my dream of the glory of Heaven
Is of Christ in the gateway of gold;
And I pray that no cloud may o’ershadow
The faith that my heart holds as true,
Like the darkening clouds in the morning,
When the sparkle died out of the dew.
In language can never be told,
And my dream of the glory of Heaven
Is of Christ in the gateway of gold;
And I pray that no cloud may o’ershadow
The faith that my heart holds as true,
Like the darkening clouds in the morning,
When the sparkle died out of the dew.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] McCool was shot the same night by Major Bassett’s men. He was a ruffian of the lowest type, and had terrorized his neighborhood for years.
[B] The fourteen lines following are of course a later interpolation.
[C] Paul Kruger, the unfortunate President of the Transvaal or South African Republic, offered $4,000,000 in diamonds to Leo XIII for his influence in the war with the British Government which overthrew his reign. The proffer was refused.
“This eloquent appeal stirs the soul like the soaring notes of the bugle.”
—Prentice.
—Prentice.
[E] On a flag presentation by citizens of Nashville to the troops.
[F] Honorable James A. McKenzie, late eloquent Congressman from the second Kentucky district, thus beautifully characterized Mrs. Cleveland.