Sing, my warriors, sing! men of the sharklike race!
 Sing of the poet who came and greeted us face to face.
 He from the cold, gray North, I, in these tropic isles,
 Meet as brothers and bards, with eloquent songs and smiles—
 Meet as brothers, though singing words that are strange and proud.
 Pale and wan is his face, while mine is a thunder-cloud;
 But the heart of a man is hidden by neither language nor skin—
 To love as a man and a brother maketh the whole world kin.
 The tales that he tells are of heroes who fought like braves to the death—
 Bone of our bone are these heroes, the very breath of our breath!
 Then sing, my warriors, sing! men of the sharklike race!
 Sing of the poet who came and greeted us face to face!

From Overheard in Arcady.

IN THE MANNER OF KIPLING

“Show me the face of Truth,” the Sahib said—
 “Show me its beauty, before I’m dead!”
 “Look!” said the priest, “with unflinching eyes;
 This is the World, and not Paradise.
 Look! It is wicked, and cruel, and strong, and wise!”

From Overheard in Arcady.

FOR A NOVEL OF HALL CAINE’S

AFTER KIPLING

He sits in a sea-green grotto with a bucket of lurid paint,
 And draws the Thing as it isn’t for the God of Things as they ain’t!

IN “HELBECK OF BANNISDALE”

The foolish story of a man and maid
 Who loved each other but were dire afraid
 To follow where their true hearts surely led
 And, risking all things, bravely to be wed.
What’s in a creed to keep two souls apart?
 The universal solvent is the heart!

A CHRISTMAS GREETING

Good luck, good cheer, throughout the year!
 A bright fire on the hearthstone burning;
 A gleam of rose at evening’s close
 When, wearied, you are homeward turning!
 By ingle-nook a soothing book—
 A few old friends in Mem’ry’s castle;
 A bit of rhyme at Christmas-time
 To wish you fortune at your wassail!

IN NICHOLSON’S “ALMANAC OF SPORTS”

(WITH VERSES BY KIPLING)

In all your Calendar of Sports
 Why, Rudyard, do you slight the wheel?
 Were you, then, never out of sorts
 Until you felt the vibrant steel
 Skim over miles of level track?
 For youth, with all its hope and cheer,
 When we’re a-wheel comes rolling back—
 And it is Summer all the year!

IN NICHOLSON’S “CITY TYPES”

The City’s roar is rising from the street;
 The old, bedraggled “types” are shuffling through the strife;
 They plod and push, and elbow as they meet,
 And glare and grin, and sadly call it “life.”
For us the fireside hearth is all aglow,
 And those we love make up the life we know.

IN “THE GOLDEN TREASURY”

The year is old, the way is far;
 I catch your image like a star
 That’s mirrored in a crystal brook;
 For love of you I send a book!

A VALENTINE

Though all the streams are white with frost
 And all the fields with snow,
 Though earth its greenery has lost,
 And biting gales do blow—
 Still I’ll recall the summer hours,
 The blue skies and the vine—
 The hillsides pink with Alpine flowers
 To greet my Valentine!

IN “HALLO, MY FANCY!”

(BY CHARLES HENRY LÜDERS AND S. D. S., JR.)

“Hallo, my Fancy! View Hallo!”
 The nimble game has broken cover
 And skims the valley to and fro;
 By cooling brooks it seems to hover,
 Then bounds along. “Ho, View Hallo!”
 The huntsmen cry from brake to loch;
 The chase grows ardent—“View Hallo!”
 From quiet shelter echoes, Droch.

THE BOOK SPEAKS

TO EUGENE FIELD

I’m keeping jolly comp’ny
 In a room that’s full of books;
 I’m cheek by jowl with Horace
 And a lot of ancient crooks.
 But the boys I like to play with,
 When the boss takes off his coat,
 Are the wild and woolly heroes
 From Casey’s tabble-dote.
 And when the lamp is lighted
 And cosey hours ensue,
 I talk with All-Aloney
 And the little Boy in Blue.
 But when the man that owns the books
 Throws one kind glance at me
 I sing just like the Dinkey
 In the Amfelula Tree.

IN HERFORD’S VERSES

To weep with those who weep is human;
 We give our praises to the man of grit,
 And honor with our trust the true man;
 Let’s laugh a little with a man of wit!

IN A BOOK OF GIBSON’S DRAWINGS

You may turn these pages over,
 Looking for the priceless pearl;
 You may search from back to cover
 For the finest Gibson girl.
 You can save yourself the trouble—
 It’s no earthly use to look:
 The charming girl who takes the medal
 Is a-holding of the book.

IN A VOLUME OF MISS GUINEY’S POEMS

A maker of smooth verse and facile rhymes,
 And lover of quaint legends from old times;
 A joyous singer in New England bleak—
 Her heart is Irish and her mind is Greek.

IN “BARBARA FRIETCHIE—A PLAY”

TO J. M.

We met her first in Arcady,
 Where visions fair are apt to be,
 Roaming beneath the arching trees—
 Her laughter cheering up the breeze;
 Sometimes as gay as Colinette,
 Then fond and sad as Juliet.
 And when we’d had enough of anguish
 She’d make us laugh as Lydia Languish.
 No mask or mood was twice the same—
 Yet one fair face behind each name.
 As that bright vixen of the mind,
 The fascinating Rosalīnd—
 As Imogen or Viola,
 Or, best of all, sweet Barbara—
 Always the same alluring grace
 And wit that sparkles in her face!
The road to Arcady is far
 And sometimes lonely for a star—
 But all the phantoms of the air
 And poets’ dreams that wander there
 Would miss the welcome we extend,
 Not to her Art—just to a friend!

TO C. H. M. AND H. H. M.

Here is the story—
 I haven’t half told it;
 The fun and the glory,
 A volume can’t hold it.
 But this is a spray,
 Withered leaves and pressed flowers,
 From a faded bouquet
 That was plucked in gay hours,
 Within sound of the waves
 Of the gentle Pacific,
 Where Nature enslaves
 And the days beatific
 Are sandalled with gold
 And wear gems on their fingers.
 All the tale is not told
 Which slow Fancy weaves,
 But a faint odor lingers
 About these dry leaves
That may bring recollection
 Of prairie and loch
 With a hint of affection
 From
 Yours ever,
 Droch.

Dedication of The Monterey Wedding.

TO MY MOTHER

Long years you’ve kept the door ajar
 To greet me, coming from afar;
 Long years in my accustomed place
 I’ve read my welcome in your face,
 And felt the sunlight of your love
 Drive back the years and gently move
 The telltale shadow ’round to youth.
 You’ve found the very spring, in truth,
 That baffles time—the kindling joy
 That keeps me in your heart a boy.
 And now I send an unknown guest
 To bide with you and snugly rest
 Beside the old home’s ingle-nook.—
 For love of me you’ll love my book.

Dedication of Overheard in Arcady.

A BOOK’S SOLILOQUY

My lady’s room is full of books
 And easy-chairs and curtained nooks,
 And dainty tea-things on a table,
 And poetry, and tale, and fable,
 And on the hearth a crackling fire
 That welcome gives, and when you tire
 Of pleasant talk you still may find
 A tempting pasture where the mind
 May browse awhile, and read the pages
 Which poets wrote, or fools, or sages.
And here I come to ask a place
 Among these worthies, face to face!
 To be allowed on some low shelf
 To rest and dream, and pride myself
 On being in such company—
 To watch fair women drinking tea;
And if, perchance, on some lone day,
 The gentle mistress looks my way
 And softly says, “Now I shall see
 What’s going on in Arcady!”
 Then I’ll rejoice that I’m a book
 At which my lady deigns to look.

ENVOY

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS FLOCK

The sun is warm upon the ridges now;
 The way was rough and steep;
 I’ll seek the shelter of a leafy bough
 And watch my grazing sheep.
 The smoke is rising from the valley there,
 The hum of wheels and trade;
 The stress of life is in the whirling air
 While I pipe in the shade.
 Where work is fierce amid the striving throng
 And music’s voice is mute,
 Some one may catch the echo of a song—
 The faint note of a lute.