The Old Soldiers Story Part 19

That--barrin' your own livin' yet--I'd delight in, Drowned in the deeps of this billowy song to you Sung by a lover your beauty has banned, Not alone from your love but his dear native land, Whilst the kiss of his lips, and touch of his hand, And his song--all belong to you, Mona Machree!

WILLIAM McKINLEY

CANTON, OHIO, SEPTEMBER 30, 1907

He said: "It is G.o.d's way: His will, not ours be done."

And o'er our land a shadow lay That darkened all the sun.

The voice of jubilee That gladdened all the air, Fell sudden to a quavering key Of suppliance and prayer.

He was our chief--our guide-- Sprung of our common Earth, From youth's long struggle proved and tried To manhood's highest worth: Through toil, he knew all needs Of all his toiling kind-- The favored striver who succeeds-- The one who falls behind.

The boy's young faith he still Retained through years mature-- The faith to labor, hand and will, Nor doubt the harvest sure-- The harvest of man's love-- A nation's joy that swells To heights of Song, or deeps whereof But sacred silence tells.

To him his Country seemed Even as a Mother, where He rested--slept; and once he dreamed-- As on her bosom there-- And thrilled to hear, within That dream of her, the call Of bugles and the clang and din Of war.... And o'er it all

His rapt eyes caught the bright Old Banner, winging wild And beck'ning him, as to the fight ...

When--even as a child-- He wakened--And the dream Was real! And he leapt As led the proud Flag through a gleam Of tears the Mother wept.

His was a tender hand-- Even as a woman's is-- And yet as fixed, in Right's command, As this bronze hand of his: This was the Soldier brave-- This was the Victor fair-- This is the Hero Heaven gave To glory here--and There.

BENJAMIN HARRISON

ON THE UNVEILING OF HIS MONUMENT AT INDIANAPOLIS

OCTOBER 27, 1908

As tangible a form in History The Spirit of this man stands forth as here He towers in deathless sculpture, high and clear Against the bright sky of his destiny.

Sprung of our oldest, n.o.blest ancestry, His pride of birth, as lofty as sincere, Held kith and kin, as Country, ever dear-- Such was his sacred faith in you and me.

Thus, natively, from youth his work was one Unselfish service in behalf of all-- Home, friends, and sharers of his toil and stress; Ay, loving all men and despising none, And swift to answer every righteous call, His life was one long deed of worthiness.

The voice of Duty's faintest whisper found Him as alert as at her battle-cry-- When awful War's battalions thundered by, High o'er the havoc still he heard the sound Of mothers' prayers and pleadings all around; And ever the despairing sob and sigh Of stricken wives and orphan children's cry Made all our Land thrice consecrated ground.

So rang his "Forward!" and so swept his sword-- On!--on!--till from the fire-and-cloud once more Our proud Flag lifted in the glad sunlight As though the very Ensign of the Lord Unfurled in token that the strife was o'er, And victory--as ever--with the right.

LEE O. HARRIS

CHRISTMAS DAY--1909

O say not he is dead, The friend we honored so; Lift up a grateful voice instead And say: He lives, we know-- We know it by the light Of his enduring love Of honor, valor, truth, and right, And man, and G.o.d above.

Remember how he drew The child-heart to his own, And taught the parable anew, And reaped as he had sown; Remember with what cheer He filled the little lives, And stayed the sob and dried the tear With mirth that still survives.

All duties to his kind It was his joy to fill; With nature gentle and refined, Yet dauntless soul and will, He met the trying need Of every troublous call, Yet high and clear and glad indeed He sung above it all.

Ay, listen! Still we hear The patriot song, the lay Of love, the woodland note so dear-- These will not die away.

Then say not he is dead, The friend we honor so, But lift a grateful voice instead And say: He lives, we know.

THE HIGHEST GOOD

WRITTEN FOR A HIGH-SCHOOL ANNUAL

To attain the highest good Of true man and womanhood, Simply do your honest best-- G.o.d with joy will do the rest.

MY CONSCIENCE

Sometimes my Conscience says, says he, "Don't you know me?"

And I, says I, skeered through and through, "Of course I do.

You air a nice chap ever' way, I'm here to say!

You make me cry--you make me pray, And all them good things thataway-- That is, at _night_. Where do you stay Durin' the day?"

And then my Conscience says, onc't more, "You know me--sh.o.r.e?"

"Oh, yes," says I, a-trimblin' faint, "You're jes' a saint!

Your ways is all so holy-right, I love you better ever' night You come around,--tel' plum daylight, When you air out o' sight!"

And then my Conscience sort o' grits His teeth, and spits On his two hands and grabs, of course, Some old remorse, And beats me with the big b.u.t.t-end O' _that_ thing--tel my clostest friend 'Ud hardly know me. "Now," says he, "Be keerful as you'd orto be And _allus_ think o' me!"

MY BOY

You smile and you smoke your cigar, my boy; You walk with a languid swing; You tinkle and tune your guitar, my boy, And you lift up your voice and sing; The midnight moon is a friend of yours, And a serenade your joy-- And it's only an age like mine that cures A trouble like yours, my boy!

THE OBJECT LESSON