And this he was, who most unfit

(So hard the sense of God to hit), Did seem to fill his place;

With such a homely face,

Such rustic manners, speech uncouth,
(That somehow blundered out the truth),
Untried, untrained to bear
The more than kingly care.

Ah! And his genius put to scorn
The proudest in the purple born,

Whose wisdom never grew
To what, untaught, he knew,

The People, of whom he was one:
No gentleman, like Washington,

(Whose bones, methinks, make room,
To have him in their tomb!)

A laboring man, with horny hands,
Who swung the ax, who tilled his lands,
Who shrank from nothing new,
But did as poor men do.

One of the People! Born to be

Their curious epitome;

To share yet rise above

Their shifting hate and love.

O honest face, which all men knew!
O tender heart, but known to few!

O wonder of the age,
Cut off by tragic rage!

And there his countrymen shall come,
With memory proud, with pity dumb,
And strangers far and near,

For many and many a year.

For many a year and many an age,
While History on her ample page
The virtues shall enroll

Of that Paternal Soul.

5

FRANCIS MILES FINCH

1827

THE author of this very popular poem was born at Ithaca, New York. In 1849 he was graduated from Yale, where he was the class poet. After practicing law in Ithaca for several years, he was elected a justice of the New York Court of Appeals. In 1892 he was appointed dean of the law school of Cornell University.

THE BLUE AND THE GRAY

By the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of iron have fled,

Where the blades of the grave grass quiver,

Asleep are the ranks of the dead:

IO

Under the sod and the dew,
Waiting the judgment day;
Under the blossoms, the Blue,
Under the garlands, the Gray.

No more shall the war cry sever,

Or the winding rivers be red;
They banish our anger forever

When they laurel the graves of our dead!
Under the sod and the dew,

Waiting the judgment day:

Love and tears for the Blue,

Tears and love for the Gray.

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE

1827

A POPULAR writer of juvenile fiction, as well as the author of two or three volumes of verse, Trowbridge was born on a farm at Ogden, New York. His educational advantages were not of the best; but he showed early an aptitude for journalism. He was in New York for a time, but soon removed to Boston, where he has spent a long life in editorial and other literary work.

THE VAGABONDS

We are two travelers, Roger and I.

Roger's my dog. Come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentleman, — mind your eye!
Over the table, — look out for the lamp!

The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,

And slept outdoors when nights were cold,

And ate and drank and starved-together.

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