That whole day long the Taylor pup That night when Mr. Taylor came Yet still that noble Taylor pup Good sooth, I wot he should be called Buena's favorite son Who's sired of such a noble sire AFTER READING TROLLOPE'S HISTORY OF FLORENCE My books are on their shelves again Afar the Arno murmurs low The tale of fields of melting snow. The while I wait me for the dawn. Beneath great Giotto's Campanile The gray ghosts throng; their whispers steal The rain falls on Ghiberti's gates; AFTER READING TROLLOPE'S HISTORY OF FLORENCE And yet beneath the ilex-shades Dear trysting-place for boys and maids- The breath of lands or lilied streams Along the almond walks I tread In Rome or Florence, still with her Angelico is praying yet Where lives no pang of man's regret, Within Lorenzo's garden green, Lost shades that search in vain for home. 197 They pace the paths along the stream, That shows e'en yet the master's trace. But lo, within the walls of gray, Make sweet the coming morning breeze I hear a voice, of prophet tone, Some Romola in passing by "Her liberties," he cries, "restore! I stand beneath the cypress trees "C THE OLD HOMESTEAD" 199 "THE OLD HOMESTEAD" JEST as atween the awk'ard lines a hand we love has penn'd So, in your simple, homespun art, old honest Yankee friend, We see it all-the pictur' that our mem'ries hold so dear— An' the vision is so nat'ral-like we almost seem to hear Ah, who'd ha' thought the music of that distant childhood time Would sleep through all the changeful, bitter years To waken into melodies like Chris'mas bells a-chime An' to claim the ready tribute of our tears! Why, the robins in the maples an' the blackbirds round the pond, The crickets an' the locusts in the leaves, The brook that chased the trout adown the hillside just beyond, An' the swallers in their nests beneath the eaves— They all come troopin' back with you, dear Uncle Josh, to-day, An' they seem to sing with all the joyous zest Of the days when we were Yankee boys an' Yankee girls at play, With nary thought of "livin' way out West"! God bless ye, Denman Thomps'n, for the good y' do our hearts THE CONVALESCENT GRIPSTER THE gods let slip that fiendish grip No fiercer storm than racked my form But now, good-by To drugs, say I Good-by to gnawing sorrow; I am up to-day, And, whoop, hooray! I'm going out to-morrow! What aches and pain in bones and brain It seemed to me such pangs must be Albeit I Was sure I'd die, The doctor reassured me And, true enough, With his vile stuff, He ultimately cured me. As there I lay in bed all day, How fair outside looked to me! A smile so mild old Nature smiled It seemed to warm clean through me. In chastened mood The scene I viewed, Inventing, sadly solus, Fantastic rhymes Between the times I had to take a bolus. Of quinine slugs and other drugs I guess I took a million- To dancing a cotillon; The doctors say The only way To rout the grip instanter Is to pour in All kinds of sin Similibus curantur! |