BUILDERS OF THE STATE

He builds the state who builds on truth,
Not he who, crushing toward his aim,
Strikes conscience from the throne, and ruth,
To win a dark, unpiteous fame.

Not he, tho' master among men,

Empire and ages all his thought→

Tho' like an eagle be his ken:

Down to the ground shall all be brought.

For this I hold, and shall for aye,

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Till Heaven sends death, that they who sow Hate, and the blood of brothers, they

Shall harvest hate and want and woe

The curse of Earth's dread agonies
Whereto they added, in their hour,
And all the unheeded tears and cries
They caused in lust of lawless power.

He builds the state who to that task

Brings strong, clean hands, and purpose pure; Who wears not virtue as a mask;

He builds the state that shall endure

The state wherein each loyal son
Holds as a birthright from true sires
Treasures of honor, nobly won,
And freedom's never-dying fires.

IMPROMPTUS

TO WILLIAM WATSON

ON HIS CORONATION ODE

(These lines were first published on the day the King was to have been crowned.)

In this high ode with its great shadow-kings,
More real than real things;

In this proud pageant of imperial verse
That nobly doth rehearse

England's true glories, for the world to read,
The King is crowned indeed!

LIFE is the hammer that strikes
From the bell of the poet's heart
Art.

And whether he lives or dies
The music in widening rings
Sings.

"THE CRITIC SCANNED THE POET'S BOOK"

THE critic scanned the poet's book
And ranged it calmly in its place.
A soul that felt its music shook

As if a bolt struck down through space;

And in that soul, like flower from seed,
The music turned to lofty deed

That sanctified a race.

IMPROMPTUS

HER DELICATE FORM"

HER delicate form, her night of hair,
Took me, unaware.

They called her poet, and the word
Strangely I heard;

For that I thought: Can she
A poem write, and be?

FRANCESCA MIA

No verses I can bring her,
No song that I can sing her,
Can be so sweet, by half,
As the music of her laugh,
As the murmur of her voice,
As the sound of her violin.
These make my heart rejoice,
These me to heaven can win.
But something in her face,
Sad, wild, and full of grace-
A look in those dark eyes

That dream, and flash, and dance,

And with soft shadows fill

These bring one long-loved glance,

Tender, and deep, and wise;

Then doth my heart stand still.

AGE, AND THE SCORNER

As I hobble, old and halt,
Daily, nightly,

By you, hectoring on the corner,
I know you for a graybeard scorner,
Tho' you raise your hat politely:

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I know you hold it for a fault
That I bend with burdening years,

Dull of eye, and dull of ears;
That this poll

Whitens like a flax-wigged doll.
'Tis a fault, you think; but wait!
Something marches, men call Fate;
If you, boy! succeed in keeping

Safe from sweep of Old Time's reaping,
You'll be the bent-back one that hobbles
Over the cobbles

Wondering why, all young at heart,
With the old you're pushed apart.

TO JACOB A. RIIS

ON HIS SILVER WEDDING

WERE true hearts bells, all breezes would be bringing,
Straight to your heart to-day, a silver ringing
From those you've blest, the heavy hearts and sore;-
Hark the sweet sound from here to Elsinore!

MUSIC AND FRIENDSHIP

THRICE is sweet music sweet when every word
And lovely tone by kindred hearts are heard;
So when I hear true music, Heaven send,
To share that heavenly joy, one dear, dear friend!

FRIENDSHIP

TO

FROM the happy first time

That we met and wondered,
I from thee and thou from me

Ne'er in soul were sundered.

IMPROMPTUS

No regret, no blaming;
Absence has not shaken:

Far apart, still close in heart;
Undoubting, unforsaken.

As the circle narrows

We draw near and nearer;
So, old friend! as comes the end
Thou art dearer, dearer.

TO E. C. S.

ON HIS SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY

His life was generous as his life was long
Filled to the brim with friendship and with song.

"TELL ME GOOD-BY"

DARK Southern girl! the dream-like day is past,
The harbor light burns red against the sky;
In the high blue, star follows star full fast;

The ship that takes me northward loometh nigh;

"Tell me good-by!"

Good-by to the red rose that is your mouth,

The tender violets that are your sigh;

The sweetness that you are

that is my South;

Ah, not too soon, Enchantress, do I fly!

"Tell me good-by."

"Tell me good-by," but not too sweetly tell

Lest all too hard the going, lest I cry

"Never, no never!" tho' the parting bell
Ring madly in the night; not then could I
Tell you good-by.

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