DELIGHT IN DISORDER. BY ROBERT HERRICK. It is in such poems as the following one that Herrick is at his best; his religious, or, as he called them, his "noble numbers," being for the most part inferior. But in his lyrics, as Austin Dobson says, his "numbers are of gold." A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness; A lawn about the shoulders thrown, An erring lace, which here and there A winning wave, deserving note, A careless shoestring, in whose tie Doth more bewitch me than when art JIM BLUDSO. JOHN HAY. John Hay, Secretary of State, was born at Salem, Ind., on Oct. 8, 1838, and he was graduated at Brown twenty years later. He studied law in Springfield, Ill., and in 1861 became assistant secretary to President Lincoln. He saw some of the civil war as an aid-de-camp under Generals Hunter and Gilmore, with rank of Major and Assistant Adjutant General, Brevet Lieutenant Colonel and Colonel. He was First Assistant Secretary of Legation in Paris and in charge several times from 1865 to 1867, was diplomat in charge at Vienna 1867-'68, Secretary of Legation at Madrid 1868-'70, editorial writer for five years of the New York Tribune, First Assistant Secretary of State, and Ambassador to England. He is the author of "Pike County Ballads," "Castillian Days," and part author of a life of Lincoln, written in conjunction with John G. Nicolay. Wall no! I can't tell where he lives Because he don't live, you see; Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three years, That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks He weren't no saint-them engineers And this was all the religion he had- Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot's bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire A thousand times he swore All boats has their day on the Mississipp, The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she wouldn't be passed, With a nigger squat on her safety-valve The fire bust out as she clared the bar, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that willer bank on the right. There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out, Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore." Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat And they all had trust in his cussedness, And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. He weren't no saint-but at jedgment That wouldn't shook hands with him. On a man that died for men. BY ALFRED TENNYSON. So, Lady Flora, take my lay, And if you find no moral there, The wildweed-flower that simply blows? And is there any moral shut Within the bosom of the rose? But any man that walks the mead, In bud or blade, or bloom, may find, According as his humors lead, A meaning suited to his mind. And liberal applications lie In Art like Nature, dearest friend; So 'twere to cramp its use, if I Should hook it to some useful end. |