They ride across the country,
They climb the mountain-side,
And with oars that feather lightly,
Along the rivers glide.
If they've not yet been to college,
They are going by-and-by,
To shake the tree of knowledge,
Though its branches touch the sky.
For all their Greek and Latin,
And poring over books,
With faces smooth as satin,
They'll keep their dainty looks.
Do you want a happy comrade,
In study or in fun?
Be sure you'll find her quickly
'Mid the girls of Ninety-one. She'll keep that bright head steady, Unharmed in any whirl,
And not a lad will love her less
Because she is a girl.
MARGARET E. SANGSTER. -Harper's Young People, July, 1891.
PRINCE ELECAMPANE OF THE GOLDEN
WHEN the midsummer wanes and the fields are loud
With pipes of crickets, and bees a-boom;
When the blackberries ripen along the hedge,
And the grass is brown at the thickets' edge;
When the rose that reigned by the roadside gray
Has flung her crown to the winds away,
He comes to rule with a lordlier sway,
Prince Elecampane of the Golden Plume.
The dust rolls up in a curling cloud;
He recks not the mimic white simoom.
He laughs in his scorn of the passers-by,
Who, trudging, scan with a vacant eye
His shape superb, in its splendor drest,
The sunbeams gilding his radiant crest,
And the fire of youth in his royal breast,
Prince Elecampane of the Golden Plume.
The burdocks under his feet are bowed.
They crouch and cower to yield him room.
He turns from the reaching, venturous vine,
The daisies that dim in his shadow shine.
He nods with an arrogant, easy grace
To the breeze that timidly fans his face.
He is lord of the realm for a little space,
Prince Elecampane of the Golden Plume.
The thistle he wooes,—she is flushed and proud,
As she leans to her lord in the fragrant gloom.
His heart is haughty, his hopes are bold,
The blood in his veins is a wine of gold.
He lifts his face to the cloudless sky,
And the summer wanes, and the days flit by,
And he scarce remembers that he must die!
Prince Elecampane of the Golden Plume.
The asters shine in a starry crowd,
The goldenrod breaks to her perfect bloom,
And the sumach marshals his banners red,
And crowns her queen in the prince's stead.
He feels, astonished, his strength decline,
He fails, he droops, by the blackberry vine,
And cold in his veins is the ebbing wine,
Prince Elecampane of the Golden Plume.
The spiders spin him a silvery shroud,
The bees go buzzing abroad his doom,
He trails in the dust his shriveling crest,
And the faithless thistle laughs with the rest.
His reign is over, his splendor is spent;
He yields up his life and his crown content,
And the loyal breezes alone lament
Prince Elecampane of the Golden Plume!
MARGARET JOHNSON.
-St. Nicholas, August, 1891.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
BORN FEBRUARY 22, 1819: DIED AUGUST 12, 1891. AT Daybreak, with no earth-born shadow near To cloud the sight, the Singer, loved and dear To Britain and Columbia passed away To brighter Spheres of never-ending Day. Poet and Prophet evermore thou art:
My verse-thoughts raise the Soul to things above:
Kindle within the breast faith, hope and love,
Till man to God and man acts well his part:
For he who to his God is true must be
True to himself and all humanity.
Lowell! above thy grave, still wet with tears,
This tribute to thy head and heart I lay:
Would we had met, yet we will meet one Day
To know and love each other 'mid the brighter
Spheres.
JOHN FULLERTON.
-For The Magazine of Poetry.
THOU fond chameleon of man's varied thinkingA pet of Peking's radiant virgin queen—
A fetish, Fatme wears o'er robe of faint rare