That Prince must govern with a gentle hand,
Who will have love comply with his command.

A MOCKING question! Britain's answer came
Swift as the light and searching as the flame.

“Yes, for a scrap of paper we will fight
Till our last breath, and God defend the right!

“A scrap of paper where a name is set
Is strong as duty's pledge and honor's debt.

“A scrap of paper holds for man and wife
The sacrament of love, the bond of life.

“A scrap of paper may be Holy Writ
With God's eternal word to hallow it.

“A scrap of paper binds us both to stand
Defenders of a neutral neighbor land.

In the state of old Kentucky,
One cold and stormy night,
A horrible crime was committed
And later brought to light.

A man was cruelly murdered,
Samuel Adams was his name.
His body cut to pieces,
They accused Joe Schuster's gang.

He left his home one morning,
Employment to seek,
And told his loving family
He'd just be gone one week.

He went down to Auxier,
One week he went to stay,
But little did he think
It was his fatal day.

Alas, he went to sleep.
That night while he lay on his bed,
They crept into his room

IS He not near?—look up and see:
Peace on His lips, and in His hands and side
The wounds of love. He stays the trembling knee,
Nerves the frail arm, His ark to guide.
Is He not near? O trust His seal
Baptismal, yet uncancell'd on thy brow;
Trust the kind love His holy months reveal,
Oft as His altar hears thy deep heart-searching vow.

And trust the calm, the joy benign,
That o'er the obedient breathes in life's still hour,
When Sunday lights with summer airs combine,
And shadows blend from cloud and bower.

I FEEL polite, outside the door;
But when it should begin,
I can't remember Not to ask
If just their Cat is in.

And if the Sun should sprinkle through
Along the floor that way,
I can't remember what I do
If I am Urged to Stay.

And when I've shaken hands all round,
—No matter how I try,
I can't remember Not to go
And Kiss their Dog good-by,
—Good-by,
—Good-by!

Yes, thank you, please.—They're Very Well;
—I think I'd better go.
Yes, thank you, please. I'm always late;
My Mother told me so.

No fear of death, or life, again shall pass
Along these quivering fields of April grass,
Where, under quiet, ever holier skies
Sorrow keeps watch with glad, immortal eyes.

In early youth how far that City seems!—
When our friends die, they seem to pass away
Into some land where all the airs are grey,—
Some viewless region too remote for dreams
Even,—where never sun of daylight gleams:—
Our own steps loiter onward day by day;
O'er many a dark-blue lake and sunny bay
We sail; we kiss white hands on moonlit streams.

We gather flowers: the City of the dead
Is still remote. “Which is the fairest thing,”
We say—“a red mouth, or this rose of red?”
Along the May-bright lanes we laugh and sing.

White founts falling in the courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard,
It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips,
For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.
They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,
They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,
And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,

You ask why can't Clarissa hold her tongue.
Because she fears her fingers will be stung.

Of virtues I most warmly bless,
Most rarely see, Unselfishness.
And to put graver sins aside
I own a preference for Pride.