English

A little village in Texas has lost its idiot

— Caption on a protest sign

Let us deal justly.

— Edgar, disguised as Poor Tom, from Shakespeare's King Lear ; act 3, scene 6

But where, oh where is the holy idiot,
truth teller and soothsayer, familiar

of spirits, rat eater, unhouseled wanderer
whose garble and babble fill rich and poor,

homeless and housed, with awe and fear?
Is he hiding in the pit of the walkie-talkie,

its grid of holes insatiably hungry,

Fair dweller by the dusty way —
Bright saint within a mossy shrine,
The tribute of a heart to-day
Weary and worn is thine.

The earliest blossoms of the year,
The sweet-briar and the violet
The pious hand of Spring has here
Upon thy altar set.

And not alone to thee is given
The homage of the pilgrim's knee —
But oft the sweetest birds of Heaven
Glide down and sing to thee.

Here daily from his beechen cell
The hermit squirrel steals to drink,
And flocks which cluster to their bell

Here slumbers Rome, among her broken tombs,
A funeral highway stretching down the past,
With few inscriptions, save the constant blooms
By kindly Nature on these altars cast.

The dust of glory all around me lies,
The ashes of dead nations and their kings:
I hear no voice save what from out the skies
The lark shakes down from his invisible wings.

Where slept a Caesar, now the owlet hides —
A silent spirit till the day has fled:
Here gleams the lizard, there the viper glides —

Dear transient spirit of the fields,
Thou com'st without distrust,
To fan the sunshine of our streets
Among the noise and dust.

Thou leadest in thy wavering flight
My footsteps unaware,
Until I seem to walk the vales
And breathe thy native air.

And thou hast fed upon the flowers,
And drained their honeyed springs,
Till every tender hue they wore
Is blooming on thy wings.

I bless the fresh and flowery light
Thou bringest to the town.
But tremble lest the hot turmoil

Ancient road, that wind'st deserted
Through the level of the vale,
Sweeping toward the crowded market
Like a stream without a snail;

Standing by thee, I look backward,
And, as in the light of dreams,
See the years descend and vanish,
Like thy tented wains and teams.

Here I stroll along the village
As in youth's departed morn;
But I miss the crowded coaches,
And the driver's bugle-horn—

Miss the crowd of jovial teamsters
Filling buckets at the wells,
With their wains from Conestoga,

O Brother of the righteous will,
O Brother full of grace,
What human glory is revealed,
Foreshadowed in thy face!

As once the homes of Galilee,
It lighteth ours to-day;
And still to men it showeth clear
The Life, the Truth, the Way.

Thou art the Way: to feel, to know
The Goodness throned above,
There is no other way than thine,—
To lead the life of love.

Thou art the Truth: alone on eyes
Like thine the visions fall,—
The secret of the pure in heart,
Beholding God in all.

Upon the sactious College Disputes between the L ICENTIATES and Doctors .

Why all this mighty public Rout?
 Give up the real Cause;
What! have the bold Licentiates broke
 Your dictatorial Laws?

Not herd with Brothers you've approv'd;
 Fie! let the Matter pass:
We want no further Proof to show,
 Ass brays—'gainst what?—an Ass!

In Rome there is a glorious flight of stone,
Great steps, as leading to a giant's throne;
Or to a temple of Titanic gods,
This marvellous height, up which the pilgrim plods,
Breathless halfway, seems like a stairway tracked
By myriad feet of some wild cataract;
Like those where Nilus, with his flag of spray,
Leads his wild Abyssinian floods away.

Below this giant stairway, in the square,
There springs a cooling murmur in the air;
The liquid music of a tinkling rill;
A stolen naiad from the Sabine hill,

In Praise of the worthy patriotic C HAMBERLAIN , Sir T HEODORE J ANSSEN .

When Vice triumphant lords it in a State,
And foulest Actions stigmatize the Great,
Who but with Honesty of Soul must praise
That Man, whose Conduct in these canker'd Days ,
Can stand the Test, above Detraction's Brawl,
And makes Integrity his All in All?
Nor think I paint too high — I'll give you Proof,
J ANSSEN'S that Man — e'en Envy speaks this Truth.

The loud Vitura rings along the way,
White as the road with dust. The purple day,
O'er Monte Mario, dies from off the dome,
And, lo! the first star leads us into Rome.

Oh, glorious city! Through the deep'ning shade
A thousand heroes, like the gods arrayed,
And bards, with laurel rustling on their hair,
Walk proudly, and speak grandly, till the air
Is full of solemn majesty, and night
Is half way robbed by temples marble white.
Yon tramping steeds, and yonder glittering wheel—
Chariot a Cæsar—while the commonweal