CORONATION

AT the king's gate the subtle noon Wove filmy yellow nets of sun; Into the drowsy snare too soon

The guards fell one by one.

Through the king's gate, unquestioned then,
A beggar went, and laughed,
"This
brings

Me chance at last, to see if men
Fare better, being kings."

The king sat bowed beneath his crown,
Propping his face with listless hand,
Watching the hour-glass sifting down

Too slow its shining sand.

"Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?"

The beggar turned, and, pitying, Replied like one in dream, "Of thee,

Nothing. I want the king.”

Uprose the king, and from his head

Shook off the crown and threw it by. "O man, thou must have known," he said,

"A greater king than I."

On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They called him dead;

And made his eldest son one day

Slave in his father's stead.

MORN

IN what a strange bewilderment do we Awake each morn from out the brief night's sleep.

Our struggling consciousness doth grope and creep

Its slow way back, as if it could not free
Itself from bonds unseen. Then Memory,
Like sudden light, outflashes from its deep
The joy or grief which it had last to keep
For us; and by the joy or grief we see
The new day dawneth like the yesterday;
We are unchanged; our life the same we
knew

Before. I wonder if this is the way
We wake from death's short sleep, to
struggle through

A brief bewilderment, and in dismay
Behold our life unto our old life true.

EMIGRAVIT

WITH Sails full set, the ship her anchor weighs.

Strange names shine out beneath her figure head.

What glad farewells with eager eyes are said!

What cheer for him who goes, and him who stays!

Fair skies, rich lands, new homes, and untried days

Some go to seek: the rest but wait instead, Watching the way wherein their comrades led,

Until the next stanch ship her flag doth raise. Who knows what myriad colonies there are Of fairest fields, and rich, undreamed-of

gains

Thick planted in the distant shining plains Which we call sky because they lie so far? Oh, write of me, not " Died in bitter pains," But "Emigrated to another star!"

A LAST PRAYER

FATHER, I scarcely dare to pray,
So clear I see, now it is done,
That I have wasted half my day,
And left my work but just begun;

So clear I see that things I thought
Were right or harmless were a sin;
So clear I see that I have sought,
Unconscious, selfish aims to win;

So clear I see that I have hurt
The souls I might have helped to save;
That I have slothful been, inert,

Deaf to the calls thy leaders gave.

In outskirts of thy kingdoms vast,
Father, the humblest spot give me;
Set me the lowliest task thou hast;
Let me repentant work for thee!

The symbol, sign, and instrument

Of each soul's purpose, passion, strife, Of fires in which are poured and spent Their all of love, their all of life.

O feeble, mighty human hand!

O fragile, dauntless human heart! The universe holds nothing planned With such sublime, transcendent art!

Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine
Poor little hand, so feeble now;
Its wrinkled palm, its altered line,
Its veins so pallid and so slow -

(Unfinished here.)

Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art: I shall be free when thou art through. Take all there is take hand and heart: There must be somewhere work to do. Her last poem: 7 August, 1885,

SAMUEL HOAR

A YEAR ago how often did I meet
Under these elms, once more in sober bloom,
Thy tall, sad figure pacing down the
street,

But now the robin sings above thy tomb. Thy name on other shores may ne'er be known,

Though austere Rome no graver Consul knew;

But Massachusetts her true son doth own:
Out of her soil thy hardy virtues grew.
She loves the man who chose the con-
quered cause,

The upright soul that bowed to God alone,

The clean hand that upheld her equal laws,

The old religion, never yet outgrown,
The cold demeanor and warm heart be-

neath,

The simple grandeur of thy life and death.

ARIANA1

SWEET saint! whose rising dawned upon the sight

Like fair Aurora chasing mists away,
Our ocean billows, and thy western height
Gave back reflections of the tender ray,
Sparkling and smiling as night turned to
day:-

Ah! whither vanished that celestial light?
Suns rise and set, Monadnoc's amethyst
Year-long above the sullen cloud appears,
Daily the waves our summer strand have
kissed,

But thou returnest not with days and years: Or is it thine, yon clear and beckoning star,

Seen o'er the hills that guarded once thy home?

Dost guide thy friend's free steps that widely roam

Toward that far country where his wishes are ?

AT CHAPPAQUA

His cherished woods are mute. The stream glides down

The hill as when I knew it years ago;
The dark, pine arbor with its priestly gown
Stands hushed, as if our grief it still would
show;

The silver springs are cupless, and the flow

Of friendly feet no more bereaves the grass, For he is absent who was wont to pass Along this wooded path. His axe's blow No more disturbs the impertinent bole or bough;

Nor moves his pen our heedless nation

now,

Which, sworn to justice, stirred the people

So.

In some far world his much-loved face

must glow

With rapture still. This breeze once fanned his brow.

This is the peaceful Mecca all men know!

THE SCARLET TANAGER

A BALL of fire shoots through the tamarack
In scarlet splendor, on voluptuous wings;
Delirious joy the pyrotechnist brings,
Who marks for us high summer's almanac.
How instantly the red-coat hurtles back!
No fiercer flame has flashed beneath the sky.
Note now the rapture in his cautious eye,
The conflagration lit along his track.
Winged soul of beauty, tropic in desire,
Thy love seems alien in our northern zone;
Thou giv'st to our green lands a burst of fire
And callest back the fables we disown.
The hot equator thou mightst well inspire,
Or stand above some Eastern monarch's
throne.