But the march of time was neither less nor more;
While the formless atom died,

Myriad millions by its side,

And above them slowly lifted Roncador.

Roncador of Caribee,

Coral dragon of the sea,

Ever sleeping with his teeth below the wave;
Woe to him who breaks the sleep!

Woe to them who sail the deep!

Woe to ship and man that fear a shipman's grave!

Hither many a galleon old,
Heavy-keeled with guilty gold,

Fled before the hardy rover smiting sore;
But the sleeper silent lay

Till the preyer and his prey

Brought their plunder and their bones to Roncador.

Be content, O conqueror !
Now our bravest ship of war,

War and tempest who had often braved before,
All her storied prowess past,

Strikes her glorious flag at last

To the formless thing that builded Roncador.

THE SKELETON AT THE FEAST

E summoned not the Silent Guest,

WE

And no man spake his name ;
By lips unseen our Cup was pressed,
And mid the merry song and jest,
The uninvited came.

Wise were they in the days of old,

Who gave the Stranger place;

And when the joyous catch was trolled,
And toasts were quaffed and tales were told,
They looked him in the face.

God save us from the skeleton
Who sittest at the feast!

God rest the manly spirit gone,
Who sat beside the Silent One,

And dreaded him the least!

THE V-A-S-E1

ROM the madding crowd they stand apart,

FR

The maidens four and the Work of Art:

And one might tell from sight alone
In which had Culture ripest grown,—

The Gotham Million fair to see,
The Philadelphia Pedigree,

The Boston Mind of azure hue,
Or the soulful soul from Kalamazoo ;

For all loved Art in a seemly way,
With an earnest soul and a capital A.

Long they worshiped ; but no one broke
The sacred stillness, until up spoke

*

The Western one from the nameless place,
Who blushing said, "What a lovely Vase!"

Over three faces a sad smile flew,
And they edged away from Kalamazoo.

But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred
To crush the stranger with one small word:

1 Copyright by Life, New York. By permission.

Deftly hiding reproof in praise,

She cries, "Tis, indeed, a lovely Vaze !"

But brief her unworthy triumph when
The lofty one from the home of Penn,

With the consciousness of two grandpapas,
Exclaims, "It is quite a lovely Vahs!"

And glances round with an anxious thrill,
Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill.

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee,
And gently murmurs: 'Oh, pardon me!

66

"I did not catch your remark, because

I was so entranced with that charming Vaws!

Dies erit prægelida

Sinistra quun Bostonia.1

1 It will be a very cold day when Boston gets left.

THOMAS W. HAZEN ROLLESTON

(1857 ——)

EVENSONG

N the heart of a German forest I followed the winding ways

IN

Where the cushioned moss was barred with the sunset's slanting rays,

When I heard a sound of singing, unearthly sad and

clear,

Rise from the forest deeps and float on the evening air.

I thought of the spirits told of in dark old forest lore Who roam the greenwood singing forever and evermore;

And stopped and wondered and waited, as nearer the music grew,

Louder and still more loud, till at last came into view

A troop of Saxon maidens, tanned with the rain and

sun,

A burden of billeted wood on the shoulders of every

one.

The strong steps faltered not, and the chanting passed away

In the fragrant depths of the pinewood, and died with the dying day.