To the ocean in its grandeur; Never resting, thus you travel, Down the canyons, through the air, Blessing earth, and beast, and man; THE BLUE-BACK SPELLER By MISS FANNIE E. S. HECK ['Select Poetry of North Carolina,' 1904, compiled by Rev. Hight C. Moore.] I'd been mighty busy plowin', When there came a half a peck Of letters, sent from Raleigh, To come and take a hand with them At spellin' in a Bee, For helpin' on a set of folks They called the Y. M. C. I'd been a famous speller In the days of Auld Lang Syne, And I hardly thought to shine; And I was n't loth to show The house was well-nigh crowded When the time came for the Bee, And, after some persuadin', There came up along with me M.D. and D.D. doctors And M.A.'s full a score, And of lawyers several more. 'T was funny then to see 'em, And a turnin' almost pale. Like it used to long ago, And I gave 'em, with the column, And then there came a poser, THE KINVAD BRIDGE By WILLIAM HURD HILLYER ['Songs of the Steel Age,' 1907. By permission.] At the end of the path that all men tread, at the end of the road called Time, Where the land slopes off to the cliffs of death, and the dolorous vapors climb, Over the cloudy gulf of hell and the chasm of dim despond, The Kinvad Bridge swings frail and far to the heavenly heights beyond. Nine javelins wide is the Kinvad Bridge when passeth a righteous soul; Royally ample and safe it leads to the distant shining goal; But when others come to the cliffs of death-ah, yes, the bridge is there But oh, what a narrow thread that spans the gray gorge of despair! THE PASSING OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY December 31, 1900 By WILLIAM HURD HILLYER ['Songs of the Steel Age,' 1907. By permission.] Misty and sad the stars, and the wind a requiem sigheth: Grandest of all that have passed along the Appian Way of Time; Vast was his triumph, and splendid with silver and gold and steel; Proudly he rode, with the Thunderbolt chained to his chariot wheel. Dark and deserted the streets; but across in the neighboring square The windows are blazing with light where mingle the brave and the fair. They are dancing the old year out; there is music and laughter within Cadence of mel'sonant flute and lilt of the wild violin. But listen! the dolorous bell! At last it is striking the hour: Vibrant and full and clear it sounds from the gray church tower. And the song of the viol and flute dies out with a sigh in the gloom, And solemnly stroke after stroke peals forth the Century's doom, Twelve! and the bird called Midnight, that flies at the edge of to-day, Passes, formless and silent, swift on his westward way: And the East Wind, suddenly rising, blows fresh from Atlantic deeps, And over the continent wide the Twentieth Century sweeps! Many there are who tell us that man's best moments are o'er, Saying, "The rose of his pride shall wither to bloom no more. Not so; for the day draws nigh, by the Hebrew seer foretold, When Peace shall interpret the Law, and Love shall be better than gold. And though there be sickness and famine, and wars and rumors of wars, Yet still through the darkness the future shines forth in the steadfast stars. So hail, thou cycle of hope!-Remember, the world is young! There are victories yet unattained, there are songs that are still unsung! FRUITION By CHARLES WILLIAM HUBNER ['Poems and Essays,' 1881. By permission.] Let thy life be like the day, Dying 'mid the sunset's roses Fairest when about thy way Let it be like summer time, Season of supernal splendor! Full of promises divine, Love, and joy, and music tender; Like the autumn let it be, When the world's aglow with beauty Rich with golden sheaves, for thee Ripened in the field of Duty. TO A MOCKING BIRD By CHARLES WILLIAM HUBNER ['Wild Flowers,' 1877. By permission of Authors' Publishing Co., N.Y.] Sweet bird! that from yon dancing spray Dost warble forth thy varied lay, As changeful as the sounds thy throat. Have been to me the sights and scenes, But all thy sad or merry lays, Sweet bird! in thy Creator's praise Thou pourest from the trembling sprays, With love's delicious art; Thus, too, will I, whate'er my fate In sorrow prone, or joy elate To God my being dedicate, WHEN SHE COMES By JOSEPH W. HUMPHRIES [Detroit Free Press, May 7, 1905.] Like a princess spring will greet her, And her loyal friends will meet her, |