We thank Thee that our land is loved of Thee The blessed home of thrift and industry, With ever-open door Of welcome to the poor-- Thy shielding hand o'er all abidingly.

Even thus we thank Thee for the wrong that grew Into a right that heroes battled to, With brothers long estranged, Once more as brothers ranged Beneath the red and white and starry blue.

Ay, thanks--though tremulous the thanks expressed-- Thanks for the battle at its worst, and best-- For all the clanging fray Whose discord dies away Into a pastoral song of peace and rest.

WILLIAM PINKNEY FISHBACK

Say first he loved the dear home-hearts, and then He loved his honest fellow citizen-- He loved and honored him, in any post Of duty where he served mankind the most.

All that he asked of him in humblest need Was but to find him striving to succeed; All that he asked of him in highest place Was justice to the lowliest of his race.

When he found these conditions, proved and tried, He owned he marvelled, but was satisfied-- Relaxed in vigilance enough to smile And, with his own wit, flay himself a while.

Often he liked real anger--as, perchance, The summer skies like storm-clouds and the glance Of lightning--for the clearer, purer blue Of heaven, and the greener old earth, too.

All easy things to do he did with care, Knowing the very common danger there; In n.o.blest conquest of supreme debate The facts are simple as the victory great.

That which had been a task to hardiest minds To him was as a pleasure, such as finds The captive-truant, doomed to read throughout The one lone book he really cares about.

Study revived him: Howsoever dim And deep the problem, 'twas a joy to him To solve it wholly; and he seemed as one Refreshed and rested as the work was done.

And he had gathered, from all wealth of lore That time has written, such a treasure store, His mind held opulence--his speech the rare Fair grace of sharing all his riches there--

Sharing with all, but with the greatest zest Sharing with those who seemed the neediest: The young he ever favored; and through these Shall he live longest in men's memories.

JOHN CLARK RIDPATH

To the lorn ones who loved him first and best, And knew his dear love at its tenderest, We seem akin--we simplest friends who knew His fellowship, of heart and spirit too:

We who have known the happy summertide Of his ingenuous nature, glorified With the inspiring smile that ever lit The earnest face and kindly strength of it:

His presence, all-commanding, as his thought Into unconscious eloquence was wrought, Until the utterance became a spell That awed us as a spoken miracle.

Learning, to him, was native--was, in truth, The earliest playmate of his lisping youth, Likewise, throughout a life of toil and stress, It was as laughter, health and happiness:

And so he played with it--joyed at its call-- Ran rioting with it, forgetting all Delights of childhood, and of age and fame,-- A devotee of learning, still the same!

In fancy, even now we catch the glance Of the rapt eye and radiant countenance, As when his discourse, like a woodland stream, Flowed musically on from theme to theme:

The skies, the stars, the mountains, and the sea, He worshipped as their high divinity-- Nor did his reverent spirit find one thing On earth too lowly for his worshipping.

The weed, the rose, the wildwood or the plain, The teeming harvest, or the blighted grain-- All--all were fashioned beautiful and good, As the soul saw and senses understood.

Thus broadly based, his s.p.a.cious faith and love Enfolded all below as all above-- Nay, ev'n if overmuch he loved mankind, He gave his love's vast largess as designed.

Therefore, in fondest, faithful service, he Wrought ever bravely for humanity-- Stood, first of heroes for the Right allied-- Foes, even, grieving, when (for them) he died.

This was the man we loved--are loving yet, And still shall love while longing eyes are wet With selfish tears that well were brushed away Remembering his smile of yesterday.--

For, even as we knew him, smiling still, Somewhere beyond all earthly ache or ill, He waits with the old welcome--just as when We met him smiling, we shall meet again.

NEW YEAR'S NURSERY JINGLE

Of all the rhymes of all the climes Of where and when and how, We best and most can boost and boast The Golden Age of NOW!

TO THE MOTHER

The mother-hands no further toil may know; The mother-eyes smile not on you and me; The mother-heart is stilled, alas!--But O The mother-love abides eternally.

TO MY SISTER

A BELATED OFFERING FOR HER BIRTHDAY

These books you find three weeks behind Your honored anniversary Make me, I fear, to here appear Mayhap a trifle cursory.-- Yet while the Muse must thus refuse The chords that fall caressfully, She seems to stir the publisher And dealer quite successfully.

As to our _birthdays_--let 'em run Until they whir and whiz!

Read Robert Louis Stevenson, And hum these lines of his:-- "The eternal dawn, beyond a doubt, Shall break on hill and plain And put all stars and candles out Ere we be young again."

A MOTTO

The _Brightest_ Star's the _modestest_, And more'n likely writes His motto like the lightnin'-bug's-- _Accordin' To His Lights_.