send
    A thrill of rapture wilder than
    Ere palpitated heart of man
    When flaming at its mightiest.
  And there's a fierceness in his ire—
    A maddened majesty that leaps
  Along his veins in blood of fire,
    Until the path his vision sweeps
  Spins out behind him like a thread
    Unraveled from the reel of time,
    As, wheeling on his course sublime,
  The earth revolves beneath his tread.

  Then stretch away, my gallant steed!
    Thy mission is a noble one:
    You bear the father to the son,
  And sweet relief to bitter need;
  You bear the stranger to his friends;
    You bear the pilgrim to the shrine,
  And back again the prayer he sends
    That God will prosper me and mine,—
  The star that on thy forehead gleams
  Has blossomed in our brightest dreams.
  Then speed thee on thy glorious race!
  The mother waits thy ringing pace;
  The father leans an anxious ear
  The thunder of thy hoofs to hear;
  The lover listens, far away,
  To catch thy keen exultant neigh;
  And, where thy breathings roll and rise,
  The husband strains his eager eyes,
  And laugh of wife and baby-glee
  Ring out to greet and welcome thee.
  Then stretch away! and when at last
    The master's hand shall gently check
  Thy mighty speed, and hold thee fast,
    The world will pat thee on the neck.

HIS MOTHER'S WAY

  Tomps 'ud allus haf to say
    Somepin' 'bout "his mother's way."—
  He lived hard-like—never jined
  Any church of any kind.—
  "It was Mother's way," says he,
  "To be good enough fer me
  And her too,—and certinly
    Lord has heerd her pray!"
  Propped up on his dyin' bed,—
  "Shore as Heaven's overhead,
  I'm a-goin' there," he said—-
    "It was Mother's way."

JAP MILLER.

  Jap Miller down at Martinsville's the blamedest feller yit!
  When he starts in a-talkin' other folks is apt to quit!—
  'Pears like that mouth o' his'n wuz n't made fer nuthin' else
  But jes' to argify 'em down and gether in their pelts:
  He'll talk you down on tariff; er he'll talk you down on tax,
  And prove the pore man pays 'em all—and them's about the fac's!—
  Religen, law, er politics, prize-fightin', er base-ball—
  Jes' tetch Jap up a little and he'll post you 'bout 'em all.

  And the comicalist feller ever tilted back a cheer
  And tuck a chaw tobacker kind o' like he did n't keer.—
  There's where the feller's strength lays,—he's so
          common-like and plain,—
  They haint no dude about old Jap, you bet you—nary grain!
  They 'lected him to Council and it never turned his head,
  And did n't make no differunce what anybody said,—
  He didn't dress no finer, ner rag out in fancy clothes;
  But his voice in Council-meetin's is a turrer to his foes.

  He's fer the pore man ever' time! And in the last campaign
  He stumped old Morgan County, through the sunshine and the rain,
  And helt the banner up'ards from a-trailin' in the dust,
  And cut loose on monopolies and cuss'd and cuss'd and cuss'd!
  He'd tell some funny story ever' now and then, you know,
  Tel, blame it! it wuz better 'n a jack-o'-lantern show!
  And I'd go furder, yit, to-day, to hear old Jap norate
  Than any high-toned orator 'at ever stumped the State!

  W'y, that-air blame Jap Miller, with his keen sircastic fun,
  Has got more friends than ary candidate 'at ever run!
  Do n't matter what his views is, when he states the same to you,
  They allus coincide with your'n, the same as two and two:
  You can't take issue with him—er, at least, they haint no sense
  In startin' in to down him, so you better not commence.—
  The best way's jes' to listen, like your humble servant does,
  And jes' concede Jap Miller is the best man ever wuz!

A SOUTHERN SINGER.

Written In Madison Caweln's "Lyrics and Idyls."

  Herein are blown from out the South
  Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth—
  As sweet in voice as, in perfume,
  The night-breath of magnolia-bloom.

  Such sumptuous languor lures the sense—
  Such luxury of indolence—
  The eyes blur as a nymph's might blur,
  With water-lilies watching her.

  You waken, thrilling at the trill
  Of some wild bird that seems to spill
  The silence full of winey drips
  Of song that Fancy sips and sips.

  Betimes, in brambled lanes wherethrough
  The chipmunk stripes himself from view,
  You pause to lop a creamy spray
  Of elder-blossoms by the way.

  Or where the morning dew is yet
  Gray on the topmost rail, you set
  A sudden palm and, vaulting, meet
  Your vaulting shadow in the wheat.

  On lordly swards, of suave incline,
  Entessellate with shade and shine,
  You shall misdoubt your lowly birth,
  Clad on as one of princely worth:

  The falcon on your wrist shall ride—
  Your milk-white Arab side by side
  With one of raven-black.—You fain
  Would kiss the hand that holds the rein.

  Nay, nay, Romancer! Poet! Seer!
  Sing us back home—from there to here;
  Grant your high grace and wit, but we
  Most honor your simplicity.—

  Herein are blown from out the South
  Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth—
  As sweet in voice as, in perfume,
  The night-breath of magnolia-bloom.

A DREAM OF AUTUMN.

  Mellow hazes, lowly trailing
  Over wood and meadow, veiling
  Somber skies, with wildfowl sailing
    Sailor-like to foreign lands;
  And the north-wind overleaping
  Summer's brink, and floodlike sweeping
  Wrecks of roses where the weeping
    Willows wring their helpless hands.

  Flared, like Titan torches flinging
    Flakes of flame and embers, springing
  From the vale the trees stand swinging
    In the moaning atmosphere;
  While in dead'ning-lands the lowing
  Of the cattle, sadder growing,
  Fills the sense to overflowing
    With the sorrow of the year.

  Sorrowfully, yet the sweeter
  Sings the brook in rippled meter
  Under boughs that lithely teeter
    Lorn birds, answering from the shores
  Through the viny, shady-shiny
  Interspaces, shot with tiny
  Flying motes that fleck the winy
    Wave-engraven sycamores.

  Fields of ragged stubble, wrangled
  With rank weeds, and shocks of tangled
  Corn, with crests like rent plumes dangled
    Over Harvest's battle-piain;
  And the sudden whir and whistle
  Of the quail that, like a missile,
  Whizzes over thorn and thistle,
    And, a missile,