gave pursuit.  Wrath lent speed to his chase;
All heaven leaned down to watch the exciting race.
On, on they came, and still the Evil One
Gained on the angel burdened with the sun.

With bated breath and faces white as ghosts,
Over the walls leaned heaven’s affrighted hosts.
Up, up, still up, the angel almost spent,
Threw one foot forward o’er the battlement.

The demon seized the other with a shout;
So fierce his clutch he pulled the bottom out,
As the good angel, fainting, laid the sun
Down by the throne of God, who cried: “Well done!
Thy great misfortune shall be made divine:
Man will I create with a foot like thine!”

PEEK-A-BOO

The cunningest thing that a baby can do
Is the very first time it plays peek-a-boo;

When it hides its pink little face in its hands,
And crows, and shows that it understands

What nurse, and mamma and papa, too,
Mean when they hide and cry, “Peek a-boo, peek-a-boo.”

Oh, what a wonderful thing it is,
When they find that baby can play like this!

And every one listens, and thinks it true
That baby’s gurgle means “Peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo”;

And over and over the changes are rung
On the marvellous infant who talks so young.

I wonder if any one ever knew
A baby that never played peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.

’Tis old as the hills are.  I believe
Cain was taught it by Mother Eve;

For Cain was an innocent baby, too,
And I am sure he played peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.

And the whole world full of the children of men,
Have all of them played that game since then.

Kings and princes and beggars, too,
Every one has played peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.

Thief and robber and ruffian bold,
The crazy tramp and the drunkard old,

All have been babies who laughed and knew
How to hide, and play peek-a-boo, peek-a-boo.

THE FALLING OF THRONES

Above the din of commerce, above the clamour and rattle
   Of labour disputing with riches, of Anarchists’ threats and groans,
Above the hurry and hustle and roar of that bloodless battle,
   Where men are fighting for riches, I hear the falling of thrones.

I see no savage host, I hear no martial drumming,
   But down in the dust at our feet lie the useless crowns of kings;
And the mighty spirit of Progress is steadily coming, coming,
   And the flag of one republic abroad to the world he flings.

The Universal Republic, where worth, not birth, is royal;
   Where the lowliest born may climb on a self-made ladder to fame;
Where the highest and proudest born, if he be not true and loyal,
   Shall find no masking title to cover and gild his shame.

Not with the bellow of guns and not with sabres whetting,
   But with growing minds of men is waged this swordless fray;
While over the dim horizon the sun of royalty, setting,
   Lights, with a dying splendour, the humblest toiler’s way.

HER LAST LETTER

Sitting alone by the window,
   Watching the moonlit street,
Bending my head to listen
   To the well-known sound of your feet,
I have been wondering, darling,
   How I can bear the pain,
When I watch, with sighs and tear-wet eyes,
   And wait for your coming in vain.

For I know that a day approaches
   When your heart will tire of me;
When by door and gate I may watch and wait
   For a form I shall not see;
When the love that is now my heaven,
   The kisses that make my life,
You will bestow on another,
   And that other will be—your wife.

You will grow weary of sinning
   (Though you do not call it so),
You will long for a love that is purer
   Than the love that we two know.
God knows I have loved you dearly,
   With a passion strong as true;
But you will grow tired and leave me,
   Though I gave up all for you.

I was as pure as the morning
   When I first looked on your face;
I knew I never could reach you
   In your high, exalted place.
But I looked and loved and worshipped
   As a flower might worship a star,
And your eyes shone down upon me,
   And you seemed so far—so far.

And then?  Well, then, you loved me,
   Loved me with all your heart;
But we could not stand at the altar—
   We were so far apart.
If a star should wed with a flower
   The star must drop from the sky,
Or the flower in trying to reach it
   Would droop on its stalk and die.

But you said that you loved me, darling,
   And swore by the heavens above
That the Lord and all of His angels
   Would sanction and bless our love.
And I?  I was weak, not wicked.
   My love was as pure as true,
And sin itself seemed a virtue
   If only shared by you.

We have been happy together,
   Though under the cloud of sin,
But I know that the day approaches
   When my chastening must begin.
You have been faithful and tender,
   But you will not always be,
But I think I had better leave you
   While your thoughts are kind of me.

I know my beauty is fading—
   Sin furrows the fairest brow—
And I know that your heart will weary
   Of the face you smile on now.
You will take a bride to your bosom
   After you turn from me;
You will sit with your wife in the moonlight,
   And bold her babe on your knee.

O God!  I never could bear it;
   It would madden my brain, I know;
And so while you love me dearly
   I think I had better go.
It is sweeter to feel, my darling—
   To know as I fall asleep—
That some one will mourn me and miss me,
   That some one is left to weep,

Than to die as I should in the future,
   To drop in the street some day,
Unknown, unwept, and forgotten
   After you cast me away.
Perhaps the blood of the Saviour
   Can wash my garments clean;
Perchance I may drink of the waters
   That flow through pastures green.

Perchance we may meet in heaven,
   And walk in the streets above,
With nothing to grieve us or part us
   Since our sinning was all through love
God says, “Love one another,”
   And down to the depths of hell
Will He send the soul of a woman
   Because she loved—and fell?

* * * * *

And so in the moonlight he found her,
   Or found her beautiful clay,
Lifeless and pallid as marble,
   For the spirit had flown away.
The farewell words she had written
   She held to her cold, white breast,
And the buried blade of a dagger
   Told how she had gone to rest.

THE PRINCESS’S FINGER-NAIL: A TALE OF NONSENSE LAND

All through the Castle of High-bred Ease,
Where the chief employment was do-as-you-please,
Spread consternation and wild despair.
The queen was wringing her hands and hair;
The maids of honour were sad and solemn;
The pages looked blank as they stood in column;
The court-jester blubbered, “Boo-hoo, boo-hoo”
The cook in the kitchen dropped tears in the stew
And all through the castle went sob and wail,
For the princess had broken her finger-nail:
The beautiful Princess Red-as-a-Rose,
Bride-elect of the Lord High-Nose,
Broken her finger-nail down to the quick—
No wonder the queen and her court were sick.
Never sorrow so dread before
Had dared to enter that castle door.
Oh! what would my Lord His-High-Nose say
When she took off her glove on her wedding-day?
The fairest princess in Nonsense Land,
With a broken finger-nail on her hand!
’Twas a