ts, we give Thee thanks!

For the sturdy oaks and the stately pines,
For the lead and the coal from the deep, dark mines,
For the silver ores of a thousand fold,
For the diamond bright and the yellow gold,
For the river boat and the flying train,
For the fleecy sail of the rolling main,
For the velvet sponge and the glossy pearl,
For the flag of peace which we now unfurl,--
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,--
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the lowly cot and the mansion fair,
For the peace and plenty together share,
For the Hand which guides us from above,
For Thy tender mercies, abiding love,
For the blessed home with its children gay,
For returnings of Thanksgiving Day,
For the bearing toils and the sharing cares,
We lift up our hearts in our songs and our prayers,--
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans' banks,--
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

NOT YET A POET

Aye! many a rhyme my pen has flown,
In oblivion, all unknown;
Still many more, perchance, I say,
Float on in one unbroken lay--
But ask me naught of where or when,
Long as they ring in hearts of men!
Dear friend, I say these words to you,
Which through the ages will be true:
Though I have power to combine
These subtle rhymes of each sweet line--
Yet, I shall never live to see,
The title "POET" given me!

A BOUQUET

A blossom pink, a blossom blue,
Make all there is in love so true.
'Tis fit, methinks, my heart to move,
To give it thee, sweet girl, I love!
Now, take it, dear, this morn and wear
A wreath of beauty in thy hair;
Think on it, when from bliss we part--
The emblem of my wooing heart!

AN ODE TO THE SOLDIERS' AND SAILORS' MONUMENT

Thou most majestic Queen of sculptural art,
What learned architect designed thy throne?
Who traced thy stately form in head and heart,
And sent the sculptor forth to carve the stone?
O speak, fair Queen, for thou art not alone;
Ten thousand unseen voices join refrain
That softly floats in one melodious tone,
As sweet as any ancient harper's strain
In odes to Indiana's silent victors slain.

Thy court well marks the conquest of the West,
A citadel sprung out the forest wild,
A mecca where the pilgrims quietly rest:
Each dame's content--content each sportive child;
The fiery redmen nevermore revile,
Nor haunt the footprints of thy daring sons,
Whose noble spheres are widening all the while,
Lik