er of the Gleam.

We lay upon your folded hands
The wreath of asphodel;
We speak above your peaceful face
The tender word _Farewell!_
For well you fare, in God's good care,
Somewhere within the blue,
And know, to-day, your dearest dreams
Are true,--and true,--and true!

TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

ON HIS "BOOK OF JOYOUS CHILDREN"

Yours is a garden of old-fashioned flowers;
Joyous children delight to play there;
Weary men find rest in its bowers,
Watching the lingering light of day there.

Old-time tunes and young love-laughter
Ripple and run among the roses;
Memory's echoes, murmuring after,
Fill the dusk when the long day closes.

Simple songs with a cadence olden--
These you learned in the Forest of Arden:
Friendly flowers with hearts all golden--
These you borrowed from Eden's garden.

This is the reason why all men love you;
Truth to life is the finest art:
Other poets may soar above you--
You keep close to the human heart.

December, 1903.

RICHARD WATSON GILDER

IN MEMORIAM

Soul of a soldier in a poet's frame,
Heart of a hero in a body frail;
Thine was the courage clear that did not quail
Before the giant champions of shame
Who wrought dishonour to the city's name;
And thine the vision of the Holy Grail
Of Love, revealed through Music's lucid veil,
Filling thy life with heavenly song and flame.

Pure was the light that lit thy glowing eye,
And strong the faith that held thy simple creed.
Ah, poet, patriot, friend, to serve our need
Thou leavest two great gifts that will not die:
Above the city's noise, thy lyric cry,--
Amid the city's strife, thy noble deed.

November, 1909.

THE VALLEY OF VAIN VERSES

The grief that is but feigning,
And weeps melodious tears
Of delicate complaining
From self-indulgent years;
The mirth that is but madness,
And has no inward gladness
Beneath its laughter straining,
To capture thoughtless ears;

The love that is but passion
Of amber-scented lust;
The doubt that is but fashion;
The faith that has no trust;
These Thamyris disperses,
In the Valley of Vain Verses
Below the Mount Parnassian,--
And they crumble into dust.

MUSIC

MUSIC

I

PRELUDE

1

Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that wild night
When, pierced with pain and bitter-sweet deli