t appalling,
When dews of dusk are falling,
Or daylight's draperies draw.

(Give me them, and the peace of mind--)

Give me these things then back, though the giving
Be at cost of earth's garner of gold;
There is no life without these worth living,
No treasure where these are not told.
For the heart give the hope that it knows not,
Give the balm for the burn of the breast--
For the soul and the mind that repose not,
Oh, give us a rest!

III

(_As Mr. Francis Bret Harte might have woven it into a touching tale of
a western gentleman in a red shirt._)

Brown o' San Juan,
Stranger, I'm Brown.
Come up this mornin' from 'Frisco--
Be'n a-saltin' my specie-stacks down.

Be'n a-knockin' around,
Fer a man from San Juan,
Putty consid'able frequent--
Jes' catch onter that streak o' the dawn!

Right thar lies my home--
Right thar in the red--
I could slop over, stranger, in po'try--
Would spread out old Shakspoke cold dead.

Stranger, you freeze to this: there ain't no kinder gin-palace,
Nor no variety-show lays over a man's own rancho.
Maybe it hain't no style, but the Queen in the Tower o' London,
Ain't got naathin' I'd swop for that house over thar on the hill-side.

Thar is my ole gal, 'n' the kids, 'n' the rest o' my live-stock;
Thar my Remington hangs, and thar there's a griddle-cake br'ilin'--
For the two of us, pard--and thar, I allow, the heavens
Smile more friendly-like than on any other locality.

Stranger, nowhere else I don't take no satisfaction.
Gimme my ranch, 'n' them friendly old Shanghai chickens--
I brung the original pair f'm the States in eighteen-'n'-fifty--
Gimme me them and the feelin' of solid domestic comfort.

Yer parding, young man--
But this landscape a kind
Er flickers--I 'low 'twuz the po'try--
I thought that my eyes hed gone blind.

Take that pop from my belt!
Hi, thar!--gimme yer han'--
Or I'll kill myself--Lizzie--she's left me--
Gone off with a purtier man!

Thar, I'll quit--the ole gal
An' the kids--run away!
I be derned! Howsomever, come in, pard--
The griddle-cake's thar, anyway.

IV

(_As Austin Dobson might have translated it from Horace, if it had ever
occurred to Horace to write it._)

RONDEAU

At home alone, O Nomades,
Although Maecenas' marble frieze
Stand not between you and the sky
Nor Persian luxury supply
Its rosy surfei