f men may find
My kingdom here within the child-like mind.

EUTERPE

O lyric muse, thou didst not tune alone
The lyre that loving Orpheus smote
With subtle touch, who struck the golden note
That pierced dread Pluto's heart of stone,
And won again Eurydice his own;
Nor yet Erate's lute, nor Sappho's throat
That thrilled the ear in Grecian isles remote,
Where Homer sang, and Art had built her throne:
But thou, Euterpe, touched blind Milton's tongue,
And swept the thousand chords of Shakespeare's soul;
Woke Byron from his hours of idle dream,
And then he sang mankind a deathless song.
But thou at last didst reach the lyric goal
Of art in Tennyson's immortal theme.

SCARLET DAYS

_To F. W. B. Family_

Those scarlet days come back to me to-night
Across the span of many happy years--
Dreams, haunted by the music of the spheres,
And glowing skies of gold and chrysolite.
The world of science bursting on my sight,
And words of wisdom falling on my ears,
The rhythmic thought of poets, priests, and seers,
Wrought in my life a spell of wild delight.

Not all: three figures--Faith and Hope and Love--
I see them still through years of mist and haze--
Hope crowned with light, and Faith of godly ken;
And Love was like a meek unconscious dove.
Dear God, although I count those scarlet days,
To-night I would not have them back again.

HER EYES ARE BROWN

Her eyes are brown, oh, Edith's eyes are brown!
I will not boast the midnight of her hair,
Nor yet because her radiant cheek is fair,
And like the touch of autumn's thistle down;
I will not swear I have not seen her frown;
She may be rich and proud and debonair,
For aught I know, I'm sure I do not care:
But oh, her eyes, her eyes are Edith's crown!

I've gazed upon the stars of northern skies
And breathed the perfume of the southern breeze;
I've listened to the boom of far-off seas
On mystic shores; I've seen the full moon rise
Through branch and bloom of old magnolia trees!
There's nothing like the thrill of Edith's eyes!

THE NATURALIST

The shouts of happy boys he does not hear,
Nor knows that wretched men must toil for bread;
The tragedy of life he has not read,
Or deems it but the comedy o