The daisy clung to the rocky cleft,
Half broken-hearted.

The days went by and the wan, white flower
Waited and watched in the autumn weather;
Far down the valley, far up the height,
The forest blazed, and a wizard light
Crowned hill and heather.

And he came at last one eventide,
His breast was pierced and his plumes were gory;
For home is best when we come to die,
And we love the love that our youth puts by,--
And there's my story.

SUNSET IN THE CITY.

Down at the end of the iron lane
I see the sunset's glare,
And the red bars lie across the sky
Like steps of a wondrous stair.

Below, the throng, with unlifted eye,
Sweeps on in its heedless flight
Where the street's black funnel pours its tide
Out into the deepening night.

And no one has stopped to read God's word
On the fiery heavens scrolled
Save an old man dreaming of boyhood's days,
And a boy who would fain be old.

THE ADMIRAL'S RETURN.

(Written on the occasion of the bringing of the body of Admiral John
Paul Jones to the United States for reburial.)

Brave ships are these that bear thee home again
From under far-off skies--brave flags that fly
Above the deck whereon thine ashes lie,
Waiting their urn beyond the alien main;
The nations pause to view thy funeral train
As slowly moving up 'twixt sea and sky
It comes with stately pomp, and Liberty
Holds out her hands and calls thy name in vain.
And yet, mayhap, in vision vague and sweet,
Another sight thou seest beyond the boast
Of patriot pride--beside the new-born fleet,
Spectral and strange, no guest for such a host,
Yet making thy home-coming all complete,
The old "Bon Homme Richard's" unlaid ghost.

THE DUNGEONED ANARCHIST.

He crouches, voiceless, in his tomb-like cell,
Forgot of all things save his jailer's hate
That turns the daylight from his iron grate
To make his prison more and more a hell;
For him no coming day or hour shall spell
Deliverance, or bid his soul await
The hand of Mercy at his dungeon gate:
He would not know even though a kingdom fell!
The black night hides his hand before his eyes,--
That grim, clenched hand still burning with the sting
Of royal blood; he holds it like a prize,
W