A line-o'-verse or two Part 3

On free days at the Inst.i.tute You'll always notice her.

She qualifies approval Of a t.i.tian or Corot; But-- She throws a fit of rapture When she comes to Bouguereau.

And when you talk of music, She is Music's devotee.

She will tell you that Beethoven Always makes her wish to pray; And "dear old Bach!" His very name She says, her ear enchants; But-- Her favorite piece is Weber's "Invitation to the Dance."

A BALLADE OF DEATH AND TIME

I hold it truth with him who sweetly sings-- The weekly music of the _London Sphere_-- That deathless tomes the living present brings: Great literature is with us year on year.

Books of the mighty dead, whom men revere, Remind me I can make _my_ books sublime.

But prithee, bay my brow while I am here: Why do we always wait for Death and Time?

Shakespeare, great spirit, beat his mighty wings, As I beat mine, for the occasion near.

He knew, as I, the worth of present things: Great literature is with us year on year.

Methinks I meet across the gulf his clear And tranquil eye; his calm reflections chime With mine: "Why do we at the present fleer?

Why do we always wait for Death and Time?"

The reading world with acclamation rings For my last book. It led the list at Weir, Altoona, Rahway, Painted Post, Hot Springs: Great literature is with us year on year.

The _Bookman_ gives me a vociferous cheer.

Howells approves! I can no higher climb.

Bring then the laurel, crown my bright career.

Why do we always wait for Death and Time?

_L'Envoi_

Critics, who pastward, ever pastward peer, Great literature is with us year on year.

Trumpet my fame while I am in my prime.

Why do we always wait for Death and Time?

THE KAISER'S FAREWELL TO PRINCE HENRY

Aufwiedersehen, brother mine!

Farewells will soon be kissed; And ere you leave to breast the brine Give me once more your fist;

That mailed fist, clenched high in air On many a foreign sh.o.r.e, Enforcing coaling stations where No stations were before;

That fist, which weaker nations view As if 'twere Michael's own, And which appals the heathen who Bow down to wood and stone.

But this trip no bra.s.s knuckles. Glove That heavy mailed hand; Your mission now is one of Love And Peace--you understand.

All that's American you'll praise; The Yank can do no wrong.

To use his own expressive phrase, Just "jolly him along."

Express surprise to find, the more Of Roosevelt you see, How much I am like Theodore, And Theodore like me.

I am, in fact, (this might not be A bad thing to suggest,) The Theodore of the East, and he The William of the West.

And, should you get a chance, find out-- If anybody knows-- Exactly what it's all about, That Doctrine of Monroe's.

That's _entre nous_. My present plan You know as well as I: Be just as Yankee as you can; If needs be, eat some pie.

Cut out the 'kraut, cut out Rhine wine, Cut out the Schutzenfest, The Sangerbund, the Turnverein, The Kommers, and the rest.

And if some fool society "Die Wacht am Rhein" should sing, _You_ sing "My Country, 'Tis of Thee"-- The tune's "G.o.d Save the King."

To our own kindred in that land There's not much you need tell.

Just tell them that you saw me, and That I was looking well.

TO LILLIAN RUSSELL

(_A reminiscence of 18--._)

Dear Lillian! (The "dear" one risks; "Miss Russell" were a bit austerer)-- Do you remember Mr. Fiske's _Dramatic Mirror_

Back when--? (But we'll not count the years; The way they've sped is most surprising.) You were a trifle in arrears For advertising.

I brought the bill to your address; I was the _Mirror's_ bill collector-- In Thespian haunts a more or less Familiar spectre.

On that (to me) momentous day You dwelt amid the city's clatter, A few doors west of old Broadway; The street--no matter.

But while you have forgot the debt, And him who called in line of duty, He never, never shall forget Your wondrous beauty.

You were too fair for mortal speech,-- Enchanting, positively rippin'; You were some dream, and quelque peach, And beaucoup pippin.

Your "fight with Time" had not begun, Nor any reason to promote it; No beauty battles to be won.

Beauty? You wrote it!

"A bill?" you murmured in distress, "A bill?" (I still can hear you say it.) "A bill from Mr. Fiske? Oh, yes ...

I'll call and pay it."

And he, the thrice-requited kid, That such a G.o.ddess should address him, Could only blush and paw his lid, And stammer, "Yes'm!"

Eheu! It seems a cycle since, But still the nerve of memory tingles.

And here you're writing Beauty Hints, And I these jingles.