WIND AND RAIN

THE rain came down on Boston Town,
And the people said, "Oh, dear!
It's early yet for our annual wet,—
'Twas dry this time last year."
In heavy suits and rubber boots
They went to the weather man,
And said, "Dear friend, do you intend
To change your present plan?"
In tones of scorn, he said, "Begone!
I've ordered a week of rain.
Away! disperse! or I'll do worse,
And order a hurricane!"
They sneered, "Oh, oh!" and they laughed, "Ho, ho!"
And they said, "You surely jest.
Your threats are vain, for a hurricane
Is the thing that we like best.
"Our throats are tinned, and a sharp east wind
We really couldn't do without;
But we complain of too much rain,
And we think we'd like a drought."
So the weather man took a palm-leaf fan
And he waved it up on high,
And he swept away the clouds so gray,
And the sun shone out in the sky.
And the sun shines down on Boston Town,
And the weather still is clear;
And they set their clocks by the equinox,
And never the east wind fear.

THE FLAG

HERE comes The Flag!
Hail it!
Who dares to drag
Or trail it?
Give it hurrahs,—
Three for the stars,
Three for the bars.
Uncover your head to it!
The soldiers who tread to it
Shout at the sight of it,
The justice and right of it,
The unsullied white of it,
The blue and red of it,
And tyranny's dread of it!
Here comes The Flag!
Cheer it!
Valley and crag
Shall hear it.
Fathers shall bless it,
Children caress it.
All shall maintain it.
No one shall stain it,
Cheers for the sailors that fought on the wave for it,
Cheers for the soldiers that always were brave for it,
Tears for the men that went down to the grave for it!
Here comes The Flag!

MY MASTERPIECE

I WROTE the truest, tend'rest song
The world had ever heard;
And clear, melodious, and strong,
And sweet was every word.
The flowing numbers came to me
Unbidden from the heart;
So pure the strain, that poesy
Seemed something more than art.
No doubtful cadence marred a line,
So tunefully it flowed,
And through the measure, all divine
The fire of genius glowed.
So deftly were the verses wrought,
So fair the legend told,
That every word revealed a thought,
And every thought was gold.
Mine was the charm, the power, the skill,
The wisdom of the years;
'Twas mine to move the world at will
To laughter or to tears.
For subtile pleasantry was there,
And brilliant flash of wit;
Now, pleading eyes were raised in prayer,
And now with smiles were lit.
I sang of hours when youth was king,
And of one happy spot
Where life and love were everything,
And time was half forgot.
Of gracious days in woodland ways,
When every flower and tree
Seemed echoing the sweetest phrase
From lips in Arcadie.
Of sagas old and Norseman bands
That sailed o'er northern seas;
Enchanting tales of fairy lands
And strange philosophies.
I sang of Egypt's fairest queen,
With passion's fatal curse;
Of that pale, sad-faced Florentine,
As deathless as his verse.
Of time of the Arcadian Pan,
When dryads thronged the trees—
When Atalanta swiftly ran
With fleet Hippomenes.
Brave stories, too, did I relate
Of battle-flags unfurled;
Of glorious days when Greece was great—
When Rome was all the world!
Of noble deeds for noble creeds,
Of woman's sacrifice—
The mother's stricken heart that bleeds
For souls in Paradise.
Anon I told a tale of shame,
And while in tears I slept,
Behold! a white-robed angel came
And read the words and wept!
And so I wrote my perfect song,
In such a wondrous key,
I heard the plaudits of the throng,
And fame awaited me.
Alas! the sullen morning broke,
And came the tempest's roar:
'Mid discord trembling I awoke,
And lo! my dream was o'er!
Yet often in the quiet night
My song returns to me;
I seize the pen, and fain would write
My long lost melody.
But dreaming o'er the words, ere long
Comes vague remembering,
And fades away the sweetest song
That man can ever sing!