Here in my cosy corner,
Before a blazing log,
I’m thinking of cold London
Wrapped in its killing fog;
And, like a shining beacon
Above the picture grim,
I see the London ‘Bobby,’
And sing my song for him.
I see his stalwart figure,
I see his kindly face,
I hear his helpful answer
At any hour or place.
For, though you seek some by-way
Long miles from his own beat,
He tells you all about it,
And how to find the street.
He looks like some bold Viking,
This king of earth’s police—
Yet in his voice lies feeling,
And in his eye lies peace;
He knows and does his duty—
(What higher praise is there?)
And London’s lords and paupers
Alike receive his care.
He has a regal bearing,
Yet one that breathes repose;
It is the look and manner
Of one who thinks and knows.
Oh, men who govern nations,
In old worlds or in new,
Turn to the London ‘Bobby’
And learn a thing or two.
READ AT THE BENEFIT
OF CLARA MORRIS
(AMERICA’S GREAT EMOTIONAL ACTRESS)
The Radiant Rulers of Mystic Regions
Where souls of artists are fitted for birth
Gathered together their lovely legions
And fashioned a woman to shine on earth.
They bathed her in splendour,
They made her tender,
They gave her a nature both sweet and wild;
They gave her emotions like storm-stirred oceans,
And they gave her the heart of a little child.
These Radiant Rulers (who are not human
Nor yet divine like the gods above)
Poured all their gifts in the soul of woman,
That fragile vessel meant only for love.
Still more they taught her,
Still more they brought her,
Till they gave her the world for a harp one day:
And they bade her string it,
They bade her ring it,
While the stars all wondered to hear her play.
She touched the strings in a master fashion,
She uttered the cry of a world’s despair:
Its long hid secret, its pent-up passion,
She gave to the winds in a vibrant air.
For oh! the heart of her,
That was the art of her.
Great with the feeling that makes men kin.
Art unapproachable,
Art all uncoachable,
Fragrance and flame from the spirit within.
The earth turns ever an ear unheeding
To the sorrows of art, as it cries ‘encore.’
And she played on the harp till her hands were bleeding,
And her brow was bruised by the laurels she wore.
She knew the trend of it,
She knew the end of it—
Men heard the music and men felt the thrill.
Bound to the altar
Of art, could she falter?
Then came a silence—the music was still.