WALLACE BRUCE. HE Hon. Wallace Bruce whose recent appoint has been received with such marked satisfaction by the best elements of all parties, is a literary man of whom it may be said that personal association with him is as great a privilege as his poems are a delight. At his home in Poughkeepsie he is idolized by his fellow citizens, and at his winter place, Dream Cottage, Defuniak Springs, Florida, he is equally popular. Indeed his poetical works are but the reflection or rather the outpouring of that fine, generous, and sunny nature which has all his life endeared him to his friends, and, at forty, has kept fresh and unsullied the high ideals of his youth. Is it any wonder that his songs, coming as they do from such a source, have the all brightness of springtime and the music of hope? Well may Yale be proud of the son whom in 1867 she sent forth to fulfill in the great world the promise foreshadowed in the triumphs of his university course. In his case assuredly the boy was father to the man, for during his college years, so great was his literary reputation that by the undisputed choice of his fellow students, he became Chief Editor of the Yale Lit; one of the most coveted honors of the undergratuate career in that institution. After taking his degree, Mr. Bruce determined to devote himself to a life of letters, and it was not long before his poems, essays and addresses brought him into national notice. The Bryant Literary Union of New York secured his services at once, and his lectures delivered under the auspices of that organization on "Robert Burns," Ready Wit," "Native Mettle," "Landmarks of Scott," Washington Irving," and "Womanhood in Shakespeare," have delighted thousands of his fellow countrymen. United with a magnetic presence, his wit, humor, fancy, pathos and logic clothed in a diction as clean-cut as a cameo, render him a moving and resistless orator. It is as a poet, however, that his genius shines with clearest lustre. Disregarding the mannerisms and conceits of the present school, whose productions are at best but ephemeral, he has held fast to old standards, and struck a tone whose echo is destined to vibrate in the hearts of listeners, now and hereafter. His claim on the future is the adequateness with which he celebrates enduring sentiments. No American poet of this generation, not even Whittier, has set to sweeter music the tender memories of home. Without the broad effects of Will Carleton or the stilted moralizing of Longfellow, Wallace Bruce's "Old Homestead Poems" have that delicacy of fancy, sincerity of expression, and depth of feeling which give fitting utterance to the vague sanctity with which we hallow the past. The same truthfulness of motive is characteristic of all his verses, even when his abounding humor ripples into song. This nobility of purpose and excellence of execution are the qualities which make those familiar with his work enthusiastic admirers. His shorter lyrics published in the leading magazines have always been widely praised and copied; and the fervent patriotism that pulsates through his poems has caused his selection as poet on many distinguished occa sions, notably at the Newburg Centennial, over which President Arthur presided and at which Senator Evarts and Senator Bayard were the chief orators. The success of The Long Drama" read by Mr. Bruce was by common consent the triumph of the celebration. In 1887, "The Candle Parade" delivered before the Society of the Army of the Potomac was received with like acclaim. Happiest of all these efforts perhaps was his masterly production in 1880 at the Dedication of the Statue of Robert Burns in Central Park, New York, when George William Curtis. gave the oration. The sincerity and music of his utterance cannot fail at any time to excite appreciation. His popularity will increase with the years, for his poems have the grace of the scholar, the heart of the toiler and the soul of the dreamer. R. B. M. THE OLD HOMESTEAD. WELCOME, ye pleasant dales and hills, Where, dreamlike, passed my early days! Ye cliffs and glens and laughing rills That sing unconscious hymns of praise! Welcome, ye woods, with tranquil bowers Embathed in autumn's mellow sheen, Where careless childhood gathered flowers, And slept on mossy carpets green! The same bright sunlight gently plays About the porch and orchard trees; The garden sleeps in noontide haze, Lulled by the murmuring of the bees; The sloping meadows stretch away To upland field and wooded hill; The soft blue sky of peaceful day Looks down upon the homestead still. I hear the humming of the wheel- Upon this truth we take our stand, With cheery voice, with generous heart, And the dream of the boy, that melted away In the light of the sun that winter day, Is embodied at last in enduring stone, Snow Angel in marble-his purpose won; And the man toils on. THE SNOW ANGEL. THE sleigh-bells danced that winter night; Joy ruled each hearth and Christmas-tree. But to one the bells and mirth were naught: His soul with deeper joy was fraught. He waited until the guests were gone; Alone he stands in the silent night; He piles the snow in the village square; With spade for chisel, a statue white From the crystal quarry rises fair. No light save the stars to guide his hand, But the image obeys his soul's command. The sky is draped with fleecy lawn, The stars grow pale in the early dawn, But the lad toils on. And lo! in the morn the people came To gaze at the wondrous vision there; It seemed no mortal hand had wrought But its features wasted beneath the sun; And his dream was this: In the years to be In another land beyond the sea I will toil in darkness, will dream alone. There's nothing desired beneath star or sun The years go by. He has wrought with might; A STAR-EYED DAISY. SAN MARCO, ST. AUGUSTINE. ENSIGNS of empires flaunt thy flanking wall, Fair Fleur de Lys from proud Parisian hall, St. George's Cross triumphant o'er them all, Recall long years of fierce and bloody hate. But now the star-eyed daisy lifts its form From crevice, chink, and crumbling parapet, Bright banneret which Nature kindly rears, "INASMUCH." A CHRISTMAS STORY. You say you want a Meetin'-house for the boys in the gulch up there, And a Sunday-school with pictur'-books? Well, put me down for a share. I believe in little children; it's as nice to hear 'em read As to wander round the ranch at noon and see the cattle feed. And I believe in preachin' too-by men for preachin' born, Who let alone the husks of creed and measure out the corn. The pulpit's but a manger where the pews are Gospel-fed; And they say 'twas to a manger that the Star of Glory led. So I'll subscribe a dollar toward the manger and the stalls; I always give the best I've got whenever my partner calls. And, stranger, let me tell you: I'm beginning to suspect That all the world are partners, whatever their creed or sect; That life is a kind of pilgrimage—a sort of Jericho road, And kindness to one's fellows the sweetest law in the code. No matter about the 'nitials-from a farmer, you understand, Who's generally had to play it alone from rather an ornary hand. I've never struck it rich, for farming, you see, is slow; And whenever the crops are fairly good the prices are always low. A dollar isn't very much, but it helps to count the same; The lowest trump supports the ace, and sometimes wins the game. It assists a fellow's praying when he's down upon his knees Inasmuch as ye have done it to one of the least of these." I know the verses, stranger, so you needn't stop to quote; It's a different thing to know them or to say them off by rote. I'll tell you where I learned them, if you'll step in from the rain: 'Twas down in 'Frisco, years ago—had been there hauling grain; It was just across the ferry, on the Sacramento pike, Where stores and sheds are rather mixed, and shanties scatterin' like Not the likeliest place to be in. I remember the saloon, With grocery, market, baker-shop, and bar-room all in one. And this made up the picture-my hair was not then gray, But everything still seems as real as if 'twere yesterday. A little girl with haggard face stood at the counter there Not more than ten or twelve at most, but worn with grief and care; And her voice was kind of raspy, like a sort of chronic cold Just the tone you find in children who are prematurely old. She said: "Two bits for bread and tea, ma hasn't much to eat; She hopes next week to work again, and buy us all some meat. We've been half-starved all winter, but spring will soon be here. Said, Hello! I say, stranger, what have you over thar?" The boy then told her story; and that crew, so fierce and wild, Grew intent, and seemed to listen to the breathing of the child. The glasses all were lowered. Said the leader: "Boys, see here; All day we've been pouring whiskey, drinking deep our Christmas cheer. Here's two dollars. I've got feelings, which are not entirely dead, For this little girl and mother suffering for the want of bread." |