MY PORTRAIT Personal. Richard Watson Gilder VOLK's Bronze Cast from Life-Mask. By permission of the CENTURY Co. THE V-A-S-E Humorous. James Jeffrey Roche THE BRYANT VASE. Designed by JAMES H. WHITEHOUSE, of TIFFANY & Co., 930 975 GOD of our fathers, known of old,- The captains and the kings depart : An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget,-lest we forget! Far-called, our navies melt away; Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Or lesser breeds without the law,- For heathen heart that puts her trust Amen. RUDYARD KIPLING. DIM dawn behind the tamarisks-the sky is saffron-yellow As the women in the village grind the corn, And the parrots seek the river-side, each calling to his fellow That the Day, the staring Eastern Day is born. Oh the white dust on the highway! And at Home they're making merry What part have India's exiles in their mirth? Full day behind the tamarisks-the sky is blue and staring As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke, And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring, To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke. Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly Call on Rama-he may hear, perhaps, your voice! With our hymn-books and our psal ters we appeal to other altars, And to-day we bid "good Christian men rejoice!" High noon behind the tamarisks—the sun is hot above us As Home the Christmas Day is break. ing wan. They will drink our healths at dinner those who tell us how they love us, And forget us till another year be gone! Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh! the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching ! Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain ! Youth was cheap-wherefore we sold it. Gold was good-we hoped to hold it, And to-day we know the fulness of our gain. Gray dusk behind the tamarisks-the parrots fly together As the sun is sinking slowly over Home; And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether That drags us back howe'er so far we roam. Hard her service, poor her payment she in ancient, tattered raiment— India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind. If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine we enter, The door is shut-we may not look behind. Black night behind the tamarisks—the owls begin their chorus As the conches from the temple scream and bray. With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us, Let us honor, Oh my brothers, Christmas Day! Call a truce, then, to our labors-let us feast with friends and neighbors, And be merry as the custom of our caste ; For if "faint and forced the laughter," Rudyard Kipling. Thow who wouldst wear the Grame Of Port midst thy brethren of omankind, And clothes, in words of flame, Thoughts that shall live within the general mund Deem not the framing of a deathless lay The pastime of a drowsy Turumer-day. Bur-gather all thy Power, And wreak them on the verse that thou dost weave, And in thy londy hours At Vilent morning or at wakeful eve While the traton Current tingles throughthy veins, Set forth the burning wordd in fluent strand. No smooth array of phrase, Upon the page wrote langued industry, To touch the heart or fire the blood at will/ Let thy lips queverwitte the passionate thrill, Then, should thy verse appear Hulting and harsh and all snaptly wrought, Lauch the crude line with fear. Save in the moment of impassioned thoughts Then summon back the orginal glas and mund The Strain with rapture the arch five was penned Yet let no empty gust Of passion find an utterance in thy lay/ A beads that whirls the dast Along the howling street and died away; Bur feelings of calm power and mighty sweep, Like currents journaying through the windless deep. |