Author of "The Lady of Nations." "The Coming of the King," "The
Imperial," "The Anti-Christ.” “Songs in the Waiting," "Prince
of Peace," "Gallipoli,” “The Whip of God," etc.
CHARLES C. COOK
150 NASSAU STREET
FRANCES SWEETMAN HAYES MCCARTNEY MORSE
DANIEL AND JOHN HAYES MCCARTNEY.
O stalwart Sire, who sleeps in Scottish grave,
I thank you for this Spirit that you gave,
With maxims that have guided me from youth;
Thou honest man—a man of sterling truth—
As the years vanish larger to my mind,
For few more perfect as thy life to find;
True Husband, Father, and thy son is proud
No fleck of a dishonor on thy shroud.
Lo, to my mind come from the Shadow Land
That Sire and two sons, one on either hand,
I greet them with a passionate, deep pride—
For each a man that no man dare deride.
O Sailor Brother! where e'er England's Flag
Floated in warrings never thou didst lag-
Crimea Burma-China-New Zealand:
Where England cannons roar there didst thou stand
Fearless in battle, lion hearted, brave-
Thy life was largely spent on Ocean's wave:
And surely to The Mother a most tender Son:
Alas, to die when even prime not won-
So early stricken-crossed the Ocean's foam—
Alas, to die when just in sight of home.
And thou, O John, the hero of my youth,
My ideal Brother-wayward—yet in sooth
A follower of Lee to bitter end-
When Southern Land her Armaments did send
To field of battle-the Confederacy
Had surely not more daring son than thee;
Twice wounded-yet persistent in War's ways
Where "Washington Artillery" did blaze
There thou wert found-and when the strife was o'er
Back to the civil life-but ever bore
The legacy of wounds—but now you sleep
In that Queen City of the glorious South
Amid companions once in battle rout-
And veterans fond memories still keep.
Three sleeping far apart-'til break of Day
When The Lord Comes-and gladly ye obey
His trumpet call—and round Him gathering
Hail Him your Lord, your Saviour, Conquering King!
Who by His word shall make all warrings cease,
And bring to Earth, Joy, Holiness and Peace.
Thou Unclean Spirit! squatting like a toad,
Close to the doorway of my soul's abode,
With eyes that blink not in their steady gaze,
Seeking to enter in a thousand ways
Of subtle cunning, searching day and night
With ever keen, unflinching, steady sight,
To find some crevice where to enter in
And make my soul a brothel of foul sin.
Yet past soul's precincts thou canst come no more For, lo, The Blood is sprinkled on the door! Thou hast no subtlety to enter in,
Tho' from without can tempt my soul to sin.
I pity thee, unclad, uncanny Thing,
For Thy activities can only bring
Thee bitter sorrows, and the hastening end
Will only find thee helpless, without friend
To share thy sorrows,-tho' the millions stand
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