I pray not that

Men tremble at

My power of place

And lordly sway,

I only pray for simple grace

To look my neighbor in the face

Full honestly from day to day-
Yield me his horny palm to hold,
And I'll not pray

For gold;

The tanned face, garlanded with mirth,
It hath the kingliest smile on earth —
The swart brow, diamonded with sweat,
Hath never need of coronet.

And so I reach,

Dear Lord, to Thee,

And do beseech

Thou givest me

The wee cot, and the cricket's chirr,
Love, and the glad sweet face of her!

EUGENE FITCH WARE

1841

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MR. WARE, known to readers of poetry as "Ironquill," was born at Hartford, Connecticut. He served during the Civil War, and afterward was captain of cavalry and aide to General G. M. Dodge. His later life has been identified with Kansas, where he has been prominent in politics. He was appointed Commissioner of Pensions by President Roosevelt. His volume of verse, The Rhymes of Ironquill, has gone through several editions. Through these rhymes sweep the invigorating breezes of the West. Mr. Ware carries forward, in his own way, the work so effectively done by Bret Harte, Joaquin Miller, and the late Colonel John Hay. As time goes on, the virile spirit of the West will find still ampler expression.

IN that half-forgotten era,
With the avarice of old,

Seeking cities that 'twas told
Had been paved with solid gold,
In the kingdom of Quivera —

Came the restless Coronado

To the open Kansas plain,
With his knights from sunny Spain;
In an effort that, though vain,
Thrilled with boldness and bravado.

League by league, in aimless marching,
Knowing scarcely where or why,
Crossed they uplands drear and dry,
That an unprotected sky
Had for centuries been parching.

But their expectations, eager,

Found, instead of fruitful lands,
Shallow streams and shifting sands,
Where the buffalo in bands

Roamed o'er deserts dry and meager.

Back to scenes more trite, yet tragic,

Marched the knights with armor'd steeds;
Not for them the quiet deeds;

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Whence had gone the knights of Spain, Disappointed, discontented.

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Sturdy are the Saxon faces,

As they move along in line; Bright the rolling cutters shine, Charging up the State's incline, As an army storms a glacis.

Cities grow where stunted birches
Hugged the shallow water line;
And the deepening rivers twine
Past the factory and mine,

Orchard slopes and schools and churches.

Deeper grows the soil and truer,

More and more the prairie teems
With a fruitage as of dreams;

Clearer, deeper, flow the streams,

Blander grows the sky, and bluer.

We have made the State of Kansas,
And to-day she stands complete -
First in freedom, first in wheat;
And her future years will meet
Ripened hopes and richer stanzas.

CHARLES HENRY LÜDERS

1858-1891

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An unusually promising career was cut short by the early death of Lüders. He was a frequent contributor to the magazines, in both prose and verse, and left behind one volume of poetry. He was born in Philadelphia, where he died.

THE FOUR WINDS1

WIND of the North,

Wind of the Norland snows,

Wind of the winnowed skies, and sharp, clear stars,

Blow cold and keen across the naked hills,

And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films,

And blur the casement squares with glittering ice,
But go not near my love.

Wind of the West,

Wind of the few, far clouds,

Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands,

Blow fresh and pure across the peaks and plains,
And broaden the blue spaces of the heavens,

And sway the grasses and the mountain pines,
But let my dear one rest.

Wind of the East,

Wind of the sunrise seas,

Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains, -
Blow moist and chill across the wastes of brine,

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1 From The Dead Nymph and Other Poems. Copyright, 1891, by Charles Scribner's Sons,