He came from the Land, across the River, where, in
these latter days, the People quit the planting of the Potato,
to pen a Poem: pause in the cultivation of the Corn, to
compose a Novel. Some of it is good, very good; Some
of it is bad, very bad: but all of it produces
a princely Revenue far in excess of any return
from either the Potato or the Corn.
Long before the avalanche-like advent of this State-
wide Literary Madness, the Star of this Poet had risen--
risen before, and still shines beyond, and above them all.
The hand which wrote "Goodbye, Jim"--not classical
in either Greek or Roman sense, yet a great
American Classic--with its pungent odor of Blue Jeans, with
its clean, sweet, clear-cut, fine smell, of its native soil--
that hand may never again hold the Pen; the man
himself, may crumble--God forbid!--back into the Dust--
that "Little Dust of Harm"--out of which he came;
but his Poems will not, cannot die.
When those other Writers will have been forgotten;
when even the gifted Maker of "Ben Hur" will be, but
as an empty name; even then, this Poet,
and his Poems, will cleave to the Mind, cling to the
Heart, of countless Generations, not yet born!


[Illustration]

Whatever Is--Is Best