The courier., 1899-02-25

wound in his bosom with his pen. And
apparen; NY only 10 moments OF such trav-
all Of eoul, OF such acute and almoe t
PHYSICAL agony could Realf strike 80
hiph a note. Under ordinary circum-
stances he wrote much that is ordinary
Yet in his most has'y and careless work,
and hs was often both, there is always
the unmistakable stamp Of power, al
ways a line or two to serve as an auto.
graph Of the poet in him, often asleep,
but never dead. For instance, in a
poem which has little to say and which
ends heaply enough, one finds 80 ex-
quisite beginning as this:
Sometimes when the wind goes roaring
Thro' the city's streets and lanes.
And the homeless night is pouring
Blind tears on your window panes;
When you shudder for the sailor,
Cast on the moaning sea.
And the stranger in the forest
Then, beloved, think Of me.
In short, it is scarcely just to judge
this man exclusively as poet. II we
consider him at all it must be as "poet,
soldier or workman the soldier who
bore the colors over the rifle pits at Mis-
sionary Ridge, the romantic adventurer
who Joined John Browns band, the i'm.
passioned defender OF liberty. "who
smote for her when God himself seemed
dumb His profession was life, not let
ters. and the fever OF living consumed
the flower OF his strength. A literary
artist he never pretended to be. perhaps
never seriously tried to be. Poetry was
to him means to life. not life means
to poetry. 1t is scarcely possible for a
man to be both poet and reformer.
Even Victor Hugo was not great enough
to feed two flames 30 consuming. The
evidence OF the ages would seem to in.
dicate that the best art ia that done
purely for arts sake, not for God or
home or native land. To realize how
little OF Realf's heart was really in the
profession OF letters, one has only to
compare his career with that OF Edgar
Allan Poe, 4 man similarly misunGer.
stood and unhappy. like Realf. "a genius
bound to the hackwork OF the PRESS"
but pauper prouder than princes, a
beggar who never let piece Of slovenly
work leave his empty hands.
One can only wonder what the results
would have been had Realf never, gone
to Kansas and had given himself wholly
to letters. But from the very nature OF
the mau that could not be. He was
athirst for storm and action, and the
heat OF battle went into his blood and
burned there till he died. He drank
life to the lees and found them bitter, a
discovery which men are never tired OF
making. He loved unwisely and pass.
ing we'll, and was still alone. The SON.
net "Passion. already quoted, is per.
haps one OF the most poignant expires.
sions ever written OF that impenetrabIe
loneliness which wraos about the souls
OF the great. lie could speak when he
suffered. then his hand was strong, and
then fell upon him the bright tongues
OF flame OF which he sp, AXE in his last
poem, but they burned his lite out and
burned it quickly. At forty-tour he
had known the sorrows OF a lifetime and
was glad to lay life down.
Years-years.
So long the dread companionship OF pain,
So long the ow compression OF the brain.
So long the bitter famine and the drouth,
So long the ache for kisses on the mouth;
So long the straining Of hot fearless eyes
In backward looking upon Paradise,
So long tired feet dragged faltering and slow,
So long the solemn sanctity Of woe.
Years
Surely no one can deny him honor
great as was his talent, commiseration
III