The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1899-01-01
Riley in The Atlantic.

These dull buff covers in the days OF old
Were but the outer husk that hid pure gold
And yielded, TO the knife-edge, keenest thought
That Emerson ct Concord greatly wrought
The songs Of pure Longfellow's prime and age
Were often seen in that most careful page.
There also showed the magic wizard hand
OF Hawthorne, who in the enchanted land
Of old Romance found paths as light as day
Where not another soul has found the way!
And Holmes, too, gave Of his delightful art
That skill he held not higher than his heart
And like bard of the Old Testament
Whittier sang with high, divine intent,
For something of the old Hebraic ire
Was in his blood, and in his hymns flashed fire.
Lowell, our surest critic lent to it
The fint-sharp scintillatons of his wit
In sinewy verse, in such firm. martial prose
AS scarce again, thus far, the Nation knows
Then Higginson, the friend Of all these great,
Himself it is not well to underrate
And in the magazines decadence he
About sustained it with sound Woodberryl
Then Howells. of Ohio. ventured down
To view the aging gods at Boston town,
And with him took his muse, who, startled girl!
Was quickly lost in Tremont's crowded whirl
But soon her master changing all his aims,
A new muse found in Mr. Henry James.
These two in those old covers were much seen,
Though some folks swear they found the larder
lean.
But Aldrich carving cherry -stones with care
Sang blithely still, in his New England air.
And made more hopeful croakers cease their moan
That all the glorious bards had starward flown.
Yet he grew old. though in his golden Tyre
Not Herrick's ghost can find a broken wire,
And Maurice Thompson now and then would bend
His long bow and few song arrows send
Right into Park street. where they sort the
rhymes
Fired thither-and again fired thence sometimes!
The Atantic's home in it's decrepitude
Was not a place where singing might intrlde,
For singing does not 90 with Goldfish crust
And wakes to life the microbes in the dust
So thus the Atlantic calmly sumbered on
A sckly parody of early Drawn.
And like a mantelpiece dry from long use
It's fbers We're devoid of any juice
But what miracle that in its age
Decadence ceases, and another Page,
Turned over all the waste of recent years.
With splendid vgor and new aims, appears!
1t happens thus that here, across the plain
No more the Atlantic visits me with pain.
No more l dread its pedagogic lore
And curse it for melancholy bore
1t happens that these days I do not fling
The book away. but haste to read the thingi
For Woodrow Wilson charms me. every line
Why, he alone could make the Atlantic shine.
And overcome all Schurz and Godkin write
About (to them) the Nations awful plight
And now tbs Riley they have won this time
To bring to Park street his melodious rhyme.
Racy of earth, like that old wine that sings
From roots to branches through a thousand
springs
Humorous and human, near lifes currents deep
That through the broad West unmpeded sweep.
They find at last, the world is rather large
That Cambridge Square is not its farthest marge.
Elmwood and Concord no more hold the KEYS
OF the eternal, larger verities
and the Atlantic, rousng from its nap
Has just found Indiana on the man.
Denver, Col Dec. 20. Meredith Nicholson