The Poet Of The Future

JAMES WHITCOMB KILEY. Oh the poet of the future ! He will come lo us as comes The beauty of the bugle's voiceabove the roar of drums - Of battle-drums that pulse the time the victor marches In. His hands will hold no harp, iu sooth; hls lifted brow will bear No coronet of laurel- nay, no symbol anywbere, Savelnat bis palmsare brothers to thetoiler's at the plow; His face to beaven, and the dew oí duty on bis brow. He will sing across the meadou-,- and the woman at the well Will stay the dripping bucket, wilh a smile ineftUble; Aud the chlldren In Ihe orchard will gaze wistlully the wav The happy Bong comes to tbem, with the fraI granee of the hay; Thebani will nelgh in ausirer, and the pasture land 8 behlnd Will chime with bells, and send responsive lowinji down tlie wind; And all the echoes of the wood will lubllantly cali In sweetest mimlcry of that one sweetest voiceof all. O the poet of the future! He will come as man comes to man, With the honest arm of labor, aud the bonest face of tan. The houest hcart oí lowliness, and honest soul of love I'or huiiiun-kind and nature-kind about him and above. His hands will hold no harp, in sooth; his lifted brow will bear Xo coronet of laurel- nay, nor symbol anywliere. Save that his palms are brothers to the toiler'ö at the plow. Tlis face to beaven, and the, dew of duty on his brow.