Oh, once loved, sluggish, darkling stream,
    For me no more, thy waters swell,
  Thy music now the engines’ scream,
    Thy fragrance now the factory’s smell;
    Too near for me the clanging bell;
  A false light in the water shines
    While Solitude lists to her knell,—­
  Arcadia has trolley lines.

  Thy wooded lanes with shade and gleam
    Where bloomed the fragrant asphodel,
  Now bleak commercially teem
    With signs “To Let,” “To Buy,” “To Sell.” 
    And Commerce holds them fierce and fell;
  With vulgar sport she now combines
    Sweet Nature’s piping voice to quell. 
  Arcadia has trolley lines.

L’ENVOI.

  Oh, awful Power whose works repel
    The marvel of the earth’s designs,—­
  I ’ll hie me otherwhere to dwell,
    Arcadia has trolley lines.

SPEAKIN’ AT DE COU’T-HOUSE

  Dey been speakin’ at de cou’t-house,
    An’ laws-a-massy me,
  ‘T was de beatness kin’ o’ doin’s
    Dat evah I did see. 
  Of cose I had to be dah
    In de middle o’ de crowd,
  An’ I hallohed wid de othahs,
    Wen de speakah riz and bowed.

  I was kind o’ disapp’inted
    At de smallness of de man,
  Case I ’d allus pictered great folks
    On a mo’ expansive plan;
  But I t’ought I could respect him
    An’ tek in de wo’ds he said,
  Fu’ dey sho was somp’n knowin’
    In de bald spot on his haid.

  But hit did seem so’t o’ funny
    Aftah waitin’ fu’ a week
  Dat de people kep’ on shoutin’
    So de man des could n’t speak;
  De ho’ns dey blared a little,
    Den dey let loose on de drums,—. 
  Some one toll me dey was playin’
    “See de conkerin’ hero comes.”

  “Well,” says I, “you all is white folks,
    But you ‘s sutny actin’ queer,
  What’s de use of heroes comin’
    Ef dey cain’t talk w’en dey’s here?”
  Aftah while dey let him open,
    An’ dat man he waded in,
  An’ he fit de wahs all ovah
    Winnin’ victeries lak sin.

  Wen he come down to de present,
    Den he made de feathahs fly. 
  He des waded in on money,
    An’ he played de ta’iff high. 
  An’ he said de colah question,
    Hit was ovah, solved, an’ done,
  Dat de dahky was his brothah,
    Evah blessed mothah’s son.

  Well he settled all de trouble
    Dat’s been pesterin’ de lan’,
  Den he set down mid de cheerin’
    An’ de playin’ of de ban’. 
  I was feelin’ moughty happy
    ’Twell I hyeahed somebody speak,
  “Well, dat’s his side of de bus’ness,
    But you wait for Jones nex’ week.”

BLACK SAMSON OF BRANDYWINE

   “In the fight at Brandywine, Black Samson, a giant negro armed with
   a scythe, sweeps his way through the red ranks....”  C. M. Skinner’s
   “Myths and Legends of Our Own Land.”