James Newton Matthews

Bard of our Western world!—its prairies wide, With edging woods, lost creeks and hidden ways; Its isolated farms, with roundelays Of orchard warblers heard on every side; Its cross-road school-house, wherein still abide Thy fondest memories,—since there thy gaze First fell on classic verse; and thou, in praise Of that, didst find thine own song glorified. So singing, smite the strings and counterchange The lucently melodious drippings of Thy happy harp, from airs of “Tempe Vale,” To chirp and trill of lowliest flight and range, In praise of our To-day and home and love— Thou meadow-lark no less than nightingale.