John Brown.

    Writ in between the lines of his life-deed
    We trace the sacred service of a heart
    Answering the Divine command, in every part
    Bearing on human weal: His love did feed
    The loveless; and his gentle hands did lead
    The blind, and lift the weak, and balm the smart
    Of other wounds than rankled at the dart
    In his own breast, that gloried thus to bleed.
    He served the lowliest first - nay, them alone -
    The most despised that e'er wreaked vain breath
    In cries of suppliance in the reign whereat
    Red Guilt sate squat upon her spattered throne. -
    For these doomed there it was he went to death.
    God! how the merest man loves one like that!

James Whitcomb Riley

James Whitcomb Riley was an American writer, poet, and best-selling author. He was known as the "Hoosier Poet" and the "Children's Poet" for his dialect works and children's poetry respectively. Over his career, Riley authored approximately 1,000 poems, including "Little Orphant Annie" and "The Raggedy Man". His influence extended into the 20th century, and his works continued to be celebrated for their nostalgic and rural themes.

James Whitcomb Riley

A Dubious "Old Kriss"

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

To The Serenader.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Pan

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

Reach Your Hand To Me.

James Whitcomb Riley, Simple Poetry

English

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Brown Of Ossawatomie

John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on his dying day:
"I will not have to shrive my soul a priest in Slavery's pay.
But let some poor slave-mother whom I have striven to free,
With her children, from the gallows-stair put up a prayer for me!"

John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led him out to die;
And lo! a poor slave-mother with her little child pressed nigh.
Then the bold, blue eye grew tender, and the old harsh face grew mild,
As he stooped between the jeering ranks and kissed the negro's child.

The shadows of his stormy life that moment fell apart;
And they who blamed the bloody hand forgave the loving heart.
That kiss from all its guilty means redeemed the good intent,
And round the grisly fighter's hair the martyr's aureole bent!

Perish with him the folly that see...

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John Walsh

A strange life - strangely passed!
    We may not read the soul
    When God has folded up the scroll
        In death at last.
We may not - dare not say of one
Whose task of life as well was done
As he could do it, - "This is lost,
And prayers may never pay the cost."

Who listens to the song
    That sings within the breast,
    Should ever hear the good expressed
        Above the wrong.
And he who leans an eager ear
To catch the discord, he will hear
The echoes of his own weak heart
Beat out the most discordant part.

Whose tender heart could build
    Affection's bower above
    A heart where baby nests of love
        Were ever filled, -
With upward growth may reach and twine
About the children, grown divine,
That ...

James Whitcomb Riley

Luther Benson

AFTER READING HIS AUTOBIOGRAPHY

POOR victim of that vulture curse
That hovers o'er the universe,
With ready talons quick to strike
In every human heart alike,
And cruel beak to stab and tear
In virtue's vitals everywhere, -
You need no sympathy of mine
To aid you, for a strength divine
Encircles you, and lifts you clear
Above this earthly atmosphere.

And yet I can but call you poor,
As, looking through the open door
Of your sad life, I only see
A broad landscape of misery,
And catch through mists of pitying tears
The ruins of your younger years,
I see a father's shielding arm
Thrown round you in a wild alarm -
Struck down, and powerless to free
Or aid you in your agony.

I see a happy home grow dark
And desolate -...

James Whitcomb Riley

Our Kind of a Man

1
The kind of a man for you and me!
He faces the world unflinchingly,
And smites, as long as the wrong resists,
With a knuckled faith and force like fists:
He lives the life he is preaching of,
And loves where most is the need of love;
His voice is clear to the deaf man's ears,
And his face sublime through the blind man's tears;
The light shines out where the clouds were dim,
And the widow's prayer goes up for him;
The latch is clicked at the hovel door
And the sick man sees the sun once more,
And out o'er the barren fields he sees
Springing blossoms and waving trees,
Feeling as only the dying may,
That God's own servant has come that way,
Smoothing the path as it still winds on
Through the golden gate where his loved have gone.

2
The...

James Whitcomb Riley

James B. Maynard

His daily, nightly task is o'er -
He leans above his desk no more.

His pencil and his pen say not
One further word of gracious thought.

All silent is his voice, yet clear
For all a grateful world to hear;

He poured abroad his human love
In opulence unmeasured of -

While, in return, his meek demand, -
The warm clasp of a neighbor-hand

In recognition of the true
World's duty that he lived to do.

So was he kin of yours and mine -
So, even by the hallowed sign

Of silence which he listens to,
He hears our tears as falls the dew.

James Whitcomb Riley

Grant. At Rest - August 8, 1885

Sir Launcelot rode overthwart and endlong in a wide forest, and held no path but as wild adventure led him... And he returned and came again to his horse, and took off his saddle and his bridle, and let him pasture; and unlaced his helm, and ungirdled his sword, and laid him down to sleep upon his shield before the cross.- Age of Chivalary

Grant

What shall we say of the soldier. Grant,
His sword put by and his great soul free?
How shall we cheer him now or chant
His requiem befittingly?
The fields of his conquest now are seen
Ranged no more with his armed men -
But the rank and file of the gold and green
Of the waving grain is there again.

Though his valiant life is a nation's pride,
And his death heroic and half divine,
And our grief as great as the worl...

James Whitcomb Riley