I.

In the dusk of perished ages,
Where Egypt's river sings
Mournful and melodious dirges
Round the crumbling tombs of kings,
Rise the palaces and temples
That attest the Pharaoh's pride,
Casting long portentous shadows
On the mild and misted tide;
Here the colonnades of Memphis--
Here the mighty pyramids,
And the Sphinx, forever staring
From her awful stony lids.

II.

In the land of arms and glory
Yellow Tiber weaves the song
Of the marches of the Caesars
And the battles loud and long--
While in stone and gleaming marble
Proudly on each storied hill,
Shine the classic columns, kingly
In their mournful ruin still--
Sentinels that mutely challenge
All the hasting years of time
Till the peoples pause and whisper
"Rome was never more sublime!"

III.

In their robes of manzanita
And a thousand plumes of pine
Swell the hills that dip and dimple
Round the cabin and the mine,
Where a city, in a harbor
Of the ridged and billowed land,
Greets you with the salutation
Of a brown but friendly hand,
In its infancy, I grant you--
Lone and lowly, if you will,
But the spirit of the ancients
Lives again--in Jacksonville!

IV.

And the crown of Semiramis
And the amaranth of fame
Here descend to press the temples
Of a worthy sister dame--
Builder, too--among the builders
That have gone their kingly ways,
Leaving monuments behind them
As a gift to other days--
She with heart and hand, and labor,
Of a quick and forceful brain
Triumphed solely--not with treasure
Of a nation's toil and pain.

V.

Here it is, serene, colossal,
In the little Western town,
With the rippled hills around it,
And the valley sloping down,
Broad and high above the tumult
Of the busy, bustling street,
Like a monarch calm and stately
Where his stormy legions meet.
To the public weal commended,
Answering a daily need,
May its lifted splendor ever
Chronicle her noble deed!

VI.

Splendid hostel! still forever,
When the plenteous feast is spread
Or the weary trav'ler dozes
In a more than princely bed--
In the years that be, or after
In the better years to come,
May the Madame be remembered
Gratefully beneath thy dome,
And the passing stranger carry
Round the rolling world the name
Of a better, truer builder,
Than the kings and queens of fame!

S.L.S.

In Meadows Fort of loud report,
    As fancy leads my song,
Both Walla Walla men resort,
    And Tarheads of renown.
   
Old John, and Limp, and Tyee Sam,
    With braves a hundred more,
Are stowed in thick as they can cram,
    On south Rogue River shore.
   
To rout this band, our General brave
    With Chapman, Bruce and Dawn,
The aid of Keith and Blakely craved,
    With Massey and his boys.
   
Then Wilkinson and Williams too,
    With Miller, Nolan, Yates,
Old Kelsay next came in, you know,
    To storm the Meadows' gates.
   
Then Hawley, Cox, Riggs and Hess,
    With Wallan, Curry, Moore,
McBride the next in order stands,
    With Adjutant Cranmore.
   
Our sergeants next in order stand,
    With corporals quite a string.
And then within our surgic [sic] band,
    We're honored with a King.
   
Our chaplains, too, we should respect,
    Bogar and Bilyeu,
When Sunday comes they ne'er neglect
    To trot us devils through.
   
Two Walkers next are in the field,
    With Bibles in their hands,
And we poor devils sure must yield,
    Obedient to commands.
   
Who though no Indian face we see,
    Nor track of hostile foe,
Sure we possess the "illahee,"
    And that's enough to know.
   
Now let me say to Siwash bands,
    And all our border foes,
From henceforth let all treaties stand,
    That all our wars may close:
   
The volunteers must soon return,
    For harvest bids them come;
Their wives and children smiling run
    And shout them welcome home;
   
Then who'd exchange a home and ease
    With loving friends to cheer,
And roam o'er mountains, hills and vales
    But the brave volunteer?
   
For, when his country calls for aid,
    And hurls her flag in air,
He bids adieu to home, sweet home,
    And starts a volunteer.
   
The volunteers have now returned
    And glad they are to find
To laurels they so richly earned,
    The people are not blind;
   
Buchanan now is in the field,
    And Captain Smith's his man,
But John surrounded him, you know,
    And brought him to stand.
   
Full ten of his brave men were slain,
    And twenty more did bleed;
While he beheld with inmost pain,
    The Indians strip his dead;
   
Thirty long hours they were entrenched
    Before the Colonel came,
And many spots of earth were drenched
    With life's red lurid flame.
   
But was it so with Limp and George?
    Did they stand to the fight?
When volunteers rushed to a man
    They took to instant flight.
   
Their squaws and children were all left
    To shift as best they could,
Of blankets and of "ictas" reft,
    They ran to save their blood.
   
Thus they were all compelled to yield
    For well our shots did tell,
And woe to them who hindmost were,
    For they in battle fell.
   
Next, John, to try our grit, came up,
    His lead like hail it fell,
Then soon to save his hair, he left,
    But where we cannot tell.
   
We've hunted him both up and down,
    And many a mountain through,
E'en to the ocean--all around,
    And valleys through and through.
   
Three months we've spent in marching round
    Three months of toil and pain;
We've whipped the Indians whenever found
    And not a man was slain.
   
'Tis true some sickness we have had
    And wounded, only two--
But now in health and spirits--glad
    We are to meet with you.
   
We love to see your smiling face,
    We love your company.
We hope to stay at home from this,
    From wars and turmoils free.
   
We all admire your courage bold,
    Your love--your constancy--
You've guarded well affairs at home,
    While we were in the spree.
   
Our Major is as brave a man
    As e'er commission bore;
In fight he always led the van,
    Nor left till all was o'er.
   
Our Captain too's as true as steel,
    Our officers are all good,
And every man that's in the field
    Up for his country stood.
   
Success to every honest man,
    And success to the brave,
Who fought old George, Limp and Sam,
    Their wives and babes to save.
   
Sweet peace is now restored to us,
    We'll cultivate our lands;
We'll plow and sow, we'll reap and mow
    And work with our own hands.
   
Now let us shout and swell the song,
    And give three hearty cheers,
That we may all remember long
    Our brave young volunteers.
   
May peace forever reign on earth;
    Good will to all mankind--
Our lands be free from future dearth,
    And science feed the mind.
   
May arts and science flourish here,
    And knowledge more increase,
And nations all from year to year,
    Live in eternal peace.

Come all you jolly huntsmen
    And I will tell you how
William Courtney's son-in-law
    Happened to shoot his cow.
   
He, being a shotgun man
    And thinks he's some on ducks
He thought he'd take his rifle
    And try to kill some bucks.
   
He started out one morning
    He took his dog and gun
And said to his Beaver dog
    "We're going to have some fun."
   
They traveled on for quite a piece
    The dog could nothing smell
When into a train of thoughts
    This youthful Nimrod fell.
   
He scratched his head and blew his nose
    Said he, "I've heard it said
This is the season of the year
    The bucks are always red."
   
"I've also heard that when they run
    They go it with a rush"--
Just then he saw (or thought he saw)
    A shaking of the brush.
   
He raised his gun up to his head
    And that was very tall
And when he let it down again
    He heard a mighty fall.
   
"Now Beve," said he, "we've got an elk
    And you must quickly catch
There is no hunters in the wood
    That is to us a match."
   
Then Beve ran up and wagged his tail
    And gave a big bow-wow
Which was as near as he could say
    "Oh, Master, you've shot your cow."
   

     The following verses were composed by a Central Point lady especially for the Herald. It has a true ring about it as though written by one who was there.--Ed.