The Tavern of Last Times

At Box Hill, Surrey

A MODERN hour from London (as we spin

Into a silver thread the miles of space

Between us and our goal), there is a place

Apart from city traffic, dust, and din,

Green with great trees, where hides a quiet Inn.

Here Nelson last looked on the lovely face

Which made his world; and by its magic grace

Trailed rosy clouds across each early sin.

And, leaning lawnward, is the room where Keats

Wrote the last one of those immortal songs

(Called by the critics of his day 'mere rhymes').

A lark, high in the boxwood bough repeats

Those lyric strains, to idle passing throngs,

There by the little Tavern-of-Last-Times.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

What We Want

WE have scores of temperance men,

   Bold and earnest, brave and true,

Fighting with the tongue and pen,

   And we value what they do.

      But, my friends,

      To gain our ends,

   You must use the ballot, too.

When we tell about our cause,

   Politicians only smile;

While they mould and make our laws,

   What care they for rank or file?

      "Preach and pray,"

      They sneer and say;

   "We'll make liquor laws the while."

We want men who dare to fling

   Party ties and bonds away;

Who will cast them off, and cling

   To the RIGHT, and boldly say,

      "No beer bloats

      Shall get our votes."

   Then shall our cause gain the day.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Arise

WHY sit ye idly dreaming all the day,

While the golden, precious hours flit away?

See you not the day is waning, waning fast?

That the morn's already vanished in the past?

When the glowing noon approaches, we will rest

Who have worked through all the morning; but at best,

If you work with zeal and ardor till the night,

You can only make the wasted moments right.

Think you life was made for dreaming, nothing more,

When God's work lies all unfinished at your door?

Souls to save and hearts to strengthen--ah! such work,

Such a richly freighted labor, who would shirk?

Then arise, O idle dreamer! Dreams are sweet,

But better flowers are growing at your feet.

If you crush, or pass unheeding, idle friend,

You shall answer for their ruin in the end.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Index to poems in the collection by Ella Wheeler Wilcox