The Beautiful Boon of Death
Tenderly Inscribed to Jonathan E. Hoag, author of "Death"
By the mystical chain of change;
If the earth is a place of futile strife
And a dream that is vague and strange;
If there is a land of cloudless skies,
Where the heart is free from pain,
Where the spirit-body never dies,
Where never is loss, but gain—
Why grieves my spirit to leave this earth,
Whose joy is an empty breath,
When that which is called decease is birth?—
O the beautiful boon of Death!
John Milton Samples.
A Friend's Tribute
I am very glad to speak of my good friend, Mr. Jonathan Hoag and his work. I have had the pleasure of knowing him for the last ten or twelve years, and during part of that time I was his pastor. For several years of my pastorate in Greenwich, N. Y., we lived along side of each other, lawn to lawn, garden to garden and soul to soul. While his years were many, mine were comparatively few; and yet there was a fine fellowship between us. We enjoyed many a chat together over the deep things of the soul and the philosophy of life. When he took to poetry, our ways parted, for I cannot poetize. I love poetry, however, and have found much joy both in the lesser and the greater poets. For some time I have been looking forward to possessing a copy of my friend's poetry. It will contain for me something of the musings and the music of his soul.
Jonathan E. Hoag, Esq.
On His Eighty-seventh Birthday, February 10, 1918
Perceives the follies of a careless age;
Mourns the dull nonsense of Boeotian rhyme,
And trembles at the Vandal march of time;
As laboring Art, resentful of the wrong,
Deserts the precincts of unnatural song;
The languid Nine an heav'nly succor feel,
And daring magic stirs their sluggish zeal:
The blue-eyed maid, whose mercy never sleeps,
From the bright past a living minstrel keeps!
Hail, honour'd Hoag, whose Heliconian lay
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