And the song she was singing ever since In my ear sounds on: "Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"

J.G. WHITTIER.



Katie.

It may be through some foreign grace, And unfamiliar charm of face; It may be that across the foam Which bore her from her childhood's home, By some strange spell, my Katie brought Along with English creeds and thought— Entangled in her golden hair— Some English sunshine, warmth, and air! I cannot tell,—but here to-day, A thousand billowy leagues away From that green isle whose twilight skies No darker are than Katie's eyes, She seems to me, go where she will, An English girl in England still!

I meet her on the dusty street, And daisies spring about her feet; Or, touched to life beneath her tread, An English cowslip lifts its head; And, as to do her grace, rise up The primrose and the buttercup! I roam with her through fields of cane, And seem to stroll an English lane, Which, white with blossoms of the May, Spreads its green carpet in her way! As fancy wills, the path beneath Is golden gorse, or purple heath; And now we hear in woodlands dim Their unarticulated hymn, Now walk through rippling waves of wheat, Now sink in mats of clover sweet, Or see before us from the lawn The lark go up to greet the dawn! All birds that love the English sky Throng round my path when she is by; The blackbird from a neighboring thorn With music brims the cup of morn, And in a thick, melodious rain The mavis pours her mellow strain! But only when my Katie's voice Makes all the listening woods rejoice I hear—with cheeks that flush and pale— The passion of the nightingale!

H. TIMROD.



My Love.

Not as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening-star, And yet her heart is ever near.

Great feelings hath she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know; God giveth them to her alone, And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.

Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot; Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share.

She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone, or despise; For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemed in her eyes.

She hath no scorn of common things, And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart intwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth.

Blessing she is; God made her so, And deeds of week-day holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow, Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless.

She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes.

She is a woman; one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears.

I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might, Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Goes wandering at its own will, And yet doth ever flow aright.

And, on its full, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles my duties lie; It flows around them and between, And makes them fresh, and fair, and green, Sweet homes wherein to live and die.

J.R. LOWELL.



She Came and Went.

As a twig trembles, which a bird Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent, So is my memory thrilled and stirred;— I only know she came and went.

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, The blue dome's measureless content, So my soul held that moment's heaven;— I only know she came and went.

As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps The orchards full of bloom and scent, So clove her May my wintry sleeps;— I only know she came and went.

An angel stood and met my gaze, Through the low doorway of my tent; The tent is struck, the vision stays;— I only know she came and went.

Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, And life's last oil is nearly spent, One gush of light these eyes will brim, Only to think she came and went.

J.R. LOWELL.



Her Epitaph.

The handful here, that once was Mary's earth, Held, while it breathed, so beautiful a soul, That, when she died, all recognized her birth, And had their sorrow in serene control.

"Not here! not here!" to every mourner's heart The wintry wind seemed whispering round her bier; And when the tomb-door opened, with a start We heard it echoed from within,—"Not here!"

Shouldst thou, sad pilgrim, who mayst hither pass, Note in these flowers a delicater hue, Should spring come earlier to this hallowed grass, Or the bee later linger on the dew,—

Know that her spirit to her body lent Such sweetness, grace, as only goodness can; That even her dust, and this her monument, Have yet a spell to stay one lonely man, Lonely through life, but looking for the day When what is mortal of himself shall sleep, When human passion shall have passed away, And Love no longer be a thing to weep.

T.W. PARSONS.



Apart.

At sea are tossing ships; On shore are dreaming shells, And the waiting heart and the loving lips, Blossoms and bridal bells.

At sea are sails a-gleam; On shore are longing eyes, And the far horizon's haunting dream Of ships that sail the skies.

At sea are masts that rise Like spectres from the deep; On shore are the ghosts of drowning cries That cross the waves of sleep.

At sea are wrecks a-strand; On shore are shells that moan, Old anchors buried in barren sand, Sea-mist and dreams alone.

J.J. PIATT.



The Discoverer.

I have a little kinsman Whose earthly summers are but three, And yet a voyager is he Greater than Drake or Frobisher, Than all their peers together! He is a brave discoverer, And, far beyond the tether Of them who seek the frozen Pole, Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll. Ay, he has travelled whither A winged pilot steered his bark Through the portals of the dark, Past hoary Mimir's well and tree, Across the unknown sea.

Suddenly, in his fair young hour, Came one who bore a flower, And laid it in his dimpled hand With this command: "Henceforth thou art a rover! Thou must make a voyage far, Sail beneath the evening star, And a wondrous land discover." —With his sweet smile innocent Our little kinsman went.

Since that time no word From the absent has been heard. Who can tell How he fares, or answer well What the little one has found Since he left us, outward bound? Would that he might return! Then should we learn From the pricking of his chart How the skyey roadways part. Hush! does not the baby this way bring, To lay beside this severed curl, Some starry offering Of chrysolite or pearl?

Ah, no! not so! We may follow on his track, But he comes not back. And yet I dare aver He is a brave discoverer Of climes his elders do not know. He has more learning than appears On the scroll of twice three thousand years, More than in the groves is taught, Or from furthest Indies brought; He knows, perchance, how spirits fare,— What shapes the angels wear, What is their guise and speech In those lands beyond our reach,— And his eyes behold Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told.

E.C. STEDMAN.



At Last.[4]

When first the bride and bridegroom wed, They love their single selves the best; A sword is in the marriage bed, Their separate slumbers are not rest. They quarrel, and make up again, They give and suffer worlds of pain. Both right and wrong, They struggle long, Till some good day, when they are old, Some dark day, when the bells are tolled, Death having taken their best of life, They lose themselves, and find each other; They know that they are husband, wife, For, weeping, they are Father, Mother!

R.H. STODDARD.



[4] From "The Poems of R.H. Stoddard," copyright 1880, by Charles Scribner's Sons.



"Thalatta."

CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND.

I stand upon the summit of my years. Behind, the toil, the camp, the march, the strife, The wandering and the desert; vast, afar, Beyond this weary way, behold! the Sea! The sea o'erswept by clouds and winds and wings, By thoughts and wishes manifold, whose breath Is freshness and whose mighty pulse is peace. Palter no question of the dim Beyond; Cut loose the bark; such voyage itself is rest; Majestic motion, unimpeded scope, A widening heaven, a current without care. Eternity!—Deliverance, Promise, Course! Time-tired souls salute thee from the shore.

J.B. BROWN.



Gondolieds.

I.

YESTERDAY.

Dear yesterday, glide not so fast; Oh, let me cling To thy white garments floating past; Even to shadows which they cast I cling, I cling. Show me thy face Just once, once more; a single night Cannot have brought a loss, a blight Upon its grace.

Nor are they dead whom thou dost bear, Robed for the grave. See what a smile their red lips wear; To lay them living wilt thou dare Into a grave? I know, I know, I left thee first; now I repent; I listen now; I never meant To have thee go.

Just once, once more, tell me the word Thou hadst for me! Alas! although my heart was stirred, I never fully knew or heard It was for me. O yesterday, My yesterday, thy sorest pain Were joy couldst thou but come again,— Sweet yesterday.

Venice, May 26.

II.

TO-MORROW.

All red with joy the waiting west, O little swallow, Couldst thou tell me which road is best? Cleaving high air with thy soft breast For keel, O swallow, Thou must o'erlook My seas and know if I mistake; I would not the same harbor make Which yesterday forsook.

I hear the swift blades dip and plash Of unseen rowers; On unknown land the waters dash; Who knows how it be wise or rash To meet the rowers! Premi! Premi! Venetia's boatmen lean and cry; With voiceless lips I drift and lie Upon the twilight sea.

The swallow sleeps. Her last low call Had sound of warning. Sweet little one, whate'er befall, Thou wilt not know that it was all In vain thy warning. I may not borrow A hope, a help. I close my eyes; Cold wind blows from the Bridge of Sighs; Kneeling I wait to-morrow.

Venice, May 30.

H.H. JACKSON.



In the Twilight.

Men say the sullen instrument That, from the Master's bow, With pangs of joy or woe, Feels music's soul through every fibre sent, Whispers the ravished strings More than he knew or meant; Old summers in its memory glow; The secrets of the wind it sings; It hears the April-loosened springs; And mixes with its mood All it dreamed when it stood In the murmurous pine-wood Long ago!

The magical moonlight then Steeped every bough and cone; The roar of the brook in the glen Came dim from the distance blown; The wind through its glooms sang low, And it swayed to and fro With delight as it stood, In the wonderful wood, Long ago!

O my life, have we not had seasons That only said, "Live and rejoice?" That asked not for causes and reasons, But made us all feeling and voice? When we went with the winds in their blowing, When Nature and we were peers, And we seemed to share in the flowing Of the inexhaustible years? Have we not from the earth drawn juices Too fine for earth's sordid uses? Have I heard, have I seen All I feel and I know? Doth my heart overween? Or could it have been Long ago?

Sometimes a breath floats by me, An odor from Dreamland sent, That makes the ghost seem nigh me Of a splendor that came and went, Of a life lived somewhere, I know not In what diviner sphere, Of memories that stay not and go not, Like music heard once by an ear That cannot forget or reclaim it, A something so shy, it would shame it To make it a show, A something too vague, could I name it, For others to know, As if I had lived it or dreamed it, As if I had acted or schemed it, Long ago!

And yet, could I live it over, This life that stirs in my brain, Could I be both maiden and lover, Moon and tide, bee and clover, As I seem to have been, once again, Could I but speak and show it, This pleasure more sharp than pain, That baffles and lures me so, The world should not lack a poet, Such as it had In the ages glad, Long ago!

J.R. LOWELL.



The Tide Rises, the Tide Falls.

The tide rises, the tide falls, The twilight darkens, the curlew calls; Along the sea-sands damp and brown The traveller hastens toward the town, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

Darkness settles on roofs and walls, But the sea in the darkness calls and calls; The little waves, with their soft, white hands, Efface the footprints in the sands, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

The morning breaks; the steeds in their stalls Stamp and neigh, as the hostler calls; The day returns, but nevermore Returns the traveller to the shore, And the tide rises, the tide falls.

H.W. LONGFELLOW.



The Fall of the Leaf.

The evening of the year draws on, The fields a later aspect wear; Since Summer's garishness is gone, Some grains of night tincture the noontide air.

Behold! the shadows of the trees Now circle wider 'bout their stem, Like sentries that by slow degrees Perform their rounds, gently protecting them.

And as the year doth decline, The sun allows a scantier light; Behind each needle of the pine There lurks a small auxiliar to the night.

I hear the cricket's slumbrous lay Around, beneath me, and on high; It rocks the night, it soothes the day, And everywhere is Nature's lullaby.

But most he chirps beneath the sod, When he has made his winter bed; His creak grown fainter but more broad, A film of Autumn o'er the Summer spread.

Small birds, in fleets migrating by, Now beat across some meadow's bay, And as they tack and veer on high, With faint and hurried click beguile the way.

Far in the woods, these golden days, Some leaf obeys its Maker's call; And through their hollow aisles it plays With delicate touch the prelude of the Fall.

Gently withdrawing from its stem, It lightly lays itself along Where the same hand hath pillowed them, Resigned to sleep upon the old year's throng.

The loneliest birch is brown and sere, The furthest pool is strewn with leaves, Which float upon their watery bier, Where is no eye that sees, no heart that grieves.

The jay screams through the chestnut wood; The crisped and yellow leaves around Are hue and texture of my mood,— And these rough burrs my heirlooms on the ground.

The threadbare trees, so poor and thin,— They are no wealthier than I; But with as brave a core within They rear their boughs to the October sky.

Poor knights they are which bravely wait The charge of Winter's cavalry, Keeping a simple Roman state, Discumbered of their Persian luxury.

H.D. THOREAU.



The Rhodora.

ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals, fallen in the pool, Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew: But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

R.W. EMERSON.



Nature.

O nature! I do not aspire To be the highest in thy quire,— To be a meteor in the sky, Or comet that may range on high; Only a zephyr that may blow Among the reeds by the river low; Give me thy most privy place Where to run my airy race.

In some withdrawn, unpublic mead Let me sigh upon a reed, Or in the woods, with leafy din, Whisper the still evening in. Some still work give me to do,— Only—be it near to you! For I'd rather be thy child And pupil, in the forest wild, Than be the king of men elsewhere, And most sovereign slave of care.

H.D. THOREAU.



My Strawberry.

O marvel, fruit of fruits, I pause To reckon thee. I ask what cause Set free so much of red from heats At core of earth, and mixed such sweets With sour and spice: what was that strength Which out of darkness, length by length, Spun all thy shining thread of vine, Netting the fields in bond as thine. I see thy tendrils drink by sips From grass and clover's smiling lips; I hear thy roots dig down for wells, Tapping the meadow's hidden cells; Whole generations of green things, Descended from long lines of springs, I see make room for thee to bide A quiet comrade by their side; I see the creeping peoples go Mysterious journeys to and fro, Treading to right and left of thee, Doing thee homage wonderingly. I see the wild bees as they fare, Thy cups of honey drink, but spare. I mark thee bathe and bathe again In sweet uncalendared spring rain. I watch how all May has of sun Makes haste to have thy ripeness done, While all her nights let dews escape To set and cool thy perfect shape. Ah, fruit of fruits, no more I pause To dream and seek thy hidden laws! I stretch my hand and dare to taste, In instant of delicious waste On single feast, all things that went To make the empire thou hast spent.

H.H. JACKSON.



The Humble-bee.

Burly, dozing humble-bee, Where thou art is clime for me. Let them sail for Porto Rique, Far-off heats through seas to seek; I will follow thee alone, Thou animated torrid-zone! Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, Let me chase thy waving lines; Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, Singing over shrubs and vines.

Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion! Sailor of the atmosphere; Swimmer through the waves of air; Voyager of light and noon; Epicurean of June; Wait, I prithee, till I come Within earshot of thy hum,— All without is martyrdom.

When the south wind, in May days, With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon wall, And with softness touching all, Tints the human countenance With a color of romance, And infusing subtle heats, Turns the sod to violets, Thou, in sunny solitudes, Rover of the underwoods, The green silence dost displace With thy mellow, breezy bass.

Hot midsummer's petted crone, Sweet to me thy drowsy tone Tells of countless sunny hours, Long days, and solid banks of flowers; Of gulfs of sweetness without bound In Indian wildernesses found; Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.

Aught unsavory or unclean Hath my insect never seen; But violets and bilberry bells, Maple-sap and daffodels, Grass with green flag half-mast high, Succory to match the sky, Columbine with horn of honey, Scented fern, and agrimony, Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue, And brier-roses, dwelt among; All beside was unknown waste, All was picture as he passed.

Wiser far than human seer, Yellow-breeched philosopher! Seeing only what is fair, Sipping only what is sweet, Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. When the fierce northwestern blast Cools sea and land so far and fast, Thou already slumberest deep; Woe and want thou canst outsleep; Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous.

R.W. EMERSON.



The Summer Rain.

My books I'd fain cast off, I cannot read. 'Twixt every page my thoughts go stray at large Down in the meadow, where is richer feed, And will not mind to hit their proper targe.

Plutarch was good, and so was Homer too, Our Shakespeare's life were rich to live again, What Plutarch read, that was not good nor true, Nor Shakespeare's books, unless his books were men.

Here while I lie beneath this walnut bough, What care I for the Greeks or for Troy town, If juster battles are enacted now Between the ants upon this hummock's crown?

Bid Homer wait till I the issue learn, If red or black the gods will favor most, Or yonder Ajax will the phalanx turn, Struggling to heave some rock against the host.

Tell Shakespeare to attend some leisure hour, For now I've business with this drop of dew, And see you not, the clouds prepare a shower,— I'll meet him shortly when the sky is blue.

This bed of herdsgrass and wild oats was spread Last year with nicer skill than monarchs use; A clover tuft is pillow for my head, And violets quite overtop my shoes.

And now the cordial clouds have shut all in, And gently swells the wind to say all's well; The scattered drops are falling fast and thin, Some in the pool, some in the flower-bell.

I am well drenched upon my bed of oats; But see that globe come rolling down its stem, Now like a lonely planet there it floats, And now it sinks into my garment's hem.

Drip, drip the trees for all the country round, And richness rare distills from every bough; The wind alone it is makes every sound, Shaking down crystals on the leaves below.

For shame the sun will never show himself, Who could not with his beams e'er melt me so; My dripping locks,—they would become an elf, Who in a beaded coat does gayly go.

H.D. THOREAU.



To the Dandelion.

Dear common flower, that grow'st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found, Which not the rich earth's ample round May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.

Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease; 'Tis the Spring's largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, Though most hearts never understand To take it at God's value, but pass by The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.

Thou art my tropics and mine Italy; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not space or time: Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee Feels a more summer-like warm ravishment In the white lily's breezy tent, His fragrant Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.

Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pass, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whiten in the wind, of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap, and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.

My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee; The sight of thee calls back the robin's song, Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, And I, secure in childish piety, Listened as if I heard an angel sing With news from heaven, which he could bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.

How like a prodigal doth Nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart, Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, Did we but pay the love we owe, And with a child's undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of God's book.

J.R. LOWELL.



The Chambered Nautilus.

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main,— The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed,— Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

O.W. HOLMES.



Thought.

O messenger, art thou the king, or I? Thou dalliest outside the palace gate Till on thine idle armor lie the late And heavy dews. The morn's bright scornful eye Reminds thee; then, in subtle mockery, Thou smilest at the window where I wait, Who bade thee ride for life. In empty state My days go on, while false hours prophesy Thy quick return; at last, in sad despair, I cease to bid thee, leave thee free as air; When lo, thou stand'st before me glad and fleet, And lay'st undreamed-of treasures at my feet. Ah! messenger, thy royal blood to buy I am too poor. Thou art the king, not I.

H.H. JACKSON.



Stanzas.

Thought is deeper than all speech, Feeling deeper than all thought; Souls to souls can never teach What unto themselves was taught.

We are spirits clad in veils: Man by man was never seen; All our deep communing fails To remove the shadowy screen.

Heart to heart was never known; Mind with mind did never meet; We are columns left alone Of a temple once complete.

Like the stars that gem the sky, Far apart, though seeming near, In our light we scattered lie; All is thus but starlight here.

What is social company But a babbling summer stream? What our wise philosophy But the glancing of a dream?

Only when the sun of love Melts the scattered stars of thought; Only when we live above What the dim-eyed world hath taught;

Only when our souls are fed By the Fount which gave them birth, And by inspiration led, Which they never drew from earth,

We, like parted drops of rain Swelling till they meet and run, Shall be all absorbed again, Melting, flowing into one.

C.P. CRANCH.



Coronation.

At the king's gate the subtle noon Wove filmy yellow nets of sun; Into the drowsy snare too soon The guards fell one by one.

Through the king's gate, unquestioned then, A beggar went, and laughed, "This brings Me chance, at last, to see if men Fare better, being kings."

The king sat bowed beneath his crown, Propping his face with listless hand; Watching the hour-glass sifting down Too slow its shining sand.

"Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?" The beggar turned, and, pitying, Replied, like one in dream, "Of thee, Nothing. I want the king."

Uprose the king, and from his head Shook off the crown and threw it by. "O man, thou must have known," he said, "A greater king than I."

Through all the gates, unquestioned then, Went king and beggar hand in hand. Whispered the king, "Shall I know when Before his throne I stand?"

The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste Were wiping from the king's hot brow The crimson lines the crown had traced. "This is his presence now."

At the king's gate the crafty noon Unwove its yellow nets of sun; Out of their sleep in terror soon The guards waked one by one.

"Ho here! Ho there! Has no man seen The king?" The cry ran to and fro; Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween, The laugh that free men know.

On the king's gate the moss grew gray; The king came not. They called him dead; And made his eldest son one day Slave in his father's stead.

H.H. JACKSON.



On a Bust of Dante.

See, from this counterfeit of him Whom Arno shall remember long, How stern of lineament, how grim, The father was of Tuscan song: There but the burning sense of wrong, Perpetual care and scorn, abide; Small friendship for the lordly throng; Distrust of all the world beside.

Faithful if this wan image be, No dream his life was,—but a fight; Could any Beatrice see A lover in that anchorite? To that cold Ghibelline's gloomy sight Who could have guessed the visions came Of Beauty, veiled with heavenly light, In circles of eternal flame?

The lips as Cumae's cavern close, The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin, The rigid front, almost morose, But for the patient hope within, Declare a life whose course hath been Unsullied still, though still severe; Which, through the wavering days of sin, Kept itself icy-chaste and clear.

Not wholly such his haggard look When wandering once, forlorn, he strayed, With no companion save his book, To Corvo's hushed monastic shade; Where, as the Benedictine laid His palm upon the convent's guest, The single boon for which he prayed Was peace, that pilgrim's one request.

Peace dwells not here,—this rugged face Betrays no spirit of repose; The sullen warrior sole we trace, The marble man of many woes. Such was his mien when first arose The thought of that strange tale divine, When hell he peopled with his foes, The scourge of many a guilty line.

War to the last he waged with all The tyrant canker-worms of earth; Baron and duke, in hold and hall, Cursed the dark hour that gave him birth; He used Rome's harlot for his mirth; Plucked bare hypocrisy and crime; But valiant souls of knightly worth Transmitted to the rolls of Time.

O Time! whose verdicts mock our own, The only righteous judge art thou; That poor old exile, sad and lone, Is Latium's other Virgil now: Before his name the nations bow; His words are parcel of mankind, Deep in whose hearts, as on his brow, The marks have sunk of Dante's mind.

T.W. PARSONS.



Pan in Wall Street.

A.D. 1867.

Just where the Treasury's marble front Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations; Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont To throng for trade and last quotations; Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold Outrival, in the ears of people, The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled From Trinity's undaunted steeple,—

Even there I heard a strange, wild strain Sound high above the modern clamor, Above the cries of greed and gain, The curbstone war, the auction's hammer; And swift, on Music's misty ways, It led, from all this strife for millions, To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians.

And as it stilled the multitude, And yet more joyous rose, and shriller, I saw the minstrel, where he stood At ease against a Doric pillar: One hand a droning organ played, The other held a Pan's-pipe (fashioned Like those of old) to lips that made The reeds give out that strain impassioned.

'Twas Pan himself had wandered here A-strolling through this sordid city, And piping to the civic ear The prelude of some pastoral ditty! The demigod had crossed the seas,— From haunts of shepherd, nymph, and satyr, And Syracusan times,—to these Far shores and twenty centuries later.

A ragged cap was on his head; But—hidden thus—there was no doubting That, all with crispy locks o'erspread, His gnarled horns were somewhere sprouting; His club-feet, cased in rusty shoes, Were crossed, as on some frieze you see them, And trousers, patched of divers hues, Concealed his crooked shanks beneath them.

He filled the quivering reeds with sound, And o'er his mouth their changes shifted, And with his goat's-eyes looked around Where'er the passing current drifted; And soon, as on Trinacrian hills The nymphs and herdsmen ran to hear him, Even now the tradesmen from their tills, With clerks and porters, crowded near him.

The bulls and bears together drew From Jauncey Court and New Street Alley, As erst, if pastorals be true, Came beasts from every wooded valley; The random passers stayed to list,— A boxer AEgon, rough and merry, A Broadway Daphnis, on his tryst With Nais at the Brooklyn Ferry.

A one-eyed Cyclops halted long In tattered cloak of army pattern, And Galatea joined the throng,— A blowsy, apple-vending slattern; While old Silenus staggered out From some new-fangled lunch-house handy, And bade the piper, with a shout, To strike up Yankee Doodle Dandy!

A newsboy and a peanut-girl Like little Fauns began to caper: His hair was all in tangled curl, Her tawny legs were bare and taper; And still the gathering larger grew, And gave its pence and crowded nigher, While aye the shepherd-minstrel blew His pipe, and struck the gamut higher.

O heart of Nature, beating still With throbs her vernal passion taught her,— Even here, as on the vine-clad hill, Or by the Arethusan water! New forms may fold the speech, new lands Arise within these ocean-portals, But Music waves eternal wands,— Enchantress of the souls of mortals!

So thought I,—but among us trod A man in blue, with legal baton, And scoffed the vagrant demigod, And pushed him from the step I sat on. Doubting, I mused upon the cry, "Great Pan is dead!"—and all the people Went on their ways:—and clear and high The quarter sounded from the steeple.

E.C. STEDMAN.



Auspex.

My heart, I cannot still it, Nest that had song-birds in it; And when the last shall go, The dreary days, to fill it, Instead of lark or linnet, Shall whirl dead leaves and snow.

Had they been swallows only, Without the passion stronger That skyward longs and sings,— Woe's me, I shall be lonely When I can feel no longer The impatience of their wings!

A moment, sweet delusion, Like birds the brown leaves hover; But it will not be long Before their wild confusion Fall wavering down to cover The poet and his song.

J.R. LOWELL.



Birds.[5]

Birds are singing round my window, Tunes the sweetest ever heard, And I hang my cage there daily, But I never catch a bird.

So with thoughts my brain is peopled, And they sing there all day long: But they will not fold their pinions In the little cage of Song.

R.H. STODDARD.



[5] From "The Poems of R.H. Stoddard," copyright, 1880, by Charles Scribner's Sons.



Toujours Amour.

Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin, At what age does Love begin? Your blue eyes have scarcely seen Summers three, my fairy queen, But a miracle of sweets, Soft approaches, sly retreats, Show the little archer there, Hidden in your pretty hair; When didst learn a heart to win? Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!

"Oh!" the rosy lips reply, "I can't tell you if I try. 'Tis so long I can't remember: Ask some younger lass than I!"

Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face, Do your heart and head keep pace? When does hoary Love expire, When do frosts put out the fire? Can its embers burn below All that chill December snow? Care you still soft hands to press, Bonny heads to smooth and bless? When does Love give up the chase? Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face!

"Ah!" the wise old lips reply, "Youth may pass and strength may die; But of Love I can't foretoken: Ask some older sage than I!"

E.C. STEDMAN.



A Sigh.

It was nothing but a rose I gave her,— Nothing but a rose Any wind might rob of half its savor, Any wind that blows.

When she took it from my trembling fingers With a hand as chill,— Ah, the flying touch upon them lingers, Stays, and thrills them still!

Withered, faded, pressed between the pages, Crumpled fold on fold,— Once it lay upon her breast, and ages Cannot make it old!

H.P. SPOFFORD.



No More.

This is the Burden of the Heart, The Burden that it always bore: We live to love; we meet to part; And part to meet on earth No More: We clasp each other to the heart, And part to meet on earth No More.

There is a time for tears to start,— For dews to fall and larks to soar: The Time for Tears, is when we part To meet upon the earth No More: The Time for Tears, is when we part To meet on this wide earth—No More.

B.F. WILLSON.



To a Young Girl Dying.

WITH A GIFT OF FRESH PALM-LEAVES.

This is Palm Sunday: mindful of the day, I bring palm branches, found upon my way: But these will wither; thine shall never die,— The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky! Dear little saint, though but a child in years, Older in wisdom than my gray compeers! We doubt and tremble,—we, with bated breath, Talk of this mystery of life and death: Thou, strong in faith, art gifted to conceive Beyond thy years, and teach us to believe!

Then take my palms, triumphal, to thy home, Gentle white palmer, never more to roam! Only, sweet sister, give me, ere thou go'st, Thy benediction,—for my love thou know'st! We, too, are pilgrims, travelling towards the shrine: Pray that our pilgrimage may end like thine!

T.W. PARSONS.



The Port of Ships.[6]

Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the Gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores, Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: "Now must we pray, For lo! the very stars are gone. Brave Adm'ral speak,—what shall I say?" "Why, say, 'Sail on! Sail on! and on!'"

"My men grow mutinous day by day; My men grow ghastly, wan and weak." The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. "What shall I say, brave Adm'ral, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" "Why, you shall say, at break of day, 'Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! and on!'"

They sailed, and sailed, as winds might blow, Until at last the blanched mate said: "Why, now not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave Adm'ral; speak, and say—" He said: "Sail on! Sail on! and on!"

They sailed! They sailed! Then spake the mate: "This mad sea shows its teeth to-night; He curls his lip, he lies in wait With lifted teeth, as if to bite! Brave Adm'ral, say but one good word,— What shall we do when hope is gone?" The words leaped as a leaping sword: "Sail on! Sail on! Sail on! and on!"

C.H. MILLER.



[6] From The Complete Poetical Works of Joaquin Miller.



Paradisi Gloria.

There is a city, builded by no hand, And unapproachable by sea or shore, And unassailable by any band Of storming soldiery for evermore.

There we no longer shall divide our time By acts or pleasures,—doing petty things Of work or warfare, merchandise or rhyme; But we shall sit beside the silver springs

That flow from God's own footstool, and behold Sages and martyrs, and those blessed few Who loved us once and were beloved of old, To dwell with them and walk with them anew,

In alternations of sublime repose, Musical motion, the perpetual play Of every faculty that Heaven bestows Through the bright, busy, and eternal day.

T.W. PARSONS.



Ballad.

In the summer even, While yet the dew was hoar, I went plucking purple pansies, Till my love should come to shore. The fishing-lights their dances Were keeping out at sea, And come, I sung, my true love! Come hasten home to me!

But the sea, it fell a-moaning, And the white gulls rocked thereon; And the young moon dropped from heaven, And the lights hid one by one. All silently their glances Slipped down the cruel sea, And wait! cried the night and wind and storm,— Wait, till I come to thee!

H.P. SPOFFORD.



BOOK THIRD.



The Fool's Prayer.

The royal feast was done; the King Sought some new sport to banish care, And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool, Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"

The jester doffed his cap and bells, And stood the mocking court before; They could not see the bitter smile Behind the painted grin he wore.

He bowed his head, and bent his knee Upon the monarch's silken stool; His pleading voice arose: "O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!

"No pity, Lord, could change the heart From red with wrong to white as wool; The rod must heal the sin: but, Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!

"'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; 'Tis by our follies that so long We hold the earth from heaven away.

"These clumsy feet, still in the mire, Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust Among the heart-strings of a friend.

"The ill-timed truth we might have kept— Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? The word we had not sense to say— Who knows how grandly it had rung?

"Our faults no tenderness should ask, The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; But for our blunders—oh, in shame Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes; Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool That did his will; but Thou, O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!"

The room was hushed; in silence rose The King, and sought his gardens cool, And walked apart, and murmured low, "Be merciful to me, a fool!"

E.R. SILL.



On The Life-mask Of Abraham Lincoln.

This bronze doth keep the very form and mold Of our great martyr's face. Yes, this is he: That brow all wisdom, all benignity; That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold Like some harsh landscape all the summer's gold; That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea For storms to beat on; the lone agony Those silent, patient lips too well foretold. Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men As might some prophet of the elder day,— Brooding above the tempest and the fray With deep-eyed thought and more than mortal ken. A power was his beyond the touch of art Or armed strength: his pure and mighty heart.

R.W. GILDER.



Song.

Years have flown since I knew thee first, And I know thee as water is known of thirst: Yet I knew thee of old at the first sweet sight, And thou art strange to me, Love, to-night.

R.W. GILDER.



To A Dead Woman.[7]

Not a kiss in life; but one kiss, at life's end, I have set on the face of Death in trust for thee. Through long years keep it fresh on thy lips, O friend! At the gate of Silence give it back to me.

H.C. BUNNER.



[7] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons.



Destiny.

Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down Each with its loveliness as with a crown, Drooped in a florist's window in a town.

The first a lover bought. It lay at rest, Like flower on flower, that night, on Beauty's breast.

The second rose, as virginal and fair, Shrunk in the tangles of a harlot's hair.

The third, a widow, with new grief made wild, Shut in the icy palm of her dead child.

T.B. ALDRICH.



The Kings.

A man said unto his angel: "My spirits are fallen thro', And I cannot carry this battle; O brother! what shall I do?

"The terrible Kings are on me, With spears that are deadly bright, Against me so from the cradle Do fate and my fathers fight."

Then said to the man his angel: "Thou wavering, foolish soul, Back to the ranks! What matter To win or to lose the whole,

"As judged by the little judges Who hearken not well, nor see? Not thus, by the outer issue, The Wise shall interpret thee.

"Thy will is the very, the only, The solemn event of things; The weakest of hearts defying Is stronger than all these Kings.

"Tho' out of the past they gather, Mind's Doubt and bodily Pain, And pallid Thirst of the Spirit That is kin to the other twain,

"And Grief, in a cloud of banners, And ringletted Vain Desires, And Vice with the spoils upon him Of thee and thy beaten sires,

"While Kings of eternal evil Yet darken the hills about, Thy part is with broken sabre To rise on the last redoubt;

"To fear not sensible failure, Nor covet the game at all, But fighting, fighting, fighting, Die, driven against the wall!"

L.I. GUINEY.



Triumph.[8]

The dawn came in through the bars of the blind,— And the winter's dawn is gray,— And said, "However you cheat your mind, The hours are flying away."

A ghost of a dawn, and pale, and weak,— "Has the sun a heart," I said, "To throw a morning flush on the cheek Whence a fairer flush has fled?"

As a gray rose-leaf that is fading white Was the cheek where I set my kiss; And on that side of the bed all night Death had watched, and I on this.

I kissed her lips, they were half apart, Yet they made no answering sign; Death's hand was on her failing heart, And his eyes said, "She is mine."

I set my lips on the blue-veined lid, Half-veiled by her death-damp hair; And oh, for the violet depths it hid And the light I longed for there!

Faint day and the fainter life awoke, And the night was overpast; And I said, "Though never in life you spoke Oh, speak with a look at last!"

For the space of a heart-beat fluttered her breath, As a bird's wing spread to flee; She turned her weary arms to Death, And the light of her eyes to me.

H.C. BUNNER.



[8] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons.



Evening Song.[9]

Look off, dear Love, across the sallow sands, And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea, How long they kiss in sight of all the lands. Ah! longer, longer, we.

Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun, As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine, And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done, Love, lay thine hand in mine.

Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart; Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands. O night! divorce our sun and sky apart, Never our lips, our hands.

S. LANIER.



[9] From "Poems of Sidney Lanier," copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.



"The Woods That Bring the Sunset Near."

The wind from out the west is blowing, The homeward-wandering cows are lowing, Dark grow the pine-woods, dark and drear,— The woods that bring the sunset near.

When o'er wide seas the sun declines, Far off its fading glory shines, Far off, sublime, and full of fear,— The pine-woods bring the sunset near.

This house that looks to east, to west, This, dear one, is our home, our rest; Yonder the stormy sea, and here The woods that bring the sunset near.

R.W. GILDER.



At Night.

The sky is dark, and dark the bay below Save where the midnight city's pallid glow Lies like a lily white On the black pool of night.

O rushing steamer, hurry on thy way Across the swirling Kills and gusty bay, To where the eddying tide Strikes hard the city's side!

For there, between the river and the sea, Beneath that glow,—the lily's heart to me,— A sleeping mother mild, And by her breast a child.

R.W. GILDER.



"Still in Thy Love I Trust."

Still in thy love I trust, Supreme o'er death, since deathless is thy essence; For, putting off the dust, Thou hast but blest me with a nearer presence.

And so, for this, for all, I breathe no selfish plaint, no faithless chiding; On me the snowflakes fall, But thou hast gained a summer all-abiding.

Striking a plaintive string, Like some poor harper at a palace portal, I wait without and sing, While those I love glide in and dwell immortal.

A.A. FIELDS.



The Future.

What may we take into the vast Forever? That marble door Admits no fruit of all our long endeavor, No fame-wreathed crown we wore, No garnered lore.

What can we bear beyond the unknown portal? No gold, no gains Of all our toiling: in the life immortal No hoarded wealth remains, Nor gilds, nor stains.

Naked from out that far abyss behind us We entered here: No word came with our coming, to remind us What wondrous world was near, No hope, no fear.

Into the silent, starless Night before us, Naked we glide: No hand has mapped the constellations o'er us, No comrade at our side, No chart, no guide.

Yet fearless toward that midnight, black and hollow, Our footsteps fare: The beckoning of a Father's hand we follow— His love alone is there, No curse, no care.

E.R. SILL.



Prescience.

The new moon hung in the sky, The sun was low in the west, And my betrothed and I In the churchyard paused to rest— Happy maiden and lover, Dreaming the old dream over: The light winds wandered by, And robins chirped from the nest.

And lo! in the meadow-sweet Was the grave of a little child, With a crumbling stone at the feet, And the ivy running wild— Tangled ivy and clover Folding it over and over: Close to my sweetheart's feet Was the little mound up-piled.

Stricken with nameless fears, She shrank and clung to me, And her eyes were filled with tears For a sorrow I did not see: Lightly the winds were blowing, Softly her tears were flowing— Tears for the unknown years And a sorrow that was to be!

T.B. ALDRICH.



In August.

All the long August afternoon, The little drowsy stream Whispers a melancholy tune, As if it dreamed of June And whispered in its dream.

The thistles show beyond the brook Dust on their down and bloom, And out of many a weed-grown nook The aster-flowers look With eyes of tender gloom.

The silent orchard aisles are sweet With smell of ripening fruit. Through the sere grass, in shy retreat, Flutter, at coming feet, The robins strange and mute.

There is no wind to stir the leaves, The harsh leaves overhead; Only the querulous cricket grieves, And shrilling locust weaves A song of Summer dead.

W.D. HOWELLS.



That Day You Came.

Such special sweetness was about That day God sent you here, I knew the lavender was out, And it was mid of year.

Their common way the great winds blew, The ships sailed out to sea; Yet ere that day was spent I knew Mine own had come to me.

As after song some snatch of tune Lurks still in grass or bough, So, somewhat of the end o' June Lurks in each weather now.

The young year sets the buds astir, The old year strips the trees; But ever in my lavender I hear the brawling bees.

L.W. REESE.



Negro Lullaby.

Bedtimes' come fu' little boys, Po' little lamb. Too tiahed out to make a noise, Po' little lamb. You gwine t' have to-morrer sho'? Yes, you tole me dat, befo', Don't you fool me, chile, no mo', Po' little lamb.

You been bad de livelong day, Po' little lamb. Th'owin' stones an' runnin' 'way, Po' little lamb. My, but you's a-runnin' wild, Look jes' lak some po' folks' chile; Mam' gwine whup you atter while, Po' little lamb.

Come hyeah! you mos' tiahed to def, Po' little lamb. Played yo'se'f clean out o' bref, Po' little lamb. See dem han's now,—sich a sight! Would you ever b'lieve dey's white! Stan' still 'twell I wash dem right, Po' little lamb.

Jes' caint hol' yo' haid up straight, Po' little lamb. Hadn't oughter played so late, Po' little lamb. Mammy do' know whut she'd do, Ef de chillun's all lak you; You's a caution now fu' true, Po' little lamb.

Lay yo' haid down in my lap, Po' little lamb. Y'ought to have a right good slap, Po' little lamb. You been runnin' roun' a heap. Shet dem eyes an' don't you peep, Dah now, dah now, go to sleep, Po' little lamb.

P.L. DUNBAR.



A Woman's Thought.

I am a woman—therefore I may not Call to him, cry to him, Fly to him, Bid him delay not!

And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet: Still as a stone— All silent and cold. If my heart riot— Crush and defy it! Should I grow bold— Say one dear thing to him, All my life fling to him, Cling to him— What to atone Is enough for my sinning! This were the cost to me, This were my winning— That he were lost to me. Not as a lover At last if he part from me, Tearing my heart from me— Hurt beyond cure,— Calm and demure Then must I hold me— In myself fold me— Lest he discover; Showing no sign to him By look of mine to him What he has been to me— How my heart turns to him, Follows him, yearns to him, Prays him to love me.

Pity me, lean to me, Thou God above me!

R.W. GILDER.



The Flight.

Upon a cloud among the stars we stood. The angel raised his hand and looked and said, "Which world, of all yon starry myriad Shall we make wing to?" The still solitude Became a harp whereon his voice and mood Made spheral music round his haloed head. I spake—for then I had not long been dead— "Let me look round upon the vasts, and brood A moment on these orbs ere I decide ... What is yon lower star that beauteous shines And with soft splendor now incarnadines Our wings?—There would I go and there abide." He smiled as one who some child's thought divines: "That is the world where yesternight you died."

L. MIFFLIN.



Childhood.

Old Sorrow I shall meet again, And Joy, perchance—but never, never, Happy Childhood, shall we twain See each other's face forever!

And yet I would not call thee back, Dear Childhood, lest the sight of me, Thine old companion, on the rack Of Age, should sadden even thee.

J.B. TABB.



Little Boy Blue.[10]

The little toy dog is covered with dust, But sturdy and stanch he stands; And the little toy soldier is red with rust, And his musket moulds in his hands. Time was when the little toy dog was new And the soldier was passing fair, And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there.

"Now, don't you go till I come," he said, "And don't you make any noise!" So toddling off to his trundle-bed He dreampt of the pretty toys. And as he was dreaming, an angel song Awakened our Little Boy Blue,— Oh, the years are many, the years are long, But the little toy friends are true.

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Each in the same old place, Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face. And they wonder, as waiting these long years through, In the dust of that little chair, What has become of our Little Boy Blue Since he kissed them and put them there.

E. FIELD.



[10] From "A Little Book of Western Verse," copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.



Strong as Death.[11]

O death, when thou shalt come to me From out thy dark, where she is now, Come not with graveyard smell on thee, Or withered roses on thy brow.

Come not, O Death, with hollow tone, And soundless step, and clammy hand— Lo, I am now no less alone Than in thy desolate, doubtful land;

But with that sweet and subtle scent That ever clung about her (such As with all things she brushed was blent); And with her quick and tender touch.

With the dim gold that lit her hair, Crown thyself, Death; let fall thy tread So light that I may dream her there, And turn upon my dying bed.

And through my chilling veins shall flame My love, as though beneath her breath; And in her voice but call my name, And I will follow thee, O Death.

H.C. BUNNER.



[11] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896 by Charles Scribner's Sons.



The White Jessamine.

I knew she lay above me, Where the casement all the night Shone, softened with a phosphor glow Of sympathetic light, And that her fledgling spirit pure Was pluming fast for flight.

Each tendril throbbed and quickened As I nightly climbed apace, And could scarce restrain the blossoms When, anear the destined place, Her gentle whisper thrilled me Ere I gazed upon her face.

I waited, darkling, till the dawn Should touch me into bloom, While all my being panted To outpour its first perfume, When, lo! a paler flower than mine Had blossomed in the gloom!

J.B. TABB.



The House of Death.

Not a hand has lifted the latchet Since she went out of the door— No footstep shall cross the threshold, Since she can come in no more.

There is rust upon locks and hinges, And mold and blight on the walls, And silence faints in the chambers, And darkness waits in the halls—

Waits as all things have waited Since she went, that day of spring, Borne in her pallid splendor To dwell in the Court of the King:

With lilies on brow and bosom, With robes of silken sheen, And her wonderful, frozen beauty, The lilies and silk between.

Red roses she left behind her, But they died long, long ago 'Twas the odorous ghost of a blossom That seemed through the dusk to glow.

The garments she left mock the shadows With hints of womanly grace, And her image swims in the mirror That was so used to her face.

The birds make insolent music Where the sunshine riots outside, And the winds are merry and wanton With the summer's pomp and pride.

But into this desolate mansion, Where Love has closed the door, Nor sunshine nor summer shall enter, Since she can come in no more.

L.C. MOULTON.



A Tropical Morning at Sea.

Sky in its lucent splendor lifted Higher than cloud can be; Air with no breath of earth to stain it, Pure on the perfect sea.

Crests that touch and tilt each other, Jostling as they comb; Delicate crash of tinkling water, Broken in pearling foam.

Plashings—or is it the pinewood's whispers, Babble of brooks unseen, Laughter of winds when they find the blossoms, Brushing aside the green?

Waves that dip, and dash, and sparkle; Foam-wreaths slipping by, Soft as a snow of broken roses Afloat over mirrored sky.

Off to the east the steady sun-track Golden meshes fill Webs of fire, that lace and tangle, Never a moment still.

Liquid palms but clap together, Fountains, flower-like, grow— Limpid bells on stems of silver— Out of a slope of snow.

Sea-depths, blue as the blue of violets— Blue as a summer sky, When you blink at its arch sprung over Where in the grass you lie.

Dimly an orange bit of rainbow Burns where the low west clears, Broken in air, like a passionate promise Born of a moment's tears.

Thinned to amber, rimmed with silver, Clouds in the distance dwell, Clouds that are cool, for all their color, Pure as a rose-lipped shell.

Fleets of wool in the upper heavens Gossamer wings unfurl; Sailing so high they seem but sleeping Over yon bar of pearl.

What would the great world lose, I wonder— Would it be missed or no— If we stayed in the opal morning, Floating forever so?

Swung to sleep by the swaying water, Only to dream all day— Blow, salt wind from the north upstarting, Scatter such dreams away!

E.R. SILL.



Memory.

My mind lets go a thousand things, Like dates of wars and deaths of kings, And yet recalls the very hour— 'Twas noon by yonder village tower, And on the last blue noon in May— The wind came briskly up this way, Crisping the brook beside the road; Then, pausing here, set down its load Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly Two petals from that wild-rose tree.

T.B. ALDRICH.



A Mood.

A blight, a gloom, I know not what, has crept upon my gladness— Some vague, remote ancestral touch of sorrow, or of madness; A fear that is not fear, a pain that has not pain's insistence; A tense of longing, or of loss, in some foregone existence; A subtle hurt that never pen has writ nor tongue has spoken— Such hurt perchance as Nature feels when a blossomed bough is broken.

T.B. ALDRICH.



The Way to Arcady.[12]

Oh, what's the way to Arcady, To Arcady, to Arcady; Oh, what's the way to Arcady, Where all the leaves are merry?

Oh, what's the way to Arcady? The spring is rustling in the tree— The tree the wind is blowing through— It sets the blossoms flickering white. I knew not skies could burn so blue Nor any breezes blow so light. They blow an old-time way for me, Across the world to Arcady.

Oh, what's the way to Arcady? Sir Poet, with the rusty coat, Quit mocking of the song-bird's note. How have you heart for any tune, You with the wayworn russet shoon? Your scrip, a-swinging by your side, Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide. I'll brim it well with pieces red, If you will tell the way to tread.

Oh, I am bound for Arcady, And if you but keep pace with me You tread the way to Arcady.

And where away lies Arcady, And how long yet may the journey be?

Ah, that (quoth he) I do not know— Across the clover and the snow— Across the frost, across the flowers— Through summer seconds and winter hours. I've trod the way my whole life long, And know not now where it may be; My guide is but the stir to song. That tells me I can not go wrong, Or clear or dark the pathway be Upon the road to Arcady.

But how shall I do who cannot sing? I was wont to sing, once on a time— There is never an echo now to ring Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.

'Tis strange you cannot sing (quoth he), The folk all sing in Arcady.

But how may he find Arcady Who hath not youth nor melody?

What, know you not, old man (quoth he)— Your hair is white, your face is wise— That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes Who hopes to see fair Arcady? No gold can buy you entrance there; But beggared Love may go all bare— No wisdom won with weariness; But Love goes in with Folly's dress— No fame that wit could ever win; But only Love may lead Love in To Arcady, to Arcady.

Ah, woe is me, through all my days Wisdom and wealth I both have got, And fame and name, and great men's praise; But Love, ah, Love! I have it not.

There was a time, when life was new— But far away, and half forgot— I only know her eyes were blue; But Love—I fear I knew it not. We did not wed, for lack of gold, And she is dead, and I am old. All things have come since then to me, Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady.

Ah, then I fear we part (quoth he), My way's for Love and Arcady.

But you, you fare alone, like me; The gray is likewise in your hair. What love have you to lead you there, To Arcady, to Arcady?

Ah, no, not lonely do I fare; My true companion's Memory. With Love he fills the Spring-time air; With Love he clothes the Winter tree. Oh, past this poor horizon's bound My song goes straight to one who stands— Her face all gladdening at the sound— To lead me to the Spring-green lands, To wander with enlacing hands. The songs within my breast that stir Are all of her, are all of her. My maid is dead long years (quoth he), She waits for me in Arcady.

Oh, yon's the way to Arcady, To Arcady, to Arcady; Oh, yon's the way to Arcady, Where all the leaves are merry.

H.C. BUNNER.



[12] From "The Poems of H.C. Bunner," copyright, 1884, 1892, 1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons.



Eve's Daughter.

I waited in the little sunny room: The cool breeze waved the window-lace, at play, The white rose on the porch was all in bloom, And out upon the bay I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and come.

"Such an old friend,—she would not make me stay While she bound up her hair." I turned, and lo, Danae in her shower! and fit to slay All a man's hoarded prudence at a blow: Gold hair, that streamed away As round some nymph a sunlit fountain's flow. "She would not make me wait!"—but well I know She took a good half-hour to loose and lay Those locks in dazzling disarrangement so!

E.R. SILL.



On An Intaglio Head Of Minerva.

Beneath the warrior's helm, behold The flowing tresses of the woman! Minerva, Pallas, what you will— A winsome creature, Greek or Roman.

Minerva? No! 'tis some sly minx In cousin's helmet masquerading; If not—then Wisdom was a dame For sonnets and for serenading!

I thought the goddess cold, austere, Not made for love's despairs and blisses: Did Pallas wear her hair like that? Was Wisdom's mouth so shaped for kisses?

The Nightingale should be her bird, And not the Owl, big-eyed and solemn: How very fresh she looks, and yet She's older far than Trajan's Column!

The magic hand that carved this face, And set this vine-work round it running, Perhaps ere mighty Phidias wrought Had lost its subtle skill and cunning.

Who was he? Was he glad or sad, Who knew to carve in such a fashion? Perchance he graved the dainty head For some brown girl that scorned his passion.

Perchance, in some still garden-place, Where neither fount nor tree to-day is, He flung the jewel at the feet Of Phryne, or perhaps 'twas Lais.

But he is dust; we may not know His happy or unhappy story: Nameless, and dead these centuries, His work outlives him—there's his glory!

Both man and jewel lay in earth Beneath a lava-buried city; The countless summers came and went With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity.

Years blotted out the man, but left The jewel fresh as any blossom, Till some Visconti dug it up— To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom!

O nameless brother! see how Time Your gracious handiwork has guarded: See how your loving, patient art Has come, at last, to be rewarded.

Who would not suffer slights of men, And pangs of hopeless passion also, To have his carven agate-stone On such a bosom rise and fall so!

T.B. ALDRICH.



Hunting-song.

Oh, who would stay indoor, indoor, When the horn is on the hill? (Bugle: Tarantara!) With the crisp air stinging, and the huntsmen singing, And a ten-tined buck to kill!

Before the sun goes down, goes down, We shall slay the buck of ten; (Bugle: Tarantara!) And the priest shall say benison, and we shall ha'e venison, When we come home again.

Let him that loves his ease, his ease, Keep close and house him fair; (Bugle: Tarantara!) He'll still be a stranger to the merry thrill of danger And the joy of the open air.

But he that loves the hills, the hills, Let him come out to-day! (Bugle: Tarantara!) For the horses are neighing, and the hounds are baying, And the hunt's up, and away!

R. HOVEY.



Parting.

My life closed twice before its close; It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil A third event to me,

So huge, so hopeless to conceive, As these that twice befell. Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.

E. DICKINSON.



When the Sultan Goes to Ispahan.

When the Sultan Shah-Zaman Goes to the city Ispahan, Even before he gets so far As the place where the clustered palm-trees are, At the last of the thirty palace-gates, The flower of the harem, Rose-in-Bloom, Orders a feast in his favorite room— Glittering squares of colored ice, Sweetened with syrop, tinctured with spice, Creams, and cordials, and sugared dates, Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces, Limes, and citrons, and apricots, And wines that are known to Eastern princes; And Nubian slaves, with smoking pots Of spiced meats and costliest fish And all that the curious palate could wish, Pass in and out of the cedarn doors; Scattered over mosaic floors Are anemones, myrtles, and violets, And a musical fountain throws its jets Of a hundred colors into the air. The dusk Sultana loosens her hair, And stains with the henna-plant the tips Of her pointed nails, and bites her lips Till they bloom again; but, alas, that rose Not for the Sultan buds and blows! Not for the Sultan Shah-Zaman When he goes to the city Ispahan.

Then at a wave of her sunny hand The dancing-girls of Samarcand Glide in like shapes from fairy-land, Making a sudden mist in air Of fleecy veils and floating hair And white arms lifted. Orient blood Runs in their veins, shines in their eyes. And there, in this Eastern Paradise, Filled with the breath of sandal-wood, And Khoten musk, and aloes and myrrh, Sits Rose-in-Bloom on a silk divan, Sipping the wines of Astrakhan; And her Arab lover sits with her. That's when the Sultan Shah-Zaman Goes to the city Ispahan.

Now, when I see an extra light, Flaming, flickering on the night From my neighbor's casement opposite, I know as well as I know to pray, I know as well as a tongue can say, That the innocent Sultan Shah-Zaman Has gone to the city Isfahan.

T.B. ALDRICH.



Night.

Chaos, of old, was God's dominion; 'Twas His beloved child, His own first-born; And He was aged ere the thought of morn Shook the sheer steeps of black Oblivion. Then all the works of darkness being done Through countless aeons hopelessly forlorn, Out to the very utmost verge and bourn, God at the last, reluctant, made the sun. He loved His darkness still, for it was old: He grieved to see His eldest child take flight; And when His Fiat lux the death-knell tolled, As the doomed Darkness backward by Him rolled, He snatched a remnant flying into light And strewed it with the stars, and called it Night.

L. MIFFLIN.



He Made the Stars Also.

Vast hollow voids, beyond the utmost reach Of suns, their legions withering at His nod, Died into day hearing the voice of God; And seas new made, immense and furious, each Plunged and rolled forward, feeling for a beach; He walked the waters with effulgence shod. This being made, He yearned for worlds to make From other chaos out beyond our night— For to create is still God's prime delight. The large moon, all alone, sailed her dark lake, And the first tides were moving to her might; Then Darkness trembled, and began to quake Big with the birth of stars, and when He spake A million worlds leapt into radiant light!

L. MIFFLIN.



The Sour Winds.

Wind of the North, Wind of the Norland snows, Wind of the winnowed skies and sharp, clear stars— Blow cold and keen across the naked hills, And crisp the lowland pools with crystal films, And blur the casement-squares with glittering ice, But go not near my love.

Wind of the West, Wind of the few, far clouds, Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands— Blow fresh and pure across the peaks and plains, And broaden the blue spaces of the heavens, And sway the grasses and the mountain pines, But let my dear one rest.

Wind of the East, Wind of the sunrise seas, Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains— Blow moist and chill across the wastes of brine, And shut the sun out, and the moon and stars, And lash the boughs against the dripping eaves, Yet keep thou from my love.

But thou, sweet wind! Wind of the fragrant South, Wind from the bowers of jasmine and of rose— Over magnolia glooms and lilied lakes And flowering forests come with dewy wings, And stir the petals at her feet, and kiss The low mound where she lies.

C.H. LUeDERS.



The Return.

Now at last I am at home— Wind abeam and flooding tide, And the offing white with foam, And an old friend by my side Glad the long, green waves to ride.

Strange how we've been wandering Through the crowded towns for gain, You and I who loved the sting Of the salt spray and the rain And the gale across the main!

What world honors could avail Loss of this—the slanted mast, And the roaring round the rail, And the sheeted spray we cast Round us as we seaward passed?

As the sad land sinks apace, With it sinks each thought of care; Think not now of aging face; Question not the whitening hair: Youth still beckons everywhere.

And the light we thought had fled From the sky-line glows there now; Bends the same blue overhead; And the waves we used to plow Part in beryl at the bow.

Hours like this we two have known In the old days, when we sailed Seaward ere the night had flown, Or the morning star had paled Like the shy eyes love has veiled.

Round our bow the ripples purled, As the swift tide outward streamed Through a hushed and ghostly world, Where our harbor reaches seemed Like a river that we dreamed.

Then we saw the black hills sway In the waters' crinkled glass, And the village wan and gray, And the startled cattle pass Through the tangled meadow-grass.

Through the glooming we have run Straight into the gates of day, Seen the crimson-edged sun Burn the sea's gray bound away— Leap to universal sway.

Little cared we where we drove So the wind was strong and keen. Oh, what sun-crowned waves we clove! What cool shadows lurked between Those long combers pale and green!

Graybeard pleasures are but toys; Sorrow shatters them at last: For this brief hour we are boys; Trim the sheet and face the blast; Sail into the happy past!

L.F. TOOKER.



Bereaved.

Let me come in where you sit weeping,—aye, Let me, who have not any child to die, Weep with you for the little one whose love I have known nothing of.

The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed Their pressure round your neck; the hands you used To kiss.—Such arms—such hands I never knew. May I not weep with you?

Fain would I be of service—say some thing, Between the tears, that would be comforting,— But ah! so sadder than yourselves am I, Who have no child to die.

J.W. RILEY.



The Chariot.

Because I could not stop for Death, He kindly stopped for me; The carriage held but just ourselves And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste, And I had put away My labor, and my leisure too, For his civility.

We passed the school where children played, Their lessons scarcely done; We passed the fields of gazing grain. We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed A swelling of the ground; The roof was scarcely visible, The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries; but each Feels shorter than the day I first surmised the horses' heads Were toward eternity.

E. DICKINSON.



Indian Summer.

These are the days when birds come back, A very few, a bird or two, To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies put on The old, old sophistries of June,— A blue and gold mistake.

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee, Almost thy plausibility Induces my belief,

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear, And softly through the altered air Hurries a timid leaf!

Oh, sacrament of summer days, Oh, last communion in the haze, Permit a child to join,

Thy sacred emblems to partake, Thy consecrated bread to break, Taste thine immortal wine!

E. DICKINSON.



Confided.

Another lamb, O Lamb of God, behold, Within this quiet fold, Among Thy Father's sheep I lay to sleep! A heart that never for a night did rest Beyond its mother's breast. Lord, keep it close to Thee, Lest waking it should bleat and pine for me!

J.B. TABB.



In Absence.

All that thou art not, makes not up the sum Of what thou art, beloved, unto me: All other voices, wanting thine, are dumb; All vision, in thine absence, vacancy.

J.B. TABB.



Song of the Chattahoochee.[13]

Out of the hills of Habersham, Down the valleys of Hall, I hurry amain to reach the plain, Run the rapids and leap the fall Split at the rock and together again, Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, And flee from folly on every side With a lover's pain to attain the plain Far from the hills of Habersham, Far from the valleys of Hall.

All down the hills of Habersham, All through the valleys of Hall, The rushes cried Abide, abide, The wilful waterweeds held me thrall, The laving laurel turned my tide, The ferns and the fondling grass said Stay, The dewberry dipped for to work delay, And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide Here in the hills of Habersham Here in the valleys of Hall.

High o'er the hills of Habersham, Veiling the valleys of Hall, The hickory told me manifold Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall Wrought me her shadowy self to hold, The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, These glades in the valleys of Hall.

And oft in the hills of Habersham, And oft in the valleys of Hall, The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, And many a luminous jewel lone —Crystals clear or acloud with mist, Ruby, garnet and amethyst— Made lures with the lights of streaming stone In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

But oh, not the hills of Habersham, And oh, not the valleys of Hall Avail: I am fain for to water the plain. Downward the voices of Duty call— Downward to toil and be mixed with the main. The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, And a myriad flowers mortally yearn, And the lordly main from beyond the plain Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, Calls through the valleys of Hall.

S. LANIER.



[13] From "Poems of Sidney Lanier," copyright, 1884, 1891, by Mary D. Lanier, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.



The Sea's Voice.

I.

Around the rocky headlands, far and near, The wakened ocean murmured with dull tongue Till all the coast's mysterious caverns rung With the waves' voice, barbaric, hoarse, and drear. Within this distant valley, with rapt ear, I listened, thrilled, as though a spirit sung, Or some gray god, as when the world was young, Moaned to his fellow, mad with rage or fear. Thus in the dark, ere the first dawn, methought The sea's deep roar and sullen surge and shock Broke the long silence of eternity, And echoed from the summits where God wrought, Building the world, and ploughing the steep rock With ploughs of ice-hills harnessed to the sea.

II.

The sea is never quiet: east and west The nations hear it, like the voice of fate; Within vast shores its strife makes desolate, Still murmuring mid storms that to its breast Return, as eagles screaming to their nest. Is it the voice of worlds and isles that wait While old earth crumbles to eternal rest, Or some hoar monster calling to his mate? O ye, that hear it moan about the shore, Be still and listen! that loud voice hath sung Where mountains rise, where desert sands are blown; And when man's voice is dumb, forevermore 'Twill murmur on its craggy shores among, Singing of gods and nations overthrown.

W.P. FOSTER.



At Gibraltar.

I.

England, I stand on thy imperial ground, Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow, I feel within my blood old battles flow,— The blood whose ancient founts in thee are found. Still surging dark against the Christian bound Wide Islam presses; well its peoples know Thy heights that watch them wandering below; I think how Lucknow heard their gathering sound. I turn and meet the cruel turbaned face; England, 'tis sweet to be so much thy son! I feel the conqueror in my blood and race; Last night Trafalgar awed me, and to-day Gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun Startles the desert over Africa!

II.

Thou art the rock of empire, set mid-seas Between the East and West, that God has built; Advance thy Roman borders where thou wilt, While run thy armies true with His decrees. Law, justice, liberty,—great gifts are these; Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt, Lest, mixt and sullied with his country's guilt, The soldier's life-stream flow and Heaven displease. Two swords there are: one naked, apt to smite, Thy blade of war; and, battled-storied, one Rejoices in the sheath and hides from light American I am; would wars were done! Now westward look, my country bids Good-night,— Peace to the world from ports without a gun!

G.E. WOODBERRY.



Jerry an' Me.

No matter how the chances are, Nor when the winds may blow, My Jerry there has left the sea With all its luck an' woe: For who would try the sea at all, Must try it luck or no.

They told him—Lor', men take no care How words they speak may fall— They told him blunt, he was too old, Too slow with oar an' trawl, An' this is how he left the sea An' luck an' woe an' all.

Take any man on sea or land Out of his beaten way, If he is young 'twill do, but then, If he is old an' gray, A month will be a year to him, Be all to him you may.

He sits by me, but most he walks The door-yard for a deck, An' scans the boat a-goin' out Till she becomes a speck, Then turns away, his face as wet As if she were a wreck.

I cannot bring him back again, The days when we were wed. But he shall never know—my man— The lack o' love or bread, While I can cast a stitch or fill A needleful o' thread.

God pity me, I'd most forgot How many yet there be, Whose goodmen full as old as mine Are somewhere on the sea, Who hear the breakin' bar an' think O' Jerry home an'—me.

H. RICH.



The Gravedigger.

Oh, the shambling sea is a sexton old, And well his work is done; With an equal grave for lord and knave, He buries them every one.

Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, He makes for the nearest shore; And God, who sent him a thousand ship, Will send him a thousand more; But some he'll save for a bleaching grave, And shoulder them in to shore,— Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, Shoulder them in to shore.

Oh, the ships of Greece and the ships of Tyre Went out, and where are they? In the port they made, they are delayed With the ships of yesterday.

He followed the ships of England far As the ships of long ago; And the ships of France they led him a dance, But he laid them all arow.

Oh, a loafing, idle lubber to him Is the sexton of the town; For sure and swift, with a guiding lift, He shovels the dead men down.

But though he delves so fierce and grim, His honest graves are wide, As well they know who sleep below The dredge of the deepest tide.

Oh, he works with a rollicking stave at lip, And loud is the chorus skirled; With the burly note of his rumbling throat He batters it down the world.

He learned it once in his father's house Where the ballads of eld were sung; And merry enough is the burden rough, But no man knows the tongue.

Oh, fair, they say, was his bride to see, And wilful she must have been, That she could bide at his gruesome side When the first red dawn came in.

And sweet, they say, is her kiss to those She greets to his border home; And softer than sleep her hand's first sweep That beckons, and they come.

Oh, crooked is he, but strong enough To handle the tallest mast; From the royal barque to the slaver dark, He buries them all at last.

Then hoy and rip, with a rolling hip, He makes for the nearest shore; And God, who sent him a thousand ship, Will send him a thousand more; But some he'll save for a bleaching grave, And shoulder them in to shore,— Shoulder them in, shoulder them in, Shoulder them in to shore.

B. CARMAN.



The Absence of Little Wesley.

HOOSIER DIALECT.

Sence little Wesley went, the place seems all so strange and still— W'y, I miss his yell o' "Gran'pap!" as I'd miss the whipperwill! And to think I ust to scold him fer his everlastin' noise, When I on'y rickollect him as the best o' little boys! I wisht a hunderd times a day 'at he'd come trompin' in, And all the noise he ever made was twic't as loud ag'in!— It 'u'd seem like some soft music played on some fine insturment, 'Longside o' this loud lonesomeness, sence little Wesley went!

Of course the clock don't tick no louder than it ust to do— Yit now they's times it 'pears like it 'u'd bu'st itse'f in two! And let a rooster, suddent-like, crow som'er's clos't around, And seems's ef, mighty nigh it, it 'u'd lift me off the ground! And same with all the cattle when they bawl around the bars, In the red o' airly mornin', er the dusk and dew and stars, When the neighbers' boys 'at passes never stop, but jes' go on, A-whistlin' kind o' to theirse'v's—sence little Wesley's gone!

And then, o' nights, when Mother's settin' up oncommon late, A-bilin' pears er somepin', and I set and smoke and wait, Tel the moon out through the winder don't look bigger'n a dime, And things keeps gittin' stiller—stiller—stiller all the time,— I've ketched myse'f a-wishin' like—as I dumb on the cheer To wind the clock, as I hev done fer mor'n fifty year,— A-wishin' 'at the time bed come fer us to go to bed, With our last prayers, and our last tears, sence little Wesley's dead!

J.W. RILEY.



Be Thou a Bird, My Soul.

Be thou a bird, my soul, and mount and soar Out of thy wilderness, Till earth grows less and less, Heaven, more and more.

Be thou a bird, and mount, and soar, and sing, Till all the earth shall be Vibrant with ecstasy Beneath thy wing.

Be thou a bird, and trust, the autumn come, That through the pathless air Thou shalt find otherwhere Unerring, home.



Opportunity.

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:— There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. A craven hung along the battle's edge, And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel— That blue blade that the king's son bears,—but this Blunt thing!"—he snapt and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field. Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead, And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down, And saved a great cause that heroic day.

E.R. SILL.



Dutch Lullaby.[14]

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night Sailed off in a wooden shoe,— Sailed on a river of misty light Into a sea of dew. "Where are you going, and what do you wish?" The old moon asked the three. "We have come to fish for the herring-fish That live in this beautiful sea; Nets of silver and gold have we," Said Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

The old moon laughed and sung a song, As they rocked in the wooden shoe; And the wind that sped them all night long Ruffled the waves of dew; The little stars were the herring-fish That lived in the beautiful sea. "Now cast your nets wherever you wish, But never afeard are we!" So cried the stars to the fishermen three, Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

All night long their nets they threw For the fish in the twinkling foam, Then down from the sky came the wooden shoe, Bringing the fishermen home; 'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed As if it could not be; And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed Of sailing that beautiful sea; But I shall name you the fishermen three: Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, And Nod is a little head, And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies Is a wee one's trundle-bed; So shut your eyes while Mother sings Of wonderful sights that be, And you shall see the beautiful things As you rock on the misty sea Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three,— Wynken, Blynken, And Nod.

E. FIELD.



[14] From "A Little Book of Western Verse," copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.



The Maryland Yellow-throat.[15]

While May bedecks the naked trees With tassels and embroideries, And many blue-eyed violets beam Along the edges of the stream, I hear a voice that seems to say, Now near at hand, now far away, "Witchery—witchery—witchery."

An incantation so serene, So innocent, befits the scene: There's magic in that small bird's note— See, there he flits—the yellow-throat: A living sunbeam, tipped with wings, A spark of light that shines and sings "Witchery—witchery—witchery."

You prophet with a pleasant name, If out of Mary-land you came, You know the way that thither goes Where Mary's lovely garden grows: Fly swiftly back to her, I pray, And try, to call her down this way, "Witchery—witchery—witchery!"

Tell her to leave her cockleshells, And all her little silver bells That blossom into melody, And all her maids less fair than she. She does not need these pretty things, For everywhere she comes, she brings "Witchery—witchery—witchery!"

The woods are greening overhead, And flowers adorn each mossy bed; The waters babble as they run— One thing is lacking, only one: If Mary were but here to-day, I would believe your charming lay, "Witchery—witchery—witchery!"

Along the shady road I look— Who's coming now across the brook? A woodland maid, all robed in white— The leaves dance round her with delight, The stream laughs out beneath her feet— Sing, merry bird, the charm's complete, "Witchery—witchery—witchery!"

H. VAN DYKE.



[15] From "The Builders and Other Poems," copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner's Sons.



The Silence of Love.

Oh, inexpressible as sweet, Love takes my voice away; I cannot tell thee, when we meet, What most I long to say.

But hadst thou hearing in thy heart To know what beats in mine, Then shouldst thou walk, where'er thou art, In melodies divine.

So warbling birds lift higher notes Than to our ears belong; The music fills their throbbing throats, But silence steals the song.

G.E. WOODBERRY.



The Secret.

Nightingales warble about it, All night under blossom and star; The wild swan is dying without it, And the eagle cryeth afar; The sun he doth mount but to find it, Searching the green earth o'er; But more doth a man's heart mind it, Oh, more, more, more!