Puslapio vaizdai
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And if, perchance, death set at naught

And end thy life unduly, Think, as it ebbs, hadst thou not fought I had not loved thee fully.

THE HERMIT.

DWELL not too long with Solitude,

Nor to the adoration of his eye,
Serene and calm, submit too much, the food
Of his seclusion eat but sparingly.
A traveler thou, and passing sometime near
His lonely door within the forest deep,
Do thou but tarry for refreshment, rest,
But when he urgeth thee to further cheer
Of his sad cell, no longer his roof keep,
And tear the half his magic from thy breast.

And if, perchance, the tempest thee assail,

Stem its wild rage, nor shrink nor turn aside; To follow more the hermit's twinkle pale

Thenceforth would leave thee in the forest wide, The world soon darken, and thy fellow-kind

Become the language of thy scorn and hate, Too much of solitude doth poison us, Too much publicity disjoints the mind,— The golden mean courts not the grave's estate, Nor to the soul becomes calamitous.

'T is but a form of pride and vanity

That seeks the desert for its dwelling-place, For, when it chanceth on humanity

Its question is: "How fares the human race?" The knowledge that the world is close at hand

Soothes, flatters, and sustains the eremite : To think that it doth call him goodly seer! Should, haply, he some morning understand

The race, save him, had perished in a night, The setting sun might mock a frenzied Lear.

TWO.

His song but savored of despair; Her song's refrain was hope, And ever in the darkest cloud She saw some glory ope.

His heart was harbor to regret;

Her heart was calm and bright,
And ever, o'er the troubled wave,
Saw wing its ship aright.

His soul was one to sorrow bowed;
Her soul, beset with grief,
From countless straws he trampled on,
Bound up a golden sheaf.

AM

ROBERT REXDALE.

MONG the younger writers of New England is Robert Rexdale, a Portland (Maine) journalist, born March 26, 1859, whose name has become familiar through his vivid novel "Saved by the Sword," published at Boston in the beginning of 1889, though his very graceful work in the field of poetry has by no means been overlooked. In an age when the votaries of song are, to use a broad expression, like the sands upon the sea shore, it becomes difficult indeed for a young poet, limited in means, unknown to those who might be glad to aid him, and isolated from the great centers of literature and art, to receive more than a passing glance from the busy world in which he sings,—aye, strong and melodiously. All honor, then, to those who compel recognition through some inherent force of genius.

Like many of his literary compeers, Mr. Rexdale has borne the distinctive appellation of "the printer's devil," and since his thirteenth year, when he left the public schools, he has breathed the atmosphere of the printing office and newspaper sanctum. From boyhood, he has burned the midnight oil as a student. How else could he acquire a knowledge of the classics, or find time in which to cultivate his natural abilities as a writer? Mr. Rexdale's literary activity dates from 1880, his first published article being "The Roman Fathers," a short story printed in the Portland Press. At this time he had written no poetry, but the following year we find him kneeling "At Hymen's Shrine," and in the opening lines of his first poem is discerned a love of classical allusion which has made its impress felt in later verse. At the age of twenty-three he had acquired a reputation as a poet and story-writer and developed a natural fitness for newspaper work.

"In my experience as an author," writes Mr. Rexdale, in a letter which is here quoted as affording a glimpse of the poet's inner self, "there have been no days of absolute leisure. I have, in consequence, cheated nature by writing half the night, and often, indeed, until the cock's shrill clarion' awoke the rosy morn. At first I only sought to make a virtue of necessity, but as time went on Night seemed a maiden radiantly beautiful, who came to me with tender, love-lit eyes, and for whose coming I longed with all a lover's expectancy. In the garish beauty of the sunlight there is little that appeals to my imagination. I need the inspiratoin of the stars and that tranquility of spirit which lets a man look into his soul. At other times I am the cynic rather than the poet. Of the methods employed, I prefer not to speak at length, but will say that while I write prose very readily, my Pegasus is of a dilatory kind and will not be driven. So you will perceive I am an

indifferent sort of bard, notwithstanding the pleasant things that have been said of me." Since the summer of 1885, becoming assistant editor of the Portland Sunday Times, he has been actively engaged in journalism, but has added to his fame by original writings. Editions of his poems and stories, "Drifting Songs and Sketches," were published in 1886-87.

In personal appearance, Robert Rexdale is somewhat above average statute. He is of slight build and delicate constitution, but has the easy, self-possessed bearing of a man of the world; and in the smile that at times lights up his grave, thoughful face, there lurks the soul of affability and good-fellowship. If spared, the coming years will materially add to the fame of this rising author, and his friends, already many, will become a host. G. B. G.

THE POET'S SOUL.

THE poet's soul, created to be free, Scorns e'en the touch of avarice and pride. 'Tis like an eagle by the lonely sea!

In grandeur poised above the shafts of harm, Nor made inert by beauty's subtle charm. Or seems it some Kadalion to guide The blind man's way up to the sun-god's side! To soar, its mission! pierce the unseen skies, And on sublimer heights philosophize,

Till weary eyes shall open on the calm Of that fair world where God's pure temples rise.

WHITTIER.

AWAKE, O lyre! thy tender rhythmic throng,
And bid them pause attendant to my theme!
For lo! to-night, above the heights of dream,
I watch a barque upon the deathless stream,
And list the boatman's song.

O gentle Bard! rest on thy weary oars,
Nor longing turn thee toward the silent land!
Too soon the tide lifts to its golden strand,
Where wait for thee the vanished poet band,
Upon immortal shores.

Of all whose song has thrilled our western isle, Thou are the last and dearest to remain!

Thy voice still rings with Freedom's grand refrain, And we respond to each quick-pulsing strain, Devoid of earthly guile.

O starry gems that deck the brow of Night,
Veil not thine orbs in yonder azure spheres!
A life as pure as chaste Diana's tears

Drifts softly down the ripples of the years,
Beneath thy tender light!

TRANSIT OF VENUS.

FULL oft, O Venus! heaven's dearest star, My eye hath sought thee through the silent night! In fancy traced thy far empyreal flight From Paphos' isle of silvery-crested light, Borne in thy golden car!

A brooding calm seemed on the western seas, As if to list thy swans' soft rustling wings! A hush as when some love-lorn naiad sings To dreamful sleep beside their crystal springs The nymphs Hesperides.

Across the wave no cry of frightened bird, No tempest's voice, no sound of laboring oar, Came on the Night's soft whispers to deplore Thy gracious presence over sea and shore, No fluttering pinion stirred.

O tranquil hour!-sweet olive branch of peace,
Plucked where life's stormy deluge billows roll!
Come thou again to cheer the weary soul,
And bid it quaff from joy's o'er-brimming bowl,
Till its vain longings cease.

And thou, O Sun! be kind to her I love,
As now she glides into thy waiting arms!
For ere the dawning she forsakes thy charms,
To seek again the whispering Isle of Palms,
And home of cooing dove.

Then not again, until the circling nodes
Have run the course omniscient Jove decreed,
Shall she to thee her rolling cycles lead,
And at thy feet with beauty's minions plead
For rest in thy abodes.

But he who sings a mortal's trembling tones,
With senses wrapped in life's great mystery
Will nevermore, O wayward Venus! see
Thy kneeling form at great Apollo's knee,
Above earth's changing zones.

And yet I cry, Oh! for thy kindly beam, As my poor shade drifts toward the deathless strand!

Lest it should miss old Charon's beckoning hand, And wander lonely in the silent land,

Where flows dark Lethe's stream!

DRIFTING.

O FAIREST maid of rarest days, Pomona's child with golden tresses!

I loiter in thy sylvan ways,

My heart is warm with thy caresses.

And o'er again, as in a dream,

I voice the words the spell is wreathing, As in the reeds beside the stream

Pandean pipes are lowly breathing.

I think of one whose starry eyes,

And laughter through the woodland ringing, And shy caress, and tender sighs,

Attuned the poet's heart to singing. And like Ausonian king of old,

I listen to the wood nymph's pleading, While this poor form of human mould Plods sadly after fancy's leading.

O river rippling to the sea,

Thy silver waters, softly stealing In shadowed beauty o'er the lea, Awake the slumbrous chords of feeling. And on thy waves of rosy light,

Seen in my boyhood's happy vision, I'm drifting from the shores of night, To isles of rest in realms Elysian.

TO-MORROW.

FOR hopes that were wrecked on the drear isle of sorrow,

We crave not your pity, nor ask for your tears. Leave us here with our thoughts of the golden To-morrow,

In the halcyon hush of the dawning that nears! Where cares cease to trouble,

And Life's mystic bubble

Drifts peacefully out on the tide of the years. Oh, days that are dead! you were ghosts of the fancy,

And tortured the heart to its deep-thrilling core! But freed from the thrall of your dark necromancy, We drift with the bubble and sing to the shore.

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A

KATHARINE TYNAN.

BOUT five years ago, the poems of Katharine Tynan began to attract attention in literary circles on both sides of the Atlantic. Their color and music showed that the impressionable young Irish girl had been unconsciously schooled by Swinburne and Rossetti. But the soul of her poetry was not akin to theirs. Neither did it reflect the influence of the poets of her own land. Not less of the Celtic nature, not less dowered with the absorbing-we had almost said despairing-Celtic passion of patriotism, the new singer had new thoughts, and brought a new and cheering message. What if the hot Celtic thought surged impatiently under her modern English poetic mannerisms, instead of expanding into the long and flexible lined, exuberant balladform in which Irish poets have generally a perilous fluency. It is but one of the minor expressions of a characteristic of Young Ireland of to-day;—a characteristic most strongly and significantly shown in that curious blending of English method and Irish purpose which mark so many of the Irish Parliamentary party, and most of all, the young Irish Nationalist leader.

Katharine Tynan was born in Clondalkin, County Dublin, Ireland, in 1861, and was educated by the Dominican Nuns at Cabra. Her poetic gift developed early. It materialized first, we believe, in the pages of the Irish Monthly, of Dublin, whose editor, the Rev. Mathew Russell, S. J., has been kindly foster-father to the young literary talent of Ireland, for a score of years past. Her first volume, "Louise de la Vallière," was published in 1885. It had an immediate success, passing rapidly through several editions, and receiving high praise from the best English and American critics. It attracted to Miss Tynan, from the brother and sister of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, an interest which subsequently warmed into an earnest friendship. In 1887, another volume appeared. It was called "Shamrocks," and dedicated to Christina G. and William Rossetti. A great part of it was devoted to the legends of the olden Irish chivalric age. So successful was our young poet's venture in this rich, but heretofore too little explored realm, that the Scotsman declared she might be trusted to do for the Fionn Cycle what Tennyson has done for the Arthurian. "Shamrocks" assured Miss Tynan's place among the poets. Miss Tynan is a vigorous and graceful prose-writer. Her stories reveal knowledge of many phases of life, keen and sympathetic observation, and firm and true character-drawing. Miss Tynan is of medium height and a blonde. She has an exquisite complexion, an abundance of golden hair and small, beautiful hands. "A wholesome-looking girl," says one of her friends,

"with a healthy fondness for out-of-door life.” Her father is the proprietor of a model farm at Whitehall, Clondalkin, not far from Dublin. Our poet has a cosy little study, a whole side of which is taken up with a bow-window, looking into the green old orchard. "All day," as she humorously puts it herself, "I am interviewed by anxious fowl and lambs and calves; and the two dogs, yclept Jack and Fluffy, walk in and out of the open window to their great delight, and my great aggravation. The thrushes and blackbirds sing almost at my ears." The room contains books, pictures, and no end of beautiful and curious mementos from friends and admirers, even in distant India and Australia. Miss Tynan spends a part of every year in London, in whose inner literary circles she has hosts of friends. She is a devout Catholic, and a simple, gentle, lovable woman. K. E. C.

THE DREAMERS.

ONE by one o'er a dreamer's face
The shadows go;

Pain hath him in a close embrace,

And the phantom sorrow and woe Make of his heart a weeping-place.

Lieth outside in the perfect night
The land at rest,

In the stainless snow of the May moon's light
And the bird i' the nest,

And the hawthorn sleep in a world of white.

Soon will the short sweet night be gone,
And the heart break;

Dream on, unharmèd heart, dream on!

The world full soon will wake,

And thy winged pain flee away in the dawn.

Ye are not empty-O hands forlorn!

That lie so still,

On the wild heart dreaming of pain and scorn, The happy day will fill

Your palms outstretched, with new oil and corn.

Oh feet! ye tread no thorny path
In toil and heat,

Flowers for footway the future hath

To the waved gold of the wheat. The first fruits yours, and the aftermath.

O dreamer! turn from thy grieving now,
Hark! in the hush

A small wind ruffles with fingers slow
The grasses long and lush,

And O the choir in the elm-tree bough!

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