A myriad tiny diamond founts arise in the coralline,

Anemones love to be loved in life of the chryso

prase:

The happy heart of the water in many unknown

recesses

Childly babbled, and free to glad companions: We will be patient, friend, through all the moods of the terror,

Waiting in solemn hope resurrection of our suns!

Cherish loves that are left, pathetic stars in the gloaming;

Howe'er they may wax and wane, they are with us to the end;

The past is all secure, the happy hours and the mournfal

Involved i' the very truth of God himself, my friend!

It is well to wait in the darkness for the Deliverer's

moment,

With a hand in the hand of God, strong sire of the universe;

It is well to work our work, with cheering tones for a brother,

Whose poor bowed soul, like ours, the horrible gulfs immerse;

Then dare all gods to the battle! Who of them all may shame us?

The very shows of the world have fleeting form from thee;

Discover but thy task, embrace it firm with a pur

pose;

Find, and hold by Love, for Love is Eternity. Sark, 1881.

LOST.

WITH evening hued like autumn leaves
The porch is fair, still sleeps the air;
She comes through yonder light and weaves
Flowers as I loved them in her hair,

This is her hour, from yonder groves
She comes to me, upon my knee;
You'll know her, for when'er she moves,
For joy she sings like bird or bee.

The butterfly in glory lit

With pulsing wings on flower that swings Caught in her shadow will not flit,

So sweet the trouble that she brings.

The red-breast sidling shy to peck

Wee crumbs that fill the window sill, Who timorous veers a tiny neck,

From her pink palm sips tame and still.

I only watched in church with her
Through ivy stream the flickering beam,
Under her sweet slim feet to stir

And dally in a fond day-dream.

Her singing never took by stormi
The listless ear, the stranger's ear,
Yet hymns of seraph could not warm
My heart like her frail accents near.

I would to all fair sights that stir
In earth and sky be blind for aye
For one more far-off glimpse of her,
Scarce lovely to the loveless sky.

And when among the crowds I move,
Some air or dress, some tone or tress
That savors of my own lost love
Will draw me doting through the press.
To find a stranger and dispel,

And make to fleet, the glamor sweet,

Fond glamor known for dream too well,
More dear than all the friends I meet.

With whisper of her mellowing grain,
With treble of brook and bird and tree,
Earth joys forever to sustain

The bass eternal of the sea.

And leaves flushed o'er with flowers of bliss
Dance every one from shade to sun,
Fresh youths and maidens yearn to kiss,
As we have done, O little one.

I lipped the joy, now yield my place,
For me no more kind years may pour
Who only want one meek-lit face,
One face gone out for everinore!

But why, ah, why! when day burns low
Doth that sweet hum still faintly come,

As of sweet talk that used to flow
Through her closed door to my lone room?

Poor fool! 'tis but the mumbling wind
That talks like her, nor means to jeer;
For subtler wind are love and mind,
And she but wind who nestled here!

"AH! LOVE YE ONE ANOTHER WELL." AH! love ye one another well, For the hour will come

When one of you is lying dumb;

Ye would give worlds then for a word,
That never may be heard;

Ye would give worlds then for a glance,
That may be yours by ne'er a chance;
Ah! love ye one another well.

I AM lying in the tomb, love,
Lying in the tomb,

Tho' I move within the gloom, love,
Breathe within the gloom!
Men deem life not fled, dear,

Deem my life not fled,

Tho' I with thee am dead, dear,

I with thee am dead,
O my little child!

What is the gray world, darling,

What is the gray world,

Where the worm is curled, darling,
The death-worm is curled?
They tell me of the spring, dear,
Do I want the spring?

Will she waft upon her wing, dear,
The joy-pulse of her wing,
Thy songs, thy blossoming,
O my little child!

For the hallowing of thy smile, love,
The rainbow of thy smile,
Gleaming for awhile, love,
Gleaming to beguile!
Replunged me in the cold, dear,
Leaves me in the cold,
And I feel so very old, dear,
Very, very old!

Would they put me out of pain, dear,
Out of all my pain,

Since I may not live again, dear.
Never live again!

I am lying in the grave, love,
In thy little grave,

Yet I hear the wind rave, love,
And the wild wave!

I would lie asleep, darling,
With thee lie asleep,

Unhearing the world weep, darling,
Little children weep!

O my little child!

SHELLEY.

Upon a cloud-car, vaporous alabaster
Swift, though the rider longs to travel faster,
Stood one, ethereal-limbed like Ariel,
Whose spear, the sunbeam of Ithuriel,
Touched many a bulk of pompous purple pride,
That lay imposing, over-swollen beside
His chariot-course; when lo! an infant's bubble,
Each bursting freed the burdened air from trouble.
His car was winged with plumes of snnny snow,
Edgeless and downy; but the front below,
Isled in deep azure, wore a soft dove-grey,
Heaved and recessed, with many a tender play
Of hyacinth or harebell; visionary changes,
As subtle-fancy'd amorous wind arranges;
While white rims of the rear, resolved to spray,
Evanish all in oceans of deep day.
One-half sun's rondure the cloud-chariot stole
From vision; half burned wheel-like; aureole,
Relieved on opaline, of slant slim ray,
Streamed up aloft behind the angel form,
Whose wild eyes ever yearned to where a storm
Of ominous thunder hath a rainbow arch,
Shining from falling showers before his march:
Surely he held them rain of human tears,
Falling from founts of human woes and fears.
-Melcha.

LIVINGSTONE.

Who calls it failure?

God fulfils the prayer:

He is at home; he rests; the work is done.
He hath not failed, who fails like Livingstone!
Radiant diadems all conquerors wear
Pale before his magnificent despair;
And whatsoever kingdoms men have won,

He triumphs dead, defeated, and alone,

Who learned sublimely to endure and dare!
For holy labor is the very end,

Duty man's crown, and his eternal friend;
Reason from Chaos wards the world's grand whole;
All Nature hath Love's martyrdom for goal.
Who nobly toils, though none be nigh to see,
He only lives,-he lives eternally.

-The Death of Livingstone.

EMILY PFEIFFER.

287

Aspens," shortly to be followed by "Songs and Sounds." In 1884 she issued "The Rhyme of the

I the recent death of Mrs. Emily Pfeiffer, he gland

hood and early youth of Mrs. Pfeiffer, born Emily Davis, were spent amidst the rural scenery of Oxfordshire, England. Nature with her healthy influences, and early contact with the life and suffering of the cottagers into which she was brought as her mother's little messenger of comfort, soon developed her imagination, as well as the humane sympathies which characterize her writings.

It is from her father, who had many of the gifts and qualities of genius, that she derived her imaginative tendencies, as also the painter's talent, well known to those who have visited the exhibition of the Royal Academy. Living far away from any town, the instruction and reading of Emily Davis could necessarily be but desultory; that highest kind of education, however, which consists in the influence of parents well-bred and nobleminded, never failed her.

Shortly before her marriage Mrs. Pfeiffer fell into a state of physical prostration, which threatened to become permanent, and which in part lasted for about ten years after that event. During this time every mental exertion, even reading, was prohibited her. When at last-thanks to the tender care of her husband-she recovered a degree of health, it was clear that this long time in which she had lain fallow had, so far from being lost to her, assisted the development of her powers. If others write before they live, she first lived before she wrote. "Gerard's Monument," which then appeared (in 1878), at once secured for Mrs. Pfeiffer a place among English poets.

A time of happy activity now succeeded. Mrs. Pfeiffer became an enthusiastic, though temperate, advocate of women's claims. She introduced into London society her graceful "Greek Dress." Together with her husband she gathered round her a circle of distinguished literary and artistic friends, and produced her books in quick succession. Though a most conscientious worker, she wrote with great facility. Her poems mostly formed themselves in her mind before they were committed to paper; and the manuscripts of her prose works were frequently sent to the printer, with but few corrections, as they were first written.

The book which followed "Gerard's Monument" was a volume of "Poems" containing some thirty sonnets, which at once established the reputation of the writer as a sonneteer. "Glan Alark" succeeded, and after that "Quarterman's Grace." In little more than a year appeared "Under the

poetry Mrs. Pfeiffer wrote her book on "Women and Work," various essays on this and other subjects, published in the Contemporary Review, as well as "Flying Leaves from East and West"; the latter, perhaps, of all her books the one best known to American readers. The work which has secured for Mrs. Pfeiffer her highest fame as a poet is the volume of "Sonnets," which came out in 1887. Mrs. Pfeiffer's latest poems, "Flowers of the Night," possess a deep pathetic interest, independent of their intrinsic merit. When waiting for the editorship of a loving hand, the working power of that hand here below was stopped. In the loss of her husband the heaviest sorrow in a woman's life fell on the poet. The poems are the product of nights of insomnia, brought on by having continued anxiety, the anguish of which they in some measure relieved. They are, however, different from what might be expected from the conditions of their productions. The width of Mrs. Pfeiffer's sympathies has opened vistas beyond the sphere of her sorrow. C. B.

BROKEN LIGHT.

It was cruel of them to part

Two hearts in the gladsome spring, Two lovers' hearts that had just burst forth With each blithe and beautiful thing;

Cruel, but only half

Had they known how to do us wrong,
They had barred the way of the odorous May,
They had shut out the wild bird's song.

Your kisses were so embalmed

With spices of beech and fir,

That they haunt my lips in the dead o' the night, If the night-winds do but stir.

When I rise with the rising dawn,

To let in the dewy south,

Like a fountain spray, or the pride of the day,
They fall on my thirsty mouth.

They should never have let our love
Abroad in the wild free woods,

If they meant it to slumber on, cold and tame,
As the locked-up winter floods;

They should never have let it hide

'Neath the beeches' lucent shade, Or the upturned arch of the tender larch That blushed as it heaved and swayed.