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shipmite," "Old Brigade," "Children's Home," "Auntie," "Last Watch," "Our Last Waltz," "Darby and Joan," "The Chorister,” “Maids of Lee," "Needles and Pins," My Lady's Bower," and "In Sweet September." There are, however, many others, the bare names of which would be more than sufficient to fill the whole space at my disposal. In addition to his prodigious work as a lyric author, he has largely contributed dramatic and other poems to current literature. In 1884 he wrote the libretto of "Hero and Leander," for the Worcester Musical Festival; in 1885, the "Song of Baldur," for the Hereford Festival; in 1886, “ Andromeda,” for the Gloucester Festival; and amongst his other writings are to be found “Children's Birthday Book,” "Sixes and Sevens," "Told in the Twilight," "Through the Meadows," "Punch and Judy,” "Out of Town," "Adventures of Two Children," | "Land of Little People," "Sunbeams," "Nursery land" "Honeymoon," etc. In children's literature he has attained very distinguished success; and, indeed, the same may be said of every form of poetry that he has touched.

During his labors as a tutor he followed up the study of the law, and in 1887 was called to the bar, and is at present in practice as a barrister in London. In 1873 Mr. Weatherly married a daughter of the late Mr. John Hardwick, and is the father of three children; and to his happy married life may be attributed much of his success as a writer of domestic and nursery literature. W. C. N.

POUR FORTH THE WINE!

POUR forth the wine! the ruby wine!
And with thine eyes look into mine,

Thou friend of olden days!
Heap up the blazing logs. Not here
On this gray ridge of granite drear,
Boon April spends her flow'ry cheer,

To wake the poet's lays.

The east wind, through the ungenial day,
Blows meagre, thin and chill,
And laggard winter's freezing ray

Gleams from the snow-patched hill.
Pour forth the wine! the ruby wine!
And with thine eyes look into mine,

Thou friend of olden days!
Cheer me with love and truth; for I
Oft seek in vain, beneath the sky,
The true heart, from the open eye
That looks with guileless gaze.
A cold and caution-crusted race
Here fans few joys in me;

But when I see a clear, bright face,
I flourish, and am free!

Pour forth the wine! the ruby wine!
And with thine eyes look into mine,
Thou friend of olden days!
Speak of devotion's fiery breath,
Friendship and love more strong than death,
And high resolve, and manly faith,
That walks in open ways.
Look as though dids't long years ago,
And read my heart with thine,
That Love and Truth may freely flow,
To bless the ruby wine!

LONDON BRIDGE.

PROUD and lowly, beggar and lord,
Over the bridge they go;
Rags and velvet, fetter and sword,
Poverty, pomp and woe.
Laughing, weeping, hurrying ever,

Hour by hour they crowd along,
While, below, the mighty river
Sings them all a mocking song.
Hurry along, sorrow and song,
All is vanity 'neath the sun;
Velvet and rags, so the world wags,
Until the river no more shall run.

Dainty, painted, powdered and gay,
Rolleth my lady by;

Rags-and-tatters, over the way,

Carries a heart as high.

Flowers and dreams from country meadows,
Dust and din thro' city skies,

Old men creeping with their shadows,
Children with their sunny eyes,—
Hurry along, sorrow and song,
All is vanity 'neath the sun;
Velvet and rags, so the world wags,
Until the river no more shall run.

Storm and sunshine, peace and strife,
Over the bridge they go;
Floating on in the tide of life,
Whither no man shall know.
Who will miss them there to-morrow,

Waifs that drift to the shade or sun?
Gone away with their songs and sorrow;
Only the river still flows on.

Hurry along, sorrow and song,
All is vanity 'neath the sun;
Velvet and rags, so the world wags,
Until the river no more shall run.

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

It was the eve of Christmas, the snow lay deep and white,

I sat beside my window, and looked into the night; I heard the church bells ringing, I saw the bright stars shine,

And childhood came again to me, with all its dreams divine.

Then, as I listened to the bells, and watched the skies afar,

Out of the East majestical there rose one radiant star;

And ev'ry other star grew pale before that heav'nly | glow,

It seemed to bid me follow, and I could not choose but go.

From street to street it led me, by many a mansion fair,

It shone thro' dingy casement on many a garret bare;

From highway on to highway, through alleys dark and cold,

And where it shone the darkness was flooded all with gold.

Sad hearts forgot their sorrow, rough hearts grew soft and mild,

And weary little children turned in their sleep and smiled;

While many a homeless wanderer uplifted patient eyes,

Seeming to see a home at last beyond those starry skies.

And then methought earth faded; I rose as borne on wings

Beyond the waste of ruined lives, the press of human things;

Above the toil and shadow, above the want and woe, My old self and its darkness seemed left on earth below.

And onward, upward shone thestar, until it seemed to me

It flashed upon the golden gates and o'er the crystal sea;

And then the gates rolled backward, I stood where angels trod;

It was the star of Bethlehem, had led me up to God.

THE BELLS OF LYNN.

WHEN the eve is growing gray, and the tide is rolling in,

I sit and look across the bay to the bonny town of Lynn;

And the fisher-folks are near,
But I wis they never hear

The songs the far bells make for me, the bonny bells of Lynn.

The folks are chatting gay, and I hear their merry din,

But I look and look across the bay to the bonny town of Lynn;

He told me to wait here Upon the old brown pier,

To wait and watch him coming when the tide was rolling in.

O, I see him pulling strong, pulling o'er the bay to

me,

And I hear his jovial song, and his merry face I

see;

And now he's at the pier

My bonny love and dear! And he's coming up the sea-washed steps with hands outstretched to me.

O my love, your cheek is cold, and your hands are stark and thin!

O, hear you not the bells of old, the bonny bells of
Lynn?

O, have you naught to say
Upon our wedding-day?

Love, hear you not the wedding-bells across the bay of Lynn?

O my lover, speak to me! and hold me fast, mine own!

For I fear this rising sea, and these winds and waves that moan!

But never a word he said!

He is dead, my love is dead!

Ah me! ah me! I did but dream; and I am all alone,

Alone, and old and gray; and the tide is rolling in; But my heart's away, away, away, in the old grave-yard at Lynn!

THE BEST ESTATE.

ART thou thine own heart's conqueror?
Strive ever thus to be;

That is the fight that is most sore,
The noblest victory.

Art thou beloved by one true heart?
O prize it! it is rare;

There are so many in the mart,

So many false and fair.

Art thou alone? O say not so!

The world is full be sure: There is so much of want and woe, So much that thou cans't cure.

Art thou in poverty thyself?

Thou still cans't help a friend; Kind words are more than any pelf, Good deeds need never end.

Art thou content in youth or age?
Then let who will be great;
Thou hast the noblest heritage,
Thou hast the best estate.

THE SEA'S LOVE.

ONCE in the days of old,

In the years of youth and mirth,
The Sea was a lover bright and bold,
And he loved the golden Earth.
The Sun, in his royal raiment clad,
Loved her and found her sweet,
But the Sea was content and glad
Only to be at her feet.

Ah! that the bards should sing,
And wail for the golden years!
Love was and is but an idle thing,
"Tis but a wind that veers.

And Earth in her beauty and pride,
Held her lips to the wooing Sun;

He said, "Thou art fair, O my bride,"
And she sang, "I am thine alone."
The faithful Sea at her faithless feet
Rolled with a broken moan;

"O Sun!" he cried, "but thy bride is sweet, And I am alone, alone!"

Ah! that the bards should sing,

And wail for the golden years! Love was and is but an idle thing, "Tis but a wind that veers.

Oft would the Sun depart,

And his bride in her gloom made moan, And the Sea would cry that her loving heart Should be left to pine alone.

And his voice is strange and sad and sweet, "O love, not mine! not mine!

I am content to lie at thy feet.
And love thee in storm and shine."

Ah! that the bards should sing,
And wail for the golden years!
Love was and is but an idle thing,
'Tis but a wind that veers.

WITH

REV. E. A. WARRINER.

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'ITH no distinction as a popular writer, Mr. Warriner has yet published a number of books which are regarded by many thoughtful readers as possessed of remarkable originality and merit in the fields of fiction, poetry and speculative philosophy.

He was born at Agawam, Mass., in 1829, of old Puritan stock; a farmer's hoy, spending his early years between the fields in summer and the district school in winter. Later he attended a classical school in Springfield for a number of winters, boarding at home, and crossing the river, often with great difficulty and peril from floating ice; yet never failing to be in his seat at the opening of school. Paying his way mainly by teaching, he entered Yale College in 1850, but was compelled, by serious illness, to abandon his studies for a year. He graduated from Union University in 1855, and in the following year was admitted to the bar at Springfield, Mass. After an active practice of three years, his health again failed, compelling him to seek a warmer latitude, where, after an interval of rest, at Washington, Ga., he taught an academy till the second year of the Civil War. Being unable for a time to pass the lines of the contending armies, a period of enforced seclusion followed, in which, having no other books at hand, he began, for the first time, a systematic study of the Bible, and became so impressed with its teachings that he determined to devote his life to the ministry. Returning north the following year, he taught the Brainerd Academy at Haddam, Conn., and subsequently the Yates Institute at Lancaster, Pa. In the summer of 1867 he was ordained, at Philadelphia, to the ministry of the Episcopal Church. In the following autumn he became rector of St. Paul's Church, Montrose, an ideal country parish located among the hills of Susquehanna County, Pa. Here, with the exception of two years, in which he was rector of Christ's Church (“Old Swedes”) near Philadelphia, he has spent all the years of his ministry, having won enviable distinction for his literary attainments and pulpit ability; yet unwilling to accept a larger field-or, as he says, unable to separate himself from the surrounding forests and streams in which he has found health and inspiration for his literary and professional work.

With the exception of occasional poems written in his earlier years and published in current periodicals, his first literary production was "Victor La Tourette, a Novel by a Broad Churchman" (Boston, 1875). It made some stir in theological