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The trampled ground, dim outlined in the storm. The swaying of a lifeless human form.

F. L. STANTON.

THE DEMON OF THE GIBBET.

THERE was no west, there was no east,
No star abroad for eyes to see;
And Norman spurred his jaded beast
Hard by the terrible gallows-tree.

"O, Norman, haste across this waste,

For something seems to follow me!"
"Cheer up, dear Maude, for, thanked be God,
We nigh have passed the gallows-tree!"

He kissed her lip; then, spur and whip,
And fast they fled across the lea;
But vain the heel and rowel steel,

For something leaped from the gallows-tree!

"Give me your cloak, your knightly cloak,
That wrapped you oft beyond the sea;
The wind is bold, my bones are old,
And I am cold on the gallows-tree."

"O, Holy God! O, dearest Maude,

Quick, quick, some prayer, the best that be! A bony hand my neck has spanned, And tears my knightly cloak from me!"

"Give me your wine, the red, red wine,

That in your flask hangs by your knee;
Ten summers burst on me accurst,
And I'm athirst on the gallows-tree."

"Oh, Maude, my life! my loving wife!
Have you no power to set us free?
My belt unclasps, a demon grasps

And drags my wine-flask from my knee!"

"Give me your bride, your bonny bride,

That left her nest with you to flee;

Oh, she hath flown to be my own,
For I'm alone on the gallows-tree."

“Cling closer, Maude, and trust in God!
Cling close! Ah, heaven, she slips from me!'
A prayer, a groan, and he alone

Rode on that night from the gallows-tree.
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN.

CORPUS DELICTI.

LIPPED by the oozy waters of the tide,

Low in the dank, limp death-fringe of the sedge,

Ghostly and purple in the falling night;
With features swollen beyond all shape of life;
With limbs that show death's horrors in their
twists;

With hands that clutch, but hold naught in their

grasp;

With hair that swims and fringes to the wave,
And eyes that shine not, save in phosphorous fires,
Through life, through life! It comes, and floats,
and lies

Thus ever, It, the Body of the Crime!

God! God! I gaze, I can not flee nor stir;
And gazing, hark! Out in the twilight dim,
O'er the dull sluggish flood of earthy waves,
Sounds a hoarse voice, and plashes a faint oar!
E. HOUGH.

"THE BODY OF AN UNKNOWN MAN."

I CAME at dawn from out the silent house, (The last night's kisses warm upon my lips) Wearied the dance, and stilled the revel's rouse; Done the long joys, where these joys found eclipse, (The last night's kisses warm upon my lips).

I mind the street; it runneth broad and straight, (The last night's pressure warm upon my throat) River to river, dawn's to sunset's gate;

Trees arched it; one bird waked, I heard its note, (The last night's pressure warm upon my throat).

I mind the wharf, a wharf disused and lone, (The last night's whispers sighing in my ears) Gray waters weltered 'round each slimy stone; Gray waters weltered through its crazy piers, (The last night's whispers sighing in my ears). The tide went out. I marked its ebb desist, (The last night's glances graven on my brain) I heard, below, great horns shriek from the mist, Saw ghosts of ships dim drifting to the main, (The last night's glances graven on my brain).

The city woke. I heard its hum and stir,

(The last night's odors in my nostrils quick)

I said: Thank God, this is no grief to her; This path she led she strewed with raptures thick, (The last night's odors in my nostrils quick).

Small travail mine; long-planned and picked my

way,

(The last night's kisses warm upon my lips) I stare at noontide from the glassy bay; Beneath my head the long swell lazy slips, (The last night's kisses frozen on my lips). A. E. WATROUS.

THE ANCIENT "LADY OF SORROW."

HER closing eyelids mock the light;
Her cold, pale lips are sealed; quite
Before her face of spotless white

A mystic veil is drawn.
Our Lady hides herself in night;
In shadows hath she her delight;
She will not see the dawn!

The morning leaps across the plain-
It glories in a promise vain;
At noon the day begins to wane,
With its sad prophecy;

At eve the shadows come again;
Our Lady finds no rest from pain,
No answer to her cry.

In spring she doth her winter wait;
The autumn shadoweth forth her fate;
Thus, one by one, years iterate
Her solemn tragedy.

Before her pass in solemn state
All shapes that come, or soon or late,
Of this world's misery.

What is, or shall be, or hath been,
This Lady is; and she hath seen,
Like frailest leaves, the tribes of men
Come forth, and quickly die.
Therefore our Lady hath no rest;
For, close beneath her snow-white breast,
Her weary children lie.

She taketh on her all our grief;
Her passion passeth all relief;

In vain she holds the poppy leaf-
In vain her lotus crown.

Even fabled Lethe hath no rest,
No solace for her troubled breast,
And no oblivion.

“Childhood and youth are vain," she saith, Since all things ripen unto death; The flower is blasted by the breath

That calls it from the earth. "And yet," she saith, "this thing is sureThere is no life but shall endure,

And death is only birth.

"From death or birth no powers defend, And thus from grade to grade we tend, By resurrections without end,

Unto some final peace.

But distant is that peace," she saith;
Yet eagerly awaiteth death,
Expecting her release.

"O Rest," she saith, "that will not come, Not even when our lips are dumb, Not even when our limbs are numb,

And graves are growing green!

O Death, that, coming on apace,
Dos't look so kindly in the face,

Thou wear'st a treach'rous mien!"

But still she gives the shadow place-
Our Lady, with the saddest grace,
Doth yield her to his feigned embrace,
And to his treachery!

Ye must not draw aside her veil;
Ye must not hear her dying wail;
Ye must not see her die!

But, hark! from out the stillness rise
Low-murmured myths and prophecies,
And chants that tremble to the skies-
Miserere Domine!
They, trembling, lose themselves in rest,
Soothing the anguish of her breast-
Miserere Domine!

HENRY M. ALDEN.

IN THE DARK.

ALL moveless stand the ancient cedar-trees
Along the drifted sand-hills where they grow;
And from the dark west comes a wandering breeze,
And waves them to and fro.

A murky darkness lies along the sand,

Where bright the sunbeams of the morning shone,
And the eye vainly seeks by sea and land
Some light to rest upon.

No large, pale star its glimmering vigil keeps;
No inky sea reflects an inky sky;

And the dark river, like a serpent, creeps
To where its black piers lie.

Strange salty odors through the darkness steal,
And through the dark the ocean-thunders roll;
Thick darkness gathers, stifling, till I feel
Its weight upon my soul.

I stretch my hands out in the empty air;
I strain my eyes into the heavy night;
Blackness of darkness! Father, hear my prayer!
Grant me to see the light!

GEORGE ARNOLD.

THE ROYAL ABBESS.

In the Abbey stall, with his vestments old, And raveled and rent through stress of time,

UNDER the trees my Heart and I together
Await the step that nevermore will come;
Await the greeting word forever dumb!

I know not how-whether we dreamed or whether
My Heart and I, seeing the new-blown heather,
Took hope from its full glory; or the sum
Of earth's wide joy, moving our pulses numb,
Drew us abroad into the sweet warm weather.
We conned the lesson well, long, long ago,
My Heart and I-we conned the lesson well
In summer heats, in winter's stubborn cold!
That he will come no more, we know, we know;
Yet we expect him more than tongue can tell,
And listen for his coming as of old!
IDA WHIPPLE BENHAM,
-The Independent, June 26, 1890.

A FOOLISH WISH.

WHY need I seek some burden small to bear
Before I go?

Will not a host of nobler souls be there,
Heaven's will to do?

Of stronger hands, unfailing, unafraid?
O silly soul! what matters my small aid
Before I go?

I tried to find, that I might show to them,
Before I go,

The path of purer lives: the light was dim-
I do not know

If I had found some footprints of the way;
It is too late their wandering feet to stay,
Before I go.

I would have sung the rest some song of cheer,
Before I go;

But still the cords ring false; some jar of fear
Some jangling woe,

And at the end I can not weave one chord
To float into their hearts my last warm word
Before I go.

I would be satisfied if I might tell

Before I go,

That one warm word,-how I have loved them well,

Could they but know!

And would have gained for them some gleam of

good;

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Have sought it long; still seek-if but I could!
Before I go.

'Tis a child's longing on the beach at play:
"Before I go,"

He begs the beckoning mother, "let me stay
One shell to throw!"

'Tis coming night; the great sea climbs the shore"Ah, Let me toss one little pebble more

Before I go."

-"The Hermitage."

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

WHAT IS A RONDELET?

A RONDELET

Is like a breath of coming spring;

A rondelet,

When wild winds 'gainst the windows fret,
Is like the song which robins sing;
Or like the perfume violets fling;

A rondelet.

LILLA N. CUSHMAN.

-For THE MAGAZINE OF POETRY.

WHERE SUMMER BIDES.

Down through the mountain's silver haze,
Down through the song-thrilled wooded ways,
And 'midst the meadow's drenched grass,
The feet of summer swiftly pass.

"Stay! stay!" the yearning mountains cry.
"Stay! stay!" the drowsy grasses sigh.
But on and on the sweet guest flies,
With wind-blown hair and wide, still eyes.
On, on, until her eager feet

Abide amidst the yellow wheat.

LUCY E. TILLEY.

-Harper's Weekly, June 21, 1890.

MATER DOLOROSA.

(To Mrs. John T. Mygatt.)

SORROWFUL Mother, with tear-wet face,
Thinking perchance of your boy to-day,
Seeing only his vacant place,

Missing the form you have laid away,
Though friends are loving and kindred kind,
What an empty world he has left behind.
'Tis the house of mourning, the children call
In vain for the father that can not come,
The cloud of sorrow hangs like a pall
Over your beautiful, happy home,
So loved, so lovely, your only son,
God help you to say, "Thy will be done."

Look from the sorrow, the darkness and gloom, Think of the Home where he is to-night,

Not of the form in the silent tomb,

But the glorified spirit, so happy and bright; Sorrowful mother, you still can say:

'Tis the Lord who has given and taken away. MAGGIE GRIFFIN NOBLE.

-Binghamton Republican.

THE HIRED MAN.

I GIVE my time, my song, my life to Toil,

My brow of bronze, my arms of brawn, are hers, For her alone each willing muscle stirs; For her I guide the plow and delve the land, For her my brow is wet, my face is tanned. Sweet labor, brown-cheeked as the chestnut burs, Thy lightest law my lagging spirit spurs, And under heat and burden bids me stand. So, in thy name the old line-fence I scale, Just where the whispering maple shades the place I mount the panel with the softest rail, And let the light winds fan my patient face; And there where birds and moments idly flitI sit, and sit, and sit, and sit.

-Brooklyn Eagle.

ROBERT J. BURDETTE.

BEATRICE.

DANTE, sole standing on the heavenward height,
Beheld and heard one saying, "Behold me well:
I am, I am Beatrice." Heaven and hell
Kept silence, and the illimitable light
Of all the stars was darkness in his sight
Whose eyes beheld her eyes again, and fell
Shame stricken. Since her soul took flight to

dwell

In heaven, six hundred years have taken flight.

And now that heavenliest part of earth, whereon Shines yet their shadow as once their presence shone

To her, bears witness for his sake, as he For hers bear witness when her face was gone. No slave, no hospice now for grief—but free From shore to mountain and from Alp to sea. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

-The Athenæum.

BEATRICE.

BREATHING through twice three hundred years

an air

Of memory fresh as Morning's alter-spice, Thou, Star of Dante-Star of Paradise, Hast made the star of womanhood more fair; For, though thou art now his lofty guardian there,