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Her faint, sweet memory entomb

In violets,

The pathos of whose faint perfume Breathes no regrets!

How strange to enter Paradise,

As she to-day,

With not one tear in those sweet eyes To wipe away!

MY FIELD.

I WILL not wrong thee, O To-day,
With idle longing for To-morrow;
But patient plough my field and sow
The seed of faith in every furrow.
Enough for me the loving light
That melts the cloud's repellant edges;
The still unfolding, bud by bud,

Of God's most sweet and holy pledges.

I breathe His breath; my life is His;
The hand He nerves knows no defrauding;
The Lord will make this joyless waste
Wave with the wheat of His rewarding.

Of His rewarding! Yes; and yet

Not mine a single blade or kernel; The seed is His; the quickening His; The care unchanging and eternal. His, too, the harvest song shall be When He who blessed the barren furrow Shall thrust His shining sickle in

And reap my little field to-morrow.

L

LYMAN WHITNEY ALLEN.

YMAN WHITNEY ALLEN is both poet and preacher, and those who know him as a clergyman will surely aver that it has been the fire of his poetic nature that has greatly heightened and intensified his discourses. He was born in St. Louis, Mo., in 1854. From his father, a native of Boston and of true Puritan stock, he inherited his gift of verse. From his mother, through a double line of ancestors, the historic Thorntons of Virginia and the well-known Whitneys of New England, he became possessed of those qualities which have placed him in the front rank of the younger ministry of the church. He pursued his collegiate studies at Washington University, graduating there in 1878. He afterwards took a partial postgraduate course at Princeton College, and prepared for the ministry at Princeton Theological Seminary. He now resides in Newark, N. J., as pastor of the South Park Presbyterian Church, one of the largest and most important churches in the vicinity of New York City.

From his early years Mr. Allen has manifested a creative as well as appreciative love of poetry. In later life, in the midst of arduous duties, he has not neglected his art, but has found time for its cultivation. Although constantly urged by his friends to publish in book form, he has purposely refrained from doing so, waiting, as did Rosetti, that thought and form might be more truly wedded. His poems, however, have appeared from time to time in various magazines and newspapers, most notably The Independent, of New York. One of Mr. Allen's poems, "The Coming of His Feet," originally published in The Independent, has earned an enviable popularity and has had a wide circulation in various newspapers. It has gained for itself a permanent place in the sacred literature of this country.

While Mr. Allen is chiefly known as a writer of religious verse, he retains for future publication much that has been written purely for art's sake. H. A. T.

THE COMING OF HIS FEET.

IN the crimson of the morning, in the whiteness of the noon,

In the amber glory of the day's retreat, In the midnight, robed in darkness, or the gleam

ing of the moon

I listen for the coming of his feet.

I have heard his weary footsteps on the sands of Galilee,

On the temple's marble pavement, on the street, Worn with weight of sorrow, faltering up the slopes of Calvary

The sorrow of the coming of his feet.

Down the minister-aisles of splendor, from betwixt the cherubim,

Through the wondering throng, with motion strong and fleet,

Sounds his victor tread, approaching with a music far and dim

The music of the coming of his feet.

Comes he sandaled not with silver, girdled not with woven gold,

Weighted not with shimmering gems and odors sweet,

But white-winged and shod with glory in the Tabor light of old

The glory of the coming of his feet.

He is coming, O my spirit! with his everlasting peace,

With his blessedness immortal and complete. He is coming, O my spirt! and his coming brings release

I listen for the coming of his feet.

SUBMISSION.

I CANNOT Count the ways my soul has tried
To slip the leash of God's redeeming grace;
Nor measure His long suffering, nor trace
His ways to draw me nearer to His side:
By tender calls, by warnings amplified,

By sharp rebuke in loud and sterner phrase, By chastenings dire, which time cannot efface, By scourgings with fierce thongs of fire applied.

Thus has the Lord made effort for my life,

And never for one moment loosed his hold. And now, with broken heart, worn out with strife, I lay myself down at His feet controlled,

And through glad tears, that will not cease to

flow,

I thank my Father that He loved me so.

BEETHOVEN'S SEVENTH SYMPHONY.

(Poco Sostenuto.)

THE dead Christ starts, the shadows lift, the light
Lengthens across the Galilean's face;
Death flees before impetuous hosts that chase
With swords of sunshine and white spears to smite

Grim wraiths of agonies and lingering sight
Of scarred Golgotha in divine disgrace.
The light beats swift and swifter, and the space
Stirs with the passion of immortal might.

(Allegretto.)

The dead Christ arises; the grave is defeated; the stone

Is rolled away by the angels. An Easter pæan! The air is a tumult of tremulous wonderings. The sweet winds are weighted with spirits from Paradise flown.

On one mighty billow of song the strong Galilean Moves into the light and the rapture and flutter of wings.

(Presto)

Waking Easter lilies lift their eyes

To the weeping eyes of Magdalene; Sounds, bewildering, agitate between Earth and sky, and all things seem to rise. Mystery casts off its dark disguise,

Life and power leap from the Nazarene; Earth and sky are filled with radiant sheen, Flash of wings and surge of Paradise.

(Finale: Allegro con brio.)

Heaven is emptied of angels; the jubilant legions, Wild with tumultuous rapture and breathless despair,

Whirling and swirling, encircle with song and

with laughter.

Strong with the infinite strength to the infinite regions,

Rises the Crucified, swift on the tides of the air, Drawing the worshiping ages in ecstasy after.

THE BIRDS SING HALF THE YEAR.

(Rondel.)

THE birds sing half the year;
But love is never still;

Her tremulous accents thrill The light from sphere to sphere.

O, wondrous messenger!

My soul with rapture fill. The birds sing half the year; But love is never still.

O, sweet bewilderer!

Sing on with siren skill;

My brain and heart and will Are all attent to hear. The birds sing half the year; But love is never still.