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The sailor, peering through the night,

Discerns the distant ray, And hails with joy the welcome light That guides him on his way.

Far off on high from out the haze,
Faint, glimmering starlets peep
And see their feeble, trembling rays
Reflected in the deep;

Till, lighting all with silver glow,
Up springs the Queen of Night,
And decks the glittering sea below

In waves of shimmering light.
With wings outspread to woo the gales,
That blow as wild and free,

So swift the shad'wy silver sails
Steal o'er the shining sea,
To seek, along the moonlit way,
Those bright enchanted lands,
Where sapphire seas, in silver spray,
Break o'er the golden sands.

DAY-DREAMS.

Drowsily, dreamily here I lie,

Deep in the bracken, beneath the trees; Listlessly watching the clouds glide by, Here do I lazily take mine ease. Cheerily, merrily, high o'er head,

Singeth the linnet his mirthful song; Bluebells and violets, round my bed, Mingle their essences all day long. -In Sylvan Shadows Dreaming.

WINTER.

If summer hath its roses red and violets blue,
The winter, surely, hath its beauties too;
Where snowy hawthorns blossomed in the May,
In shining clusters corals hang to-day;
The rich red radiance of the ruby glows
In the bright hip that was the summer rose;
And where those berries hang, of brilliant hue,
There once the fragrant-scented woodbine grew.

There shine the holly leaves, like emeralds green,
With gorgeous rubies sparkling in between;
Near hangs the mistletoe, cold winter's gem,
With glittering opals clustering round each stem;
And though the lark, that caroled all day long,
Fills not the welkin with its joyous song,
The gentle robin, on the icy spray,

Sings bright and cheerful through the live-long day.
-Winter.

JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.

JOSIAH

[OSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND was born in Belchertown, Mass., July 24, 1819. His early life was passed upon his father's farm, and his poems give evidence of the close communion with Nature,-for 'tis only to her lover that she reveals herself. Doctor Holland's early life was attended by many difficulties. It was only after an earnest and severe struggle he was enabled to enter the high school at Northampton, and being determined to make good use of his hard-won possession, he over-studied, which resulted in the giving way of his health. After a time he taught penmanship, and later became an operator in a daguerreotype gallery, and from there a district school-master. At twenty-one the study of medicine was begun, and at twenty-five he graduated from the Berkshire Medical College, at Pittsfield, Mass. Doctor Holland settled at Springfield and began practicing, but with no liking for the profession. During this time some articles were written and offered to the Knickerbocker Magazine, and were accepted. Gaining courage to venture further into literary pursuits, he started The Bay State Weekly Courier, but had to abandon it six months later. He now returned to his former vocation of school-teacher, taking a position at Richmond, Va., and three months later became superintendent of public schools in Vicksburg, Miss. Here he put in fifteen months of hard labor, endeavoring to establish a graded educational system, and just as success had crowned his efforts was obliged to return North.

We next hear of him as associate editor for Samuel Bowles, on the Springfield Republican, and we are told his first year's salary was but $480.00, the second $700.00. The third year was begun as one third owner, and in fifteen years he sold his share for fourteen times what he originally gave for it. In 1855 Doctor Holland published his first book, "History of Western Massachusetts," in two volumes. In 1857 was published "The Bay Path; A Colonial Tale," which at first was not well received. His "Timothy Titcomb's Letters to Young People, Married and Single," were now started, and in 1858 collected and published, meeting with a remarkable sale, nine editions being sold in a few months. In November was published "BitterSweet; A Poem in Dramatic Form," and this exceeded in sale even the "Titcomb Letters." It is probably as the author of this beautiful poem that Doctor Holland is best known. In 1865 the" Life of Abraham Lincoln" was brought out, and over 100,000 copies have been sold. In 1866 he sold his share

Kathrina;

in the Republican, and in 1867 issued Her Life and Mine in a Poem." The following year was spent in European travel.

In 1870 Doctor Holland assumed the editorship of and helped to found Scribner's Monthly Magazine. A copartnership was formed with Roswell Smith and Scribner, Armstrong & Company, but the leadership fell to Doctor Holland.

During his busy literary career Doctor Holland published a score or more successful books. He also gained wide reputation as a lecturer. He was much interested in the subject of education, and in 1872 was elected a member of the Board of Education in New York City, and afterwards was made president of the board. He held, besides, the chairmanship of the board of trustees of the College of the City of New York.

Doctor Holland's was a busy life, and when his death occurred, October 12, 1881, his loss was felt deeply and a niche left vacant that could not be readily supplied. One has but to read his poems, every line pregnant with meaning, to understand how great and good was this man's heart. His whole soul abounded and teemed with love for his fellow-creatures. He was possessed of a broad mind and a generous nature, as many who have benefited by his generosity can testify.

THRENODY.

N. L. M.

OH, sweet are the scents and songs of spring And brave are the summer flowers;

And chill are the autumn winds that bring
The winter's lingering hours.

And the world goes round and round,
And the sun sinks into the sea;
And whether I'm on or under the ground,
The world cares little for me.

The hawk sails over the sunny hill;

The brook trolls on in the shade;

But the friends I have lost lie cold and still
Where their stricken forms were laid.
And the world goes round and round,

And the sun glides into the sea;

And whether I'm on or under the ground,
The world cares little for me.

O life, why art thou so bright and boon!
O breath, why art thou so sweet!

O friends, how can ye forget so soon
The loved ones who lie at your feet!
But the world goes round and round,
And the sun drops into the sea;
And whether I'm on or under the ground,
The world cares little for me.

The ways of men are busy and bright;
The eye of woman is kind;

It is sweet for the eyes to behold the light,
But the dying and dead are blind.
And the world goes round and round,
And the sun falls into the sea;
And whether I'm on or under the ground,
The world cares little for me.

But if life awake, and will never cease
On the future's distant shore,
And the rose of love and the lily of peace
Shall bloom there for evermore,
Let the world go round and round,

And the sun sink into the sea;
For whether I'm on or under the ground,
Oh! what will it matter to me?

WORDS.

THE robin repeats his two musical words,
The meadow-lark whistles his one refrain;
And steadily, over and over again,
The same song swells from a hundred birds.
Bobolink, chickadee, blackbird and jay,

Thrasher and woodpecker, cuckoo and wren,
Each sings its word, or its phrase, and then
It has nothing further to sing or to say.
Into that word, or that sweet little phrase,
All there may be of its life must crowd;
And lulling and liquid, or hoarse and loud,
It breathes out its burden of joy and praise.
A little child sits in his father's door,

Chatting and singing with careless tongue;
A thousand beautiful words are sung,
And he holds unuttered a thousand more.

Words measure power, and they measure thine;
Greater art thou in thy prattling moods
Than all the singers of all the woods;
They are brutes only, but thou art divine.
Words measure destiny. Power to declare
Infinite ranges of passion and thought
Holds with the infinite only its lot-

Is of eternity only the heir.

Words measure life, and they measure its joy! Thou hast more joy in thy childish years Than the birds of a hundred tuneful spheresSo, sing with the beautiful birds, my boy!

ALONE.

ALL alone in the world! all alone!

With a child on my knee, or a wife on my breast,

Or, sitting beside me, the beautiful guest Whom my heart leaps to greet as its sweetest and best,

Still alone in the world! all alone!

With my visions of beauty, alone! Too fair to be painted, too fleet to be scanned, Too regal to stay at my feeble command, They pass from the grasp of my impotent hand; Still alone in the world! all alone!

Alone with my conscience, alone! Not an eye that can see when its finger of flame Points my soul to its sin, or consumes it with shame!

Not an ear that can hear its low whisper of blame! Still alone in the world! all alone!

In my visions of self, all alone!

The weakness, the meanness, the guilt that I see,
The fool or the fiend I am tempted to be,
Can only be seen and repented by me:

Still alone in the world! all alone!

Alone in my worship, alone!

No hand in the universe joining with mine,
Can lift what it lays on the altar divine,
Or bear what it offers aloft to its shrine:
Still alone in the world! all alone!

In the valley of death, all alone!

The sighs and the tears of my friends are in vain, For mine is the passage, and mine is the pain, And mine the sad sinking of bosom and brain: Still alone in the world! all alone!

Not alone! never, never alone!

There is one who is with me by day and by night,
Who sees and inspires all my visions of light,
And teaches my conscience its office aright:
Not alone in the world! not alone!

Not alone! never, never alone!

He sees all my weakness with pitying eyes,
He helps me to lift my faint heart to the skies,
And in my last passion he suffers and dies:
Not alone! never, never alone!

DOUBT.

The day is quenched, and the sun is fled; God has forgotten the world!

The moon is gone, and the stars are dead;

God has forgotten the world!
Evil has won in the horrid feud
Of ages with the Throne;
Evil stands on the neck of Good,
And rules the world alone.

There is no good; there is no God;

And Faith is a heartless cheat Who bares the back for the Devil's rod, And scatters thorns for the feet. What are prayers in the lips of death, Filling and chilling with hail? What are prayers but the wasted breath Beaten back by the gale?

The day is quenched, and the sun is fled; God has forgotten the world!

The moon is gone, and the stars are dead; God has forgotten the world!

FAITH.

445

-Bitter-Sweet.

Day will return with a fresher boon;
God will remember the world!
Night will come with a newer moon;
God will remember the world!
Evil is only the slave of Good;

Sorrow the servant of Joy;

And the soul is mad that refuses food
Of the meanest in God's employ.
The fountain of joy is fed by tears,

And love is lit by the breath of sighs;
The deepest griefs and the wildest fears
Have holiest ministries.

Strong grows the oak in the sweeping storm;
Safely the flower sleeps under the snow;
And the farmer's hearth is never warm
Till the cold wind starts to blow.
Day will return with a fresher boon;
God will remember the world!
Night will come with a newer moon;
God will remember the world!