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.

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!

No weakling girl, who would surrender will
And life and reason, with her loving heart,
To her possessor; no soft, clinging thing
Who would find breath alone within the arms
Of a strong master, and obediently
Wait on his will as in slavish carefulness;
No fawning, cringing spaniel to attend
His royal pleasure, and account herself
Rewarded by his pats and pretty words,
But a sound woman, who, with insight keen
Had wrought a scheme of life, and measured well
Her womanhood; had spread before her feet
A fine philosophy to guide her steps;
Had won a faith to which her life was brought
In strict adjustment-brain and heart meanwhile
Working in conscious harmony and rhythm
With the great scheme of God's great universe,
On toward her being's end.

There's a bird's nest up there in the oak,
On the bough that hangs over the stream,
And last night the mother-bird broke
Into song in her dream.

This morning she woke, and was still;

For she thought of the frail little things That needed her motherly bill,

Waiting under her wings.

And busily all the day long,

She hunted and carried their food,
And forgot both herself and her song
In her care for her brood.

I sang in my dream, and you heard;
I woke, and you wonder I'm still;
But a mother is always a bird
With a fly in its bill!

-Song and Silence.

DAVID WILLIAM MCCOURT.

‘O delight and instruct does not constitute the sole mission of poetry. The gift of song may properly and with effect be employed in the practical, philanthropic, and often necessary, work of exposing social shams, correcting abuses and unmasking the evils of the Pecksniffs whose detestable hypocrisies here and there fester upon the body politic. That Dr. McCourt is impressed with this view is evidenced by more than one of his poems. He cultivates the satiric muse to good purpose, and, although every conceivable vein of metrical composition receives attention at his hands, his favorite literary pastime is the puncturing of society's frivolities and the ridiculing of moral foibles in inspiring, caustic verse. His humor is always rich, bright and healthful.

David William McCourt was born in the town of Waukesha, Wisconsin, October 4, 1859. Both his parents are Scotch, and from them he inherits many of the sterling qualities of the Scottish race. At the age of sixteen he entered a denominational college at Battle Creek, Michigan, where he qualified himself for the profession of teaching. After spending three years as instructor in various Wisconsin and Nebraska schools, however, he became dissatisfied with teaching and studied dentistry with gratifying results. In 1884 he removed to St. Paul, Minn., where he is in the enjoyment of a lucrative practice. In 1880 he married an estimable young lady, and his is a sunny home. Dr. McCourt is the very embodiment of good nature and contented cheerfulness. Dark haired, tall and of elegant figure, he would attract attention even in a company of notables, and as one looks into his soft, honest, blue-gray eyes, one can forget for a moment that such things as duplicity and selfishness exist in this world. Dr. McCourt is soon to bring out a volume of poems whose popularity is assured in advance.

J. T.

'TIS THE HOUR WHEN DEWS DESCENDING.

'Tis the hour when dews, descending,
Fall to sleep on flower and tree,

And bright Hesperus is lending
Rays to light my steps to thee;
While the far cathedral bell

Softly chimes the close of day,
Keeping love's dear promise well,
To renewed delights I stray.

In the shadows of the vines,
Sweet the welcome that discloses
Where expectant love reclines,
Hidden in her bower of roses;

Leafy vine and shadow, screen us
From unfriendly prying eyes!
Guard us well love's mother, Venus,
In the dusk of evening skies!
Softly pause here, fleeting Time,

'Mid the fragrance of these flowers,
Lovers deem it quite a crime
When you steal their precious hours.
All too soon you bid us part,

Hour of bliss so quickly over; Morn may cheer the sorrowing heart, But the twilight brings the lover.

MINNEHAHA.

DANCING on, through shade and sun,
Comes the rippling laughing river,
Leaps the boulders one by one,

Makes the hanging branches quiver;
Whirls its eddies in the pool,
Lingers in the shadows cool,

On the pebbly shallows chattering, Banks of nodding flowers bespattering, Breaks the silence with her ah, ha, Laughing, singing Minnehaha!

Now she nears the rocky ledge,

Hastens from her leafy cover,
Trembles on the boulder's edge,
Then goes leaping wildly over;
Gleaming in the summer air
Like a maiden's golden hair;

Chatters on the rocks beneath,
Weaves a rainbow for a wreath,
Wakes the echoes with her ha, ha!
Noisy, mirthful Minnehaha!

From the foamy pool emerging,
Singing, on again she rushes,
Through the narrow channel surging,
Gleaming through the clustered bushes,
Till she hears the waters falling,
Hears the Mississippi calling;

Hastens on her way to meet him,
Sends a rippling laugh to greet him,
Falls upon his bosom sighing,

And the echoes, still replying,

Whisper faint her smothered ha, ha!
Wild, coquettish Minnehaha!

THE POPULAR CREED. WE live too much by line and rule; Too much by cold and studied art, And narrow down the generous heart By lessons in self's sordid school.