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Strange grew the common sky, the wonted strand,
Since here no more our loving eyes would meet,
No more the aching heart and wearied feet
Rest by Love's side and hold his tireless hand.
But one day, walking by the morning sea,
There rose a wave of Summer and of youth
That broke resistless through grief's narrow

And wrought life's past, and present, and to be,
Into one marvelous vision of the truth;
The imperishable joy swept in without one sound.

-Scribner's Magazine, November, 1889.

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AMERICA! at this thy Golden Gate,
New-traveled from thy green Atlantic coves,
Parting, I make my reverence! It behooves
With backward steps to quit a queen in state.
Land, of all lands most fair and free and great-
Of countless kindred lips wherefrom I heard
Sweet speech of Shakespeare, keep it consecrate
For noble uses! Land of Freedom's Bird,
Fearless and proud, so let him soar, that,

By generous joy, all men may learn of thee
A larger life; and Europe, undeterred
By ancient wrecks, dares so to be free,
Body and soul;-seeing thine Eagle gaze
Undazzled upon Freedom's Sun, full-blaze!
-San Francisco, October 17, 1889.


WHEN persons treat me with respect
Who formerly were bold,

Must I, perforce, at last reflect
That I am growing old?

More embonpoint; shall I conclude,
Contented and cajoled,

It 's just because my health is goodOr am I growing old?

When staler, simpler, year by year,

Youth's sportive pranks I hold,
When all the world seems getting queer,
I may be growing old.

When youngsters check each joyous sound,
And not a joke unfold
Whenever I come poking 'round,

I must be growing old.

When I, a homely woman, in

A crowded car am told

To take a seat, 't were half a sin
To doubt I'm growing old.

But when old maids seem young-nay, fresh
At thirty-then behold,

I run the white flag up-my flesh
Creeps—I am growing old!


-America, October 10, 1889.


LIKE Some huge bird that sinks to rest,
The sun goes down-a weary thing-
And o'er the water's placid breast

It lays a scarlet, outstretched wing. HERBERT BASHFORD. -The Independent, December 5, 1889.


THE beauty-cup that held my Joy was frail,
I knew-and brittle under shock or strain;
This knowledge gripp'd my heart, till beads of pain
Burnt up my Joy, and left me only bale.
The beauty-cup still smiles-a dream of bright
Art-woven rays; but all it held has fled:
Fear, worry, care-these killed it-and instead,
A memory of Loss cries through the night.
-For The Magazine of Poetry.


HERE lies a common man. His horny hands,
Crossed, meekly as a maid's, upon his breast,
Show marks of toil, and by his general dress
You judge him to have been an artisan.
Doubtless, could all his life be written out,
The story would not thrill nor start a tear;
He worked, laughed, loved and suffered in his time,
And now rests peacefully, with upturned face
Whose look belies all struggle in the past.
A homely tale: yet, trust me, I have seen
The greatest of the earth go stately by,

While shouting multitudes beset the way,
With less of awe. The gap between a king
And me, a nameless gazer in the crowd,
Seemed not so wide as that which stretches now
Betwixt us two, this dead one and myself.
Untitled, dumb, and deedless, yet he is
Transfigured by a touch from out the skies
Until he wears, with all-unconscious grace
The strange and sudden Dignity of Death.
-Scribner's Magazine, November, 1889.


AFLOAT in the azure space
Is a fairy thing—
Who steers this tiny craft?
Hath it sail or wing?

A careless voyager

Through a pathless waste,
It loiters not by the way,
It makes no haste.

It might be a bird in the sky,
It might be a ship on the wave;

It yieldeth itself in trust

The king of the air is its slave. It is borne to the destined place Where the earth has a cradle at need: And the universe is pledged To nourish the thistle-seed.

-Wide Awake, October, 1889.



IF YOU were safe in heaven,
And I at the outer gate,
Would our lives seem less even,
Or mine be a harder fate?

For then I might hope, by waiting
In penance and patient prayer,
Hourly my grief relating,

Sometime to enter there,

Where the lowest may look highest,
High as a crowned king,
And the farthest may come nighest,
And the saddest be glad, and sing.
But here, though my soul beseech you,
Though we may meet and speak,

I know I can never reach you,
No matter how far I seek.

MARY AINGE De Vere. -Lippincott's Magazine, October, 1889.


HE LOVES his kind, and lends a brother's hand. This is his highest praise-that he does us good. This is his best reward-that our hearts respond to his, like deep calling unto deep.

Bard of the common hearth and heart,
With equal wit and wisdom blest;
The genial genius of thine art

Our laughter and our tears attest.

The People's Poet! Thou hast been
Close to their cares, and shared their strife,
Portraying with thy patient pen

The martyrdoms of lowly life.

Quaint counselor of rich and poor,

Know'st thou the good thy songs have done?

The latch-string out at every door

Proves the wide welcome thou hast won.

Thy blameless "Ballads," undefiled,
Humanity's best aims rehearse;

And father, mother, wife and child
Seem dearer to us for thy verse.

Sing on, O songster of the soul!

For lays like thine are full of cheer;

Sweet as, above the breakers' roll,

The chimes which show the harbor near. BENJAMIN COPELAND.


"WRITE me an epic," the warrior said— "Victory, valor and glory wed."

“Prithee, a ballad," exclaimed the knight— "Prowess, adventure and faith unite."

"An ode to freedom," the patriot cried"Liberty won, and wrong defied."

"Give me a drama," the scholar asked"The inner world in the outer masked." "Frame me a sonnet," the artist prayed— "Power and passion in harmony played." "Sing me a lyric," the maiden sighed"A lark-note waking the morning wide." "Nay, all too long," said the busy Age, "Write me a line instead of a page." The swift years spoke, the poet heard, "Your poem write in a single word." He looked in the maiden's glowing eyes, A moment glanced at the starlit skies

From the lights below to the lights above— And wrote the one-word poem-Love. WALLACE BRUCE. -Blackwood's Magazine, November, 1889.



THE lictor slow unties his rod, Lest the doomed man repent, But slower moves the will of God Unto man's punishment.


For pleasure do not swerve
Aside, in thine employ;
Content if thou deserve,
Let other men enjoy.

He who sings never makes
No discord in his song;
He who speaks never speaks
The word that is not wrong.

All comes to him that waits,
If his desire be pure;
Master he will all fates,
His victory is sure.


Question not, but enjoy;
Scan not too curiously,
Lest thy close search destroy

The charm of sympathy.

MATTHEW RICHEY KNIGHT. -The Toronto Week, August 2, 1889.


A BOY named Simon sojourned in a dale;
Some said that he was simple, but I'm sure
That he was nothing less than simon pure;
They thought him so because, forsooth, a whale
He tried to catch in Mother's water-pail.

Ah! little boy, timid, composed, demure,-
He had imagination. Yet endure
Defeat he could, for he of course did fail.
But there are Simons of a larger growth,
Who, too, in shallow waters fish for whales,
And when they fail they are "unfortunate."
If the small boy is simple, then are both,
And the big Simon more, who often rails
At what he calls ill-luck or unkind fate.

-St. Nicholas, October, 1889.


BOKER. Since the printing of the first forms of this magazine, and just as the last form goes to | press, the announcement is made of the death of George H. Boker, at his home in Philadelphia, Pa. IBID. Major-General Philip Kearney, U. S. V., was killed at Chantilly, Va., Sept. 1, 1862. Edmund Clarence Stedman has written a famous poem on the same subject, entitled, "Kearney at Seven Pines."

WATTS. The "Ode to Mother Carey's Chicken" | and all, or nearly all, the sonnets given, appeared originally in the London Athenæum.

UTTER. "The poem, 'The King's Daughter,' was written in October, 1870, and first published in the same year, in 'The Christmas Locket,' a Christmas supplement to Dr. Edward Everett Hale's magazine, Old and New, since discontinued. This, as you see, was long before the charitable organization of the same name was established. I think it was in May, 1886, that I received a letter from Mrs. Mary Lowe Dickinson, saying that having accidentally come upon the poem, and being struck with its suitableness for such use, they were glad to succeed at last in their efforts to find the author, and obtain permission to use it as a leaflet. Of course the permission was gladly granted, and I was very happy to learn that my verses were doing so good service. The same spring I received letters from several sources, telling of strength and courage for benevolent enterprises which had been inspired by the poem, and of good uses which it had served. I wrote it with a strong feeling in my mind that though in one sense it might be a castle in the air, in its ideal picture of the heights that human nature might attain, it yet has a solid foundation; it is the logical outcome of the doctrines of liberal Christianity-the fatherhood of God, and the brotherhood of man. With these doctrines I am very thoroughly identified, being the wife, daughter and grand-daughter of Unitarian ministers." R. P. U.

HIGGINSON. "Heirs of Time" was first published in The Nationalist, and is inscribed to Edward Bellamy MACKELLAR. A young man from Maine, hale and ruddy from his native hills, was seized by the yellow fever in New Orleans, and the tender care and nursing of the Howard Association failed to save his life. When the coffin was about being closed, "stop," cried an aged woman who was present, “let me kiss him for his mother." T. M. ALLMOND. "Deal Gently, Lord!" was written for the funeral of Dr. James P. Boyce, Louisville, Ky., January 20, 1889.

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