It is freighted with all I have ever sought: With the hopes that eluded my eager hand; The deeds I have dreamed, but never wrought; The perfect poems my thought has planned.

And there on the deck, looking out o'er the main, Are the forms of the lost ones who went away: I wait on the cliffs till I see them again,

And count all the days of my weary delay.

And sometimes I fear they will never come back; For, when the wind rises and all the waves roar, I fancy them driven in pitiless wrack

And torn on the rocks of some desolate shore.

But, when the storm lulls, I see it anew,

Each spar standing out against a clear sky, Her prow pointing homeward, her compass still true,

And cleaving the waves as she tosses them by. And so I wait on, day in and day out,

Till I look on my home-coming, beautiful barge, Gold-rigged in the sun, with song and with shout, Glide up with wide wings to the sandy marge.

THE WEED-GROWN PATH.

BETWEEN two hearts a pathway led, Oft trod in joyous days;

And, many a time, they each one said, "So shall it be always!"

The morning hours went singing by,
And eve, with sunset's gold:
While every joy or hope or sigh
Each to the other told.

So near, that snatches of a song
Each from the other heard,

And subtle thoughts the whole day long
Passed swiftly without word.

So smooth the pathway grew at last
That one would swear the day

Could never come, when no more passed
Such loving feet that way.

A whisper of suspicion blew

One day, none knew from where; And each one close the casement drew; A chill was in the air.

And now the path with weeds is grown,
The singing birds are fled;
In each house sitteth one alone;
The happy past is dead.

IN BUD.

I HOLD in my hand an oak as great

As storm ever wrenched at or chopper fell; Gnarled trunk, wide bough and leafy freight, All closely packed in an acorn-shell.

My fingers clasp a harvest sheaf,

With heavy gold head and twisted zone;
In these kernels bare I see the leaf
And bending stalks of grain full grown.

I look out where the drifted snow

Lies cold and glist'ning 'neath the moon, And know there sleeps, the crust below, The blossom-browed, green-slippered June. In yon dry pear-branch, stiff and cold, A bud lies hid away from sight That, 'neath the Spring's kiss, shall unfold Dawn-tinted blossoms streaked with light. The boughs that writhe in the sighing storm, 'Neath frowning skies and pelting sleet, Shall droop with sunny burdens warm When long days with soft breezes meet. I hold a home upon my knee,— A laughing child with sunny eyes: She grows a maiden fair to see, And then a chastened matron wise. A prince goes limping past my door, But find him no keen critic can. The neighbors call him old and poor, But he 's God's courtier, rough old man. From out a life of work and care,

Of crosses heavy and burdens sore,

A soul may bloom to beauty rare
That shall not fade forevermore.

A BLOCK OF MARBLE.

WHITE possibility! Before thee now,

With chisel and with mallet in my hand,
A musing artist, hesitant I stand,
And wonder with what shape I 'll thee endow:
A grand Athene, with majestic brow?

A raging Fury, with her flaming brand?
Diana, leading on her huntress band?
Or sea-nymph sporting round some rippling prow?
Or shall I carve out Aphrodite fair,

Who melteth with her eyes the hearts of men? Or, better yet, I'll make a Victory, Whose upward look shall rouse men from despair, Discouraged souls thrill with new hope again, And give them strength to breathe a nobler air.

155

EVENING.

AFTER the noisy day, with rush and roar,
Has all the chambers of the soul possessed,
Its holy nooks disturbed with rout unblest,
How sweet the lengthening shadows on the fioor,
As soft the old nurse, Night, shuts to the door,
Draws down the star-pinned curtains of the west,
Hushes the birds and all the flowers to rest,
Puts out the lights and brings us peace once more.
Then we, our heads in our earth-cradle laid,

Trust all to her strong arms and watchful care,
While suns and planets rock us in our sleep.

We drift into the dark all unafraid,

For all the eternal forces are aware

That 'tis the Universe's child they keep.

PURSUIT.

My boyhood chased the butterfly,
Or, when the shower was gone,
Sought treasures at the rainbow's end,
That lured me, wandering on.

I caught nor bow nor butterfly,

Though eagerly I ran;

But in the chase I found myself
And grew to be a man.

In later years I've chased the good,
The beautiful and true;

Mirage-like forms which take no shape,

They flit as I pursue.

But, while the endless chase I run,

I grow in life divine:

I miss the ideals that I seek,

But God himself is mine.

THE OLD PROBLEM.

SHE had just one wee bird in her nest,

And she loved it, oh, so dear!

She cooed o'er it, sang to it, brooded its rest, And kept it from shadow of fear.

I saw the nest empty: the mother apart
Sat silent, with never a song.

The earth's oldest problem oppressed her dumb

heart,

Accusing the world of its wrong.

THE MYSTIC HOPE.

WHAT is this mystic, wondrous hope in me,
When not one star from out the darkness born

Gives promise of the coming of the morn;

When all life seems a pathless mystery

Through which the weary eyes no way can see; When illness comes and life grows most forlorn, Still dares to laugh the last dread threat to scorn And proudly cries, Death is not, shall not be?

I wonder at myself! Tell me, O Death,

If that thou rul'st the earth: if "dust to dust" Shall be the end of love and hope and strife, From what rare land is blown this living breath That shapes itself to whispers of strong trust, And tells the lie-if 'tis a lie-of life?

CHARE

CHARLES MACKAY.

HARLES MACKAY, LL. D., member of a Highland family, was born in Perth, Scotland, in 1814, and removed in infancy to London. While in Belgium, completing his education, he was a witness of the revolution of 1830. In 1834 he published a small volume of poems which led to his introduction to the editor of the Morning Chronicle, and he became connected with that paper. He remained on the paper about nine years, in the meantime publishing "The Hope of the World, and Other Poems." He was editor of the Glasgow Argus in 1844-47. In 1846 the Glasgow University conferred the degree of LL. D. upon him. Mr. Mackay wrote for the Daily News a series of poems, "Voices From the Crowd," afterwards published in separate form. He has always been an active writer, publishing poems, novels, works on language, etc. For some years he contributed leading articles to the Illustrated London News, and he established the London Review in 1860. Dr. Mackay resided in New York from 1862 until 1865, and always had a warm appreciation of the American people. In a letter to the editor of THE MAGAZINE OF POETRY, written a few weeks previous to his death, he said: "The Americans appreciate poetry more than the English, who are the most prosaic people under the sun and think that all verse must be poetry, and deluge the newspapers and magazines with rhymed rubbish, hateful to Gods and men. Your journal will be successful." Mr. Mackay died last December at the age of seventy-five.

Mr. Eric Mackay, a son of Charles Mackay, is a poet of much promise. He is the author of "LoveLetters of a Violinist."

EOLIAN MUSIC.

O'ER the loose strings of the Eolian harp

I. A. K.

Float the wild melodies like straws on streams; Songs without words, but full of thought and meanings,

Though evanescent all as fancy's dreams.

Songs of soft sadness, as if sorrowing angels
Sighed for the woes of hapless human kind,
Foredoomed to sorrow and to hopeless error,
Perverse and wayward, obstinate and blind.

I hear them at my casement half asleep,
And weave them to my fancy, as they skim
Lightly as breezes o'er a placid deep,

And fancy fashions them into a hymn,
Half praise and half lament, and melting slowly
In happy thoughts and tender melancholy.

THE VOICE OF THE TIME.
DAY unto day utters speech-

Be wise, O, ye nations! and hear
What yesterday telleth to-day,
What to-day to the morrow will preach.
A change cometh over our sphere,
And the old goeth down to decay.
A new light hath dawned on the darkness of yore,
And men shall be slaves and oppressors no more.

Hark to the throbbing of thought

In the breast of the wakening world:
Over land, over sea it hath come.
The serf that was yesterday bought,
To-day his defiance hath hurled,

No more in his slavery dumb, And to-morrow will break from the fetters that bind,

And lift a bold arm for the rights of mankind.

Hark to the voice of the time!

The multitude think for themselves,
And weigh their condition, each one.
The drudge has a spirit sublime,
And, whether he hammers or delves,
He reads when his labor is done,
And learns, though he groan under penury's ban,
That freedom to think is the birthright of man.

But yesterday thought was confined;
To breathe it was peril or death,
And it sank in the breast where it rose;

Now, free as the midsummer wind,

It sports its adventurous breath, And round the wide universe goes; The mist and the cloud from its pathway are curled,

And glimpses of glory illumine the world.

The voice of opinion has grown:

'Twas yesterday changeful and weak, Like the voice of a boy ere his prime; To-day it has taken the tone

Of an orator worthy to speak,

Who knows the demands of his time, And to-morrow will sound in oppression's cold ear Like the trump of the seraph to startle our sphere.

Be wise, oh, ye rulers of earth! And shut not your ears to his voice, Nor allow it to warn you in vain: True Freedom of yesterday's birth Will march on its way and rejoice, And never be conquered again. The day has a tongue, aye, the hours utter speech, Wise, wise will ye be if ye learn what they teach.

157

WHAT MIGHT BE DONE.

WHAT might be done if men were wise— What glorious deeds, my suffering brother, Would they unite

TO THE WEST! TO THE WEST!

To the West! to the West! to the land of the free,
Where mighty St. Lawrence rolls down to the sea,
Where a man is a man, if he's willing to toil,
And the humblest may gather the fruits of the soil,
Where children are blessings, and he who hath most,
Hath aid for his fortune and riches to boast;
Where the young may exult, and the aged may rest,
Away, far away, to the Land of the West!

To the West! to the West! where the rivers that flow
Run thousands of miles, spreading out as they go;
Where the green waving forests, that echo our call,
Are wide as old England, and free to us all:
Where the prairies, like seas where the billows have
rolled,

Are broad as the kingdoms and empires of old;
And the lakes are like oceans in storm or in rest,
Away, far away, to the Land of the West!

To the West! to the West! there is wealth to be won,
The forest to clear is the work to be done:
We'll try it, we'll do it, and never despair,
While there's light in the sunshine and breath in
the air.

The bold independence that labor shall buy,
Shall strengthen our hands and forbid us to sigh.
Away! far away! let us hope for the best,
And build up new homes in the Land of the West!

CHEER, BOYS! CHEER!

I.

CHEER, boys! cheer! no more of idle sorrow!

Courage, true hearts, shall bear us on our way! Hope points before and shows the bright tomorrow,

Let us forget the darkness of to-day! So farewell, England! Much as we may love thee, We'll dry the tears that we have shed before; Why should we weep to sail in search of fortune? So farewell, England! farewell evermore!

Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother England!

Cheer, boys! cheer! the willing strong right hand!

Cheer, boys! cheer! there's work for honest labor

Cheer, boys! cheer!-in the new and happy land!

II.

Cheer, boys! cheer! the steady breeze is blowing,
To float us freely o'er the ocean's breast;
The world shall follow in the track we're going,
The star of empire glitters in the west.
Here we had toil and little to reward it,

But there shall plenty smile upon our pain,
And ours shall be the mountain and the forest,
And boundless prairies ripe with golden grain.
Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother Eng-
land!

Cheer, boys! cheer! united heart and hand! Cheer, boys! cheer! there's wealth for honest labor

Cheer, boys! cheer!-in the new and happy land!

TUBAL CAIN.

OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might

In the days when earth was young; By the fierce red light of his furnace bright The strokes of his hammer rung;

And he lifted high his brawny hand

On the iron glowing clear, Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers, As he fashioned the sword and spear. And he sang-“ Hurra for my handiwork! Hurra for the Spear and Sword! Hurra for the hand that shall wield them well, For he shall be King and Lord!"

To Tubal Cain came many a one,

As he wrought by his roaring fire,
And each one prayed for a strong steel blade
As the crown of his desire;

And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud for glee,
And gave him gifts of pearl and gold,
And spoils of the forest free.
And they sang-"Hurra for Tubal Cain,
Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurra for the smith, hurra for the fire,
And hurra for the metal true!"

But a sudden change came o'er his heart
Ere the setting of the sun,

And Tubal Cain was filled with pain

For the evil he had done;

He saw that men, with rage and hate,

Made war upon their kind,

That the land was red with the blood they shed
In their lust for carnage, blind.
And he said-"Alas! that ever I made,

Or that skill of mine should plan,

The spear and the sword for men whose joy Is to slay their fellow-man!"

And for many a day old Tubal Cain

Sat brooding o'er his woe; And his hand forbore to smite the ore, And his furnace smouldered low. But he rose at last with a cheerful face, And a bright courageous eye, And bared his strong right arm for work, While the quick flames mounted high. And he sang-"Hurra for my handiwork!” And the red sparks lit the air;

"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made;"

And he fashioned the First Ploughshare!

And men, taught wisdom from the Past,
In friendship joined their hands,

Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,

And ploughed the willing lands; And sang-"Hurra for Tubal Cain!

Our stanch good friend is he;

And for the ploughshare and the plough

To him our praise shall be.

But while Oppression lifts its head,

Or tyrant would be lord,

Though we may thank him for the Plough, We'll not forget the Sword!"

THE GOOD TIME COMING. THERE'S a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming:

We may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray
Of the good time coming.
Cannon-balls may aid the truth,

But thought's a weapon stronger;
We'll win our battle by its aid;—
Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming:

The pen shall supersede the sword,
And Right, not Might, shall be the lord
In the good time coming.
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind,
And be acknowledged stronger;
The proper impulse has been given;—
Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,

A good time coming:

War in all men's eyes shall be

A monster of iniquity

In the good time coming: