My whole heart rises up to bless -And this beside, if you will not blame, My mistress bent that brow of hers; With life or death in the balance: right! My last thought was at least not vain. Who knows but the world may end to-night? Hush! if you saw some western cloud And moon's and evening-star's at once- Then we began to ride. My soul What need to strive with a life awry? Fail I alone, in words and deeds? As the world rushed by on either side. This present of theirs with the hopeful past! What hand and brain went ever paired? What heart alike conceived and dared? What act proved all its thought had been? What will but felt the fleshy screen? We ride and I see her bosom heave. A soldier's doing! what atones? What does it all mean, poet? Well And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. And you, great sculptor-so you gave Who knows what 's fit for us? Had fate And yet she has not spoke so long! What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life's best, with our eyes upturned Whither life's flower is first discerned, We, fixed so, ever should so abide? What if we still ride on, we two, With life forever old yet new, Oh, how but losing love does whose love succeed By the death-pang to the birth-throe, learning what is love indeed? Only grant my soul may carry high through death her cup unspilled, Brimming though it be with knowledge, life's loss drop by drop distilled. I shall boast it mine, the balsam, bless each kindly wrench that wrung From life's tree its inmost virtue, tapped the root whence pleasure sprung, Barked the bole, and broke the bough, and bruised the berry, left all grace Ashes in death's stern alembic, loosed elixir in its place! INCONSTANCY. Was it something said, Something done, -La Saisiaz. Vexed him? Was it touch of hand, Turn of head? Strange! that very way Love begun, I as little understand NEVER. Never the time and the place MEMORY. -In a Year. And the loved one all together! This path-how soft to pace! WOMAN. God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures Boasts two soul-sides, one to face the world with, One to show a woman when he loves her. -One Word More. What follows on remembrance of the past? Fear of the future! Life, from birth to death, Means either looking back on harm escaped, Or looking forward to that harm's return With tenfold power of harming. -Ferishtah's Fancies. FALSEHOOD. Lied is a rough phrase: say he fell from truth In climbing towards it! -Ibid. Round us the wild creatures, overhead the trees, Under foot the moss tracks, life and love with these! I to wear a fawn skin, thou to dress in flowers; All the long lone Summer day, that greenwood life of ours! Rich pavilioned, rather,―still the world without,— Inside, gold-roofed silk-walled silence round about! Queen it thou on purple, I at watch and ward Couched beneath the columns, gaze, thy slave, love's guard! So, for us no world! Let throngs press thee to me! Up and down amid men, heart by heart fare we! Welcome squalid vesture, harsh voice, hateful face! God is soul, souls I and thou; with souls should souls have place. -Ferishtah's Fancies. You groped your way across my room i' the dear dark dead of night; At each fresh step a stumble was: but, once your lamp alight, Easy and plain you walked again; so soon all wrong grew right! What lay on floor to trip your foot? Each object, late awry, Looked fitly placed, nor proved offence to footing free-for why? The lamp showed all, discordant late, grown simple symmetry. Be love your light and trust your guide, with these explore my heart! No obstacle to trip you then, strike hands and souls apart! Since rooms and hearts are furnished so,-light shows you,-needs love start? M ANNE REEVE ALDRICH. ISS ALDRICH was born in New York, April 25, 1866. From her earliest years she showed a fondness for composition, spending hours from the time she learned to print in writing stories and verses, although she had the usual healthy childish tastes for romping and all out-of-door sports. At the death of her father, which occurred in her eighth year, her mother removed to the country, where she took charge of her daughter's education at first, which was afterward carried on by competent tutors. Miss Aldrich displayed remarkable proficiency in composition and rhetoric, which was counterbalanced by what she herself calls an amusing inaptitude for mathematics, so that, while she was translating French and Latin authors for amusement, she was also struggling over a simple arithmetic, whose tear-blotted leaves she still preserves. In her fifteenth year a friend suggested her sending a poem to The Century, or Scribner's Magazine, as it was then called. Although the verses were returned, with them she received a friendly note of encouragement and praise from the editor, who from that time often criticized the young girl's work. She wrote constantly and voluminously, usually destroying her work from month to month, so that but few of her earlier verses are extant. She also read widely, her taste inclining to the early English poets and dramatists and to mediæval literature. When she was seventeen her first published poem appeared in Lippincott's Magazine, followed by others in The Century, Scribner's and various periodicals. In 1885 Miss Aldrich's mother moved back to New York, where they now reside. Her first book, "The Rose of Flame and Other Poems of Love," was issued in March, 1889. Miss Aldrich is slender and girlish in appearance. She dislikes country life and is fond of society. She is a brilliant conversationalist, a most entertaining correspondent, and is fond of all the arts, as music, painting, etc. Her family is of English extraction. Her ancestors were notorious Tories in Revolutionary days, and their large estates were confiscated by the American government. M. A. H. NEW EDEN. In that first Eden, Love gave birth to Shame, This dim, strange place, where for aught we two know, No man hath stepped since God first made it so. Now dream we are alone in all the earth. Say, wouldst thou weep if all save us were dead? I would not weep, but closer to my breast Would press the golden glories of thy head, Rejoicing that none other of my race Should feed his eyes upon thy wondrous face. Look at this tangled snare of undergrowth, New life, new world, what's shame to thee and Let us slay Shame; we shall forget his grave Locked in the rapture of our lone embrace. Yet what if there should rise, as once of old, New wonder of this new, yet ancient place, An angel with a whirling sword of flame LOVE'S CHANGE. I WENT to dig a grave for Love, And I said: "Must he lie in my house in state, TWO SONGS OF SINGING. I. SING to me once again, till I forget Sing! At thy voice the old dream shall arise. II. When first I heard thee sing, O, my Beloved, |