Puslapio vaizdai




WHILE the clouds hang low and the night-winds


The Earth is weary, and dark, and lone.

(0, sad Earth, thy pain I know.) His heart of sorrow will not foresee

How the white moon cometh, his bride to be. (And there is but one more fair than she, Saith my heart in whispers low.)

The storm is ended; the winds are whist;
But the moon is masked in a shining mist.
(0, fond Earth, thy doubt I know.)
She parteth her veil-of silver spun-
And glory and joy the Earth o'errun.

(O, Love, behold what a smile hath done,
Saith my heart in whispers low.)

Crieth my soul, O list! O hear!
She that I love is near-is near!

(0, glad Earth, thy hope I know.) Celestial glory the sky hath spanned; My lips are mute, but they touch her hand. (She that I love will understand, Saith my heart in whispers low.)

Ah, that smile! 'Tis a silent vow.
Her pure heart flameth up to her brow.

(0, strong Earth, thy bliss I know.) All that was bitter is turned to sweet; All that was lacking is made complete. (Heaven hath followed my darling's feet, Saith my heart in whispers low.)


THERE once was a restless boy
Who dwelt in a home by the sea,

Where the water danced for joy

And the wind was glad and free;

But he said, "Good mother, oh, let me go; For the dullest place in the world I know Is this little brown house,

This old brown house

Under the apple tree.

I will travel east and west;

The loveliest homes I'll see;

And when I have found the best,

Dear mother, I'll come home for thee, I'll come for thee in a year and a day, And joyfully then we'll haste away

From this little brown house,
This old brown house

Under the apple tree.

So he traveled here and there,
But never content was he.

Though he saw in lands most fair
The costliest home there be,

He something missed from the sea or sky
Till he turned again, with a wistful sigh,
To the little brown house,

The old brown house
Under the apple tree.

Then the mother saw and smiled,
While her heart grew glad and free.
"Hast thou chosen a home, my child?
Ah, where shall we dwell?" quoth she.
And he said, "Sweet mother, from east to west
The loveliest home and the dearest and best
Is a little brown house,

An old brown house

Under an apple tree."


Now the snow is on the ground,

And the frost is on the glass; Now the brook in ice is bound,

And the great storms rise and pass,
Bring the thick, gray cloud;

Toss the flakes of snow;
Let your voice be hoarse and loud,
And blow, wind, blow!

When our day in school is done,

Out we come with you to play. You are rough, but full of fun,

And we boys have learned your way. All your cuffs and slaps

Mean no harm, we know.

Try to snatch our coats and caps,

And blow, wind, blow!

You have sent the flowers to bed;

Cut the leaves from off the trees; From your blast the birds have fled; Now you do what you may please. Yes; but by and by

Spring will come, we know,

Spread your clouds then, wide and high, And blow, wind, blow!


They were drawn to a path of pain and shame,
As the moth is drawn to the torturing flame,
Though they knew there were paupers, and men

And prisons, and graves at the end of the lane.



HIS writer of historic ballads and popular sympathetic verse, whose name is familiar to American hearts and homes, is a descendant of one of the earliest New England families-the Massachusetts. Adams Lovejoy, the martyr to the cause of emancipation, and the famous Owen Lovejoy were relatives on his father's side of the family. He was born at Riga, Monroe county, New York. Music became his early passion, and his song, “O, Love in the West," is the ripe fruit of his early musical culture. At ten years of age he became a pupil at the Conservatory, Lyons, N. Y., conducted by Prof. Hinsdale Sherwood, father of the eminent pianist, Wm. H. Sherwood. In 1858 Mr. Lovejoy's parents removed to Ann Arbor, Mich., where the son attended the public schools of that University town, and later graduated from the law department of the University before the age of twenty-one.

His father died suddenly in 1865, and the life of Mr. Lovejoy was terribly saddened for months after. He and his mother always lived together, each bound up in the affection of the other. She died near Rochester in August, 1888. Into his mother's grave went the joy of his life. For years he has given his attention to music and literary work. He has published several songs, has written for Lippincott's Magazine, St. Nicholas, one of the Harper publications, The Current, the American Magazine, Youth's Companion, and other prominent periodicals as well as newspapers. "Disappointment," a poem appearing in Lippincott's Magazine in April, 1883, attracted much attention. He has spent much time on varied occasions in the larger eastern cities, but he has a distaste for great cities and prefers a retired life. At present he resides in Rochester, N. Y.


H. B.

THE rose looked fairer as it lay
On her cold breast that summer day,
And sweeter smelled its guileless breath
Above the heart so still in death.
Beholding her the eye could trace
A tender smile on her calm face,
While on her lips one could not miss,
As e'en in life, the waiting kiss!

She seemed as one fast fallen asleep,
Like one in blissful dreamland deep,
Or, like an angel in repose,
Breathing the breath of a white rose;

And yet her quiet loveliness
A deeper meaning did express,
One full of that mysterious power
Which makes one dumb in such an hour!

We bended down and kissed the face
So white and sad, yet full of grace,
And felt the lily hands that pressed,
As in fond prayer, the silent breast,
And dropped the tears of sad regret
O'er one whose lovely bloom had set
In rarer hues and sweeter scent,
In God's blest garden of content!


'Tis true, it is as graceful as when, in other days, It wound along in beauty to the top; but as I gaze This musing hour upon it, sad tears my eyelids fill, For something's gone forever from the old path up the hill.

The sunlight and the shadows rest upon it with the same

Dear benedictive presence as in the days when


No aching care to haunt me, from morn till eve at will

Ere something passed forever from the old path up the hill.

The breezes, as they loiter, the old airs fondly croon,

The blithe birds in the tree-tops sing as in my life's lost June;

And, as then, the myriad blossoms all around their wealth distill

But something's gone forever from the old path up the hill.

Something a face-a touch of hand-a voice-a presence-lo!

A world that brought me heaven, all vanished with the flow

Of pauseless time, and, slowly, along I wander still

With something gone forever from the old path up the hill.

Would ye might come again-again-oh, days so

dear to me,

And give me back the glory of my life's sweet Arcady!

For, though summer reigns a goddess, in my heart lives winter's chill,

Since something's gone forever from the old path up the hill.

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RTHUR JOHN LOCKHART was born May 5, 1850, in the village of Lockhartville, Kings county, Nova Scotia. It is a very picturesque country, overlooking the yellow waters of Avon river, and a little farther off Minas basin, with Cape Blomidon and Five Islands and the Cumberland shore in sight. About four miles away lies the valley of the Gaspereau river, and beyond that the Grand-pré, a beautiful stretch of level hayland, dyked in from the tides of Minas basin. There is no more beautiful scenery in Nova Scotia than this. A good description of the charming pastoral landscape of Gaspereau may be found in Mr. Lockhart's poem by that name. How the love of nature grew in him and sought poetic expression is told in the same poem.

Mr. Lockhart is of Scotch descent on his father's side, and of Huguenot on his mother's. His father was a shipmaster, and his long voyages and absences gave a touch of pathos and romance to the boy's life. He inherited a deeply religious temperament, and after trying for some years the printer's trade in Cambridge, Mass., he found his congenial life-work in the Christian ministry. For sixteen years he has been an acceptable preacher in the Methodist Episcopal Church of Maine. While stationed at East Corinth, Penobscot county, he published a volume of poems entitled, "The Mask of Minstrels." This volume was received with favor. He has done some very acceptable essay-work in the Portland Transcript, under the nom de plume of "Pastor Felix." Stray poems of his find their way into various papers of the Dominion and of the United States. He has had his full share of labor and sorrow, which accounts for the minor strain in many of his poems. A brother was lost at sea in early manhood, and it is in his memory he writes the sweet elegy, "To Thee, the Love of Woman Hath Gone Down." Mr. Lockhart's best work has a singing quality, a lyrical spirit and a natural ease and charm which distinguish it from His mere rhetoric, however cunningly devised. poems have numerous quotable lines, which are full of the very fragrance and essence of beauty. It will be found that many of them will bear close acquaintance and will yield more fragrance the closer they are pressed. B. W. L.


THE green leaves twinkled overhead, And lightly on the turf beneath She walked, but not a word we said; She braided me a daisy wreath,

With clover and grasses blent,

While toward the sea we smiling went.

The glossy buttercups were there,
Sprinkling the waysides with their gold;
And in the west hung splendors rare
Of sunset that are never told;
And, on white waters glorified,
The quiet ships did brightly ride.

The charm of silence was not broken
With words that softly fill the ear-
Affection's sweet, responsive token-
Accents the spirit leaps to hear;

And as we walked I vainly sought
To plume with speech my fluttering tho't.

We sat to rest beside the way;

She raised her sweet eyes up to mine; Her inmost soul had risen to say, "And dost thou question I am thine?" No need that she or I should speak; For love is strong when words are weak.


IN THE chill autumn night, when lone winds grieve,
I musing sat, where on my cottage wall
The flickering shadows of the fire-light fall,
Shuttles that Fancy's silver web doth weave;
Lonely and worn, I thought upon the dearth
Of heavenly influence; for our dull earth
No longer may her plumy guests receive
From regions where divinest things have birth.

Wandering in dream, I saw the new-risen Eve,
Prime of all human beauty, human worth,
Sitting upon a flower-besprinkled mound

Of Paradise; and felt the charm, the grace,
The pure content that harmonized her face.
She moved not, but a tranquil rapture found
In gazing upward, rapt with wondrous view
Of gold-winged angels softly breaking through,
Or melting in the deep of evening blue-
Fleet couriers, messaged from a world afar-
And on the brow of each a lucent star!
"Strange!" thought I, wondering at the things I

Like him at Bethel, waking, filled with awe
Of this great vision: "Surely, I behold
The angels tarrying with us as of old!"

And though the fire-lit embers had not died, They made not the sweet face my chair beside, The form of light-and fair as Eden's brideWatching each sparkle with her quiet smile.


"Dear fireside angel, who dost go and come Like light and music through the halls of home! And are there angels with us yet?” I cried; "And come they still who came to earth erewhile?" "There are," she said; "Though oft the world

seem cold,

And life seem disenchanted with dull cares, The heavenly ministry cometh as of old— We wake to find our angels unawares."


Ho! Ho! let us cheer him, the hale and the tanned! With the brave of his heart and the brawn of his hand,

The merry brown farmer is king in the land.
The farmer forever! Hurrah!

Ho! Ho! he can smile at the pains of the great; He maketh his fortune, and mendeth his fate, And keeps a calm hand on the tiller of state. The farmer forever! Hurrah!

He waves his wand over the mold o' the plain, He calls on the sun, and he calls on the rain, And they leap up to life in the beautiful grain. The farmer forever! Hurrah!

Let him sit in life's evening and dream at his ease,
'Neath the lush leafy boughs of his blossomy trees,
Till children's grandchildren climb up on his knees.
The farmer forever! Hurrah!

Ho! Ho! for true heart, and for rough, ready hand,
The prompt to obey, and the firm to command,
The merry brown farmer is king in the land.
The farmer forever! Hurrah!


PRONE on a mossy bank in languor lying, 'Mid the sun-beaten porch o' the afternoon, List'ning a famish'd rillet's lessening tune, And the dark, jaded fir-tree's faintest sighing; To half-closed eyes some wandering beams came prying,

And peered through branches-streamed their gold across

Drowsed brain and stilly eyelids, with the floss Of locks illuminate; when saw I flying Swift wings, like quivering seraphim, quick plying Under a triple arch of rainbow's-end

Of a long bridge of light; and finest hints
Of song, a tiny aerial music, dying,

And rising yet again, they seemed to send-
While close beside me rose the Fairy Prince!



SING on, little bird, from the South-land suddenly come,

Sing on! Our woods wear green again to yield thee a home;

Sliding o'er slope and meadow, flitting from tree to tree,

Sing, for my heart leaps lightly, warmly to welcome thee!

Sing on, little bird, be thou blue-bird, bobolink, thrush!

Sing, with the woodland, streamlet, the torrent's musical rush!

People the nest-hung elms, ye bright-plumed oriolecrew,

And sport in your very dominion of softly-shimmering blue!

Sing on, little bird! for mine ear has grown thirsty for song!

Dumb the winter enchain'd me, but I to the summer belong;

And it seems that I, too, a-flutter, could with thee warble and fly,

When I hear the first faint cuckoo, or see Jack
Robin a-nigh.

Sing on, little bird! for soon will a silence fall
Over the budding groves and the pine-hills tall,
When the woods will blaze and blacken, till all be

Then where will be the twitter and carol, the sweet and sunny air?

Sing on, little bird! we'll remember, in some other land and spring,

When these moorlands lie in silence, that thou hast not ceased to sing;

For away in the evergreen South-land thou'lt mingle with the bloom

Of orange and magnolia, and thy sweet singing


Sing on, little bird! So cheery forever thy caroling strain;

Thou changest for woe no rapture, thou hast not learned to complain:

Thou fliest away from the winter, speeding gleeful along,

And greetest the far-off forests with summer and song.

Sing on, little bird! O, sing! till thy music shall counsel my heart;

Sing! for in thy singing my spirit has jubilant part: Singing is better than sighing, O, petulant heart

of mine!

Thou, too, hast love with singing; then wherefore, O, wherefore repine?

-For The Magazine of Poetry.

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