And then, as he passes to sleep, Still full of the feats that he did Long ago in Olympian wars, He closes it down with the sweep Of its slow-turning luminous lid, Its cover of darkness and stars, Wrought once by Hephaestus of old With violet, and vastness, and gold. ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN. -Harper's Magazine, February, 1890.

THE FUNERAL IN VENICE.

(Sestiha.)

GONE forth to join the mighty silent throng!

His spirit fleeting from that sunny land

Whence took long since from earth her heavenward flight

His "Lyric-love, half angel and half bird,"

When the mere mortal sheath struck down by Death

Silenced the song on lips held half divine.

And they of Italy, to them of truth, divine

The songs of both! And loving is the throng
Who in sorrow on the Barge of Death,
gaze
Which glides to lay him in the well-loved land
From whence his spirit, as a soaring bird,
Has taken to the Glory-land its flight.

But Time, who fells the mortal in his flight,
Is burnt to ashes by the spark divine.
The Poet-soul, it soareth as a bird,
And, rising deathless o'er the dying throng,
Floats upward to the sunny song-filled Land
Which lies above the gloomy clouds of Death.

The Poet sleeps in the cool shade of Death,
Beneath Italian skies, which saw the flight
Of happy years spent in that happy land,
A life whose perfectness was half divine!
And all about his bier bright mem'ries throng,
Sweet as the sunset song of some blithe bird.

OH! that in thy career would come an hour
That would thyself to thine own self reveal!
Along the languid pulse of life would steal
The consciousness of thy exceeding dower;
Thus did Napoleon divine his power,

When he beheld the Austrian columns reel;
For him in Lodi's battle smoke and peal
There burst in bloom ambition's ruddy flower.
Oh! for such moment, masterful, supreme,
That would the possible to thee betray,
And thou would'st henceforth be and cease to seem!
Thy spirit, waking, would salute the day,
Accept its challenge, not to be undone,
Since having lived is ever to have won.

IDA A. AHLBORN. -The Cottage Hearth, February, 1890.

TIME AND THEE.

TIME heals all wounds-but far more greater thou
Canst bid all anguish vanish at a breath.
Speak, and the pains will fade which bind me now;
Be silent; Time will only be as Death.

FLAVEL SCOTT MINES. -The American, January 25, 1890.

THE SHADOW-BIRD AND HIS SHADOW.

THROUGH The Dark Land's reeds and rushes,
Down the palm-glooms, I have heard,
Rose-lit with the sun's last blushes,

Comes the Shadow-bird.

And he leads his Shadow! Dimly
Through the sands they two advance.
Then he bows and, somewhat grimly,
They begin to dance.

Fair his Shadow is. Each feather
Of her wild wings looks like lace,
And they whirl and float together

With unearthly grace.

One night when the Sphinx was staring
At them with an evil eye,

And the black man's stars were flaring
In the desert sky,

Then the Shadow-bird grew merry! "My sweet Shadow," whispered he, "You are looking lovely, very,

Will you dance with me?"

"No," she said, "you hear me, do you?
You can go and dance awhile
With those lilies, nodding to you,
There across the Nile!

"No," she said and off she started,

There was not another word,
So it was his Shadow parted
With the Shadow-bird.

(She prefers another fellow,

If the truth must be confessed,
Picturesque in green and yellow,
With a splendid crest!)

And the Shadow-bird now muses,
Like a priest in temples dim,
Just because his Shadow chooses
Not to dance with him.

MRS. S. M. B. PIATT.

-St. Nicholas, February, 1890.

NON SINE LACRYMIS.

IT was that hour when vernal earth

And stormy March prepare

To greet the day of April's tearful birth,

That I, o'ercome with care,

Rose with the twilight from a fireless hearth To take the fresh first air

And smile of morning's mirth.

Tired with old grief's self-pitying moan,

A mile I had not strayed

Ere my dim path grew dark with double zone Of men full fair arrayed,

While, blent with sound of battle-trumpets blown, Came, as through light comes shade,

Cries like an undertone.

Plumed with torn cloud, March led the way,

With spear point keen for thrust,

And eager eyes and harnessed form swathed gray With drifts of wind-blown dust.

Round his bruised buckler in bright letters lay

This scroll which toilers trust:

Non sine pulvere.

Wet as from weltering showers and seas,
April came after him.

He held a cup with saddest imageries
Engraven, and round the rim,

Worn with woe's lip, I spelt out words like these,
Though sorrow-stained and dim:

Non sine lacrymis.

These passed like regal spirits crowned,
Strong March and April fair;

And then a sphere-made music slow unwound
Its soul upon the air,

And soft as exhalations from the ground,

Or spring flowers here and there,
These words rose through the sound:
"Man needs these two in this world's moil,
Earth's drought and dew of spheres,
Grief's freshening rain to lay the dust of toil,
Toil's dust to dry the tears.

To all who rise as wrestlers in life's coil
Time gives, with days and years,
The wrestler's sand and oil."

O, Toil in vain without surcease!

O, Grief no hand can stay!

Think on these words when work or woes increase: Man, made of tears and clay,

Grows to full stature and God's perfect peace,

Non sine pulvere,

Non sine lacrymis.

HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER.

-Harper's Magazine, January, 1890.

LIFE'S GALLEY SLAVE.

If thou couldst die to-night,

And put the world and all its griefs away,
As some lone child grown weary with the day,
I question much if death were hard to bear.
For, tempest-tossed and haunted by despair,
The soul rebels at this long lease of pain,
And plumes itself for flight to other spheres.
Beyond the dim, what mysteries remain?

Or joy or woe, or solace for our fears?
These vex thee not-nor, coward-like, thine eyes

Are veiled, lest some dread shape from out the

darkness rise.

If thou couldst die to-night,

And no heart ache because thine own was stilled,
How measureless the joy that would have thrilled!
But, ah! the morrow with its glad surprise,
The wine cup's cheer, the light in Beauty's eyes-
Their charm will lure thee from the shadowland
Back to the garish splendor of the shore,

And though wilt cringe beneath the scourging hand,

Poor galley-slave at Pleasure's gilded oar;
But one day, weary of her siren's wiles,

The soul will wing its way where lift the restful isles.
ROBERT REXDALE.

-The Boston Traveler, Feb. 21, 1890.

AT THIRTY-FOUR.

HERE I am at thirty-four,
Just as hopeful and as poor
As I was at twenty-one,
When life fairly had begun.
Looking back along the way,
This is what I note to-day:

Life has not been all success,
Very often something less;
Seldom have I lacked for health.
Little have I cared for wealth.

Thought more of the glen and glade Than of busy marts of trade; Thought more of the wood and brook Than of bank or pocket-book.

Have I wiser been than they
Who have hoarded every day?
Wiser I have not been,' tis true,
But, my friends, I say to you,
Happiness is ofttimes sold,
But is never bought with gold.
Wealth too often brings the curse,
Smaller heart with larger purse.

He is poor whose heart and mind
Bar out love of human kind.
He is rich whose days are spent
In the heaven of content.

Looking back to-day, I find

Many a dream I've left behind;
Many a bud of promise lies
Withered 'neath the summer skies;
Many a friendship's tie and trust
Lie there broken in the dust;
Many a foot-print there to-day
Shows where folly led the way.

Half, at least, of life is done,
Half! and nothing have I won.
But hope takes my hand and still
Keeps on pointing up the hill.
Soon I'll reach the high divide
And start down the other side,
Down the sloping hillside path
Into childhood's aftermath,
And I'll be content to say
In the ev❜ning of that day,
Just as happy, just as poor,
As I was at thirty-four.

-January 27, 1890.

W. W. PFRIMMER.

A WINTER SUNSET.

A COLD mist, motionless and gray,

Sleeps on the dark moors where the glow Of the last sunlight of the day

Scarce strikes a sparkle from the snow; The red sun in the murky west Sinks to his rest.

The red sun sinks; his ways grow dim.
From earth and heaven, east, south and north,
And from the west that welcomed him,

No voice or murmur stealeth forth
To break the somber calm and tell
His last farewell.

Nowhere is any life or sound;

Only, at times, far off you hear, Across the dry and barren ground, Strange crackings from the ice-blue mere. The moorland like a dead thing lies Beneath dead skies.

Yet even here quick fancy sees

The hidden germs of patient Spring, Watches amid the flowerless trees

The flashings out of April's wing, And hears, in cadence low and long, An Easter song!

SIDNEY A. ALEXANDER.

-Cassell's Family Magazine.