LEFT BEHIND.

WILT thou forget me in that other sphere-
Thou who hast shared my life so long in this-
And straight grown dizzy with that greater bliss,
Fronting heaven's splendor, strong, and full, and
clear,

No longer hold the old embraces dear

When some sweet seraph crowns thee with her kiss? Nay, surely from that rapture thou wouldst miss Some slight, small thing that thou hast cared for here.

I do not dream that from those ultimate heights Thou wilt come back to seek me where I bide; But if I follow, patient of thy slights,

And if I stand there, waiting by thy side, Surely thy heart with some old thrill will stir, And turn thy face toward me, even from her.

ROSES AT SEA.

LOVE-children of the summer and the sun,
Alien to this salt air and stretch of sea,
And beautiful in your bright witchery
As the first rose, whose wooing was begun
By the first nightingale, when day was done
And over Eden's walks the wind blew free,
And the winged wooers sang in ecstasy
Of love, and love, and love, till love was won!
To-day you bless me with your beauty's spell,
Roses from some dream-garden left behind,
With breath half tenderness and half farewell,
And gracious hopes with your sweet grace
entwined.

Will hopes, like buds, turn blossoms? Who shall tell?

Your fragrant soul escapes; can Memory bind?

HELP THOU MY UNBELIEF.

BECAUSE I seek Thee not, oh, seek Thou me!
Because my lips are dumb, oh, hear the cry
I do not utter as Thou passest by,
And from my life-long bondage set me free!
Because content I perish, far from Thee,

Oh, sieze me, snatch me from my fate, and try
My soul in Thy consuming fire! Draw nigh
And let me, blinded, Thy salvation see.
If I were pouring at Thy feet my tears,
If I were clamoring to see Thy face,

I should not need Thee, Lord, as now I need, Whose dumb, dead soul knows neither hopes nor fears,

Nor dreads the outer darkness of this place; Because I seek not, pray not, give Thou heed!

nearly forty years his fame as both poet and vocalist has been steadily rising, until now, when his head is crowned with the whitening locks of the ideal poet, he stands without a rival. Many singers, like Russell and Dempster in secular song, and Phillips, Bliss and Sankey in the religious realm, have achieved success in special fields, while poets like Mackay, Massey and Whittier have won lasting fame as the reform poets of a transition era; but in no instance, either in America or Europe, have the song-writer, the song-singer and the reformer been blended in such conspicuous union as to achieve enduring fame, save in the unique history and experience of Mr. Clark.

Mr. Clark was born in Constantia, N. Y., June 28, 1830, on the borders of the beautiful Oneida Lake. His parents were leading members of the Episcopal Church, in the creed of which their children, four sons and two daughters, were educated, James Gowdy being the third child. At the age of three years he would sit on his mother's knee and sing Kirke White's "Star of Bethlehem" to the tune of "Bonny Doon," without missing a word or note. At the age of twenty-one he was in the concert field, with a local reputation extending over several counties. He soon attracted the attention of Ossian E. Dodge, of Boston, who appointed him musical composer of "Ossian's Bards," a quartette troupe of which Mr. Dodge was organizer and proprietor. About this time Mr. Clark composed and issued in sheet form, "The Old Mountain Tree,” "The Rover's Grave," "The Rock of Liberty," "Meet Me by the Running Brook," and other compositions, which are still favorites with the public. A few years later followed the words and music of such grand spiritual lyrics as "The Mountains of Life," "The Beautiful Hills," etc., songs which never grow old, and which have been received by all classes as perfect, of their kind, and as constituting a new and original departure in sacred song. When the Civil War broke out, Mr. Clark enlisted in a New York regiment and was promptly detailed to the recruiting service. He traveled night and day, speaking and singing till he was prostrated with lung fever, from which he was finally restored to health by his life-long friend, Dr. James C. Jackson, of "Our Home," Dansville, N. Y. The latter convinced the poet-singer that he must forever give up the idea of camp life. Mr. Clark then returned to the concert field, giving one-third of the gross receipts of his work to the sanitary commissions

and aid societies. His patriotic songs stirred the hearts of the people like a bugle blast. He did more to arouse the Union sentiment than any other singer of his day, and at the same time contributed many thousand dollars to the cause of his country. This period called forth his war lyrics.

Since the war period the sign of the ripe grain has appeared in Mr. Clark's whitening head and beard, and his poems have shown greater richness and depth. The greatest of his later poems, and probably the most profound and finished efforts of his life, are "The Mount of the Holy Cross" and "The Infinite Mother." The latter is the first worthy effort to express in song the idea of the motherhood of God. And as such it is a forerunner and a prophecy, and is altogether the best poetic contribution yet made to the cause of woman's enfranchisement and emancipation. should become as popular with all women organizations as "The Voice of the People" is with the labor associations. And this "Voice of the People" is the greatest of Mr. Clark's reform lyrics. It catches and reproduces the thunder of the coming storm, and the roar and tramp of the great hungry "Army of the Rear."

It

As a poet, Mr. Clark's gift is threefold. Nature gave him the whole gift of song-a favor she has bestowed upon few of any age-viz.: the genius to produce genuine poems, the power to wed them to a high order of music, and the voice and presence to render them to delighted audiences.

His

But Mr. Clark is not only "The Poet-Singer of America;" he is also a writer of vigorous prose and a reformer of cosmopolitan sympathies. He has a mission and a call, and if ever a man found his vocation and "kept himself true to beauty and to truth," that man is James G. Clark. His mission has been to comfort and revive depressed spirits, to arouse humanity to progress and legitimate reform, to sing out the wrong and sing in the right. Personally, he is abreast of his poetry. manhood is as admirable as his song. In fact, the man is greater than the poet. He is a reformer in his life, living what he sings. He is as clean as his work; is with the people in their struggle for a new and nobler birth. He caters to no class, sect or party. Socially, politically and religiously, he is an independent. In brief, he is a man, and his poetry, his singing and life-long labor in the great reforms of the country are the natural expression of his manhood. A. P. M.

INNOVATION.

TIE my wrists with hempen strands While brazen force around me stands!

You can not with your fetters bind
The daring impulse of the mind,
Nor quench the lightning sparks of thought
That upward from the scaffold leap,

To live and wait through slavery's years
Till Destiny's firm web is wrought,
To bide their time while tyrants sleep,
And prisoners pace their cells and weep,
Then burst with power, in bolt and flash,
And roaring flood and thunder crash
In answer to the exile's tears!
To work their will, above control
Of human customs, courts and laws:
So leaped the fires of Emmet's soul,
To burn anew in Freedom's cause
Wherever blades for Freedom rise,
Wherever Freedom's banners stream,
Wherever Freedom's thunders roll,
Wherever Freedom's lightnings gleam,
And man for freedom strikes and dies!

Still my pulse and stop my breath!
Who work with truth may play with death.
Hang me quick and hang me high!

So hung the form of Old John Brown;
And though they cut the body down,
The shadow broader, higher grew;
It met the seas, it reached the sky,
And darkened mountain, lake and town!
Wherever Freedom's eagles flew,
Wherever Freedom's breezes blew,
From frigid North to fervid South,
From Maine to broad Columbia's mouth,
The shadow towered above the world
Where Freedom's stars in shame were furled.
It turned the stars and sun to blood,
And poured on earth a crimson flood!
The Nation quaffed the bloody rain,
And all her first-born sons were slain.
Let me die! My work is done!
The dying stars proclaim the sun
The weaker eyes could not behold,
And lower lights had not foretold.
Then die upon a bed of gold,

Because the grander light is born!
The highland rills that seaward glide
May vanish in the mountain side,
And, sinking through the voiceless earth,
Within the cold, dark caves abide;
But naught can stay their "second birth,"
Or dim their resurrection morn.
Sometime, somewhere, in stronger tide,
And warmer light and broader sweep,
They rush to swell the distant deep,
That turns its awful palms to heaven,

That girdles with its mighty hands
All kingdoms, empires, realms and lands,
Within whose all-embracing rim
The fleets of nations sink or swim
Like fire-flies in the midst of even,
And on whose all-receiving breast
The Ages lay their dead to rest.

Lead me forth! I'm ready now!
Pull the black cap o'er my brow!
You can not blind my inner sight;
I see the dawn behind the night;
Beyond the dawn I see the day;

And through the day I see the Truth
Arising in immortal youth!

The sunbeams on her forehead play;
The cities in her tresses twine;
The peace of God dwells in her face
And rolls the clouds of war away;
Around her feet the roses grow;
Her tender bosoms swell and flow
With healing for the stricken race,
And in her eyes seraphic shine
Faith, Hope and Love, and every grace!
The old recedes, the New descends!

Earth clasps the hand that Heaven extends,
The Lion and the Lamb are friends!

THE INFINITE MOTHER.

I AM mother of Life and companion of God!
I move in each mote from the suns to the sod,
I brood in all darkness, I gleam in all light,
I fathom all depth and I crown every height;
Within me the globes of the universe roll,

And through me all matter takes impress and soul.
Without me all forms into chaos would fall;
I was under, within, and around, over all,
Ere the stars of the morning in harmony sung,
Or the systems and suns from their grand arches
swung.

I loved you, O earth, in those cycles profound,
When darkness unbroken encircled you round,
And the fruit of creation, the race of mankind,
Was only a dream in the Infinite Mind;

I nursed you, O earth, ere your oceans were born,
Or your mountains rejoiced in the gladness of morn,
When naked and helpless you came from the womb,
Ere the seasons had decked you with verdure and
bloom,

And all that appeared of your form or your face Was a bare, lurid ball in the vast wilds of space.

When your bosom was shaken and rent with alarms, I calmed and caressed you to sleep in my arms,

I sung o'er your pillow the song of the spheres
Till the hum of its melody softened your fears,
And the hot flames of passion burned low in your

breast,

As you lay on my heart like a maiden at rest; When fevered, I cooled you with mist and with

shower,

And kissed you with cloudlet, and rainbow, and flower,

Till you woke in the heavens arrayed like a queen,
In garments of purple, of gold and of green,
From fabrics of glory my fingers had spun
For the mother of nations and bride of the sun.

There was love in your face, and your bosom rose

fair,

And the scent of your lilies made fragrant the air, And your blush in the glance of your lover was rare As you waltzed in the light of his warm yellow hair, Or lay in the haze of his tropical noons,

Or slept 'neath the gaze of the passionless moons; And I stretched out my arms from the awful unknown,

Whose channels are swept by my rivers alone,
And held you secure in your young mother-days,
And sung to your offspring their lullaby lays,
While races and nations came forth from your
breast,

Lived, struggled and died, and returned to their rest.

All creatures conceived at the Fountain of Cause
Are born of my travail, controlled by my laws;

I throb in their veins and I breathe in their breath,
Combine them for effort, disperse them in death;
No form is too great or minute for my care,
No place so remote but my presence is there.
I bend in the grassess that whisper of spring,
I lean o'er the spaces to hear the stars sing,

I laugh with the infant, I roar with the sea,

I roll in the thunder, I hum with the bee;
From the center of suns to the flowers of the sod
I am shuttle and loom in the purpose of God,
The ladder of action all spirit must climb
To the clear heights of Love from the lowlands of
Time.

'T is mine to protect you, fair bride of the sun,
Till the task of the bride and the bridegroom is
done;

Till the roses that crown you shall wither away,
And the bloom on your beautiful cheek shall decay;
Till the soft golden locks of your lover turn gray,
And palsy shall fall on the pulse of Day;
Till you cease to give birth to the children of men,
And your forms are absorbed in my currents again.

But your sons and your daughters, unconquered by strife,

Shall rise on my pinions and bathe in my life, While the fierce glowing splendors of suns cease to burn,

And bright constellations to vapor return,

And new ones shall rise from the graves of the old, Shine, fade and dissolve like a tale that is told.

THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE. SWING inward, O, gates of the future! Swing outward, ye doors of the past! For the soul of the people is moving

And rising from slumber at last. The black forms of night are retreating, The white peaks have signaled the day, And freedom her long roll is beating,

And calling her sons to the fray.

And woe to the rule that has plundered

And trod down the wounded and slain, While the wars of the Old Time have thundered, And men poured their life-tide in vain. The day of its triumph is ending,

The evening draws near with its doom, And the star of its strength is descending, To sleep in dishonor and gloom.

Though the tall trees are crowned on the highlands

With the first gold of rainbow and sun, While far in the distance below them

The rivers in dark shadows run,

They must fall, and the workmen shall burn them

Where the lands and the low waters meet, And the steeds of the New Time shall spurn them With the soles of their swift-flying feet.

Swing inward, O, gates! till the morning
Shall paint the brown mountains in gold,
Till the life and the love of the New Time
Shall conquer the hate of the Old.
Let the face and the hand of the Master
No longer be hidden from view,
Nor the lands He prepared for the many
Be trampled and robbed by the few.

The soil tells the same fruitful story,
The seasons their bounties display,
And the flowers lift their faces in glory
To catch the warm kiss of the day;
While our fellows are treated as cattle

That are muzzled when treading the corn,
And millions sink down in life's battle
With a sigh for the day they were born.

Must the Sea plead in vain that the River
May return to its mother for rest,
And the Earth beg the rain-clouds to give her
Of dews they have drawn from her breast?
Lo! the answer comes back in a mutter
From domes where the quick lightnings glow,
And from heights where the mad waters utter
Their warning to dwellers below.

And woe to the robbers who gather

In fields where they never have sown,
Who have stolen the jewels from labor
And builded to Mammon a throne;
For the snow-king, asleep by the fountains,
Shall wake in the summer's hot breath,
And descend in his rage from the mountains,
Bearing terror, destruction and death.

And the throne of their god shall be crumbled,
And the scepter be swept from his hand,
And the heart of the haughty be humbled,
And a servant be chief in the land.
And the Truth and the Power united
Shall rise from the graves of the True,
And the wrongs of the Old Time be righted
In the might and the light of the New.

For the Lord of the harvest hath said it,
Whose lips never uttered a lie,
And his prophets and poets have read it
In symbols of earth and of sky:
That to him who has reveled in plunder
Till the angel of conscience is dumb,
The shock of the earthquake, and thunder,
And tempest, and torrent shall come.

Swing inward, O, gates of the future!
Swing outward, ye doors of the past!
A giant is waking from slumber

And rending his fetters at last.

From the dust where his proud tyrants found

him,

Unhonored, and scorned, and betrayed, He shall rise with the sunlight around him, And rule in the realm he has made.

THE MOUNTAINS OF LIFE.

THERE's a land far away, 'mid the stars, we are told,

Where they know not the sorrows of time, Where the pure waters wander through valleys of

gold,

And life is a treasure sublime;

'Tis the land of our God, 'tis the home of the soul, Where ages of splendor eternally roll;