Where the way-weary traveler reaches his goal

On the evergreen Mountains of Life.

Our gaze can not soar to that beautiful land,
But our visions have told of its bliss,

And our souls by the gale of its gardens are fanned
When we faint in the deserts of this;

And we sometimes have longed for its holy repose, When our spirits were torn with temptations and woes,

And we've drank from the tide of the river that flows

From the evergreen Mountains of Life.

Oh, the stars never tread the blue heavens at night, But we think where the ransomed have trod; And the day never smiles from his palace of light, But we feel the bright smile of our God!

We are traveling homeward through changes and gloom

To a kingdom where pleasures unceasingly bloom, And our guide is the glory that shines through the tomb

From the evergreen Mountains of Life.

MARION MOORE.

GONE art thou, Marion, Marion Moore, Gone like the bird in the autumn that singeth, Gone like the flower by the wayside that springeth, Gone like the leaf of the ivy that clingeth

Round the lone rock on a storm-beaten shore.

Dear wast thou Marion, Marion Moore, Dear as the tide in my broken heart throbbing, Dear as the soul o'er thy memory sobbing; Sorrow my life of its roses is robbing, Wasting is all the glad beauty of yore.

I shall remember thee, Marion Moore,

I shall remember, alas! to regret thee;

I shall regret thee when all others forget thee; Deep in my breast will the hour that I met thee Linger and burn till life's fever is o'er.

Gone art thou, Marion, Marion Moore, Gone like the breeze o'er the billow that bloweth, Gone like the rill to the ocean that floweth, Gone as the day from the gray mountain goeth, Darkness behind thee, but glory before.

Peace to thee, Marion, Marion Moore, Peace which the queens of the earth can not borrow,

Peace from a kingdom that crowned thee with sorrow;

O, to be happy with thee on the morrow,

Who would not fly from this desolate shore?

ISAAC

ISAAC R. BAXLEY.

SAAC R. BAXLEY, a true poet in aspiration and in execution, was born in Baltimore, Md., in 1850. He was educated at the Catholic College of St. Ignatius de Layola (although he is not a Catholic himself), and passed the bar before the age of twenty-one. Mr. Baxley says this was his | first legal crime-but the age question was not asked of him. He practiced little at the law, and abandoned it because he wished to write, and only write poetry.

He commenced to write very early, and no amount of interference could, at any time, have prevented him from pursuing an action over which he had no abiding control. His opinion of poetry is that the old issues, customs and manners therein will soon resign themselves to the new movements and aspirations discerned in all spiritual things, and that the Genius of Poetry is ever the furthest sighted in all human eyes; and that her lips are already beginning to open, singing the things she sees. There is no death to Poetry-but those who can not as yet see whither she is moving have said so-but she does not listen to what they say; they, in time, will listen to her again and again.

Mr. Baxley has traveled a great deal, having been in Europe twice, and has lived permanently in California since 1878. His home is in Santa Barbara.

Mr. Baxley has published two books of poems, "The Temple of Alanthur, with Other Poems," 1886; and "The Prophet, and Other Poems," 1888. He has in press a very remarkable book of his, to be entitled "Songs of the Spirit." C. W. M.

ABSENCE.

ONE stands upon the wayward sands,
His hollow footing sways and shifts,
Seaward his eyes-the world expands
And settles as the sea-cloud drifts:
Shaken, unstable, and, profound,
The seas and shore do swaying spread;
Drifting and lifting-ahead, aground,
Falls the white spray-wild-whirling-dead.
Stand thou in Memory's changing shades
To yearn and anguish; clear and high
Rings out a voice-and sinks, evades

An answer-unpitying passes by:
Look out thine eyes-thy hands upraised—
The drift comes in. O sway and turn;
Sick in the whirling, deceived and crazed
For rest-for sight-yearn thou and yearn.

THE BALLAD OF SIR RAYMOND.

I.

SIR RAYMOND rides afield to-day,

His charger is in stall,

Sir Raymond rides his dapple gray,

He goeth not at all

With helm, or sword, or lance, or shield;

Sir Raymond simply rides afield.

He hath not even bugle-horn,

Nor falcon at his hand,
And tho' 'tis but the early morn

There followeth no band

Of baying hounds and hunting men;
Alone he enters Tethan Glen.

Upon his cap a scarlet plume

Brushes the clinging dew;

Upon his cheeks the blood-red bloom Of vigor hath its hue;

Back from his shoulders, folded wide, His velvet cloak is thrown aside.

And further into Tethan's shade

His dapple paces on,

And crosses brook, and travels glade,
And winds the trees among;

Sir Raymond sees the sweet wild-rose,
And thus he singeth as he goes:

"O wild, wild-rose, a moment yet

Your cheek is with the dew-drop wet,
Then as it goes in anger by

The hot wind drinks your dew-drop dry,
And you, wild-rose, will die.

"O listen not, wild-rose, to me,

The ring-dove sits on yonder tree,
And he will sing when day is high
A song to moisten your cold eye;
O weep and do not die,

O sad, wild-rose, not die."

II.

Maid Evelyn sitteth with the sun
For early company;

She mindeth not the window-stone
Is cold, and carelessly

She leans her white arms on the gray
Old wall, and looketh far away.

She looketh into Tethan Glen,
'Tis full a league away,
Yet oftentimes did Evelyn ken
Sir Raymond's dapple gray
Rest by the ancient sycamore
For speed across the level moor.

To-day she watcheth wearily,
As only lovers.may-
"Mischance, mischance, fly hastily
From Raymond's lord away;
Thou, Lady Ellen, quiet keep,

When thou shalt wake then I shall weep.

"O soft, O softly summer rain
Comes blowing in the glen,
And sweetly comes his kiss again
Unto Maid Evelyn;

A breeze that rises from the rose
Is his sweet voice to me,
But O, how cold the sunlight grows
When he goes o'er the lea!

"I sit and listen to my heart, It singeth sad and low;

O well I see the blood-red dart
Into my bosom go; .
Each day he cometh not to me
An arrow leaves the string,
My breast is bleeding terribly,

O Heart, why strive to sing?

"The wound is wide, and none but he Can backward draw the dart—

I see him come across the lea,

Stand still, my bleeding heart!

Stand still! stand still! my very blood
Is flowing from my side-
Bear Raymond onward, precious flood,
Whatever else betide!"

III.

The livelong day the ring-dove kept
His perch upon the tree,

And all the day the wild-rose wept
At his sad melody:

The livelong day Lord Raymond stayed
Beside the eager, blushing maid.

Throughout the day the porter old
Look'd o'er the level plain;

And well he watched lest Hugh the Bold,
Returning with his train,

Might find the dapple in his stall,

And Raymond's lord within his wall.

True love not heedeth bolt nor bar,
But sad 'tis ever so;

True love and fate do constant war,
And ne'er together go;
What little moments lovers smile

To the long days between the while.

Red in the west the sunlight grew,

The wind came o'er the moor; Maid Evelyn's cheek took paler hue, His steed stood by the door: Go ye who never knew the smart Of tearing back a heart from heart. Go ye, I say, and strive to tell

What felt the bitter maid, How his sad heart did bursting swell, And how he still delayed:

Go ye, I know not words nor phrase-
Such anguish lives not in my lays.

He hies, he hies him o'er the moor,
Watcheth Maid Evelyn;
She sees him pass the sycamore

And enter Tethan Glen:

O well Sir Hugh holds him the chase,
Now Raymond slacken up thy pace.

Go, maiden, to thy chamber high,
Thy love is safely gone,
Look out upon the dying sky
And let thy lips make moan

For the long days till he again

Shall ride the slope from out the glen.

IV.

And Lady Ellen, didst thou trust
Thy heart would sweeter be,
That his should pour upon the dust
The blood-drops not for thee?
And was he better on his bier-
Which likest thou, thy rage or fear?
Haggard she sits, and cannot die-
Maid Evelyn died the day
She heard the porter's sudden cry
Of Raymond's murderous fray;
But Lady Ellen fears the dead

And dares not follow where she sped.

V.

O the long days the dove has flown
His perch upon the tree,

And many winter winds have blown
The wild-rose bitterly;

And summer comes, but never goes
His dapple pacing by the rose.

The dove flies back and waits for him,
Thinking he ever loves;

From morn he waits till daylight dim,

Lord Raymond never comes

O dove depart, and roses fall,
We love and love, and that is all.

THE RIVER XENIL.

REGRET, Xenil, goes with thy tide, Remembrance fastens to the shore Where Pleasure walked thy way beside, And Music ran thy waters o'er.

Xenil, I leave thee. Fair as day

Thy courses stretch the plain along, And run their slow and silver way

Like turnings in a solemn song!

Here the fond child refuses still

To quit his play amid thy tide;
And the swart peasant throws at will
His limbs adown thy grassy side.

The women washing on thy shore
Sing at their work and plash amain,
Mingling their legend's simple lore

In thy sweet rush with harsher strain. While I, who love thee more than they, Though but a stranger in thy land, Must in the distance take my way,

And tread upon a colder strand.

Xenil, I leave thee. Long as life
Walks its rough way these toils among,

So long, companioned in the strife,
Shall run the quiet of thy song!

TIME.

THE old, old Torturer shakes his beard, and strains
With sinewy hands his instruments of pain:
No darkness and no sleep of shadowy night
Hang on the orbit of his terrible gaze:
In all the earth but one unlidded eye
Survives in sun and silence, and sustains.
With every morn his scavengers of night
Thrust on his rack the quivering limbs of babes:
With every year the martyrs file anew
In outcry, fury-in phrensy and in fear.
The old, old Torturer shakes his beard, and turns
Insatiate every link with sinewy hands:

Down goes the chain, and the old Torturer shakes
His beard in sorrow-some ghosts arise and flee:
Out goes the year, and some depart, no more
Returning in their frenzy and their fear.

WAITING.

My lips are singing-my soul is sad: Sing on-sing on-my lips shall cease; The far, far future's voices glad

Are anthems of such souls at peace.