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Where the way-weary traveler reaches his goal
On the evergreen Mountains of Life.
Our gaze can not soar to that beautiful land,
And our souls by the gale of its gardens are fanned
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.
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 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.
ONE stands upon the wayward sands,
An answer-unpitying passes by:
THE BALLAD OF SIR RAYMOND.
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,
There followeth no band
Of baying hounds and hunting men;
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,
Sir Raymond sees the sweet wild-rose,
"O wild, wild-rose, a moment yet
Your cheek is with the dew-drop wet,
The hot wind drinks your dew-drop dry,
"O listen not, wild-rose, to me,
The ring-dove sits on yonder tree,
O sad, wild-rose, not die."
Maid Evelyn sitteth with the sun
She mindeth not the window-stone
She leans her white arms on the gray
She looketh into Tethan Glen,
To-day she watcheth wearily,
When thou shalt wake then I shall weep.
"O soft, O softly summer rain
A breeze that rises from the rose
"I sit and listen to my heart, It singeth sad and low;
O well I see the blood-red dart
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
The livelong day the ring-dove kept
And all the day the wild-rose wept
The livelong day Lord Raymond stayed
Throughout the day the porter old
And well he watched lest Hugh the Bold,
Might find the dapple in his stall,
And Raymond's lord within his wall.
True love not heedeth bolt nor bar,
True love and fate do constant war,
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-
He hies, he hies him o'er the moor,
And enter Tethan Glen:
O well Sir Hugh holds him the chase,
Go, maiden, to thy chamber high,
For the long days till he again
Shall ride the slope from out the glen.
And Lady Ellen, didst thou trust
And dares not follow where she sped.
O the long days the dove has flown
And many winter winds have blown
And summer comes, but never goes
The dove flies back and waits for him,
From morn he waits till daylight dim,
Lord Raymond never comes
O dove depart, and roses fall,
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;
The women washing on thy shore
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
So long, companioned in the strife,
THE old, old Torturer shakes his beard, and strains
Down goes the chain, and the old Torturer shakes
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.