Puslapio vaizdai

If such should in the end quench all the blue

Above us; then the saddest souls were they Who knew and loved the best, and could not lay The ghost of Hope, and hold the grave in lieu.

O Christ, Thou highest man! if it were so,

And Thou couldst see it, that great heart of Thine Would burn to come amongst us-not to preach

Thy law again, or set our loves aglow
Still less in glory-but to blot each line,
Each thought, each word, Thou camest first

to teach.


HUNGER that strivest in the restless arms

Of the sea-flower, that drivest rooted things To break their moorings, that unfoldest wings In creatures to be wrapt above thy harms; Hunger, of whom the hungry-seeming waves

Were the first ministers, till, free to range, Thou madest the universe thy park and grange, What is it thine insatiate heart still craves?

Sacred disquietude, divine unrest!

Maker of all that breathes the breath of life, No unthrift greed spurs thine unflagging zest, No lust, self-slaying, hounds thee to the strife; Thou art the Unknown God on whom we wait: Thy path the course of our unfolded fate.


(It will be remembered that Pisa, associated as it is with Shelley, was the scene of the life and labor of Galilio.)

THERE lies betwixt dead Pisa and the sea

A haunted forest, with a heart so deep,
That none could sit beneath its pines to weep,
But it would throb for them mysteriously.
Here, in this place I dreamed there met with me
The spirit who his part in it doth keep,
Albeit his starry orbit now hath sweep
As vast as Galileo's, if more free.

He drew me on to where the hollow beat
Of waves upon a shore seemed to my mind
The moan of a remorseful soul, to weet

The homicidal Sea, whose passion blind
Had slain him; as it writhed about my feet

Methought his spirit passed me on the wind.

Wild Sea, that drank his life to quench the thirst Thou had'st of him; and all devouring Fire, Who made his body thine with love as dire;

Air pregnate with his breath, and thou accurst, Mother of Sorrows, Earth, whose claim is first Upon thy children dead, who from the pyre Received his dust,-what did his soul requireWring from ye-ere your Protean bonds he burst? Perchance ye failed to reach him, and he hath O'er-leapt the rounds of change the earthlier


May weary through, nor needing Lethean bath
To speed anew his soul's ethereal tread,
Hath left the elements, spurned from his path,
To challenge grosser spirits in his stead.


АH me, I am a singer, and no seer!

I cannot pierce the clouds which gather chill, I can but lift a voice too faint to fill The darkness, or to cheat my lonely fear. Is the night wearing? Is the morning near? Lives any hope of help or comfort still? Hath any strength of heart to scale the hill And tell us of the signs which thence appear? The battle is over; Life and Death,

Darkness and Light, and nowhere settled peace, But all who live must breath unquiet breath, Hunger and agonise, or wholly cease; And for the hour, the soothest watchman saith He knoweth not if day or night increase.


I SPUR all day from dawn till dark,
I follow a phantom pale,

And often I outrise the lark,

Outwatch the nightingale;

But whether I lie by a cool sweet spring,
Or ride on a burning quest,

A voice in mine ear still murmuring,
Forbears me of my rest.

She haunts the sunshine, haunts the shade,
The mountain and the stream,

And I know not whether she be a maid,
Or only a young man's dream;
But my soul grows white in her lovely light,
And my life so richly blest,-

God not if it better becomes a knight
To possess or be possessed.


No man's work is greater than his soul.
-A Plea, 3.

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Wild fields of ocean, piling heap on heap,
The mountainous wealth of water, but to fling
Abroad in spendthrift haste, still gathering
And scattering to the winds what none would keep;
Thou canst not know so sweet a thing as sleep

For all thy toil; nor hope whereto to cling.— Plowed by the winds in one unending springWhat harvest of the storm hast thou to reap? My spirit owns, but will not bend before

This dull brute might and purposeless, of thine; The sea-bird resting on thy wave is more Than thou, by all its faculty divine To suffer; pang is none in this thy roar, And all the joy that lifts thy wave is mine!



follow a purely literary life has not given to any derinus, in fact, it is doubtful if any of our writers can lay claim to the honor, for to many who have wrought faithfully and nobly with the pen, the editorial desk has been a refuge from the too often inadequate compensation given meritorious work. Perhaps it would be impossible for the true literary life to flourish in our bustling land, as it flourishes in the older civilizations of Europe. We are a unique people, and our ways, our methods, and our thoughts are different from those of the nations from which we had being. Thus the life given up to the quiet of authorship, pure and simple, is unknown among us. Classing journalism as a part of literature, and the prospect broadens, and we find many who have passed their lives in the harness. Of this number, George Parsons Lathrop is, perhaps, the one who most nearly approaches the honor we have mentioned, for his literary life hasnot been broken by political or diplomatic episodes, nor has it been disturbed by the perplexities of business other than journalistic.

Born in Honolulu, on the island of Oahu, Hawaiian Islands, August 25, 1851, where his father was a physician in active practice, and also served as the consul for the United States, he remained there until 1859, when he came home to his native land. His parents were from Northern New York, outgrowth of that sturdy manhood which peopled New England, the Lathrops having landed in Massachusetts in 1634, and aided in the settling of many of the old towns of that region, New London, Connecticut, the present home of the poet, being among the number. Educated in New York City and Germany, Mr. Lathrop studied law in the Columbia Law School during 1870 and 1871, and then entered a law office, but turned to literature immediately, and has followed the profession with a faithfulness that has brought him a wide and well-deserved reputation.

With Mr. Lathrop, as with many other of our literary men, the editorial desk has been both an experience and a help, for from 1875 to 1877 he was assistant editor of the Atlantic Monthly, and from 1877 to 1879, editor of the Boston Sunday Courier. The knowledge gained in these places was invaluable, for it showed what the public desired, and this is a help that only comes to many after long years of endeavor.

Mr. Lathrop had become the father of a book before his connection with the Atlantic Monthly was severed, in fact, of three, the first being "Rose

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and Roof-Tree," a volume of poems published in 1875. His only other book of poems is the fine battle ode, “Gettysburg," read before the Society of the Army of the Potomac, July 3d, 1888. This has been published in pamphlet form. These are his two books of poetry, but he is expecting to bring out a new and larger gathering during the present year. In novels and stories, Mr. Lathrop's pen has been more prolific. Beginning with "Afterglow," a novel published in the No Name Series" in 1876, he has published "Somebody Else," a novelette, 1878; "An Echo of Passion," novelette, 1882; "In The Distance," novel, 1882; "Newport," novel, 1884; "True," novelette and stories, 1884; "Two Sides of a Story," short stories, 1889; and "Would You Kill Him?" novel, 1889. Of miscellaneous works, Mr. Lathrop has produced “A Study of Hawthorne," 1876; "Spanish Vistas," 1883; and a "History of the Union League of Philadelphia," 1883. He also edited "The Masque of Poets," published in the "No Name Series" in 1878, writing several poems for the collection.

These titles, however, represent but a portion of Mr. Lathrop's literary work, for he has been a frequent contributor of varied and interesting essays, criticisms, stories and editorials to a large number of magazines and newspapers; and he has been deeply interested in the International Copyright League, which he virtually founded in 1883, serving as secretary for two years, and doing much work in its behalf ever since.

Thus it will be seen that Mr. Lathrop has touched many branches of literature, and it is not too high praise to say that he has honored all of these. In prose, his style is strong, nervous and pleasing, possessing a directness that avoids the bewilderment of intricate rhetoric, and carrying the reader forward with an exhilarating impetus that makes the end of the book or article a regret. In poetry, Mr. Lathrop is exceedingly happy in the choice of themes, and in their handling, rising to patriotic fire in the noble lyric," Keenan's Charge," and in the fine battle ode of "Gettysburg," and running smoothly and musically in homlier paths. But his muse is not lacking in that subtle insight which conveys striking pictures, or deep thrills of passion in the few words that only the chosen can use; and while the compass of his poetry is not so wide, nor so high-reaching as is the work of other of our singers, it has the true ring of the poetic gold, the echo of the bird-songs, of the wind-notes, and the hidden inner voices of the soul. To so young a man, the future holds only heights crowned with victorious achievement in noble and helpful endeavor. T. S. C.


(Chancellorsville, May, 1863.)

THE sun had set;

The leaves with dew were wet;
Down fell a bloody dusk

On the woods, that second of May,
Where Stonewall's corps, like a beast of prey,
Tore through with angry tusk.
"They've trapped us, boys!"
Rose from our flank a voice.

With a rush of steel and smoke
On came the rebels straight,
Eager as love and wild as hate:

And our line reeled and broke; Broke and fled.

No one staid-but the dead!

With curses, shrieks and cries,
Horses and wagons and men
Tumbled back through the shuddering glen,
And above us the fading skies.
There's one hope, still-
Those batteries parked on the hill!
"Battery, wheel!" ('mid the roar)
"Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fire
Retiring. Trot!" In the panic dire
A bugle rings, "Trot"-and no more.
The horses plunged,

The cannon lurched and lunged,
To join the hopeless rout.
But suddenly rode a form
Calmly in front of the human storm,
With a stern, commanding shout:
"Align those guns!"

(We knew it was Pleasonton's).

The cannoneers bent to obey, And worked with a will at his word: And the black guns moved as if they had heard. But, ah, the dread delay!

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By the shrouded gleam of the western skies, Brave Keenan looked in Pleasonton's eyes For an instant-clear, and cool, and still; Then, with a smile, he said: "I will."

"Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank.
Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank,
Rose joyously, with a willing breath-
Rose like a greeting hail to death.

Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed;

Shouted the officers crimson sash'd;

Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow,
In their faded coats of the blue and yellow;
And above in the air, with an instinct true,
Like a bird of war their pennon flew.

With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds,
And blades that shine like sunlit reeds,
And strong brown faces bravely pale
For fear their proud attempt shall fail,
Three hundred Pennsylvanians close
On twice ten thousand gallant foes.

Line after line the troopers came

To the edge of the wood that was ring'd with flame;
Rode in and sabered and shot-and fell;
Nor came one back his wounds to tell.
And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall
In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall,
While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung
'Round his head, like a halo there, luminous hung.
Line after line; ay, whole platoons,
Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons,
By the maddened horses were onward borne
And into the vortex flung, trampled and torn;
As Keenan fought with his men side by side.

So they rode, till there were no more to ride.

But over them, lying there, shattered and mute,
What deep echo rolls?-'Tis a death salute
From the cannon in place; for, heroes, you braved
Your fate not in vain; the army was saved!

Over them now, year following year-
Over their graves the pine-cones fall,
And the whip-poor-will chants his spectre-call;
But they stir not again; they raise no cheer;
They have ceased. But their glory shall never


Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace.
The rush of their charge is resounding still
That saved the army at Chancellorsville.


GLIMMERS gray the leafless thicket Close beside my garden gate, Where, so light, from post to picket Hops the sparrow, blithe, sedate; Who, with meekly folded wing, Comes to sun himself and sing.

It was there, perhaps, last year,
That his little house he built;
For he seems to perk and peer,
And to twitter, too, and tilt
The bare branches in between,
With a fond, familiar mien.

Once, I know, there was a nest,

Held there by the sideward thrust Of those twigs that touch his breast; Though 'tis gone now. Some rude gust Caught it, over-full of snow,

Bent the bush-and robbed it so.

Thus our highest holds are lost,

By the ruthless winter's wind,
When, with swift-dismantling frost,
The green woods we dwelt in, thinned
Of their leafage, grow too cold
For frail hopes of summer's mold.
But if we, with spring-days mellow,
Wake to woeful wrecks of change,
And the sparrow's ritornello
Scaling still its old sweet range;

Can we do a better thing
Than, with him, still build and sing?

Oh! my sparrow, thou dost breed
Thought in me beyond all telling;
Shootest through me sunlight, seed,
And fruitful blessing, with that welling,
Ripple of ecstatic rest,

Gurgling ever from thy breast!

And thy breezy carol spurs

Vital motion in my blood, Such as in the sapwood stirs, Swells and shapes the pointed bud Of the lilac; and besets

The hollows thick with violets.

Yet I know not any charm

That can make the fleeting time

Of thy sylvan, faint alarm
Suit itself to human rhyme;

And my yearning rythmie word

Does thee grievous wrong, dear bird.

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If, at some time, the gayer note has faltered.
We are as God has made us. Gladness, pain,
Delight and death, and moods of bliss or bane,
With love, and hate, or good, and evil-all,
At separate times, in separate accents call;
Yet 'tis the same heart-throb within the breast
That gives an impulse to our worst and best.
I doubt not when our earthly cries are ended,
The Listener finds them in one music blended.
-The Phobe-Bird.



ISS HATTIE HORNER was born at Muscatine, Iowa, but has lived nearly all her life in White Water, Butler County, Kansas, her present home. She is a graduate of her native high school, as well as of the class of 1883 of theKansas State Normal School; is a fine classical scholar and an able instructor. Endowed with genius, youth and beauty, fascinating as a conversationalist and correspondent, a gifted elocutionist (although she never recites any but her own poems), a member of the Authors' and Artists' Club of her own state, as well as a teacher of five years' standing as principal of the Arkansas City and El Dorado High Schools, she is deservedly popular, and numbers her friends by scores.

If asked, Miss Horner could not tell when her literary career began. It has always been a part of herself, and from her childhood has kept pace with her growth and development. Her earliest recollections of the work are, when a little brown shepherdess, forgetful of the straying sheep and grazing pony, and the mysteries of leaf and flower that took the place of her banished books, she spent the hours putting together bits of original verse, or weaving fancies into impossible fiction to be repeated to the always appreciative listeners at home. Her first poem was written on the back of an envelope, in one of those idle moments. From that time, though a mere child, she began to write in earnest, and her writings from the first were favorably received. State fame came to her when her "Kansas: 1874-1884" was published. It was written as the last train for the relief of the Ohio flood sufferers left the depot at El Dorado, and was a comparison between the grasshopper year and the present time of plenty. Since then she has been constantly busy in filling the demands for her literary work. But, as is not unfrequently the case, while seeking fame in one direction it came to her unsought from another. It was through the medium of her "Letters" written while traveling for her health during vacation, and comprising four series, from Wisconsin, New Orleans, Colorado, New Mexico and California. While engaged in writing these letters, the Kansas Publishing House issued the first volume of poems. It was successful. In January, 1889, her "Letters" were published in book form, under the suggestive title of "Not at Home."

As a writer, Miss Horner is earnest, sympathetic and liberal in her opinion of men and the times, and while her delineations of character, in her stories and sketches, are always strikingly true to

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