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*THE ANCIENT "LADY OF SORROW."
HER closing eyelids mock the light;
A mystic veil is drawn.
She will not see the dawn!
The morning leaps across the plain-
At eve the shadows come again;
In spring she doth her winter wait;
Before her pass in solemn state
What is, or shall be, or hath been,
Therefore our Lady hath no rest;
She taketh on her all our grief;
In vain she holds the poppy leaf-
Even fabled Lethe hath no rest,
"Childhood and youth are vain,” she saith,
That calls it from the earth.
"And yet," she saith, "this thing is sureThere is no life but shall endure,
And death is only birth.
"From death or birth no powers defend, And thus from grade to grade we tend, By resurrections without end,
Unto some final peace.
But distant is that peace," she saith;
Expecting her release.
"O Rest," she saith, "that will not come, Not even when our lips are dumb, Not even when our limbs are numb,
And graves are growing green!
O Death, that, coming on apace,
Thou wear'st a treach'rous mien!"
But still she gives the shadow place-
Ye must not draw aside her veil;
But, hark! from out the stillness rise
They, trembling, lose themselves in rest, Soothing the anguish of her breastMiserere Domine!
HENRY M. ALDEN.
IN THE DARK.
ALL moveless stand the ancient cedar-trees
A murky darkness lies along the sand,
Where bright the sunbeams of the morning shone,
No large, pale star its glimmering vigil keeps;
And the dark river, like a serpent, creeps
Strange salty odors through the darkness steal,
I stretch my hands out in the empty air;
THE ROYAL ABBESS.
Is the Abbey stall, with his vestments old,
"And under thy veil of costly lace
Is little, I ween, of penance done;
"My robe, with its reaved and ragged fray,
I would not give in exchange to-day
The fair young abbess had stood before
A fire in her saintly eyes.
"God gave me the beauty that thou dost bid
"My father, the king, to the court still calls;
"And I, for my holy service' sake,
As a daughter of princes, choose that He Who winneth me from the world should take My dowry along with me.
"He loved the lilies; He made them fair; And sweet as the sweetest incense flows The stream of its fragrance when I wear For Him, on my heart, a rose.
"And, father, I doubt not there may hide
MARGARET J. PRESTON.
ARE ALL THE CHILDREN IN?
THE darkness falls, the wind is high,
The thunders roll, the lightnings flash,
They're coming softly to my side;
But future days are drawing nearThey'll go from this warm shelter here Out in the world's wild din;
The rain will fall, the cold winds blow, I'll sit alone and long to know
Are all the children in ?
Will they have shelter then secure,
And love is true and tried?
Or will they find a broken reed,
When strength of heart they so much need
To help them brave the tide?
God knows it all; His will is best;
'If He should call us home before The children go on that blessed shore, Afar from care and sin,
I know that I shall watch and wait, Till He, the keeper of the gate,
Lets all the children in.
SUSAN TEALL PERRY.
The blackbird golden-billed
As piping plain,
"Hope, hope, again!”
Till my heart's grief be stilled. ALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES
UNDER the trees my Heart and I together
I know not how-whether we dreamed or whether
A FOOLISH WISH.
WHY need I seek some burden small to bear
Will not a host of nobler souls be there,
Of stronger hands, unfailing, unafraid?
I tried to find, that I might show to them,
The path of purer lives: the light was dim-
If I had found some footprints of the way;
I would have sung the rest some song of cheer,
But still the cords ring false; some jar of fear
And at the end I can not weave one chord
I would be satisfied if I might tell
Before I go,
That one warm word,-how I have loved them well, Could they but know!
And would have gained for them some gleam of
(To Mrs. John T. Mygatt.)
SORROWFUL mother, with tear-wet face, Thinking perchance of your boy to-day, Seeing only his vacant place,
Missing the form you have laid away,
So loved, so lovely, your only son,
Look from the sorrow, the darkness and gloom,
But the glorified spirit, so happy and bright; Sorrowful mother, you still can say:
'Tis the Lord who has given and taken away. MAGGIE GRIFFIN NOBLE.
THE HIRED MAN.
I GIVE my time, my song, my life to Toil,
My brow of bronze, my arms of brawn, are hers, For her alone each willing muscle stirs; For her I guide the plow and delve the land, For her my brow is wet, my face is tanned. Sweet labor, brown-cheeked as the chestnut burs, Thy lightest law my lagging spirit spurs, And under heat and burden bids me stand. So, in thy name the old line-fence I scale,
Just where the whispering maple shades the place;
I mount the panel with the softest rail,
ROBERT J. BURDETTE.
DANTE, Sole standing on the heavenward height,
In heaven, six hundred years have taken flight.
And now that heavenliest part of earth, whereon Shines yet their shadow as once their presence
To her, bears witness for his sake, as he For hers bear witness when her face was gone. No slave, no hospice now for grief—but free From shore to mountain and from Alp to sea. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
BREATHING through twice three hundred years
Of memory fresh as Morning's alter-spice, Thou, Star of Dante-Star of Paradise, Hast made the star of womanhood more fair; For, though thou art now his lofty guardian there,
Victress o'er jealous Sin, who dared entice His feet from thee-though now the high device Of wisdom lights the wreath around thine hairThose eyes can dim the angels' eyes above
Because they tell what flight was thine below: No eagle-flight past peaks of fire and snow, But through life's leaves the flutter of a dove Whose beating wings soothed Dante's air with love
Struck music from the wind of Dante's woe. THEODORE WATTS.
THE WONDERFUL PASSION OF LOVE.
SHE is clad in a robe snowy white, like her purity; Mistily floats from her forhead her hair;
And her dreamy dark eyes, looking into futurity, Mirror the vision that breaks for her there.
In the tint of her face
And the turn of her form,
Showing never a trace
Of life's struggle or storm,
But the maidenly fancies that daintily play
More sweet than the olive-leaf joyfully carried by
They tell of the rise of the land that is lit by the wonderful passion of love.
Came a guest when the soul of the summer was glistening
Stayed when the birds of the summer had flown; At the door of her heart he stood knocking and listening,
Craving admittance with music and moan.
Ah! the mischievous god,
With his weeping and mirth,
Blighting lives at a nod,
Bringing heaven to earth
He prevailed, and she opened her heart,
But an image he modeled from passionate life,
And she worshiped and crowned it as maiden and wife,
Till its soul was enwrapped with her own; Till her heart was fulfilled with the radiant passion that's born in the kingdom aboveHumanity's glory, the bountiful, beautiful, wonderful passion of love.
-Kate Field's Washington.
I was born as free as the silvery light
On a Scandinavian mountain;
Yet in the slave they scourged to-day
But the chord that smote him bruised me;
I knew him still--my brother.
And the autumn day that had smiled so fair Seemed suddenly overclouded;
A gloom, more dreadful than Nature owns, My human mind enshrouded;
I thought of the power benign that made And bound men one to the other,
And I felt in my brother's fear afraid, And ashamed in the shame of my brother. FLORENCE EARLE COATES.
-The Century, June, 1890.
THE Soul that would in beauty bloom,
It is the thorn which guards the bud,
LIFE'S a panorama shifting, shifting,
When, lo! A thunder-bolt! A flash! Oh, stay!
-For THE MAGAZINE OF POETRY.