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Instead of silent eggs within the nest, Four precious fledgelings should reward his quest. A meadow-lark sang loud, and set his spray A-tremble with his passionate essay.
A field lay wounded; its embroidered weft
Yet, field, charge not the reaper's hand with wrath,
Else we might press so close we should not grow. One doth deny even this so sweet a bar
For fear our souls' true shape should suffer mar.
After the trees are grown, their spreading boughs Reach forth and mingle. In some far glad place, When thou and I are straight and tall and fair, We shall clasp hands again,-if God allows.
O Love, this cup of mine is all too shallow,
Where I can never drive my ardent share!
My own small plot yields blossoms in abundance, And wheat enough to serve my life-long leaven;
I plough and prune, and check the weed's redundance,
And furnish timely drink denied of heaven.
Yet o'er the sunny tilth beyond my hedges
From the bright pageant of the eastern heaven The lordly hours, whereby our zeal is pent, Rush, with their glowing coursers overdriven, Toward the late revel of the occident.
Ah! never one a moment stays or lingers,
I think sometime my soul will cast this langour,
I think sometime my soul the cup will shatter,— Impatient of its hindrance,-by the force
Of passionate 'thirst,-and, as the clay sherds scatter,
Will press with bare lips to the very Source.
ISOLATE in her conscious grandeur, creature of a royal blood,
She doth rule, the one unrivaled Cleopatra of the Wood.
Something in her regal stature,
In her fierce and fervid nature,
Brings to mind a vivid vision of the Lady of the Nile.
How the splendor of her presence, how her suddenflashing smile
Glorifies the slumbrous spaces of the dusky forest aisle!
And a face of Orient oval, olive-browed, and midnight-eyed,
Looks from flowing, flame-hued draperies in its dark, imperial pride.
While a figure fancy fashions, faultless in its mold and mien,
Supple, sinuous, seductive as some tawny jungle
Then, as though a gathering tempest smote athwart Eolian wires
All a-thrill with pride and passion, sad as death, a voice inquires:
"Do you wonder at my Roman? do you marvel
how I died?"
AT MOUNT DESERT.
THE grasses with sweet hardihood have crept
That glad break in the lowering sky! Ah, mine
So true, the matchless rose that shed
That perfect bloom which memory has.
The sunny summits beckon, we must climb.
THOMAS S. COLLIER.
HE name of Thomas S. Collier can hardly fail to be familiar to the reader, as his productions both in prose and verse have during the past fifteen years frequently appeared in the leading periodicals and papers of this country. While an ingenious writer of short stories it is as a poet that Mr. Collier has won his widest reputation. The Atlantic, the Century Magazine, the Youth's Companion, and other publications of that ilk have given his fancies a printed form, and more than one of his poems, by constant reprinting and by the fact of finding a place in collections, has become one of those familiar poems that everybody knows. This is particularly true of his "Cleopatra Dying," which as a companion piece to Lytie's well-known "Anthony," has followed it side by side in many collections of verse. Still another poem of Mr. Collier's, entitled "Sacrilege," which first appeared in the Youth's Companion, has been so often reprinted that it might almost claim a continuous publication in our newspapers. He is perhaps at his best in some poem of occasion, like "In Pace," a memorial of the men who fell in the massacre in Fort Griswold, Groton Heights, Connecticut, September 6, 1781. To this class, and displaying the same conspicuous merit, belongs the poem which Mr. Collier wrote for the unveiling ceremonies of the statue recently erected by the State of Connecticut to commemorate the heroic
One breath of heaven makes braver lungs for aye. achievement of Major John Mason and his com
rades. Somewhat different in vein, perhaps not as widely known as the poems mentioned, but displaying to the best advantage the skill and technique of the writer, is the exquisite sonnet entitled, "Not Lost," contributed by Mr. Collier to "A Masque of Poets," a collection of some few years ago which included all of our best known poets; and in this brief summing up of his most familiar poems one would not care to omit "The Forgotten Books," published in Mr. Matthews's excellent collection entitled, "Ballads of Books."
Mr. Collier was born in New York City Nov. 14, 1842. He went to sea when he was fifteen years old; entered the American Navy at an early age. He was on the ship that opened the Japanese ports to commerce, and on that which brought the Japanese embassy back. He served in the navy all through our civil war and was retired in 1883. Since 1866 he has made his home in New London, Conn.
Mr. Collier is the Secretary of the New London County Historical Society, and has taken a deep interest in the collection and preservation of many
valuable colonial documents, which, but for his watchfulness, would have been lost. He is a book lover and a book collector. His library is a most interesting and valuable one, containing many rare and out-of-the-way volumes. The collector's instinct has carried him outside of the field of literature. He is a numismatist of reputation, and possesses a valuable collection of coins and medals, while the walls of his study are adorned with rare bits of old China. Mr. Collier has a volume of poems prepared for the press which will be published soon. W. L.
BESIDE the wall, and near the massive gate
Of the great temple in Jerusalem,
The legionary, Probus, stood, elate,
His eager clasp circling a royal gem.
It was an offering made by some dead king
A watchful star, it lit the passing years,
Then came the day when over all the walls
The Romans surged, and Death laughed loud and
And there was wailing in the palace halls,
Of Probus, whose keen sword had rent a way,
And there, beside the wall, he stopped to gaze
The home and rest that come with bounteous days,
A dead man, with an empty hand, lay there.
SINKS the sun below the desert,
Where the old gods now are sleeping;
Isis and Osiris great!
Guard me, help me, give me courage
"I am dying, Egypt, dying!" Let the Cæsar's army comeI will cheat him of his glory,
Though beyond the Styx I roam. Shall he drag this beauty with him While the crowd his triumph sings? No, no, never! I will show him What lies in the blood of kings.
Though he hold the golden scepter,
I will foil him, though to do it
Oh, my hero, sleeping, sleeping-
Into realms of death and night.
Down below the desert sinking,
Fades Apollo's brilliant car, And from out the distant azure
Breaks the bright gleam of a star; Venus, Queen of Love and Beauty, Welcomes me to death's embrace, Dying free, proud and triumphant, The last sovereign of my race.
Dying! dying! I am coming,
Oh, my hero, to your arms: You will welcome me, I know it
Guard me from all rude alarms. Hark! I hear the legions coming,
Hear their cries of triumph swell; But, proud Cæsar, dead I scorn you, Egypt-Antony-farewell!