Puslapio vaizdai


Life is not bounded by fixed rules of art;

If love hath vanished, what is worth the gaining? -Ibid.


Do I remember? Ask me not again:

My heart hath but one passion-to forget. Oh! is there nothing in the wide world, then, To take away but once the soul's regret! Alas! for love is ever more divine;

Immortal is the sorrow love must bring; The golden cup aches for withholden wine;

Of sun-kissed flight still dreams the broken wing; The buried jewel seeketh yet to shine,

And music's spirit haunts the idle string; So doth the heart in sadness ever twine

Some fading wreath that keeps hope lingering. -Constance.

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ORN in the beautiful town of Bath, Maine,


where her early life was passed, she was educated at one of the best New England seminaries. After the death of her parents, which occurred when she was quite young, she removed to the City of New York and became a member of the family of her uncle, a clergyman, and there had the advantages of refined and cultured surroundings. She was married early in life to a gentleman of intelligence and literary tastes. Residing a few years in New York, they removed to Philadelphia, where, shortly after, her husband died. She still continued living there, alternating between it and her native town. She has taken up many and varied subjects, and all that was of value in them she made her own- a refined nature with a fastidious taste, rejecting everything else. She is a woman of many accomplishments, and great simplicity of manner, gifted with rare conversational powers, with a remarkable choice of language and grace of expression. Simple and entirely devoid

of affectation, there is an atmosphere of delicacy and refinement diffused around her, the charm of which is felt by all, as the many delightful hours spent with her, her numerous friends can attest. A strong personality, warm-hearted and generous, and thoroughly unselfish, has caused her to be lovingly regarded by all who know her.

There is in her poems an admirable grace and freedom, and an attractive reverence, delicacy of perception and beauty of expression. She is tender, passionate, refined and intense-a truly artistic temperament. A singular charm pervades her verses, with their exquisite art and deep, poetic pathos. It is, perhaps, as a sonnet writer that Mrs. Spalding will find the highest recognition and her most enduring fame. Artistically considered, they are very nearly beyond criticism, perfect in execution, and of exquisite finish. This peculiar and difficult form of poetical composition has always possessed for her a fascinating charm. A careful study of its artistic requirements and a conscientious and painstaking habit of composition have resulted so successfully that she is considered by many competent critics as one of the best sonnet writers of the day, triumphantly refuting the oftrepeated assertion that the feminine mind cannot achieve a perfect sonnet. Aside from the value of the artistic expression, workmanship and thought, a subtle poetic essence pervades them all; they are poems in every essential quality and of the highest sense. Their peculiar charin will especially endear them to every lover of the sonnet. H. D. N.


Two shall be born the whole wide world apart, And speak in different tongues, and have no thought

Each of the other's being, and no heed;
And these o'er unknown seas to unknown lands
Shall cross, escaping wreck, defying death;
And all unconsciously shape every act
And bend each wandering step to this one end:
That, one day, out of darkness, they shall meet
And read life's meaning in each other's eyes.

And two shall walk some narrow way of life
So nearly side by side, that should one turn
Ever so little space to the left or right
They needs must stand acknowledged face to face.
And yet, with wistful eyes they never meet,
With groping hands that never clasp, and lips
Calling in vain to ears that never hear,
They seek each other all their weary days
And die unsatisfied- and this is Fate!


O WINTER ROSE, by what enchanting power

Was wrought thy shining miracle of bloom? Who hid from thee the golden, glowing hour That turns to Summer this December gloom? What thrilling impulse, like a hidden fire, Melted the snows wherein thy heart doth hide? What tender memory, what dear desire

For the fond Sun, thy lover long denied? Haply the June forgot thee when she cast

Her wealth of riotous bloom o'er hill and field; Now the poor, beggared earth doth hold thee fast, Like the last gold a spendthrift's purse may yield.

O sweet, wise flower! Thine is a happier doom, Though frosts may blight, than Summer blossom knows.

Better be one rose in a world of gloom,

Than 'midst a million roses, but one rose.

O heart, so near love's Winter time, take heed!

Spend thou not all thy wealth at Summer noon; Keep thou one last, fair flower till time of need To turn thy drear December into June.


I CALLED him "Aspiration" when he came
And whispered softly in my willing ear:
"O, foolish soul, why dost thou linger here,
Wasting thy gifts in sordid toil and tame

That brings thee neither love, nor gold, nor fame?
The path to power and pleasure lieth clear;
Leave this low work to meaner hands and aim
For loftier duties and a nobler sphere."
He took my hand, and where he bade I went,
Till youth and strength and happiness were fled;
And only when my years were nearly spent

In restless longings, and when hope was dead
I saw the wan, sad face of him who led,
And knew at last his true name, "Discontent."


I CALLED him faint of heart, in spirit poor;
I said, "O brother, for all such as thee
The world is full of snares and subtlety!
How little art thou fitted to endure

The ills thy weakness brings! Let my strength be
Thy constant shield. My vision swift and sure
Shall pierce the darkest depths of every lure
About our paths. I'd lead thee; lean on me!"
But when with subtlest art temptation wove
Round our unwary souls her fairest spell;
When lust of power and wealth, and love as well,
Their keenest shafts against dear Honor drove—
When in her cause I and my brother strove―
Behold! he conquered grandly-but I fell!


ONE, blind, has taught how beauty should be sung;
One, deaf, all silence tuned to music sweet;
From one who wandered homeless in the street
A rapturous, deathless song of home was wrung.
How many a pæan of victory has sprung

From pallid lips, grown nerveless with defeat?
How many empty hearts must sadly greet
Their own love-songs on happier lovers' tongue?
As some rare fabrics are in darkness wrought
Lest light should mar the dainty web, so, too,
The poet, with a golden thread of thought,
Weaves in the shade his fancies fine and true.
So from his sorrow is your pleasure brought,
The joy he hath not doth he give to you!


LET me not lay the lightest feather's weight
Of duty upon Love. Let not my own,
The breath of one reluctant kiss be blown
Betwen our hearts. I would not be the gate
That bars, like some inexorable fate,

The portals of thy life; that says, "Alone Through me shall any joy to thee be known;" Rather the window, fragrant early and late

With thy sweet clinging thoughts, that grow and


Around me like some bright and blooming vine; Through which the sun shall shed his wealth on thee

In golden showers; through which thou may'st look out,

Exulting in all beauty, without doubt Or fear, or shadow of regret from me.


GREAT cities that defied Time's power are dust,
And mighty temples ruins; yet this gem,
Seeming a fragile thing, outliveth them.
Its beauty bears no trace of Time's keen thrust,
Undimmed the marvelous luster that doth trust
To none its secret; every delicate line
Glows with immortal freshness and divine,
That fears no ravage of decay or rust.
How infinite is art! A magic glass

This tiny, chiseled disk becomes to me; Greece and her glories rise and shine and pass

Before my dazzled eyes; then fade to wan And spectral shores, where the Egean Sea Guards the lone ruins of the Parthenon.


FOR all life's joys my proud heart uttereth
No vain desire. For, since I am denied
The one great bliss, I will have nought beside.
Yet I am fain to conquer life with death;

And so, O Love, when I am done with pride,
Come thou and kiss to stillness my last breath;
Let the last voice I hear be thine, that saith
"I love thee!" so shall I die satisfied.
Then, when on my dead face some sad eyes dwell,
Some loving hearts make bitter moan,
and some,
More loving yet, smile, saying, "It is well!"
How will all marvel at the sweetness come
So strangely to my lips, not knowing this:
It is the radiance left by thy last kiss!


GRAY clouds flit to and fro above the sea,
Pale phantoms of wrecked ships that seek in vain
Forgotten ports. Back from the darkening main
A hundred white sails to the harbor flee
As frightened children to their mother's knee.
Deep calleth unto deep with cries of pain;
While the imprisoned billows strive and strain
Wildly against their rocky boundary.

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