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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.
SUSAN MARR SPALDING.
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 two shall walk some narrow way of life
A WINTER ROSE.
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
That brings thee neither love, nor gold, nor fame?
In restless longings, and when hope was dead
MY BROTHER'S KEEPER.
I CALLED him faint of heart, in spirit poor;
The ills thy weakness brings! Let my strength be
ONE, blind, has taught how beauty should be sung;
From pallid lips, grown nerveless with defeat?
LET me not lay the lightest feather's weight
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.
AN ANTIQUE INTAGLIO.
GREAT cities that defied Time's power are dust,
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
And so, O Love, when I am done with pride,
GRAY clouds flit to and fro above the sea,