Puslapio vaizdai

The rising fog its mighty shadow flings, Quenching the last foam-light that marks the bar; The wild winds rave; the storm-flag from its spar Weaves a fierce menace to all living things Save one undaunted bird, whose flickering wings Gleam through the darkness like a falling star.


SOMETIMES, dear Love, you murmur, "O, could I But snare with words the thoughts that flutter through

The thickets of my heart! Could I, like you, Bind with sweet speech the moods of earth and sky;

Or turn to song a smile, a tear, a sigh!
Alas! My springs of thought but serve to do
The mill-stream's common work. I may but view
Afar the heights of song to which you fly."
For me, I shape from all my heart's best gold
These skill-less cups of verse. They have, I know,
No grace save this,-unto your lips they hold
Love's dearest draught. I hear your praise,
but, lo!

One smile of yours, one kiss all-eloquent,
Shames my poor songs to silence. Be content!


THREE sad, strange things already death hath shown

To me who lived but yesterday. My love, Who loved to kiss my hands and lips above All other joys,-whose heart upon my own So oft has throbbed,-fears me, now life has flown, And shuddering turns away. The friend who strove

My trust to win, and all my faith did prove, Sees, in my pale, still form, a bar o'erthrown To some most dear desire. While one who spake No fond and flattering word of love or praise, Who only cold and stern reproof would give To all my foolish, unconsidered ways

This one would glad have died that I might live, This heart alone lies broken for my sake.


In the heart where Love doth dwell,
Palace, cot or prison cell,

Every care with joy doth blend,
Toil is welcomed as a friend.
Sorrow's face a smile doth wear,
Death the name of Peace doth bear.
Grief may come, but all is well
In the heart where Love doth dwell.
-Love's Presence.


[PON a hill overlooking the Hudson, where it

UPON a hill overlooking ppaan Zee, stands an

Elizabethan cottage which is ideal even among the many attractive homes on that noble river; a house which fits, with a sense of homelikeness, into the serene beauty of its surroundings. Around lies the landscape which Irving loved so well,— Sleepy Hollow, with its quaint Dutch church and its "drowsy, dreamy influence which seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere;" the village, stretching away towards Sunnyside; the primeval, undesecrated forest, and the Pocantico, forever trolling its mysterious song.

It is not strange that the poet whose home this is should bend often to listen to "the murmuring laughters, soft and low," which "elude the alien ears of men." Born at New Ipswich, in the hills of New Hampshire, December 16, 1839, his heritage was not alone the gift to feel the beauty of woodland, the sensuous music of the song bird, but also the Puritan instinct which sees in the leaf, and hears in the note, the inspiration of him without whom nothing is. Indeed, if I were to designate that which seems to me the dominant impulse pervading the poems of Stephen Henry Thayer, I should say it is a restful, religious feeling, or, perhaps more properly, aspiration, rather than the more apparent affection for nature which usually dictates the theme. The bells of Nyack, faintly tolling across the star-lighted sea, come laden with a hymn.

"Songs of Sleepy Hollow," published in 1886, is a selection of poems which had appeared prior to that date in various leading publications. It was favorably received both in America and England. Frequent contributions since that time now aggregate enough for another volume. Nearly all Thayer's poems are subjective, reflective, descriptive; many are in the minor key. They have a quiet restraint, a simple lesson to tell, a message from a soul who loves the things that are good and pure and true. Various critical articles in the Andover Review and elsewhere have shown an ability to handle prose as well as verse, and a power of discriminating and appreciative analysis. The old Appleton Academy of New Ipswich was a famous school in its day, and a typical New England institution. Here, in 1858, Thayer was the valedictorian of his class. Facing the world with Yankee resoluteness, and with a business acumen not lost in his love for books, he commenced a preliminary clerkship in a counting room in Boston, but after two years went to New York,

where he spent six years in a banking house. In 1864 he was admitted to the New York Stock Exchange, and, in 1865, in connection with his present partner, established the banking and brokerage house which for a quarter of a century has enjoyed undiminished prosperity, and is now one of the oldest firms in Wall Street, if not the oldest. He removed to Tarrytown in 1867, where he has since lived. A portion of each day is given to the details of a complex and successful business, and to the affairs of the corporations of which he is a director; but it needs no ghost to tell us that he counts as golden only those hours spent in his ample library or under the cathedral arches of the forest. He is a member, and treasurer, of the Authors' Club of New York, and a member of the Players' Club, lately founded by Edwin Booth. He is also prominently identified with the Fortnightly Club of Tarrytown, an organization of local renown. C. H. P.

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

Far from the cliffs of Ossining,

Far from the hollows below, It lags through marshy meadow and lea With leaden feet, and heart as slow, As if in dread of the thirsty sea

The sea that drinks and drinks for aye, Through all the centuries and a dayThe waters that flow eternally Down from the cliffs of Ossining, Down from the hollows below.


SWEET loiterer thou-O Indolence, Becalmed guest of soul and sense!

I crown thee as my happy chance, Thou easer of all circumstance. Too lax art thou to laugh or sigh,

Too listless with inert content
To ask the world for what, or why,

Or on whose mission thou art sent.

Unhappy questioners may haste,
With tireless word and will, to waste

Their prying craft on strange inquests;
Thou heedest not such stern behests-

Or grim philosophies, designed
To vex the current of the mind;

Thou hast no heart of bitterness,
Nor dost thou tax thee more or less
With yes or no; wise reasoners keep
In sufference just outside thy gate;
For sorrow thou might haply weep,
Or lightly mourn at darker fate.
Still, still thou hast no poignancy,
Nor passion, save in mild degree.

What'er betide, thou fain would gaze
With hermit's eyes on troubled ways,
Or stretch thy limbs, or sleep, or eat,
Or watch the trip of blithesome feet,

Or sit in drowsy aisles and dream
On summer days-entranced seem,
And hear the lapsing brooklet sing
To throstle on its wizard wing,

And hear the austere note reply
From out the dizzy dome of sky,
Sufficed-though all the world be rife
With wakenings of death and life-

To hush thy tongue, to seal thine ear,
Or sing a song of careless cheer

To lounge in scented fields, to climb
The lower hills, to roam the vale,
Or watch the sunsets pale and pale,
Unmoved to span the heights sublime

[graphic][merged small][merged small][merged small]

In fallow thoughts to take thine ease,
Nor envy others their degrees,
But just to live, and breathe, and rest,
And deem thyself supremely blest.
Sweet loiterer thou-O Indolence,
Becalmed guest of soul and sense!

I crown thee as my happy chance,
Thou easer of all circumstance.


ALONE she bears the mystic flame,-
A torch that like a star doth gleam;
A leader, she, without a name;
Alone she bears the mystic flame.

A darkness falls across her way;

Her face is wrapt as in a dream. Perchance she murmurs, "Where is day?"

She walks afar;-none other near,

Yet by her side speed silent feet; Strange voices fall on her fine ear.

She leads the way that man shall tread,Whose centuries time the ceaseless beat Of living following the dead;

She leads the way that man shall tread.


COULD I but grasp the vision, make it mine,
In one full masterly embrace possess
The splendor of my dream, its joy enshrine,
And hold it as some trophy-crown, to bless
With perfect calm and peace the conquest won;
Or could I clear the mist, and fairly face
The high beatitudes of radiant morn,

That reach through infinite degrees of space; What then-ah, what? The heart would sigh for


The longings of a great unrest would send Swift-winged messengers far on before;

Such glory undefined could only lend

A depth to height, a sadness to desire,-
A voice forever calling, "Come up higher."


ONLY the shrouding gloom can unfold
The skyey chart with its worlds of gold;
Only the darkness can make the night
A fathomless miracle of light!

Only the shadow of night in the heart
Reveals to the soul the heavenly chart;

Only the darkness that falls at our feet
Can make the meaning of God complete!



Warren, R. I., on December 22, 1839. The family were among the founders of Rhode Island; liberal Baptists of the Roger Williams views. In early life he began to contribute to the leading papers, among them the New York Independent. In 1870 he became connected with the Youth's Companion. He wrote "Zig-Zag Journeys," twelve volumes, for a Boston publishing firm, which are stories of places, of which some 250,000 copies have been sold. He wrote, in 1875, the "Story of the Hymns" for the American Tract Society, and won for it the George Wood Gold Medal. He has since prepared a companion volume, called "The Story of the Tunes." He has prepared several cantatas for George F. Root's music, and one of these, "Under the Palms," has had a great popularity in England. He has written for the Atlantic Monthly, Harper's publications, the Christian Union, and other periodicals. Two volumes of his poems have been published, "Poems for Christmas, Easter and New Year's," and "Songs of History." Mr. Butterworth is one of the editors of the Youth's Companion, and one of the hardest workers. He owns an old farm on the famous Mt. Hope Lands, Bristol, R. I., and has a cottage at Belleview, Fla. C. W. M.


(President Lincoln, just before his assassination, is said to have remarked to Mrs. Lincoln, When my cares of State are over, I wish to go to Palestine.")


APRIL flowers were in the hollows; in the air were April bells,

And the wings of purple swallows rested on the battle shells.

From the war's long scene of horror now the

nation found release;

All the day the old war bugles blew the blessèd notes of peace.

"Thwart the twilight's damask curtains
Fell the night upon the land,
Like God's smile of benediction
Shadowed faintly by his hand.

In the twilight, in the dusklight, in the starlight, everywhere,

Banners waved like gardened flowers in the palpitating air.


In Art's temple there were greetings, gentle hurryings of feet,

And triumphant strains of music rose amid the numbers sweet.

« AnkstesnisTęsti »