Puslapio vaizdai

Her faint, sweet memory entomb

In violets,

The pathos of whose faint perfunie Breathes no regrets!

How strange to enter Paradise,

As she to-day,

With not one tear in those sweet eyes To wipe away!


I WILL not wrong thee, O To-day,
With idle longing for To-morrow;
But patient plough my field and sow
The seed of faith in every furrow.
Enough for me the loving light
That melts the cloud's repellant edges;
The still unfolding, bud by bud,

Of God's most sweet and holy pledges.

I breathe His breath; my life is His;

The hand He nerves knows no defrauding; The Lord will make this joyless waste

Wave with the wheat of His rewarding.

Of His rewarding! Yes; and yet

Not mine a single blade or kernel; The seed is His; the quickening His; The care unchanging and eternal. His, too, the harvest song shall be

When He who blessed the barren furrow Shall thrust His shining sickle in

And reap my little field to-morrow.

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YMAN WHITNEY ALLEN is both poet and preacher, and those who know him as a clergyman will surely aver that it has been the fire of his poetic nature that has greatly heightened and intensified his discourses. He was born in St. Louis, Mo., in 1854. From his father, a native of Boston and of true Puritan stock, he inherited his gift of verse. From his mother, through a double line of ancestors, the historic Thorntons of Virginia and the well-known Whitneys of New England, he became possessed of those qualities which have placed him in the front rank of the younger ministry of the church. He pursued his collegiate studies at Washington University, graduating there in 1878. He afterwards took a partial postgraduate course at Princeton College, and prepared for the ministry at Princeton Theological Seminary. He now resides in Newark, N. J., as pastor of the South Park Presbyterian Church, one of the largest and most important churches in the vicinity of New York City.

From his early years Mr. Allen has manifested a creative as well as appreciative love of poetry. In later life, in the midst of arduous duties, he has not neglected his art, but has found time for its cultivation. Although constantly urged by his friends to publish in book form, he has purposely refrained from doing so, waiting, as did Rosetti, that thought and form might be more truly wedded. His poems, however, have appeared from time to time in various magazines and newspapers, most notably The Independent, of New York. One of Mr. Allen's poems, "The Coming of His Feet," originally published in The Independent, has earned an enviable popularity and has had a wide circulation in various newspapers. It has gained for itself a permanent place in the sacred literature of this country.

While Mr. Allen is chiefly known as a writer of religious verse, he retains for future publication much that has been written purely for art's sake. H. A. T.


In the crimson of the morning, in the whiteness of the noon,

In the amber glory of the day's retreat, In the midnight, robed in darkness, or the gleam

ing of the moon

I listen for the coming of his feet.

I have heard his weary footsteps on the sands of Galilee,

On the temple's marble pavement, on the street, Worn with weight of sorrow, faltering up the slopes of Calvary

The sorrow of the coming of his feet.

Down the minister-aisles of splendor, from betwixt the cherubim,

Through the wondering throng, with motion strong and fleet,

Sounds his victor tread, approaching with a music far and dim

The music of the coming of his feet.

Comes he sandaled not with silver, girdled not with woven gold,

Weighted not with shimmering gems and odors sweet,

But white-winged and shod with glory in the Tabor light of old

The glory of the coming of his feet.

He is coming, O my spirit! with his everlasting peace,

With his blessedness immortal and complete. He is coming, O my spirt! and his coming brings release

I listen for the coming of his feet.


I CANNOT Count the ways my soul has tried
To slip the leash of God's redeeming grace;
Nor measure His long suffering, nor trace
His ways to draw me nearer to His side:
By tender calls, by warnings amplified,

By sharp rebuke in loud and sterner phrase, By chastenings dire, which time cannot efface, By scourgings with fierce thongs of fire applied.

Thus has the Lord made effort for my life,

And never for one moment loosed his hold. And now, with broken heart, worn out with strife, I lay myself down at His feet controlled,

And through glad tears, that will not cease to flow,

I thank my Father that He loved me so.


(Poco Sostenuto.)

THE dead Christ starts, the shadows lift, the light
Lengthens across the Galilean's face;
Death flees before impetuous hosts that chase
With swords of sunshine and white spears to smite

Grim wraiths of agonies and lingering sight
Of scarred Golgotha in divine disgrace.
The light beats swift and swifter, and the space
Stirs with the passion of immortal might.


The dead Christ arises; the grave is defeated; the stone

Is rolled away by the angels. An Easter pæan! The air is a tumult of tremulous wonderings. The sweet winds are weighted with spirits from Paradise flown.

On one mighty billow of song the strong Galilean Moves into the light and the rapture and flutter of wings.


Waking Easter lilies lift their eyes

To the weeping eyes of Magdalene; Sounds, bewildering, agitate between Earth and sky, and all things seem to rise. Mystery casts off its dark disguise,

Life and power leap from the Nazarene; Earth and sky are filled with radiant sheen, Flash of wings and surge of Paradise.

(Finale: Allegro con brio.)

Heaven is emptied of angels; the jubilant legions, Wild with tumultuous rapture and breathless despair,

Whirling and swirling, encircle with song and

with laughter.

Strong with the infinite strength to the infinite regions,

Rises the Crucified, swift on the tides of the air, Drawing the worshiping ages in ecstasy after.



THE birds sing half the year;
But love is never still;

Her tremulous accents thrill The light from sphere to sphere. O, wondrous messenger!

My soul with rapture fill. The birds sing half the year; But love is never still.

O, sweet bewilderer!

Sing on with siren skill;

My brain and heart and will Are all attent to hear. The birds sing half the year; But love is never still.


THE cattle wander home from the purple clover


Where the bees are drunk with honey and per


And my love trips on behind them, my meadow sweet that yields

Sweeter honey than the clover's purple bloom.

It was here I wooed my love as the Winter woos the Spring,

In the orchard, when the trees are green and white;

While the birds built nests above, and the daisies blossoming

Filled the air with sweetest fragrance and delight.

It was here I won my love as the glowing sun slid down,

And the red light stole my kisses from her cheek;

And the apple blossoms shook with an angry glance and frown,

And the jealous robins vowed I should not speak.

In the ripe October days, when the apples change to red,

And the mellow fragrance floats upon the air, In the swaying, laughing orchard my love and I

shall wed,

With the yellow sunset shining through her hair.

The cattle wander home from the purple clover fields,

Where the bees are drunk with honey and perfume;

And my love trips on behind them, my meadow sweet that yields

Sweeter honey than the clover's purple bloom.


THOU naiant flower,

That liest so placid on yon crystal sheen, Thou pure of heart, the dower

Of Paradise serene!

White as the alabaster of God's throne, Thou Heaven's own!

Chaste as the virgin kiss

That sealed the human on the brow divine, Redemption's genesis,

In thee combine

The sweet memorials of that tenderness,

Which, from unfathomed deeps,
O'er-reaching climbless steeps,
Bent low in love's caress,
And with supernal art,
Fashioned thy chaliced heart
For heavenly wine.

Blossom immaculate!
Defenseless and alone;

Yet naught shall harm thee,

For angels arm thee

With their own strength confederate

In Heaven grown.

Thou lilied star

That floatest outward in the wind's unrest;
And yet not far,

For the returning crest
Bears thee upon its breast,
Sign of love's covenant,
A shining avatar

In resurrection radiant.

O, flower of Heaven!
O, nature's mystery!
Were it but given

To frail humanity

Thy wondrous birth to know,

How myriad hearts would glow,

And we should be,

As they who see

Beyond the sunrise and sunset's rim, One glorious face betwixt the cherubim.

Thou lily pure!

Thou shalt endure

The emblem of the soul's diviner life:

Of chastity, serenity,

And sacred immortality
Through earthly strife.

And, gazing on thy petals white,

Our hearts shall yearn to grow

As pure as thine, until the light
That shines with Heaven's glow
Shall fall upon them, and a hand,
Reaching across the strand,
Shall lift them from the lake of time,
And in a sunnier clime,

As lilies of eternity,

Where dew and light conspire,

Shall float them on the luminous sea

Of crystal mixed with fire.



R. CANTON was born in the island of Chusan, off the coast of China, in 1845, a specially exciting and interesting period of British history in the East. To the psycho-physiologist we leave it to conjecture how much of his future development was due to the circumstances of the time and to the strange scenes and stranger people associated with this eastern birthplace. By a startling freak of fortune we find him, still a child, spirited away from the far east to the far west. The early years of his boyhood were spent in the island of Jamaica, and among the most vivid of his boyish recollections are visions of the Blue Mountains-far away beyond which, he was told, there was a dear old England, where the ground in winter was covered with snow-and rambles up country in a tropical forest, beneath the high green arches and among the gnarled roots of which flowed a broad, shallow expanse of clear water, wherein he took his first rememberable bathe. He has since recognized with delight the brilliant pictures of these and kindred scenes in Michael Scott's admirable novel, "Tom Cringle's Log." Re-crossing the Atlantic, he was educated in France, and there he fell under the spell of that remote antiquity which has inspired some of the longest and most original of his poems. The occasion was a visit to a so-called Druidical cromlech in a corn-field on a hill-top overlooking a chain of swampy lakelets. The gloomy oak forests have vanished in smoke ages ago, and the blond Gaul with his golden torque had been replaced by the peasant in his blouse, but sufficient remained to set the youthful imagination in a blaze. As a rule, a poet's biography is divided into two portions-the story of his boyhood and the story of his poems; and in this instance it is only necessary to add that after some years of literary and educational work in England and Scotland he was appointed editor of the Glasgow Weekly Herald, and this was followed by promotion to a sub-editorship on the Glasgow Daily Herald.

That Mr. Canton is a prolific writer is shown by the fact that, in addition to furnishing a very large and extended circle of the reading public with columns of matter, evincing the application to every subject of fullness of knowledge, aptness of illustration, and felicity of quotation, he has contributed to St. Paul's, Once a Week, Good Words, Scottish Church, All the Year Round, Cassell's Magazine, New Quarterly, Contemporary Review, etc. He is also the author of a three-volume novel and several novelettes that have appeared in the

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AROUND the globe one wave from pole to pole
Rolled on, and found no shore to break its roll.
One awful water mirrored everywhere
The silent, blue, illimitable air,

And glassed in one same hour the midnight moon,
Sunrise and sunset and the sun at noon.

Beneath the noontide sun 'twas still as death,
Within the dawn no living thing drew breath.
Beneath the cold white moon the cold blue wave
Sealed with an icy hush the old world's grave.
But hark! upon the sunset's edge were heard,
Afar and faint, the cries of beast and bird.

Afar, between the sunset and the dark,
The lions had awakened in the Ark.
Across the great red splendor white wings flew,
Weary of wandering where no green leaf grew;
Weary of searching for that unfound shore
From which the Raven had returned no more.

And as the white wings labored slowly back,
And down the huge orb sank, a speck of black
Stood fluttering in the circle of the sun-
While the long billows, passing one by one,
Lifted and lowered in the crimson blaze
A dead queen of the old and evil days.

One gold-clasped arm lay beautiful and bare;
The gold of power gleamed in her floating hair;
Her jeweled raiment in the glassy swell
Glittered; and ever as she rose and fell,
And o'er his reddened claws the ripple broke,
The raven fluttered with uneasy croak.


O HAPPY little English cot! O rustic-sweet vignette Of red brick walls and thatchéd roof, in apple blossom set!

O happy Devon meadows, how you come to me again!

And I am riding as I rode along the cool green lane, A-dreaming and a-dreaming; and behold! I see

once more

The fair young mother with her babe beside the shaded door.

How bright it was! No blossom trembled in the

hot blue noon,

And grasshoppers were thrilling all the drowsy heart of June!

O babe upon the bosom, O blossom on the tree!

And as I passed, the stridulous incessant jangleran Along the hedgerow following me, until my brain began

To mingle in a waking dream the baby at the breast,

The woman and the apple-bloom, the shrilly sounding pest,

To blend them with that great green age of trees which never shed

A bell of gold or purple or a petal of white or red, When all the music of the world-a world too young to sing—

Was such a piercing riot made by such an insect wing.

O babe upon the bosom, O blossom on the tree!

And then I thought of all the ages, all the waste of power,

That went to tinge one pulpy fruit, to flush one little flower;

And just in this same wise, I mused, the Human too must grow

Through waste of life, through blood and tears, through centuries of woe,

To reach the perfect flower and fruit; for Nature

does not scan,

More than the individual tree, the individual man; A myriad blossoms shall be lavished, if but one

shall give

The onward impulse to the thought that Nature means to live.

O babe upon the bosom, O blossom on the tree!

O fair young mother, far removed from visions of unrest,

Be happy in the baby blossom flushing at thy breast!

The blesseder condition thine, that thou canst

never see

The strife, the cruel waste, the cyclic growth in man and tree;

That thou canst trust a heart, more kind than ever Nature shows,

Will gather each baby bloom that falls, will cherish each that blows;

Can'st need no solace from the faith, that since the world began

The Brute had reached the Human through the martyrdom of man.

O babe upon the bosom, O blossom on the tree!


Oн, glad and red, the light of morn
Across the field of battle broke,
And showed the waste of trampled corn
And smouldering farmsteads wrapped in

And cold and stark the soldier lay,
Shot down beside his shattered gun;
And grimly splashed with blood and clay,
His face looked ghastly in the sun.

Oh, glad and red, the morning shone
In happy England far away,
Where knelt a bright-haired little one
Beside her mother's knee to pray;
And prompting each fond faltering word,
The soldier's wife was glad and smiled-
She knew not 'twas a widow heard
The prattle of an orphan child.

Oh, glad and red, oh, glad and red

The morning light glowed everywhere; And one beam touched the father dead,

And one the child who knelt in prayer; And from the trampled corn and clay

A skylark sprang with joyous breastFor shot and shell had spared that day Its four brown eggs and little nest.


AMONG the lonely hills they played: No other bairns they ever knew;

A little lad, a little maid,

In sweet companionship they grew.

They played among the ferns and rocks

A childish comedy of life—

Kept house and milked the crimson docks, And called each other man and wife.

They went to school; they used to go

With arms about each other laid; Their flaxen heads, in rain or snow, Were sheltered by a single plaid.

And so, and so it came to pass

They loved each other ere they knew; His heart was like a blade o' grass,

And hers was like its drap o' dew.

The years went by; the changeful years Brought larger life and toil for life; They parted in the dusk with tears, They called each other man and wife.

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