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Of this dream, the dear one
Dastard gods bereft me.
O beloved Bodvar,
Why hast thou, too, left me? Feel'st thou not thy father's
Fondling hands caress thee, And his kiss, the last one,
And his tears that bless thee?
Loath in death's dim shadow,
Dear dead son, I leave thee! Hark, thy buried brethren
Clamor to receive thee!
I will sit beside thee
Silent vigil keeping,
In the cairn where Night-Wolf's Royal race is sleeping.
HOW CAN I LIGHTLY SPEAK THY WONDROUS NAME?
How can I lightly speak thy wondrous name,
A breath of thy sweet self unto me clings—
With deep resoundings through my being rings, And unto wider realms of vision leads.
And dead to me are sorrow, doubt, and pain; The slumbering god within me wakes again.
WITHIN THE ROSE I FOUND A TREMBLING TEAR.
WITHIN the rose I found a trembling tear, Close curtained in a gloom of crimson night By tender petals from the outer light.
I plucked the flower and held it to my ear, And thought within its fervid breast to hear A smothered heart-beat throbbing soft and low. I heard its busy life-blood gently flow,
Now far away and now so strangely near. Ah, thought I, if these silent lips of flame Could be unsealed and fling upon the air Their woe, their passion, and in speech proclaim Their warm intoxication of despair
Then would I give the rose into thy hand; Thou couldst its voice, beloved, not withstand.
BESSIE H. WOOLFORD.
RS. WOOLFORD was born in Madison, Ind. Her father died in Richmond, Va., when she was but five years old. Immediately after her father's death her mother removed to Jefferson County, Ky., where her family resided. Her first poem was composed when she was but thirteen years old, shortly after she entered the Science Hill Female Academy at Shelbyville, Ky., then one of the best boarding schools in the South. She graduated from this institution at the age of seventeen, taking the honors of her class. Mrs. Woolford, whose maiden name was Hubbs, married Col. J. H. Woolford when she was nineteen years of age. The result of this happy union was two sons, both of whom survive their lamented father, who died May 14, 1888. During the life-time of her husband, Mrs. Woolford did but little writing for public print, but now that her main support is gone, and although her ambition is shadowed by an everlasting grief, she is resolved to make her pen assist in educating her gifted sons.
Mrs. Woolford is thirty years old and in appearance about medium height, has beautiful, large, gray eyes and wavy brown hair; in temperament, ardent and enthusiastic; a devoted and loving mother to her two sons; loves home better than fame, and, from a political stand-point, opposed to woman's rights. L. C. J.
PURPLE ASTERS AND GOLDEN-ROD.
Он, autumn days, with your dreamy splendor,
Ah! so many roses bloom for some
Who heedlessly throw them from their hands; So many lips through pain are dumb; The heart's low cry, who understands?
Perhaps at the end of some autumn day,
When our eyes are turned to the "Hills of God,” We shall find by the dusty and leaf-strewn way Our purple asters and golden-rod!
WHEN LILACS BLOOM.
A DREAM of the past comes back to me
In its subtle and sweet perfume.
I see the old gray house once more
But dearest of all is the garden old,
And the walk where the rows of lilac made
There's a mint of golden jonquils there,
And thyme, and mignonette,
And fragrant lilies of the vale,
In the shade with the violet.
And the sweet-pea scrambles across the hedge Along with the eglantine;
Oh, garden old! could hearts grow cold 'Mid treasures such as thine?
I hear my name in a fresh young voice
Ah, 'tis but a dream, for I know that voice
But the lilacs will bring these dreams to me,
And I think if I only could go back
Through the years of sorrow and pain,
I should find my beautiful childhood there, And live it all over again!
And his mother's to blame; but oh! to kiss
Came a fine lady calling one day,
He came and stood close by her side.
SIGH SOFT AND LOW, OH! SUMMER BREEZE.
SIGH Soft and low, oh! summer breeze,
Whose parted screen a nest discloses.
To brooding mate with tender breast;
That long have slept within the heart;
And unrepressed the tears will start. Sigh soft and low, oh! evening breeze; Rifle the poppy of its power, Soothe thought's sharp pain to dreamful ease, With mystic charms from every flower. Stir the light fringe of maiden's-hair; Steal where the water-lily gleams; Breathe the drowsy fragrance on the air, And bring forgetfulness in dreams!
AGNES ETHELWYN WETHERALD.
AGNES ETHELWYN WETHERALD, one of the
best known of the younger school of Canadian literary women, is of English descent and Quaker parentage. She was born at Rockwood, near Guelph, in the Province of Ontario, and was educated at a Friend's boarding school in New York State. Canadian by birth and residence, as well as by literary associations, in connection with the present sphere of her work, Miss Wetherald, by training and intellectual development, may be said, however, to be American. As a frequent contributor to American periodicals-to the Christian Union, the Woman's Journal, the Chicago Current, and to the western press-Miss Wetherald has further claims to be regarded as an American as well as a Canadian writer. Not a few of her stories, and not a little of her verse have, moreover, first appeared on this side, and a novel entitled, "An Algonquin Maiden,” which she wrote jointly with a Canadian author, is among the issues of Lovell's Library, published at New York. This work has also had the honor of appearing in an English edition, and when issued, a few years ago, received the favorable comment of the London press. Of recent years her pen has been monopolized by Canadiau journals. She is a current contributor of prose and verse to The Week, the chief of the literary periodicals published in the Canadian Dominion, and, under the nom de plume of "Bel Thistlethwaite," she conducts a woman's department in the Toronto Globe, the great daily of the Liberal party in Canada. Miss Wetherald was a regular contributor of essays, sketches and verse to the Canadian Monthly, while that magazine, founded by Prof. Goldwin Smith, was in existence. The London Advertiser and the Toronto Saturday Night have also counted Miss Wetherald on their list of writers. G. M. A.
TO THE FIRST CANADIAN WILD FLOWER.
OH, fairest thing in this great world!
Least one, I dare not bless thee-
My breath, my touch would surely be thy doom;
In this untrampled shade, she
Put all her wealth of beauty in thy slender spear of bloom.
Oh, bodiless! Oh, beautiful!
My heart is dull, and very dull. What do I in this sacred place? How should I look upon thy face?
And yet if thou shouldst blossom Upon my lifeless bosom,
In some fair spring, long, long years from to-day, 'Twould set my heart to beating, And o'er and o'er repeating,
Ne'er from my soul such poems sprang as from my soulless clay!
THE BREATH OF LOVE.
I AM no singer, I but feel
Oh, breath of love, that bloweth sweet
I feel your soft waves beat.
Oh, breath of love! oh, summer breath! In whose embrace each leaf hath lain, If wintry winds should strike amain, And rend the trembling tree in twain, Still through its leaves the voice of love would whisper after death.
THE DEEP TIDE.
Of clouds the stars their answering thought confess.
Ah, love, the tide flows deep! the tide flows deep!