Let not one taint remain in spirit or blood! Receive my soul, ye burning, awful deeps;

Touch and baptize me with the mighty power That in ye thrills, while the dark planet sleeps; Make me all yours for one blest, secret hour! O glittering host, O high angelic choir,

Silence each tone that with thy music jars; Fill me even as an urn with thy white fire Till all I am is kindred to the stars!

Make me thy child, thou infinite, holy night,So shall my days be full of heavenly light!

"EACH MOMENT HOLY IS." EACH moment holy is, for out from God Each moment flashes forth a human soul. Holy each moment is, for back to him Some wandering soul each moment home

returns.

A WOMAN'S THOUGHT.

I AM a woman—therefore I may not Call to him, cry to him,

Fly to him,

Bid him delay not!

And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet: Still as a stone

All silent and cold.

If my heart riot

Crush and defy it!

Should I grow bold

Say one dear thing to him,

All my life fling to him,
Cling to him—

What to atone

Is enough for my sinning!

This were the cost to me,
This were my winning-
That he were lost to me.
Not as a lover

At last if he part from me,
Tearing my heart from me—

Hurt beyond cure,-
Calm and demure

Then must I hold me-

In myself fold me-

Showing no sign to him
By look of mine to him
What he has been to me-
How my heart turns to him,
Follows him, yearns to him,
Prays him to love me.

Pity me, lean to me,
Thou God above me!

Now you who rhyme, and I who rhyme,
Have not we sworn it, many a time,
That we no more our verse would scrawl,
For Shakespeare he had said it all!
And yet whatever others see

The earth is fresh to you and me —
And birds that sing, and winds that blow,
And blooms that make the country glow,
And lusty swains, and maidens bright,
And clouds by day, and stars by night,
And all the pictures in the skies
That passed before Will Shakespeare's eyes;
Love, hate, and scorn,-frost, fire, and flower,-
On us as well as him have power.

G

GEORGE HOUGHTON.

EORGE W. W. HOUGHTON was born at Cambridge, Mass., August 12, 1850. He graduated from the High School of his native place in 1868, but did not attend college. His first publication was a "Christmas Booklet," in 1872, followed by "Songs from Over the Sea," 1874; “Album Leaves," 1877; Drift from York Harbor, Maine," 1879; "The Legend of St. Olaf's Kirk," 1880. Of the latter poem a second edition, revised, appeared in 1881. A year later a collection selected mainly from his previous publications was issued, entitled, "Niagara and Other Poems." Since 1882 Mr. Houghton has given very little verse to the public, but it is hoped that he has not resigned a garden which he has cultivated with marked success. Mr. Houghton is a member of the Authors Club, and for a number of years has been the editor of The Hub, a commercial paper, the leading representative of its particular field. C. W. M

SCARRED.

FAR nobler the sword that is nicked and worn,
Far fairer the flag that is grimy and torn,
Than when, to the battle, fresh they were borne.

He was tried and found true; he stood the test; 'Neath whirlwinds of doubt, when all the rest Crouched down and submitted, he fought best.

There are wounds on his breast that can never be healed,

There are gashes that bleed, and may not be sealed,

But wounded and gashed. he won the field.

And others may dream in their easy-chairs,
And point their white hands to the scars he bears,
But the palm and the laurel are his- not theirs!

THE GATEWAY.

A VACATION EPISODE.

WE crossed the pasture-land together,
I knew that now my time drew near,
And hastened, longing for the moment,
Yet lingering, holding back in fear.

I wished the sunshine would not flicker
Across the river in my eyes;

Then hers she shaded with her bonnet—
How could I talk through that disguise!

I wished the catbird would not whistle,
I paused till he grew tired and still;
And then the frogs took up the music,
And lambs came bleating from the hill.

Now all was silent; in the stubble
The crickets even held their peace;
But yet I waited, wishing only

That all the crickets would not cease.

I saw the gateway as we neared it,

I shaped my mouth and formed the word, When from her bonnet, bent demurely, A little laugh I thought I heard.

A ploughboy passing, smiled and nodded, I bit my lip and blushed for shame; Then stooped to pick a blood-red berry,— 'Twas sour, and speechless I became.

I leaned upon the bars; she fluttered
A farewell signal back to me;

I turned, I staggered from the roadway,-
Gray fog came drifting from the sea.