"with a healthy fondness for out-of-door life." Her father is the proprietor of a model farm at Whitehall, Clondalkin, not far from Dublin. Our poet has a cosy little study, a whole side of which is taken up with a bow-window, looking into the green old orchard. "All day," as she humorously puts it herself, "I am interviewed by anxious fowl and lambs and calves; and the two dogs, yclept Jack and Fluffy, walk in and out of the open window to their great delight, and my great aggravation. The thrushes and blackbirds sing almost at my ears." The room contains books, pictures, and no end of beautiful and curious mementos from friends and admirers, even in distant India and Australia. Miss Tynan spends a part of every year in London, in whose inner literary circles she has hosts of friends. She is a devout Catholic, and a simple, gentle, lovable woman. K. E. C.

THE DREAMERS.

ONE by one o'er a dreamer's face
The shadows go;

Pain hath him in a close embrace,
And the phantom sorrow and woe
Make of his heart a weeping-place.

Lieth outside in the perfect night
The land at rest,

In the stainless snow of the May moon's light
And the bird i' the nest,

And the hawthorn sleep in a world of white.

Soon will the short sweet night be gone,
And the heart break;

Dream on, unharmèd heart, dream on!

The world full soon will wake,

And thy winged pain flee away in the dawn.

Ye are not empty-O hands forlorn!

That lie so still,

On the wild heart dreaming of pain and scorn, The happy day will fill

Your palms outstretched, with new oil and corn.

Oh feet! ye tread no thorny path
In toil and heat,

Flowers for footway the future hath

To the waved gold of the wheat. The first fruits yours, and the aftermath.

O dreamer! turn from thy grieving now,
Hark! in the hush

A small wind ruffles with fingers slow
The grasses long and lush,

And O the choir in the elm-tree bough!

Nor a smile to hear in the orchard close

The blackbird's song,

When the boughs are flushing faintly to rose,

And April days are long,

And the world is white with the hawthorn

snows.

O long the way, but there comes a rest
At sweet Eventide!

When the wild glad birds have flown to the nest,
O the radiance, mild and wide,

The fair pale lights that wake in the west!

There bloometh many a kindly flower
In the churchyard grass;

The silver feet of a summer shower
Will linger ere they pass;

"Hic Jacet" glimmers at evening hour.

While one shall sleep, nor hearken o'erhead
To birds in May;

And on the heart where Pain lieth dead
The tired hands rest alway,
Surely a dream shall be perfected.

Alas! that a human heart should break
For such as this,

Just from a bright false dream to wake,
For the loss of a phantom kiss.
Christ keeps us all for His pity's sake!

WANDERERS.

Aн, my beloved! my best is all your due
Always-my love, and faith, and loyalty.
And in your gain so very poor am I,

What marvel that my thoughts, grown recreant too,
Should seek a happier resting-place with you!
Leaving a wintry heart and waning sky,
Flying across the world as swallows fly
To a new summer, and new skies of blue.
I wonder will you know them when they come,
Fanning your face and hair with homeless wings,
Drifting in some grey storm-hour to your breast!
Ah! will you take them with glad murmurings,
And stroke the wet wings, faint with wind and
foam,

And lay them in your heart, and bid them rest?

THE DEAD MOTHER.

I HAD been buried a month and a year,

The clods on my coffin were heavy and brown, The wreaths at my headstone were withered sere, No feet came now from the little town; I was forgotten, six months or more, And a new bride walked on my husband's floor.

Below the dew and the grass-blades lying,

On All Souls' Night, when the moon is cold, I heard the sound of my children crying,

And my hands relaxed from their quiet fold; Through mould and death-damp it pierced my heart,

And I woke in the dark with a sudden start.

I cast the coffin-lid off my face,

From mouth and eyelids I thrust the clay, And I stood upright from the sleeper's place,

And down through the graveyard I took my way. The frost on the rank grass shimmered like snow, And the ghostly graves stood white in a row.

As I went down through the little town

The kindly neighbors seemed sore afeard,
For Lenchen plucked at the cross in her gown,
And Hans said, "Jesu," under his beard,
And many a lonely wayfarer
Crossed himself, with a muttered prayer.

I signed the holy sign on my brows,
And kissed the crucifix hid in my shroud,
As I reached the door of my husband's house
The children's clamor rose wild and loud;
And swiftly I came to the upper floor,
And oped, in the moonlight, the nursery door.
No lamp or fire in the icy room;

'Twas cold, as cold as my bed in the sod. My two boys fought in that ghostly gloom

For a mildewed crust that a mouse had gnawed; "Oh, mother, mother!" my Gretchen said,

FRANKLIN EVERT DENTON.

FRA

By

RANKLIN EVERT DENTON was born on November 22, 1859, in Chardon, the countyseat of Geauga County, Ohio, a village of the Western Reserve. He is of pure American stock that dates back to the days of the Colonies. inheritance and by early training he was a boy of strong literary instincts. At seven years of age he was perched upon a box before a compositor's case learning the mysteries of type-setting. This was in the office of the Geauga Republican, a weekly publication in his native village, and his connection with the paper, thus early begun, continued, with occasional intervals of schooling, for eighteen years. In 1884 he entered into the employ of the Geauga Leader, published in Burton, Ohio, acting for some time as its editor and manager. He removed to Cleveland in 1887 and joined the staff of The Ohio Sun and Voice, with which paper he still remains.

The uneventful tenor of the young poet's life in a quiet village has left a lasting impression upon the trend of his imagination, and his literary taste. He filled the lack of routine schooling with persistent efforts at self-education, and the book that he studied most was the open book of Nature. He was a zealous reader, but not an omnivorous one. His selections were of the highest and most useful standards, and though he read much his remarkable memory gave him ample time for thorough mental digestion. He wrote verses at an early age, but it was not until his eighteenth year that he considered his poetical efforts worthy of publication. Encouraged by admiring friends, in 1883 he gathered his poems together and published them in book form. The volume met with much of mingled criticism and praise. It was the work of a youth whose circumscribed surroundings made commonplaces scem of large moment; it showed crudities of thought, yet from every page the true poetic soul was shining out. In the same year that he published his book he received a prize from the Cincinnati Commercial-Gazette for the best story submitted to that paper. It was a metaphysical tale entitled The Glass Dwarf" and attracted much attention at the time of publicaion.

Mr. Denton's poems and stories have appeared in many periodicals and been much copied. He has written but little for publication during the last two years, devoting most of his limited leisure time to disciplining his powers for future work in his chosen field, a field which he persists in occupying whatever the result. His poetical ideals are of the highest class, and to them he has determined to adapt himself rather than to any so-called popular taste. W. R. R.

THE SOUTH WIND.

WHEN maples drip their arteries of sweet
That fires distill to amber honey; when
The swollen brook is noisy in the glen,
And robins, hopping o'er the brown earth, greet
The gentle dawn with song; when snows retreat
To fence and forest nook, and high again
The soft clouds sail the sunny heaven-then
The South Wind comes with hope and life replete.
It knows the grave of every flower that sleeps,
And wakes each little Lazarus. It dyes

The dawn a fairer purple than of Tyre,
And spills the cloudy cisterns of the skies.
It lifts the heart like verse, but how it sweeps
The chords of memory's pathetic lyre!

So none but the taciturn stars as they rise
Can point to the spot where the great captain lies.

And what if the place of his sleep is unknown?
'Tis the little who need a memorial stone.
A pillar he cut from the quarries of worth,
So lofty its shadow encircles the earth;

A monument hewn from the granite of deeds,
To which moss never clings, on which time never
feeds.

Ah, naught is more true than what Pericles said, All the world is the shaft of the great who are dead.

IT IS WELL.

IT is well that we sink in the Lethean wave,
That the lamp is blown out at the door of the

cave;

Our chance to be strong and our chance to be great

Is the darkness and doubt that hang over our fate;

NIGHT.

SELF-AWED with its own glory is the night.
Yon moon looks down with passionless aken
Upon the Union's sleepless youth, as when
The Pyramids rose new upon her sight,
Or Amos of Tekoa, by her light,

Guarded his flocks, the while Jehovah's pen
Wrote on his heart the message unto men,
Whose characters divine he read aright.
The lover longs to be alone with her

Who is the shrine where kneels his heart, and

he,

Who is of Nature ardent worshipper,

Would in her presence unattended be; Would to her lips of inspiration list, With midnight's starry arbor for a tryst.

OCTOBER.

ALL day, like smiles that wreathe an old man's face,

Whose seasons have been spent in doing good,
Upon the garnered field and naked wood
The sun has shed a soft and solemn grace;
But now the night is drawing on apace,
And saturnine and sinister the mood
Of formless shadows that already brood
Upon the landscape from the depths of space.
Along the west the day's last tinge is dim;
The slender crescent of the sinking moon
Follows the stars over the horizon's rim,
Like Ruth the reapers through the sultry noon;
But, be it glorious or be it grim,

The world is in the mighty arms of Him.

QUATRAIN.

BE there a traitor who deserves in sooth The keen axe of the headsman, it is he, Who hath committed treason unto the Celestial visions of his vanished youth.