Puslapio vaizdai


HID by the garret's dust, and lost
Amid the cobwebs wreathed above.
They lie, these volumes that have cost
Such wrecks of hope, and waste of love.

The theologian's garnered lore

Of scripture text, and words divine; And verse, that to some fair one bore Thoughts that like fadeless stars would shine;

The grand-wrought epics, that were born From mighty throes of heart and brain, Here rest, their covers all unworn,

And all their pages free from stain.

Here lie the chronicles that told

Of man, and his heroic deedsAlas! The words once "writ in gold,” Are tarnished so that no one reads.

And tracts that smote each other hard, While loud the friendly plaudits rang, All animosities discard,

Where old moth-eaten garments hang.

The heroes that were made to strut
In tinsel on "life's" mimic stage,
Found, all too soon the deepening rut
Which kept them slient in the page;

And heroines, whose loveless plight
Should wake the sympathetic tear,
In volumes somber as the night
Sleep on through each succeeding year.

Here Phillis languishes forlorn,

And Strephon waits beside his flocks, And early huntsmen wind the horn, Within the boundaries of a box.

Here, by the irony of fate,

Beside the "peasant's humble board,"
The monarch "flaunts his robes of state,"
And spendthrifts find the miser's hoard.

Days come and go, and still we write,
And hope for some far happier lot
Than that our work should meet this blight:
And yet, some books must be forgot.


THE red rose blooms by the tumbling wall, The blush rose bends by the open gateThe mocking-bird, with his low, clear call, Sings on, though the hour is late;

The yellow rose like a star shines out,

The white rose sways like a wan, sweet ghostThe beetles boom, and the marshes shout

The joy of their living host.

The red rose burns with a crimson glow,
Like wine that gleams when the blood is warm
And brings vague dreams of the long ago,

When the world was wild with storm; When a stalwart knight with lance at rest Drove swift through the battle's angry tide, With a red rose bound to his helmet's crest, And there in the carnage died.

The blush rose tells of a distant time
When the Persian groves were loud with song;
And camel-bells made a merry chime,

Where the desert paths grew long.
When a love-lorn maiden lingering strayed,
Waiting for one who had grown a-cold,
Till the rose and she at rest were laid

In the garden's sodden mould.

The yellow rose, with its heavy breath,
Recalls wide forests and dim lagoons,
Where the loathsome serpents watch for death
In the light of tropic moons;

And ruins, massive and grim and vast,
In silent grandeur a vigil keep,
Where the giant kings of a mighty past
Lie cold in a dreamless sleep.

The white rose pictures a vision dim

Of aisle, and transept, and sculptured saint, Where the dying echoes of a hymn

In the far, cool distance faint,-
And shining out, where the arches bar

The purple gloom of the rounded dome,
A face that glows like a glorious star,
Set deep in a sea of foam.

The red rose tosses its crimson spray;
The blush rose falls in a fragrant rain;
The mocking-bird, where the cool leaves sway,
Sings on with his low refrain:

The yellow rose with the dew is wet,

The white rose-where has the white rose


Ah, yes, I made it a coronet

For a great love all my own.


DEVOID of love, bereft of hope, Companioned by a grim despair, He roams where blinded spirts grope O'er deserts hot and bare.

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NNA BOYNTON AVERILL has an enviable place among New England poets. Whenever her song is heard, we listen with an interest, heightened, if possible, by the atmosphere of seclusion and mystery which surrounds the singer. To the many who would gladly know something of the personality of Miss Averill, it is a pleasant task to present a few biographical notes.

She was born in the town of Alton, Maine, February 25, 1843, the eldest of a family of ten children. Her father, George Averill, was at that time a lumberman on the Penobscot river, but later became a farmer, and has for some years resided in the town of Foxcroft, Maine, on the place known to the friends of his poet-daughter as "Sunny Slope."

At four years of age, while playing with other children, Anna had a fall which permanently injured her spine. Years of suffering followed, checking her growth and leaving their marks on her form, but by the time she reached maturity, her health was fully restored and she became the right hand of the household. Her mother was for twenty years totally blind, having never looked upon the face of her youngest child, Florence. This daughter of her darkness was always tenderly devoted to her afflicted parent, and was known in the family as "Mother's Eyes." But if the youngest daughter became "mother's eyes," the eldest filled the place of "mother" herself to the large family of boys and girls; and her life has been one of constant domestic care. The love of books, however, grew with her growth, and these soon became her dearest companions, if we except the forest trees and birds, who were her first teachers. She soon learned that she found her happiest expression in poetry, and sent her first contributions to the Portland Transcript. Her talent was immediately perceived and encouraged by the editors of that paper; a new world, that of literary recognition and comradeship, opened before her, and if she had ever felt the want of wider social life, she now found it, unsolicited and unexpected. The Atlantic, Lippincott's and other magazines published gems of her poetry which were widely copied and grafted into numerous collections both of music and verse.

While living in such seclusion that few of her own townspeople were acquainted with the quiet and busy little woman, in the world outside many were listening for the utterances of her graceful and original thought and inquiring where she could be found. To this day, however, she chooses

to be known only by her written words, and very few are admitted to her personal acquaintance.

The word which best describes her face is serenity, and it applies to her character as well. Cheerful, calm, far-seeing with the inner sight of the spirit, life is sweeter and brighter to her than to myriads more favored by worldly fortune. Her poetry has a fine and penetrating tone, and it has also that quality of suppressed and unexpended power which is the sure sign of genius.

She has not yet gathered her scattered poems in a volume. F. L. M.


AT NOON, within the dusty town,
Where the wild river rushes down
And thunders hoarsely all day long,
I think of thee my hermit stream,
Low singing in thy summer dream,

Thine idle, sweet, old tranquil song.

Northward Katahdin's chasmed pile
Looms through thy low, long, leafy aisle,
Eastward Olamon's summit shines;
And I upon thy shadowy shore,
The dreamful, happy child of yore,
Worship before mine olden shrines.
Again the sultry noontide hush
Is sweetly broken by the thrush,
Whose clear bell rings and dies away
Beside thy banks in coverts deep,
Where nodding buds of orchis sleep
In dusk, and dream not it is day.

Again the wild cow-lily floats
Her golden-freighted, tented boats

In thy cool coves of softened gloom,
O'ershadowed by the whispering reed,
And purple plumes of pickerel-weed,

And meadow, sweet in tangled bloom.

The startled minnows dart in flocks
Beneath thy glimmering, amber rocks,
If but a zephyr stirs the brake;
The silent swallow swoops, a flash
Of light, and leaves, with dainty plash,
A ring of ripples in her wake.

Without, the land is hot and dim,
The level fields in languor swim,

Their stubble grasses brown as dust.
And all along the upland lanes,
Where shadeless noon oppressive reigns,
Dead roses wear their crowns of rust.

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ARLOTTA PERRY is one of the few womenpoets who do not disappoint one's expectations. She is attractive in appearance, has beautiful brown eyes that laugh and melt and sparkle with every change of mood, an abundance of warm brown hair, a well-developed and finely poised head and a slender, graceful figure, with a woman's love for pretty gowns and ornaments and that artistic skill in trifles which we Americans are apt to call Frenchy. She can design a wrap or knot a ribbon as well as she can write a poem. A most magnetic conversationalist, she wins you with a charm of manner as frank and irresistible as it is unconscious; that is, if you please her. The rude, the haughty, the utter materialist may find another side to her character: the falling lashes, the expressive carriage of the head, the slight compression of the lips may show that, though a very charming woman is before them, the poet is "not at home."

In life as in art, Miss Perry wins by her strongly marked and satisfying qualities of character. You feel that she is genuine, earnest, steadfast, with a high appreciation of and unconquerable aspiration. toward the good, the true and the beautiful. She is a most patient worker and stubbornly relentless toward her own poems when they decline to approximate her standard. She has fine literary taste and is capable of measuring the available worth of an article as well as its purely artistic qualities.

Miss Perry has not been a prolific writer but she has done little work that is not worthy of preservation in some permanent form. Her volume of poems, issued last year, is a carefully winnowed publication; but it comprises only a small part of her best poems. Her prose sketches and stories, as well as her poems, find a ready market in leading publications east and west. In fact she enjoys the distinction of receiving the best prices for her work of any writer of the Northwest. She is a favorite contributor to the Independent, Harper's publications, Lippincott's Magazine, the Youth's Companion and other periodicals.

Miss Perry is a resident of the beautiful lake city, Milwaukee. She is not a seeker after notoriety and considers that her work, rather than her personality, is what belongs to the public.


THE sails we see on the ocean
Are as white as white can be;
But never one in the harbor,
As white as the sails at sea.

S. D. H.

The clouds that crown the mountains
With purple and golden light,
Turn to cold gray mist and vapor,
Ere ever we reach the height.

The mountains wear crowns of glory,
Only when seen from afar;

And the sails lose all their whiteness,
Inside of the harbor bar.

Oh, Distance, the dear enchanter,
Still hold in the magic veil,
The glory of far-off mountains,
The gleam of the far-off sail!
Hide in thy robes of splendor,
O, mountain gold and gray!
O, sail in thy snowy whiteness,
Come not into port, I pray.


IF I had known one year ago to day

The little something that to-day I know, I would have warded off the heavy blow That sent you on your sorrow-laden way, With all your hopes laid low.

With saddest of all hunger sore accurst,

We miss by just a step the healing streams;
Miss the true bread of which the faint soul

On hunger unappeased and unslacked thirst,
Too late the right path gleams.

What is so hard in all the bitter years,

As to look back and see the closed gate That one dear day we might have opened. Fate Wrings from our eyes the saddest, saltest tears, O'er wisdom won too late.


A DAY of perfect summer grace, where green boughs meet and interlace,

A sky of perfect summer blue, the yellow sunshine sifting through;

And all above and all around, uprising from the

teeming ground,

Pulsing upon the happy breeze, on billowy crests of green wheat seas,

Pouring from out the robin's throat, from fleecy cloud and hill remote,

On shadows cool, and soft, and fleet, on waves of

trembling, quivering heat,

From over fields of clover-blooms, from out the dim wood's fragrant glooms.

Such miracles of color glow-such spicy, subtle odors flow,

Such sounds, fine, deep, tumultuous; so Nature fills her cup for us,

And we, through every quickening sense, drink it with grateful reverence;

O, happy draught unmixed with bane! This have we, dear, Auf Wiederseh'n.

O, smiling skies; O, shadows fleet; O, day of days so bitter sweet;

O, hungry hearts unsatisfied, the bread and wine of life denied ;

O, kindling eye and glowing cheek! O, longing lips forbid to speak!

O, silence mightier far than speech! O, souls that signal each to each!

O, sorrow sweet! O, joy that stands bereft amid the fruitful lands!

O, love pierced through and through with pain! These are our own Auf Wiederseh'n.

Auf Wiederseh'n! When will that be? God knows, dear one-God knows, not we;

But Oh! till then, or soon or late, Faith holds our hands and bids us wait;

Bethink you, dear, how it will be when that day comes to you and me;

How exiled Joy will come with hands ready to fill our glad commands,

How care and doubt will flee away, and peace abide with us that day!

How Love, the deathless, starry-eyed, will clasp and keep us undenied;

How Life will turn upon its track, and Youth the blessed will come back.

Whether the royal June shall hold the Earth within its gracious fold,

Or Winter's icy hand be pressed upon her mute, insensate breast,

Still all our pulses-O, my sweet-will thrill with Summer when we meet;

And in the rapture so supreme, the past will vanish like a dream.

O, faithful heart, in loss or pain, remember this Auf Wiederseh'n.


'T WAS the height of the gay season, and I can not tell the reason,

But, at a dinner party given by Mrs. Mayor Thwing,

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