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Dark Death let fall a tear.

Why am I here? Oh, heart ungrateful! Will man

never know I am his friend, nor ever was his foe? Whose the sweet season, if it be not


Mine, not the bobolink's, that song divine,

Chasing the shadows o'er the flying wheat!

'Tis a dead voice, not his, that sounds so sweet.

Whose passionate heart burns in this flaming rose

But his, whose passionate heart long since lay still?

Whose wan hope pales this snowlike lily tall. Beside the garden wall,

But his, whose radiant eyes and lily grace,

Sleep in the grave that crowns yon tufted hill?

All hope, all memory, have their deep springs in me; And love, that else might fade, By me immortal made, Spurns at the grave, leaps to the welcoming skies, And burns a steadfast star to steadfast eyes.

Susan Coolidge


What is the dearest happiness of
Ah, who shall say!
So many wonders, and so wondrous

Await the soul who, just arrived there

In trance of safety, sheltered and forgiven,

Opens wall eyes to front the eternal day:

Relief from earth's corroding discontent, relief from pain, The satisfaction of perplexing fears,

Full compensation for the long, hard years. Full understanding of the Lord's intent,

The things that were so puzzling
made quite plain:

And all astonished joy as, to the spot,
From further skies,
Crowd our beloved with white
winged feet,

And voices than the chiming harps more sweet,

Faces whose fairness we had half forgot,

And outstretched hands, and welcome in their eyes.

Heart cannot image forth the endless store We may but guess. But this one lesser joy I hold my own:

All shall be known in heaven; at

last be known The best and worst of me; the less

the more. My own shall know — and shall not

love me less.

Oh, haunting shadowy dread which underlies All loving here! We inly shiver as we whisper low,

"Oh, if they knew —if they could

only know, Could see our naked souls without

disguise — How they would shrink from us

and pale with fear."

The bitter thoughts we hold in leash within But do not kill; The petty anger and the mean desire.

The jealousy which burns—a smoulderiug fire—

The slimy trail of half-unnoted sin. The sordid wish which daunts the nobler will.

We fight each day with foes we dare not name, We fight, we fall! Noiseless the conflict and unseen of men;

We rise, are beaten down, and rise again,

And all the time we smile, we move the same, And even to dearest eyes draw close the veil;

But in the blessed heavens these wars are past; Disguise is o'er! With new anointed vision, face to face,

We shall see all, and clasped in close embrace Shall watch the haunting shadow flee at last,

And know as we are known, and fear no more.


On! not in strange portentous way Christ's miracles were wrought of old,

The common thing, the common clay
He touched and tinctured, and
It grew to glory manifold.

The barley loaves were daily bread Kneaded and mixed with usual skill;

No care was given, no spell was said, But when the Lord had blessed, they fed

The multitude upon the hill.

The hemp was sown 'neath common sun,

Watered by common dews and rain, Of which the fisher's nets were spun; Nothing was prophesied or done

To mark it from the other grain.

Coarse, brawny hands let down the net

When the Lord spake and ordered

They hauled the meshes, heavy-wet,
Just as in other days, and set
Their backs to labor, bending low;

But quivering, leaping from the lake The marvellous shining burdens rise

Until the laden meshes break.
And all amazed, no man spake
But gazed with wonder in his eyes.

So still, dear Lord, in every place

Thou standest by the toiling folk, With love and pity in Thy face, And givest of Thy help and grace To those who meekly bear the yoke.

Not by strange sudden change and spell,

Baffling and darkening nature's face;

Thou takest the things we know so well

And bulkiest on them Thy miracle — The heavenly on t hecommon-place.

The lives which seem so poor, so low. The hearts which are so cramped and dull.

The baffled hopes, the impulse slow, Thou takest, touchest all, and lo! They blossom to the beautiful.

We need not wait for thunder-peal Resounding from a mount of fire While round our daily paths we feel Th v sweet love and Thy power to heal Working in us Thy full desire.


CorchEn in the rocky lap of hills

The lake's blue waters gleam, And thence in linked and measured rills

Down to the valley stream, To rise again, led higher and higher, And slake the city's hot desire.

High as the lake's bright ripples shine

So high the water goes; But not a drop that air-drawn line

Passes or overflows. Though man may strive and man

may woo,
The stream to its own law is true.

Vainly the lonely tarn, its cup
Holds to the feeding skies;

Unless the source be lifted up,
The streamlets cannot rise.

By law inexorably blent,

Each is the other's measurement.

Ah, lonely tarn! ah, striving rill!

So yearn these souls of ours,
And beat with sad and urgent will

Against the unheeding powers.
In vain is longing, vain is force,
No stream goes higher than its source.

Henry S. Cornwell


SmnrBB of the silken snare,
Fell Arachne in your lair,
Tell me, if your powers can tell
How you do your work so well?

Weaving on in light and dark,
Segment and concentric arc,
Lace-like, gossamer designs,
Strict to geometric lines;

Perfect to the utmost part,
Occult, exquisite of art,—
How are all these wonders bred
In your atom of a head?

Propositions here involved
Wit of man has never solved;
Demonstrations hard to find
Are as crystal to your mind.

How in deepest dungeon-glooms,
Do your Lilliputian looms
Work such miracles as these, —
Faultless, fairy filigrees?

Careless flies that hither fit
Come to die; but there you sit,
Feeling with your fingers fine
Each vibrating, pulse-like line;

Eager to anticipate
Hourly messages of fate, —
Funeral telegrams that say
Here is feasting one more day?

Spider, only He can tell
How you do your work so well,
Who in life's mysterious ways
Knows the method of the maze.


When brooks of summer shallow run,

And fiercely glows the ardent sun; Where waves the blue-flag tall and dank,

And water-weeds grow rich and rank,

The flaunting dragon-fly is seen,
A winged spindle, gold and green.

Born of the morning mists and dews,

He darts — a flash of jewelled hues — Athwart the waterfall, and flings, From his twice-duplicate wet wings, Diamonds and sapphires such as gleam

And vanish in a bridesmaid's dream!

Sail not, O dragon-fly. too near
The lakelet's bosom, dark and clear!
For, lurking in its depths below,
The hungry trout, thy fatal foe,
Doth watch to snatch thee, unaware.
At once from life, and light and air!

O brilliant fleck of summer's prime,
Enjoy thy brief, fleet span of time!
Full soon chill autumn's frosty

Shall blow for thee a wind of death, And dash to dust thy gaudy sheen — Thy glittering mail of gold and green!

Arthur Cleveland Coxe.


We are living — we are dwelling
in a grand and awful time;

In an age, on ages telling,
To be living— is sublime.

Hark! the waking up of nations,
Gog and Magog to the fray:

Hark! what soundeth, is creation's
Groaning for its latter day.

Hark! the onset! will you fold your Faith-clad arms in lazy lock?

Up, oh, up! for, drowsy soldier, Worlds are charging to the shock.

Worlds are charging — heaven beholding!

You have but an hour to fight: Now, the blazoned cross unfolding,

On — right onward, for the right!

What! still hug your dreamy slumbers?

'Tis no time for idling play, Wreaths, and dance, and poet-numbers,

Flout them, we must work to-day!

Oh! let all the soul within you
For the truth's sake go abroad!

Strike! let every nerve and sinew
Tell on ages — tell for God!



Lo! here a little volume, but large book,

(Fear it not, sweet,

It is no hypocrite)

Much larger in itself than in its look.

It is, in one rich handful, heaven and -ii

Heaven's royal hosts encamp'd thus small;

To prove that true, schools used to tell,

A thousand angels in one point can dwell.

It is love's great artillery,

Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie

Close couched in your white bosom, and from thence,

As from a snowy fortress of defence,

Against the ghostly foe to take your part.

And fortify the hold of your chaste heart;

It is the armory of light:

Let constant use but keep it bright,

You'll find it yields
To holy hands and humble hearts,

More swords and shields than sin hath snares or hell hath darts.

Only be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons, and the eyes

Those of turtles, chaste, and true, Wakeful and wise,

Here is a friend shall fight for you.

Hold but this book before your heart,

Let prayer alone to play his part.
But oh! the heart
That studies this high art
Must be a sure housekeeper,
And yet no sleeper.

Dear soul, be strong,
Mercy will come ere long,
And bring her bosom full of bless-
Flowers of never fading graces,
To make immortal dressings,

For worthy souls whose wise embraces

Store up themselves for Him who is alone

The spouse of virgins, and the virgin's son.

But if the noble bridegroom, when

He come, shall find the wandering heart from


Leaving her chaste abode To gad abroad Amongst the gay mates of the god of flies;

To take her pleasure and to play,

And keep the devil's holiday;

To dance in the sunshine of some smiling

But beguiling Sphere of sweet and sugared lies; Of all this hidden store of blessings, and ten thousand more

Doubtless he will unload Himself some other where;

And pour abroad His precious sweets, On the fair soul whom first he meets.

Ofair! y fortunate! O rich! Odear!

O! happy, and thrice happy she, Dear silver-breasted dove,

Whoe'er she be, Whose early love. With winged vows, Makes haste to meet her morning spouse.

And close with his immortal kisses! Happy soul! who never misses

To improve that precious hour; And every day Seize her sweet prey, All fresh and fragrant as he rises,

Dropping with a balmy shower, A delicious dew of spices. Oh! let that happy soul hold fast Her heavenly armful: she shall taste

At once ten thousand paradises: She shall have power To rifle and deflower The rich and rosal spring of those

rare sweets, Which with a swelling bosom there

she meets; Boundless and infinite, bottomless

treasures Of pure inebriating pleasures. Happy soul! she shall discover

What joy, what bliss.

How many heavens at once it is To have a God become her lover.

Mary Ainge De Vere.


His love hath filled my life's fair cup
Full to its crystal brim;

The dancing bubbles crowding up
Are dreams of him.

I work, and every thread I draw

Sets in a thought, —
The letter of love tender law

In patience wrought.

I serve his meals, —the fruit and bread

Are sound and sweet:
But that invisible feast I spread

For gods were meet!

I pray for him. All else I do

Fades far away Before the thrill that smites me through,

The while I pray:

Ah, God, be good to him, my own,

Who, on my breast, Sleeps, with soft dimpled hands outthrown,

A child at rest!

Mary B. Dodge.


I Lost my treasures one by one, Those joys the world hoids dear;

Smiling, I said "To-morrow's sun Will bring us better cheer."

For faith and love were one. Glad faith!

All loss is naught save loss of faith.

My truant joys come trooping back, And trooping friends no less;

But tears fall fast to meet the lack Of dearer happiness.

For faith and love are two. Sad faith!

'Tis loss indeed, the loss of faith.

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