Citation
Buds and blossoms

Material Information

Title:
Buds and blossoms
Creator:
Millais, John Everett, 1829-1896 ( Illustrator )
Reynolds, Joshua, 1723-1792 ( Illustrator )
Morgan, Matthew Somerville, 1839-1890 ( Illustrator )
Peterson Magazine Co ( Publisher )
Illman Brothers ( Printer )
Place of Publication:
Philadelphia
Publisher:
Peterson Magazine Co.
Publication Date:
Language:
English
Physical Description:
65 p. : ill. ; 25 cm.

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile poetry ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile poetry ( lcsh )
Natural history -- Juvenile poetry ( lcsh )
Flowers -- Juvenile poetry ( lcsh )
Birds -- Juvenile poetry ( lcsh )
Bldn -- 1889
Genre:
poetry ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage:
United States -- Pennsylvania -- Philadelphia
Target Audience:
juvenile ( marctarget )

Notes

General Note:
Illustrations engraved and printed by Illman Brothers after J.E. Millais, Joshua Reynolds and John Morgan.
Funding:
Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).
Statement of Responsibility:
illustrated.

Record Information

Source Institution:
University of Florida
Holding Location:
Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management:
This item is presumed to be in the public domain. The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions may require permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact The Department of Special and Area Studies Collections (special@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
Resource Identifier:
025026774 ( ALEPH )
ALG3320 ( NOTIS )
18887421 ( OCLC )

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Full Text
SILIORIAE





The Baldwin Library

RmB





BUDS »& BLOSSOMS











At

ILLUSTRATED

————-

PHILADELPHIA

PETERSON MAGAZINE Co.
1889








TRAILING ARBUTUS, . .. 2. + es
THE ROSE AND THE STAR, .
My GARDEN,

DororHy,

To-Day,

PILGRIM’s ISLE,

DAFFODILS,

THE NiGHr- BLOOMING CEREUS,
BaBy’s FIRST SPRING,

WHEN THE Boats ComME Home,
CHILDHOOD’s GOLD,

LIFE,

SUNSHINE AND SHADOW, .
SONG or THE BOBOLINKS, .
REVERSES, .

THE Roap To SLUMBERLAND,
A THISTLEDOWN,

CONSIDER THE LILIES OF THE FIELD, .

A “MISERERE” AT St. PETER’S,
THOU ART LIKE A FLOWER,
WATER- LILIES,
SLEEP,,. 2... ....-200.4

- Rose Terry Cooke, .

A. E. Lancaster,

. Ralph Waldo Emerson,
- Hedderwick Browne,

- Anonymous,

. Thomas William Parsons,
. William Wordsworth,

. Jessie F. O’Donnell, .

. Margaret Haycraft,

. Sarah Doudney, -

- Lucy Larcom, .

- Anna Letitia Barbauld,
. Grace Greenwood, -

. Thomas H. Muzzey, -

. Byron R. Hill,

. Anonymous,

- Emma 8. Thomas,

. Anonymous,

. Charles J. Peterson, .

. Heinrich Heine, -

. Anonymous,

. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, .

orn wo

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THE MAIDEN’s Con FESSION,

BY THE ARNO, -

TRUST,

Ir 1s RAINING, LITTLE

FLOWER, . -

THE SELFISH PANSIES, -

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHs,

SEPTEMBER,

THE CHILDREN OF THE

Two Love LETTERS, .

MIDSUMMER, .

HESPERIDES, -

YEAR AFTER YEAR,

ON THE TERRACE, .

THROUGH A WINDOW,

THE CRY OF THE DREAMER, .-

Love’s FLOWER, -

Ou, FOR A SWING IN THE OLD ELM TREE, .

THE END,

.

. Ann 5. Stephens, .....
. Frank Lee Benedict, ...- .-
. Anonymous, ..-+-+-+:-
. Anonymous, ..- ++ +s >
. Pearl Eytinge,
. .. . . . Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, .
. Helen Hunt,
. Charles Algernon Swinburne, .
. W. L. Falconer, .
. J. T. Trowbridge,. .....
..... + , Belle Bremer, .

. Dinah Mulock Craik,

. Gleeson White,

. Louise Chandler Moulton, .

. John B. O'Reilly, . . . .

. . . Minna Irving, .

. Elizabeth A. Davis,

sos ee ee ee ee AMOMyMOUS, 6 ee ee ee

Poor, ..-

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Traitinc ARBUTUS.

BY ROSE TERRY COOKE.

Daruines of the forest!
Blossoming alone,

When Earth’s grief is sorest



For her jewels gone
Ere the last snow-drift melts,

Your tender buds have blown.

Tinged with color faintly,
Like the morning sky,
Or, more pale and saintly,
Wrapped in leaves ye lie
Even as children sleep

In faith’s simplicity.

There the wild-wood robin
Hymns your solitude;

And the rain comes sobbing
Through the budding wood,

y While the low south wind sighs,

3ut dare not be more rude.





Were your pure lips fashioned
Out of air and dew—

Starlight unimpassioned,
Dawn’s most tender hue,

And scented by the woods

That gathered sweets for you?

Fairest and most lonely,
From the world apart;

Made for beauty only,
Veiled in Nature’s heart

With such unconscious grace

As makes the dream of art.

Were not mortal sorrow
An immortal shade,
Then would I to-morrow
Such a flower be made,
And live in the clear wood
Where my lost childhood played.

+ >-$<-+

Tur Rost and THE STAR.

BY A. E, LANCASTER.



A witpwoop rose awoke from its midnight rest
Beneath a lonely star’s caressing light,
And sighed: “O wondrous human world, how blest

To roam like thee, forever fair and bright!”

The radiant star, strange home of mortal strife,
Murmured, in memory of its hapless reign:
“© gentle flower, had I thy tranquil life,
That fragrant sleep, that knows no dream of pain!”

6



My Garpen.

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON.




Y garden is a forest ledge
Which older forests bound ;
The banks slope down to the blue lake edge,

Then plange to depths profound.

In my plot no tulips blow —
Snow -loving pines and oaks instead ;
And rank the savage maples grow

From spring’s faint flush to autumn red.

Keen cars can catch a syllable,
As if one spake to another,
In the hemlocks tall, untamable,

And what the whispering grasses smother.

AXolian harps in the pine
Ring with the song of the Fates;
5 DS ’
Infant Bacchus in the vine-

Far distant yet his chorus waits.

Canst thou copy in verse one chime
Of the wood-bell’s peal and ery,
Write in a book the morning’s prime,

Or match with words that tender sky?

Wonderful verse of the gods,
Of one import, of varied tone;
They chant the bliss of their abodes

To man imprisoned in his own.

a



Dorotuy.



BY HEDDERWICK BROWNE.






E little maiden that I love,
I met in yonder lane;
A flood of sunshine seemed to fall

Around her as she came.

Methought the very hedgerows took
A tenderer, livelier green,
And blossoms burst from every bud

As she passed on between !

And gladder, madder, merrier notes
A skylark round him threw,
As high above her golden head

He poised amid the blue.

I meant to tell her all my heart,
And yet—I know not why,
Upon the threshold of my lips

The story seemed to die.

It might have been the glamour
Or the magic of her smile,

That in a spell held all my soul,
And kept me dumb the while! |

It might have been that all too pure
For earth-born love seemed she;
From ber white height of maidenhood

How could she stoop to me?

8



we

XY

\ We

OSE








But eyes more eloquent can be,

And though the tongue may fail,
In potent language they reveal

The old, old tender tale.

For, placing her slim hand in mine,
Methought I heard my name
So softly, murmurously breathed,

T searce knew whence it came!

No need for words between us now;
A subtle sweetness stole
Through all our being, and we felt

That soul had answered soul.

And with the sunshine in our hearts,
The birds sang in our ears—
We left the lane, my love and I,

To meet the coming years.

Kee



To- Day.

Make a firm -built fence of trust
Around to-day ;

Fill the space with loving work
And within it stay.

Look not through the sheltering bars,
Anxious for the morrow ;

God will help in all that comes,

Be it joy or sorrow.

11



Piteriu’s Isue.

BY THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.




zs =

HERE fell a charm upon the deep,
A spell upon the silent shore;

ol The boats, like lily-pads asleep,

Lay round me upon ocean’s floor.

© weary world of noise and strife,
O cities, full of gold and guile,
How small a part ye make of life

To one that walks on Pilgrim's Isle.

I watched the Gurnet’s double star,
Like Jove and Venus side by side,
And on the smooth waves gleaming far

3eheld its long reflection ride.

My days of youth are almost flown,
And yet, upon a night like this,
Love will not let my heart alone;

Back comes the well-remembered bliss.

Oft in thy golden locks a gleam
Of other days illumes my brain,
And in thy hand’s soft touch I seem

To feel my boyhood born again.

Ah, dearest, all will soon be o’er!
I see my sunset in thy smile;
It lingers longest on the shore,

Th’ enchanted shore of Pilgriim’s Isle.

12





DarFropIi.s.




BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

T wanperen lonely as a cloud HL Sy Pn ;
That floats on high o’er vale and _ hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company !
And oft, when on my couch T lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude.

13



Tue Nicutr-Brtoomine Cereus.



BY JESSIE F. O'DONNELL.



'€ VOICE from the lily-bells calling,
Rang out on the even air clear:
“O ye blossoms! awake, in the gardens!
The Lord of the flowers cometh near!
O awake! in the field and the woodland;
The Maker of blossoms is here!”

The poppy just murmured: “I’m sleepy!”
And nodded her round, drowsy head ;
And the tulips had closed their bright shutters

“ Against the night dew-drops,” they said ;
And the little green balls of. the daisies

Never stirred in their soft, grassy bed.



But sweetly the tall, fragrant lily -
Uplifted her chalice of light,

And the roses threw open their bosoms
And gladdened the fair summer night,

And the stars of the jasmine blossoms

Leaned down from the trellises’ height.

The Lord, walking slow through the garden,
Smiled back at the rose’s perfume,

Caressing the lily’s pale petals,
Or shaking the hyacinth’s plume,

Till He came where the Cereus slumbered,
Close-hiding her beautiful bloom.

14



She thrilled at the heavenly presence,
And slowly uncovered her face,

And swinging the pearl of her censer,
With reverent, ineffable grace,

Stood revealed in her magical beauty,

The soul of that wonderful place.

Spellbound at the white, growing vision,
The Lord watched the flower unfold,
Till away from the quivering stamens
The last snowy petal had rolled,
Then He bent o’er the weird, witching blossom,

‘Left a kiss on its bosom of gold.

All tremulous with the keen rapture,
And rich with the Master’s breath,
“Not one lesser touch shall defile me!”

The night-blooming Cereus saith,
And gathering her garments about. her,

She yielded her sweetness to death.

Whenever a Cereus blossoms,
Tis said that the Master is nigh,

That He watches the glorious flower

Uneurl the gold stamens that lie
In the petals that tremble with rapture,
And shut round His kiss when they die.





Basy’s First Sprine.

Oy BY MARGARET HAYCRAFT.
va
ey

HAT do you think of the spring flowers that waken,

Little white snowdrop, late drifted to earth?



Meadows the bands of the winter have shaken —

Now shall you pass where the violets have birth.

What will they whisper, ’mid grasses entwining,
Mother’s own blossom, so softly to you?
Wondrous and strange are the beams that are shining

Golden and bright from the cloudlets of blue.

All things are fair and a marvel of glory
Unto my baby with heaven sweet face;
Sunbeams and flowerets are weaving a story:
Full of enchantment and beauty and grace.
Ah! when at last sunny spring shall be fading,
When in the gloaming, earth’s visions shall cease,
Then gentle Jesus! be tenderly aiding —

Stretch forth Thine arms—be Thou sunlight and peace.

i Po otee

Wuen tHE Boats Come Home.



BY SARAH DOUDNEY.

Le
\HERE’S light upon the sea to-day
SL And gladness on the strand;

a Ah! well ye know that hearts are gay




When sails draw nigh the land.

16



Basy’s First Sprine.

Oy BY MARGARET HAYCRAFT.
va
ey

HAT do you think of the spring flowers that waken,

Little white snowdrop, late drifted to earth?



Meadows the bands of the winter have shaken —

Now shall you pass where the violets have birth.

What will they whisper, ’mid grasses entwining,
Mother’s own blossom, so softly to you?
Wondrous and strange are the beams that are shining

Golden and bright from the cloudlets of blue.

All things are fair and a marvel of glory
Unto my baby with heaven sweet face;
Sunbeams and flowerets are weaving a story:
Full of enchantment and beauty and grace.
Ah! when at last sunny spring shall be fading,
When in the gloaming, earth’s visions shall cease,
Then gentle Jesus! be tenderly aiding —

Stretch forth Thine arms—be Thou sunlight and peace.

i Po otee

Wuen tHE Boats Come Home.



BY SARAH DOUDNEY.

Le
\HERE’S light upon the sea to-day
SL And gladness on the strand;

a Ah! well ye know that hearts are gay




When sails draw nigh the land.

16



We followed them with thoughts and tears,
Far, far across the foam!
Dear Lord, it seems a thousand years

Until the boats come home.

We tend the children, live our life,
And toil and mend the nets;
But is there ever maid or wife
Whose faithftl heart forgets?
We know what eruel dangers lie
Beneath that shining foam
And watch the changes in the sky

Until the boats come home.

There’s glory on the sea to-day,
The sunset gold is bright ;
Methought T heard a grandsire say,
“At eve it shall be light!”
O’er waves of crystal touched with fire
And flakes of pearly foam
We gaze—and see our hearts’ desire—-

The boats are coming home.







17



CurtpHoop’s Go tp.

BY LUCY LARCOM.





HEY need not go so far away,
Through heat and cold, to hunt for gold;
They might beside us sit or stray —

Our hands are full as they can hold.

*Twas scattered all the way from school,
In stars and bells adown the dells;

We children gathered aprons full,
Where little Dandelion dwells.

And yellow Cowslip to our feet
Came, like a king, his hoard to bring;
And Columbine, with nod so sweet,

Shook gold upon our path—gay thing!

Our homes are sweet upon the hills,
Where love is sure and life is pure,
And sunshine every season fills:

How can a country child be poor?

No robber scares our midnight hours;
No coffers could our treasures hold:
Dewdrops and sunbeams, stars and flowers —
Gold! Gold! Who shares our childhood’s gold ¢





ILDHOODS GOLD






Lire.

BY ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.

Bite: sas I know not what thou art,

But I know that thou and I must part;

And when, or how, or where we met,

I own to me’3 a secret yet.

Life! we’ve been long together

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ;
Tis hard to part when friends are dear,
Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear;

Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time ;

Say not Good Night, but in some brighter clime,
Bid me Good Morning.

13
SuNSHINE AND SHADOW.

ee BY GRACE GREENWOOD.
{ \




Y gladsome thoughts go forth, beloved,
Upon the pleasant morning hours,
With songs from tuneful-throated birds,
And earliest odors from the flowers!
Full laden with love’s choicest sweets,
Each smallest thought shall come to thee
As from the red heart of a rose

Flies home the richly burdened bee.

21



My tender thoughts go forth, beloved,

Upon the golden airs of noon,
With languid odors from the flowers

That flush and faint through ardent June,
With all the swiftness of the streams,

That fling out laughter as they run—
With all the brightness of the day—

With all the passion of the sun.

But when along the cloud-hung west
The last red lights grow pale and die,
When waves of sunshine roll no more,
And all one shade the wheat-tields lie;
When twilight drops adown the hills,

And floats upon the far, dim se:



Then, oh beloved, my lone, void heart
; ’ y ,

Yearns through the distance unto thee!

And when the fresh night winds awake
To frolic all the garden through —
To bow the saintly lily’s head
And spill the violet’s cup of dew;
And when they higher mount, and beat
The tree’s long arms against the eaves,
Troubling the robin in his nest,

And making tumult in the leaves—

Then in the silence, [ can hear

Strange sounds and whisperings of dread,
And every murmur in the grass

Seems some unfriendly spirit’s tread !
My very heart lies hushed and cold,

A nameless fear oppresseth me-—

22



Like some lost ehild, my frighted
















soul
Calls through the darkuess

unto thee!

So love, of all the thoughts I give,
Choose thou the best and dearest part —
The pride of day, or gloom of night,
The joy, or terror of my heart;
The glad, exultant love that fills
The morning with its joyous strain,
Or that wild loneliness that sighs,

And stretches out its arms in vain.

Would sigh or earol move thee most?
And were thy tenderest kiss bestowed
On eyes that droop with tears, or lips

With careless laughter overflowed ¢

23





Sone oF THE Bopo inks.



BY THOMAS H. MUZZEY.




Rippling on the sun-flecked waves of air—
Dripping, dripping silver water -notes

Down a crystal stair.

Swell your melody, O liquid throats!
Time, with all its aging fret and eare,
Is dissolved, and in your music floats

Back to youth and bides eternal there.

Let me drift upon your charmed tide,
Aye forgetting that the years are long—
All the hopes that cheating time denied

Thrill again in song.

Buttereups and daisies blowing wide,
Fevered pulses beating high and strong,
Down the lane we wander, side by side,

Sweetest sweetheart; but the years are long.

24



Sing, O bobolinks! I would not miss
The pure transport in your song ensouled:
Once again I linger, dazed with bliss,

In that Jane of gold.

Paradise can hold no joy like this,
When, by thrilling hand-touch grown more bold,

On her lips my heart throbs in one kiss

Eloquent—and all our love is told.





REVERSES.

BY BYRON R. HELL.

¢ rose that blooms the purest



Has need of summer showers,
The oak that stands the surest

Has felt the tempest’s power.

The gold that shines the fairest
The furnace fire must feel ;
The gem of lustre rarest

Has known the cruel steel.

The feet that stand the strongest,
Have trod temptation’s path ;
The heart that bears the longest,

Has known affliction’s wrath.

This principle mnerring
Through all creation runs,
Framed by the arn untiring

That guides the starry suns.

Yet to that soul possessing
Unwavering trust in right,
Defeat is but a blessing —

The rod, a seeptre bright.

For by reverses chastened,
We plainer see our needs,
Our onward march is hastened,

We rise to greater deeds.

26



Tur Roap ro SLUMBERLAND.

\ ANONYMOUS.

Wuar is the road to Slumberland,


















And when does the baby go?

The road lies straight through mother’s arms,
When the sun is sinking low.

He goes by the drowsy “Land of Nod,”

To music of “lullaby,”

When all wee lambs are safe in the fold,

Under the evening sky.

A soft little nightgown, clean and white,
A. face washed sweet and fair;

A mother brushing the tangles out

From the silken golden hair;

Two little tired satiny feet,

From the shoe and the stocking free;
Two little palms together clasped

At the mother’s patient knee.

Some baby words that are drowsily lisped

In the tender Shepherd’s ear,

And a kiss that only a mother can place
On the brow of her baby dear;

A little round head that nestles at last
Close to the mother’s breast,

And then the lullaby, soft and low,

Singing the song of rest.

27



And closer and closer the blue- veined lids
Are hiding the baby eyes,

As over the road to Slumberland
The dear little traveler hies.

For this is the way, through mother’s arms,
All dear little babies go

To the beautiful city of Slumberland,

When the sun is sinking low.
+ fei —
A. Tuisttepown.

A ¢ BY EMMA S$. THOMAS.
)





» THISTLEDOWN flew on the wind one day—
; From over the hills and far away }

A little child leaving his happy play —
Chased it afar with wonderful skill,

Over the woodland, over the hill,

Crossing the meadow, crossing the rill —

“Till the woodland grew to a forest wide,
The rill to a river’s turbulent tide,

And the tiny hill to a mountain side.

The sun went down and hid its light,

The stars shone out with a twinkling bright,
The world was filled with the darkness of night :
The thistledown could be scen no more,

And wayworn and weary, heartsick and sore,
He strove to retrace the paths of yore:

Like many older and wiser grown,

Ile finds he has left a good that is known

Only to follow a thistledown.

28





ConsipEeR the lilies of the field.
We are as they;

Like them we fade away
As doth the leaf.

Consider the sparrows of the air ;

Our God doth view

Whether they fall or mount —

le guards us too.

The birds that have no harvest
weeks;
God gives them food;
Much more our Father seeks

To do us good.





A “MiserereE” at St. PErer’s.

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON.



HE sunset, through the chapel- windows slanting,
Tints with its fading glow
The ranks of choristers, alternate chanting,

The kneeling crowd below.

They chant the Psalms; they chant the Lamentations.
The burden of their ery,
“Woe to the widowed city! Woe to nations!

The end of all is nigh!”

And sudden, through the dusk, the chant still calling,
There darts a lightning flash ;
And then, as if the sky itself was falling,

The thunder, crash on crash !

One moment all things blazing, blinding, reeling ;
The next, intensest night.
The chant above the rolling thunder pealing,

Triumphant in its might.

Twelve lights before the Cross, like altar -fires,

Have burned; and one for Hin.



As each Psalm ends—a pause —a light expires;

*Till only Ilis shines, dim.

The last chant stops. The last light flickers, dying.
And through the awful gloom,

And still more awful hush, dumb souls seem crying
As at the Day of Doom.

30



But now, a solitary voice, imploring,
Shoots from the depths; then dies.
Then soft begins again; and swelling, soaring,

“Pity, oh! God,” it cries.

And now another, sadder still, that sobbing
Pours out its passionate prayer ;

And others: till the mighty vault shakes, throbbing
With a lost world’s despair.

Beseeching, weeping, agonizing, wailing,
tings the heart-broken ery!
The choir, far up, tumultuous assailing,

And storming heaven on high.

And then a blessed peace, like tranced waves dreaming
Along a summer shore,
And through the calm, celestial voices seeming:

That say, “Go, sin no more.”

And still I hear that “mserere,” ringing
Across the far-off years;

The woes and sorrows of all ages bringing;

Their agony and tears.



31



Tsou art Like a FLower.

BY HEINRICH HEINE.

oh a
»| De
ALO art even as a flower is,
we





So gentle and pure and fair;
I gaze on thee, and sadness

Comes over my heart unaware.

I feel as though I should lay, sweet,
My hands on thy head with a prayer
That God may keep thee alway, sweet

As gentle and pure and fair,
et

W ater- Liies.



ANONYMOUS.





Down in the densest shade

That matted boughs have made,
The lilies float upon the reedy stream ;

Amid the deepest gloom

They show their pearly bloom,

Lighting the darkness with a silver gleam.

No other light is seen,
No sun-shaft bright and keen
Now breaks the shadow of these silent bowers;
A dim mysterious place,
Its only touch of grace

Is the white glory of its stainless flowers.

32



Tsou art Like a FLower.

BY HEINRICH HEINE.

oh a
»| De
ALO art even as a flower is,
we





So gentle and pure and fair;
I gaze on thee, and sadness

Comes over my heart unaware.

I feel as though I should lay, sweet,
My hands on thy head with a prayer
That God may keep thee alway, sweet

As gentle and pure and fair,
et

W ater- Liies.



ANONYMOUS.





Down in the densest shade

That matted boughs have made,
The lilies float upon the reedy stream ;

Amid the deepest gloom

They show their pearly bloom,

Lighting the darkness with a silver gleam.

No other light is seen,
No sun-shaft bright and keen
Now breaks the shadow of these silent bowers;
A dim mysterious place,
Its only touch of grace

Is the white glory of its stainless flowers.

32



Oh, ye who come and dream
Beside the gliding stream,
Bringing your maiden beauty to the spot,
God made you fair and bright
That ye might be the light

Of life’s dark places where the sun shines not.

Tender and sweet and pure,
Your patient souls endure

The darkness, sad and still, of sunless hours;
Earth’s dreary shades ye bless

With your white loveliness,

God’s gracious light-bearers, life’s human flowers!



































SLEEP.

BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

all the thoughts of God that are



Borne inward unto souls afar,

Along the Psalmist’s music deep,
Now tell me if there any is,
For gift or grace surpassing this—

“He giveth His beloved sleep”?

What would we give to our beloved ?
The hero’s heart, to be unmoved,
The poet’s star-tuned harp, to sweep,
The patriot’s voice, to teach and rouse,
The monarch’s crown to light the brows ?—

“He giveth His beloved sleep.”

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved,
A little dust to overweep
And bitter memories to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake:

“He giveth His beloved sleep.”

“Sleep soft, beloved!” we sometimes say,
But have no tune to charm away
Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep;
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber when

“We giveth [lis beloved sleep.”

34



Tur Maipen’s Conression.

BY ANN S. STEPHENS.
II whispered that he loved me,
And like the trembling: air
When dews are softly falling
And blossoms bend in prayer ;
Those whispered words of passion
Broke up the tranquil rest,
Where my heart lay like a lily,

With the green leaves on its breast.

He whispered that he loved me,
But I said not yes nor no;
For my limbs began to tremble,
And my cheeks were in a glow.
Then I felt him bending o’er me,
And my lips were softly pressed,
As red rose leaves fall together,

When they fold themselves to rest.

Then he left me, very softly,
As a shadow disappears,
To the tumult of my blushes,
To the heaven of my tears.
So I stole into iny chamber,
Which was rich with starry gloom,
And the breath of many roses

Went floating through the room.

Then T laid me down to slumber,



In the stillness of the night,

35



With the curtains brooding o’er,
So mysterious and white;
And there, in blissful weariness,
My trembling lips would part,
While my hands were tightly folded

O’er the beatings of my heart.

Then I felt the moonlight stealing —

Stealing softly toward my bed,
And its silvery wings unfolded

To the whispered words I said:
And it floated all around me,

And it trembled on the floor,
While [ whispered “that he loved me.

And would love me evermore!”

Thus I whispered to the moonbeaims—-
The night wind and the rose—
What I never breathe to mortal
When this full heart overflows;
For when feelings thrill our being
With thoughts above the carth,
Like prayers, we breathe them only

To things of heavenly birth.

When the morning sought my casement,
And flung its roses through

The snowy cloud of curtains
Dashed in with waves of blue,

I folded up my happiness
And not a word I spoke, —

Had I sileneed it at night time,

My o’ercharged heart had broke.

36












By rue ARNO.

oN og BY FRANK LEE BENEDICT.

E sat by Arno’s silvery stream
y , )

That poet famed and I;



Like some pale maiden in a dream,

The moon stole up the sky.

Ile pondered fancies sad or sweet,
While I sat mute beside,
And listened to the ripples beat

Like pulses in the tide.

A chime of bells soft echoes woke
Along the water’s reach ;
As if the sound some spell had broke,

lis thoughts surged into speech.

While pointing to a palace vast
Which towered in our sight,
Dark as a shadow from the past,

Across the summer night ;

Ife painted me in glowing words
Ilis brightest dream long o’er;
When hopes sprang up like mountain birds,

And soared as eagles soar.

39



He knew those chambers’ faded gold,
Where minstrel knights had sung,
And tales of love from days of old

. '
Their romance o’er them flung.

Three moons in turn had watched him there,
A hand within his own;
No face in heaven could be more fair,

Than that which on him shone.

That latest moon in darkness set,
That bright dream with it, fled ;
“To others blame, to us regret,”

His stern lips coldly said.

Fate’s recompense to both the same—
Instead of love, renown;
For her a royal state and name,

For him the poet’s crown.
——- <5}.

‘Trust.

ft would be God’s, must trust, not see;



Nor murmur, fear, demand,
Must wholly by Him guided be,
Led by His loving hand;
Must turn where’er he points, nor say,

“JT wonder where He leads the way.”

40













Ir is raining, little flower,
Be glad of rain;
Too much sun would wither thee —
Twill shine again.
The clouds are very black, ’tis true,
But just behind them shines the blue.

Art thou weary, tender heart,
Be glad of pain!

In sorrow sweetest things will grow,
Like flowers in rain;

God watches, and thou wilt have sun

When clouds their perfect work have done.



41








Tue Sevrisu Pansies.

BY PEARL EYTINGE.





Looking with fear and vague surprise,
At the maiden fair with ruthless hand,

Who bears them away from Fairy land.

No more wink they at the moon’s bold rays,
Never more yield to the wind’s wild ways,
Waving grasses whisper their loss,

8&8

To sweet wood violets under the moss.

Strange was the power that seemed to dwell,
Alone with the pansies down in the dell,
Lowly and modest to all they seem,

Of pride and vanity none would dream.

But a talkative bee saw fit to come,
Buzzing about with his gossipy hum;
Ile said, each pansy held an elf,

Who kept his hoard of sweets to himself,

42



Who knew of stores of honey and dew,
Which was tle purest breeze that blew,
Where the sunlight shone the best,

When it was sure to sink to rest.

So, you see, the news of flower land,
These clever pansies had at hand,
And, yet, not one had e’er been heard,

To send a whispering warping word,

To a sister blossom, “Danger is near,
Take care of your leaves, the storm is here.”
3ut hid its own sweet head from the rain,

And, when ’twas over, came out again.

And, thus it chanced on a day in June,
A maiden, singing an old love tune,
Went wandering through the silent wood

And by the purple pansies stood.

They looked at her with pleading eyes,
As, with a ery of glad surprise,
She plucked cach flower from its bed,

And twined it round her bonnie head.

The crimson rose, and lilies fair,
Still bud and bloom in beauty rare,
The maid is wooed and won and wed,

The pansies are forgot and dead.

EN eh

as
ce



Tue Brince or SIGHs.

BY KLIZABETIL STUART PHELPS.




Within a narrow hour of doubt and dole

Upon Life’s Bridge of Sighs to stand,
“A palace and a prison on each hand.”

O, palace of the rose-heart’s hue

Tow like a flower the warm light falls from you!
O, prison with the hollow eyes,

Beneath your stony walls no flowers arise !

O, palace of the rose-sweet sin,

How safe the heart that doth not enter in!

O, blessed prison walls! how true

The freedom of the soul that chooseth you!

ee —_____—
ve

SEPTEMBER.

BY HELEN HUNT.
4 HE golden-rod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown;

The trees in apple orchards



With fruits are bending down.

The gentian’s bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed

Its hidden silk has spun.

44



Tue Brince or SIGHs.

BY KLIZABETIL STUART PHELPS.




Within a narrow hour of doubt and dole

Upon Life’s Bridge of Sighs to stand,
“A palace and a prison on each hand.”

O, palace of the rose-heart’s hue

Tow like a flower the warm light falls from you!
O, prison with the hollow eyes,

Beneath your stony walls no flowers arise !

O, palace of the rose-sweet sin,

How safe the heart that doth not enter in!

O, blessed prison walls! how true

The freedom of the soul that chooseth you!

ee —_____—
ve

SEPTEMBER.

BY HELEN HUNT.
4 HE golden-rod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown;

The trees in apple orchards



With fruits are bending down.

The gentian’s bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed

Its hidden silk has spun.

44



From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes’ sweet odors rise 5

At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow buttertlies.

By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer’s best of weather
And autumn’s best of cheer.
But none of all this beauty
Which floods the earth and air
Is unto me the secret

Which makes September fair.

Tis a thing which I remember ;
To nae it thrills me yet;
One day of one September

I never ean forget.

45
















Tur Cuttpren OF THE Poor.
(From the French of Vietor Lugo.)

BY CHARLES ALGERNON SWINBURNE.




“/ AKE heed of this small child of earth;
\ He is great; he hath in him God most high,
//) Children before their fleshly birth

aes Are lights alive in the blue sky.

In our light, bitter world of wrong
They come; God gives us them awhile.
His speech is in their stammering tongue,

And His forgiveness in their smile,

Their sweet light rests upon our eyes.
Alas! their right to joy is plain.
If they are thirsty, Paradise

Weeps, and if hungry Heaven thrills with pain.

The want that saps their sinless flower
Speaks judgment on sin’s ministers.
Man holds an angel in his power.

Ah! deep in Heaven what thunder stirs
i

When God seeks out these tender things
Whom in the shadow where we sleep
Te sends us elothed about with wings,

And finds them ragged babes that weep.

46
















Two Love Letters.

BY W. L. FALCONER.

Y Love, when you and I were young,
I wrote a letter, and you said

Your heart leaped in you as you read,



With such mad rhythm was it strung.

This is my second lover’s vow,
And in it throbs a quicker truth,
Tho’ not the musi¢ of our youth;

I only write—“T love you” —now.

In spite of all these spectral days,
That troop with sad accusing eyes

To pierce my poor love where it lies



I love you! When your tender gaze

Met coldness in my own, and when
I checked your laughter with «a frown,
And when I laughed your weepiny down,

‘ My Love, My Love, I loved you then!

The world had filled my heart with gall;
T held it to your thirsting lip;
And lightly let your warm hands slip

From mine —TI loved you, with it all!

Ah! such, then, is a passion’s life!
And now~—this little paper’s fold
To shut within your dead palm’s hold—

To tell you that I love you, Wife!

49



MipsuMMER.

BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

ni round this lovely valley rise

The purple hills of Paradise.



O, softly on yon banks of haze

[ler rosy face the Summer lays!
Becalmed along the azure sky,

The argosies of Cloudland lie,

Whose shores, with many a shining rift,

Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift.

Through all the long midsummer day

The meadow-sides are sweet with hay.

I seek the coolest sheltered seat,

Just where the field and forest meet, —
Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland,
The ancient oaks austere and grand,

And fringy roots and pebbles fret

The ripples of the rivulet.

I watch the mowers, as they go

Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row.
With even stroke their scythes they swing,
In tune their merry whetstones ring.
Behind, the nimble youngsters run,

And toss the thick swaths in the sun.

The cattle graze, while, warm and still,
Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill,
And bright, where summer breezes break,

The green wheat crinkles like a lake.

50



Sweet woodland music sinks and swells,
The brooklet rings its tinkling bells,
The swarming insects drone and hum,
The partridge beats his throbbing drum.
The squirrel leaps among the boughs,
And chatters in his leafy house,

The oriole flashes by; and, look

Into the mirror of the brook,

Where the vain bluebird trims his coat,

Two tiny feathers fall and float.

As silently, as tenderly,

The down of peace descends on me.
O, this is peace! I have no need

Of friend to talk, of book to read:
A dear Companion here abides ;
Close to my thrilling heart He hides;
The holy silence is His voice:

I lie and listen, and rejoice.









51



HeEspERIDES.

BY BELLE BREMER.

E read of a marvelous island fair,



A charming story and quaintly told,

Enea
Caen

- And a wonderful garden lying there,
Whose trees bear apples of yellow gold.
It is said if you sail o’er the shining seas
Steadily on to the glowing west,
You will surely come, with favoring breeze

Sometime, to the beautiful island blest.

But the eye of mortal has never seen
The far famed isle of the western seas,

With its garden bright in the flashing sheen
Of golden fruit on the magic trees:

You may gaze, and gaze, when the cloudlands pile
The sunset gold, till your eyes are dim,

You never will sight the Hesper isles,

Though you sail to the ocean’s furthest rim.

There’s a wider sea in its ebb and flow,

And ever its pulsing waves are curled
Round ships that sail and the ships below—

The Sea of Life and it laps the world ;—
And bright as a gem, in this circling sea,

On a happy isle, neath tropic skies,
Where the crimson current is swift and free,

A garden of golden fruitage lies.

But once, in sailing the wide sea o’er,

We sight this beautiful wonder - land —

52



The garden of Youth, with its golden store;
Once only our feet will touch the strand
Where the rosiest curtains ever drape
The windows of Day with a shining mist
And the bloom is still on the purple grape, —

The blush on the peach the sun-god kissed.

But one brief day in the garden is ours,

To have and hold till the sun goes down;
To eat of the fruit and pluck the flowers,

And gather the clustering nuts of brown:
And the hours go by on winged feet;

And never were hours so dear as these,
Where the golden fruit that we pluck and eat

Is sweet as honey from Hybla’s bees.

But the sun slips over the western wall,

The gold fades out of the twilight sky,
The evening shadows begin to fall;

Our day is now with the things gone by;
And our boat is ready to sail, alas!

For down by the shore the boatman calls,
And so, with lingering steps we pass

Outside the garden’s enchanted walls.



53



YEAR AFTER YEAR.

BY DINAH MULOCK CRAIK.





Year after year the skylarks thrill the air,
Year after year, in sunshine or in shadow,

Rolls the world round, love, and finds us as we were.
Year after year, as sure as birds returning,

Or field flowers blossoming above the wintry mould,
Year after year, in work or mirth or mourning,

Love we with Love’s own youth, that never can grow old.
Sweetheart and lady-love, queen of boyish passion,

Strong hope of manhood, content of age begun,
Loved in a hundred ways, each in a different fashion,

Yet loved supremely, solely, as we never love but one.
KB}
On tHE TERRACE.

BY GLEESON WHITE.



By a manor house, well builded in the days of good Queen Bess,

Stands, upon its river terrace, Lady Betty in distress ;

Lonely, in that old Dutch garden, with its avenues of box,

Tall white lilies, sweet carnations, and its stately hollyhocks,

Here she waits, despised, forsaken; never will she sne for pardon—

His the fault, and his alone (Ah! the serpent’s in this garden).

Shall she meekly bow to tyrant



she his newly dowered bride?

Nay, come death, come dire disaster, ere she yields her proper pride.

54



YEAR AFTER YEAR.

BY DINAH MULOCK CRAIK.





Year after year the skylarks thrill the air,
Year after year, in sunshine or in shadow,

Rolls the world round, love, and finds us as we were.
Year after year, as sure as birds returning,

Or field flowers blossoming above the wintry mould,
Year after year, in work or mirth or mourning,

Love we with Love’s own youth, that never can grow old.
Sweetheart and lady-love, queen of boyish passion,

Strong hope of manhood, content of age begun,
Loved in a hundred ways, each in a different fashion,

Yet loved supremely, solely, as we never love but one.
KB}
On tHE TERRACE.

BY GLEESON WHITE.



By a manor house, well builded in the days of good Queen Bess,

Stands, upon its river terrace, Lady Betty in distress ;

Lonely, in that old Dutch garden, with its avenues of box,

Tall white lilies, sweet carnations, and its stately hollyhocks,

Here she waits, despised, forsaken; never will she sne for pardon—

His the fault, and his alone (Ah! the serpent’s in this garden).

Shall she meekly bow to tyrant



she his newly dowered bride?

Nay, come death, come dire disaster, ere she yields her proper pride.

54



So she idly gazes seaward, toying with her folded fan,

Pouting, scheming. “Oh, how weary is this world’s disordered plan!”
Everything has Lady Betty, but the peace that knows content;

Seeking it in modish dresses, ever but on pleasure bent.

Losing it, may be for ever, in this day of royal June
5 ’ wo d >

Letting fancies wring her spirit, throwing all things out of tune.

Up, my Lady Betty, quickly, lest you tempt too long your fate;

Playing anger often changes to a real and bitter hate.

Happiness is love and duty, else discordance tierce and strong;
ae) 5?

d

Proverbs trite hold pointed morals, ‘Edged tools cut if played with long.’

“Bear and forbear,” since forgiveness is the attribute of power,

Winning love, while pride pays dearly for its tiny conauering hour,
gs 3 0 . 4 5





TuHroucH a Winpow.

BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.




“LIE here at rest in my chamber,
And look through the window again,
With eyes that are changed since the old time,
And the sting of an exquisite pain.

"Tis not much that I see for a picture,
Through boughs that are green with spring-
A barn with its roof gray and mossy,
And above it a bird on the wing.

Ah! once the roof was a prison,
My mind and the sky were free,

My thoughts with the birds went flying
And my hopes were a heaven to me.

Now I come from the limitless distance
Where I followed my youth’s wild will,

Where they press the wine of delusion
That you drink and are thirsty still;

And I know why the bird with the spring-time
To the gnarled old tree comes back —

He has tried the South and the summer,
He has felt what the sweet things lack.

So I come with a sad contentment,
With eyes that are changed I see;

The roof means peace, not a prison,
And Heaven smiles down on me.

56





"DEAR MAMMAS






Tue Cry or tHe DRreEaAmeER.

\ BY JOHN B. O’REILLY.




AM tired of planning and toiling

| °

In the crowded hives of men;
Heart weary of building and spoiling,

And spoiling and building again,
And I long for the dear old river,

Where [ dreamed my youth away ;
For a dreamer lives forever,

And a toiler dies in a day.

T am sick of the showy seeming,
Of a life that is half a lie;
Of the faces lined with scheming
In the throng that hurries by.
Krom the sleepless thoughts’ endeavor,
I would go where the children play;
For a dreamer lives forever,

And a toiler dies in a day.

No, no! from the street’s rude bustle,
From trophies of mart and stage,

{ would fly to the wood’s low rustle,
And the meadow’s kindly page.

Let me dream as of old by the river,
And be loved for the dream alway ;

For a dreamer lives forever,

And a toiler dies in a day.

59





Love's Flower.



BY MINNA IRVING.



Long and slender, slipping through
Ancient branches blossom -laden,
Pink and pearl against the blue,
With a youth of wondrous beauty,
Eyes of blue, and locks of light,
And a brow of Saxon fairness,

In my dreams I walked one night.

Low the flowery boughs above us
Bent, and all the air was sweet,
And a light wind sent the petals
Floating softly to our feet.
Every dewdrop was a diamond,
And a thousand to a spray,
For the time was in the morning,
And the year was in the May.

As we walked, within the hollow

Of a rock we found a pool,

60



Graceful branches drooping o’er it
Kept its quiet waters cool.
Smooth and silv’ry like a mirror,
Crystal-clear as April rain.
“This,” he murmured, “is the fountain

“That De Leon sought in vain.”

Then beneath the flowery arches
Came a round and rosy boy,
With a quiver full of lilies,
Singing clear as if for joy.
As he passed he dropped a lily
From his glowing finger- tips:
“Tt is Love,” he said, and turning

Touched my forehead with his lips.

Upward soared a lark to Heaven
With the angels to rejoice ;
Back between the banks of blossoms
Came the sound of Love’s sweet voice.
Some new passion filled and thrilled us,
Lips and hearts were nearer drawn,
Then I woke, to find the winter,
And the dull and dreary dawn.

Gone the dew-bespangled branches,
(one, alas! the fount of youth—
Lark and lilies, Love and lover,
All an airy dream in truth.
But I watched the cold rain falling
From the gray and sunless skies,
And I sighed for tender gladness,
And the blue of love-lit eyes.

61



Many a gallant comes to woo me.
Empty words their pleadings seem,
Not a one is fair and noble
As the lover of my dream!
And I know that somewhere under
Skies that snow, or suns that shine,
Near or far, he has his being,

And his spirit yearns for mine.

It may be alas! that never
Here on earth our paths will meet,
Love will never leave a lily
From his quiver at my feet,
3ut beyond the Vale of Shadows,
And beyond the Crystal Gate,
In the morning, in the May - time,

T will find my spirit’s mate!

I will know him by his graces,
And the glory of his hair;
I will drink at youth’s bright fountain,
And like him be more than fair.
We will walk the dewy orchard,
We will hear the seraphs sing,
Under flowers that fade not ever,

In a long immortal spring!





62



Ou, ror A Swine in tHE Otp Exim Tres.

BY ELIZABETH A. DAVIS.

1 for a swing in the old elm tree
And a breath from the clover fields!
I’d give the state of a palace hall

And the spices that India yields.

To lie once more in the thick soft grass
With the sweet winds brushing by,
The world outside and a heart at peace,

And above the summer sky;

To wateh the clouds in their shifting lights
And the mists on the distant hills,
And dream to the music of rustling leaves

And the voices of dancing rills;

To kneel again in the little chureh
Where [ prayed with a childish trust
Ere the haunting doubts of a later time

Had touched it with moth and rust;

To sleep once more ‘neath the moss-grown roof;
My spirit would find again
The long-lost chord of that happy time

And take up the glad refrain.

My heart grows sick and my eyes are dim
For a sight of familiar things ;
The grassy nook and the old elm tree

Would be more than the throne of kings.

63



THe Enp.

ANONYMOUS.
o) —- es

ea JE course of the weariest river

Ends in the great gray sea;




The acorn, for ever and ever,

Strives upward to the tree.

The rainbow, the sky adorning,
Shines promise through the storm ,
The glimmer of coming morning
a

Through midnight gloom will form.

By time all knots are riven,
Complex although they be,
And peace will at last be given,

Dear, both to you and to me.

Then, though the path may be dreary,
Look onward to the goal ;
Though the heart and the head be weary,

Let faith inspire the soul.

Seek the right, though the wrong be tempting,
Speak truth at any cost;
Vain is all weak exempting,

When once the gem is lost.

Let strong hand and keen eye be ready
For plain and ambushed foes;
Thought earnest and fancy steady,

Bear best unto the close.

64



The heavy clouds may be raining,
But with evening comes the light;
Through the dark low winds complaining,

Yet the sunrise gilds the height;

And Love has his hidden treasure
For the patient and the pure;
And Time gives his fullest measure

To the workers who endure;

And the Word that no law has shaken

Has the future pledge supplied;

For we know that when we awaken
We shall be satisfied.











































Full Text


SILIORIAE


The Baldwin Library

RmB


BUDS »& BLOSSOMS











At

ILLUSTRATED

————-

PHILADELPHIA

PETERSON MAGAZINE Co.
1889


TRAILING ARBUTUS, . .. 2. + es
THE ROSE AND THE STAR, .
My GARDEN,

DororHy,

To-Day,

PILGRIM’s ISLE,

DAFFODILS,

THE NiGHr- BLOOMING CEREUS,
BaBy’s FIRST SPRING,

WHEN THE Boats ComME Home,
CHILDHOOD’s GOLD,

LIFE,

SUNSHINE AND SHADOW, .
SONG or THE BOBOLINKS, .
REVERSES, .

THE Roap To SLUMBERLAND,
A THISTLEDOWN,

CONSIDER THE LILIES OF THE FIELD, .

A “MISERERE” AT St. PETER’S,
THOU ART LIKE A FLOWER,
WATER- LILIES,
SLEEP,,. 2... ....-200.4

- Rose Terry Cooke, .

A. E. Lancaster,

. Ralph Waldo Emerson,
- Hedderwick Browne,

- Anonymous,

. Thomas William Parsons,
. William Wordsworth,

. Jessie F. O’Donnell, .

. Margaret Haycraft,

. Sarah Doudney, -

- Lucy Larcom, .

- Anna Letitia Barbauld,
. Grace Greenwood, -

. Thomas H. Muzzey, -

. Byron R. Hill,

. Anonymous,

- Emma 8. Thomas,

. Anonymous,

. Charles J. Peterson, .

. Heinrich Heine, -

. Anonymous,

. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, .

orn wo

11
12
13
14
16
16
18
21

24
26
27
28
29
30
32

34
THE MAIDEN’s Con FESSION,

BY THE ARNO, -

TRUST,

Ir 1s RAINING, LITTLE

FLOWER, . -

THE SELFISH PANSIES, -

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHs,

SEPTEMBER,

THE CHILDREN OF THE

Two Love LETTERS, .

MIDSUMMER, .

HESPERIDES, -

YEAR AFTER YEAR,

ON THE TERRACE, .

THROUGH A WINDOW,

THE CRY OF THE DREAMER, .-

Love’s FLOWER, -

Ou, FOR A SWING IN THE OLD ELM TREE, .

THE END,

.

. Ann 5. Stephens, .....
. Frank Lee Benedict, ...- .-
. Anonymous, ..-+-+-+:-
. Anonymous, ..- ++ +s >
. Pearl Eytinge,
. .. . . . Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, .
. Helen Hunt,
. Charles Algernon Swinburne, .
. W. L. Falconer, .
. J. T. Trowbridge,. .....
..... + , Belle Bremer, .

. Dinah Mulock Craik,

. Gleeson White,

. Louise Chandler Moulton, .

. John B. O'Reilly, . . . .

. . . Minna Irving, .

. Elizabeth A. Davis,

sos ee ee ee ee AMOMyMOUS, 6 ee ee ee

Poor, ..-

35

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Traitinc ARBUTUS.

BY ROSE TERRY COOKE.

Daruines of the forest!
Blossoming alone,

When Earth’s grief is sorest



For her jewels gone
Ere the last snow-drift melts,

Your tender buds have blown.

Tinged with color faintly,
Like the morning sky,
Or, more pale and saintly,
Wrapped in leaves ye lie
Even as children sleep

In faith’s simplicity.

There the wild-wood robin
Hymns your solitude;

And the rain comes sobbing
Through the budding wood,

y While the low south wind sighs,

3ut dare not be more rude.


Were your pure lips fashioned
Out of air and dew—

Starlight unimpassioned,
Dawn’s most tender hue,

And scented by the woods

That gathered sweets for you?

Fairest and most lonely,
From the world apart;

Made for beauty only,
Veiled in Nature’s heart

With such unconscious grace

As makes the dream of art.

Were not mortal sorrow
An immortal shade,
Then would I to-morrow
Such a flower be made,
And live in the clear wood
Where my lost childhood played.

+ >-$<-+

Tur Rost and THE STAR.

BY A. E, LANCASTER.



A witpwoop rose awoke from its midnight rest
Beneath a lonely star’s caressing light,
And sighed: “O wondrous human world, how blest

To roam like thee, forever fair and bright!”

The radiant star, strange home of mortal strife,
Murmured, in memory of its hapless reign:
“© gentle flower, had I thy tranquil life,
That fragrant sleep, that knows no dream of pain!”

6
My Garpen.

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON.




Y garden is a forest ledge
Which older forests bound ;
The banks slope down to the blue lake edge,

Then plange to depths profound.

In my plot no tulips blow —
Snow -loving pines and oaks instead ;
And rank the savage maples grow

From spring’s faint flush to autumn red.

Keen cars can catch a syllable,
As if one spake to another,
In the hemlocks tall, untamable,

And what the whispering grasses smother.

AXolian harps in the pine
Ring with the song of the Fates;
5 DS ’
Infant Bacchus in the vine-

Far distant yet his chorus waits.

Canst thou copy in verse one chime
Of the wood-bell’s peal and ery,
Write in a book the morning’s prime,

Or match with words that tender sky?

Wonderful verse of the gods,
Of one import, of varied tone;
They chant the bliss of their abodes

To man imprisoned in his own.

a
Dorotuy.



BY HEDDERWICK BROWNE.






E little maiden that I love,
I met in yonder lane;
A flood of sunshine seemed to fall

Around her as she came.

Methought the very hedgerows took
A tenderer, livelier green,
And blossoms burst from every bud

As she passed on between !

And gladder, madder, merrier notes
A skylark round him threw,
As high above her golden head

He poised amid the blue.

I meant to tell her all my heart,
And yet—I know not why,
Upon the threshold of my lips

The story seemed to die.

It might have been the glamour
Or the magic of her smile,

That in a spell held all my soul,
And kept me dumb the while! |

It might have been that all too pure
For earth-born love seemed she;
From ber white height of maidenhood

How could she stoop to me?

8
we

XY

\ We

OSE


But eyes more eloquent can be,

And though the tongue may fail,
In potent language they reveal

The old, old tender tale.

For, placing her slim hand in mine,
Methought I heard my name
So softly, murmurously breathed,

T searce knew whence it came!

No need for words between us now;
A subtle sweetness stole
Through all our being, and we felt

That soul had answered soul.

And with the sunshine in our hearts,
The birds sang in our ears—
We left the lane, my love and I,

To meet the coming years.

Kee



To- Day.

Make a firm -built fence of trust
Around to-day ;

Fill the space with loving work
And within it stay.

Look not through the sheltering bars,
Anxious for the morrow ;

God will help in all that comes,

Be it joy or sorrow.

11
Piteriu’s Isue.

BY THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.




zs =

HERE fell a charm upon the deep,
A spell upon the silent shore;

ol The boats, like lily-pads asleep,

Lay round me upon ocean’s floor.

© weary world of noise and strife,
O cities, full of gold and guile,
How small a part ye make of life

To one that walks on Pilgrim's Isle.

I watched the Gurnet’s double star,
Like Jove and Venus side by side,
And on the smooth waves gleaming far

3eheld its long reflection ride.

My days of youth are almost flown,
And yet, upon a night like this,
Love will not let my heart alone;

Back comes the well-remembered bliss.

Oft in thy golden locks a gleam
Of other days illumes my brain,
And in thy hand’s soft touch I seem

To feel my boyhood born again.

Ah, dearest, all will soon be o’er!
I see my sunset in thy smile;
It lingers longest on the shore,

Th’ enchanted shore of Pilgriim’s Isle.

12


DarFropIi.s.




BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

T wanperen lonely as a cloud HL Sy Pn ;
That floats on high o’er vale and _ hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company !
And oft, when on my couch T lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude.

13
Tue Nicutr-Brtoomine Cereus.



BY JESSIE F. O'DONNELL.



'€ VOICE from the lily-bells calling,
Rang out on the even air clear:
“O ye blossoms! awake, in the gardens!
The Lord of the flowers cometh near!
O awake! in the field and the woodland;
The Maker of blossoms is here!”

The poppy just murmured: “I’m sleepy!”
And nodded her round, drowsy head ;
And the tulips had closed their bright shutters

“ Against the night dew-drops,” they said ;
And the little green balls of. the daisies

Never stirred in their soft, grassy bed.



But sweetly the tall, fragrant lily -
Uplifted her chalice of light,

And the roses threw open their bosoms
And gladdened the fair summer night,

And the stars of the jasmine blossoms

Leaned down from the trellises’ height.

The Lord, walking slow through the garden,
Smiled back at the rose’s perfume,

Caressing the lily’s pale petals,
Or shaking the hyacinth’s plume,

Till He came where the Cereus slumbered,
Close-hiding her beautiful bloom.

14
She thrilled at the heavenly presence,
And slowly uncovered her face,

And swinging the pearl of her censer,
With reverent, ineffable grace,

Stood revealed in her magical beauty,

The soul of that wonderful place.

Spellbound at the white, growing vision,
The Lord watched the flower unfold,
Till away from the quivering stamens
The last snowy petal had rolled,
Then He bent o’er the weird, witching blossom,

‘Left a kiss on its bosom of gold.

All tremulous with the keen rapture,
And rich with the Master’s breath,
“Not one lesser touch shall defile me!”

The night-blooming Cereus saith,
And gathering her garments about. her,

She yielded her sweetness to death.

Whenever a Cereus blossoms,
Tis said that the Master is nigh,

That He watches the glorious flower

Uneurl the gold stamens that lie
In the petals that tremble with rapture,
And shut round His kiss when they die.


Basy’s First Sprine.

Oy BY MARGARET HAYCRAFT.
va
ey

HAT do you think of the spring flowers that waken,

Little white snowdrop, late drifted to earth?



Meadows the bands of the winter have shaken —

Now shall you pass where the violets have birth.

What will they whisper, ’mid grasses entwining,
Mother’s own blossom, so softly to you?
Wondrous and strange are the beams that are shining

Golden and bright from the cloudlets of blue.

All things are fair and a marvel of glory
Unto my baby with heaven sweet face;
Sunbeams and flowerets are weaving a story:
Full of enchantment and beauty and grace.
Ah! when at last sunny spring shall be fading,
When in the gloaming, earth’s visions shall cease,
Then gentle Jesus! be tenderly aiding —

Stretch forth Thine arms—be Thou sunlight and peace.

i Po otee

Wuen tHE Boats Come Home.



BY SARAH DOUDNEY.

Le
\HERE’S light upon the sea to-day
SL And gladness on the strand;

a Ah! well ye know that hearts are gay




When sails draw nigh the land.

16
We followed them with thoughts and tears,
Far, far across the foam!
Dear Lord, it seems a thousand years

Until the boats come home.

We tend the children, live our life,
And toil and mend the nets;
But is there ever maid or wife
Whose faithftl heart forgets?
We know what eruel dangers lie
Beneath that shining foam
And watch the changes in the sky

Until the boats come home.

There’s glory on the sea to-day,
The sunset gold is bright ;
Methought T heard a grandsire say,
“At eve it shall be light!”
O’er waves of crystal touched with fire
And flakes of pearly foam
We gaze—and see our hearts’ desire—-

The boats are coming home.







17
CurtpHoop’s Go tp.

BY LUCY LARCOM.





HEY need not go so far away,
Through heat and cold, to hunt for gold;
They might beside us sit or stray —

Our hands are full as they can hold.

*Twas scattered all the way from school,
In stars and bells adown the dells;

We children gathered aprons full,
Where little Dandelion dwells.

And yellow Cowslip to our feet
Came, like a king, his hoard to bring;
And Columbine, with nod so sweet,

Shook gold upon our path—gay thing!

Our homes are sweet upon the hills,
Where love is sure and life is pure,
And sunshine every season fills:

How can a country child be poor?

No robber scares our midnight hours;
No coffers could our treasures hold:
Dewdrops and sunbeams, stars and flowers —
Gold! Gold! Who shares our childhood’s gold ¢


ILDHOODS GOLD
Lire.

BY ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.

Bite: sas I know not what thou art,

But I know that thou and I must part;

And when, or how, or where we met,

I own to me’3 a secret yet.

Life! we’ve been long together

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ;
Tis hard to part when friends are dear,
Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear;

Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time ;

Say not Good Night, but in some brighter clime,
Bid me Good Morning.

13
SuNSHINE AND SHADOW.

ee BY GRACE GREENWOOD.
{ \




Y gladsome thoughts go forth, beloved,
Upon the pleasant morning hours,
With songs from tuneful-throated birds,
And earliest odors from the flowers!
Full laden with love’s choicest sweets,
Each smallest thought shall come to thee
As from the red heart of a rose

Flies home the richly burdened bee.

21
My tender thoughts go forth, beloved,

Upon the golden airs of noon,
With languid odors from the flowers

That flush and faint through ardent June,
With all the swiftness of the streams,

That fling out laughter as they run—
With all the brightness of the day—

With all the passion of the sun.

But when along the cloud-hung west
The last red lights grow pale and die,
When waves of sunshine roll no more,
And all one shade the wheat-tields lie;
When twilight drops adown the hills,

And floats upon the far, dim se:



Then, oh beloved, my lone, void heart
; ’ y ,

Yearns through the distance unto thee!

And when the fresh night winds awake
To frolic all the garden through —
To bow the saintly lily’s head
And spill the violet’s cup of dew;
And when they higher mount, and beat
The tree’s long arms against the eaves,
Troubling the robin in his nest,

And making tumult in the leaves—

Then in the silence, [ can hear

Strange sounds and whisperings of dread,
And every murmur in the grass

Seems some unfriendly spirit’s tread !
My very heart lies hushed and cold,

A nameless fear oppresseth me-—

22
Like some lost ehild, my frighted
















soul
Calls through the darkuess

unto thee!

So love, of all the thoughts I give,
Choose thou the best and dearest part —
The pride of day, or gloom of night,
The joy, or terror of my heart;
The glad, exultant love that fills
The morning with its joyous strain,
Or that wild loneliness that sighs,

And stretches out its arms in vain.

Would sigh or earol move thee most?
And were thy tenderest kiss bestowed
On eyes that droop with tears, or lips

With careless laughter overflowed ¢

23


Sone oF THE Bopo inks.



BY THOMAS H. MUZZEY.




Rippling on the sun-flecked waves of air—
Dripping, dripping silver water -notes

Down a crystal stair.

Swell your melody, O liquid throats!
Time, with all its aging fret and eare,
Is dissolved, and in your music floats

Back to youth and bides eternal there.

Let me drift upon your charmed tide,
Aye forgetting that the years are long—
All the hopes that cheating time denied

Thrill again in song.

Buttereups and daisies blowing wide,
Fevered pulses beating high and strong,
Down the lane we wander, side by side,

Sweetest sweetheart; but the years are long.

24
Sing, O bobolinks! I would not miss
The pure transport in your song ensouled:
Once again I linger, dazed with bliss,

In that Jane of gold.

Paradise can hold no joy like this,
When, by thrilling hand-touch grown more bold,

On her lips my heart throbs in one kiss

Eloquent—and all our love is told.


REVERSES.

BY BYRON R. HELL.

¢ rose that blooms the purest



Has need of summer showers,
The oak that stands the surest

Has felt the tempest’s power.

The gold that shines the fairest
The furnace fire must feel ;
The gem of lustre rarest

Has known the cruel steel.

The feet that stand the strongest,
Have trod temptation’s path ;
The heart that bears the longest,

Has known affliction’s wrath.

This principle mnerring
Through all creation runs,
Framed by the arn untiring

That guides the starry suns.

Yet to that soul possessing
Unwavering trust in right,
Defeat is but a blessing —

The rod, a seeptre bright.

For by reverses chastened,
We plainer see our needs,
Our onward march is hastened,

We rise to greater deeds.

26
Tur Roap ro SLUMBERLAND.

\ ANONYMOUS.

Wuar is the road to Slumberland,


















And when does the baby go?

The road lies straight through mother’s arms,
When the sun is sinking low.

He goes by the drowsy “Land of Nod,”

To music of “lullaby,”

When all wee lambs are safe in the fold,

Under the evening sky.

A soft little nightgown, clean and white,
A. face washed sweet and fair;

A mother brushing the tangles out

From the silken golden hair;

Two little tired satiny feet,

From the shoe and the stocking free;
Two little palms together clasped

At the mother’s patient knee.

Some baby words that are drowsily lisped

In the tender Shepherd’s ear,

And a kiss that only a mother can place
On the brow of her baby dear;

A little round head that nestles at last
Close to the mother’s breast,

And then the lullaby, soft and low,

Singing the song of rest.

27
And closer and closer the blue- veined lids
Are hiding the baby eyes,

As over the road to Slumberland
The dear little traveler hies.

For this is the way, through mother’s arms,
All dear little babies go

To the beautiful city of Slumberland,

When the sun is sinking low.
+ fei —
A. Tuisttepown.

A ¢ BY EMMA S$. THOMAS.
)





» THISTLEDOWN flew on the wind one day—
; From over the hills and far away }

A little child leaving his happy play —
Chased it afar with wonderful skill,

Over the woodland, over the hill,

Crossing the meadow, crossing the rill —

“Till the woodland grew to a forest wide,
The rill to a river’s turbulent tide,

And the tiny hill to a mountain side.

The sun went down and hid its light,

The stars shone out with a twinkling bright,
The world was filled with the darkness of night :
The thistledown could be scen no more,

And wayworn and weary, heartsick and sore,
He strove to retrace the paths of yore:

Like many older and wiser grown,

Ile finds he has left a good that is known

Only to follow a thistledown.

28


ConsipEeR the lilies of the field.
We are as they;

Like them we fade away
As doth the leaf.

Consider the sparrows of the air ;

Our God doth view

Whether they fall or mount —

le guards us too.

The birds that have no harvest
weeks;
God gives them food;
Much more our Father seeks

To do us good.


A “MiserereE” at St. PErer’s.

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON.



HE sunset, through the chapel- windows slanting,
Tints with its fading glow
The ranks of choristers, alternate chanting,

The kneeling crowd below.

They chant the Psalms; they chant the Lamentations.
The burden of their ery,
“Woe to the widowed city! Woe to nations!

The end of all is nigh!”

And sudden, through the dusk, the chant still calling,
There darts a lightning flash ;
And then, as if the sky itself was falling,

The thunder, crash on crash !

One moment all things blazing, blinding, reeling ;
The next, intensest night.
The chant above the rolling thunder pealing,

Triumphant in its might.

Twelve lights before the Cross, like altar -fires,

Have burned; and one for Hin.



As each Psalm ends—a pause —a light expires;

*Till only Ilis shines, dim.

The last chant stops. The last light flickers, dying.
And through the awful gloom,

And still more awful hush, dumb souls seem crying
As at the Day of Doom.

30
But now, a solitary voice, imploring,
Shoots from the depths; then dies.
Then soft begins again; and swelling, soaring,

“Pity, oh! God,” it cries.

And now another, sadder still, that sobbing
Pours out its passionate prayer ;

And others: till the mighty vault shakes, throbbing
With a lost world’s despair.

Beseeching, weeping, agonizing, wailing,
tings the heart-broken ery!
The choir, far up, tumultuous assailing,

And storming heaven on high.

And then a blessed peace, like tranced waves dreaming
Along a summer shore,
And through the calm, celestial voices seeming:

That say, “Go, sin no more.”

And still I hear that “mserere,” ringing
Across the far-off years;

The woes and sorrows of all ages bringing;

Their agony and tears.



31
Tsou art Like a FLower.

BY HEINRICH HEINE.

oh a
»| De
ALO art even as a flower is,
we





So gentle and pure and fair;
I gaze on thee, and sadness

Comes over my heart unaware.

I feel as though I should lay, sweet,
My hands on thy head with a prayer
That God may keep thee alway, sweet

As gentle and pure and fair,
et

W ater- Liies.



ANONYMOUS.





Down in the densest shade

That matted boughs have made,
The lilies float upon the reedy stream ;

Amid the deepest gloom

They show their pearly bloom,

Lighting the darkness with a silver gleam.

No other light is seen,
No sun-shaft bright and keen
Now breaks the shadow of these silent bowers;
A dim mysterious place,
Its only touch of grace

Is the white glory of its stainless flowers.

32
Oh, ye who come and dream
Beside the gliding stream,
Bringing your maiden beauty to the spot,
God made you fair and bright
That ye might be the light

Of life’s dark places where the sun shines not.

Tender and sweet and pure,
Your patient souls endure

The darkness, sad and still, of sunless hours;
Earth’s dreary shades ye bless

With your white loveliness,

God’s gracious light-bearers, life’s human flowers!
































SLEEP.

BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

all the thoughts of God that are



Borne inward unto souls afar,

Along the Psalmist’s music deep,
Now tell me if there any is,
For gift or grace surpassing this—

“He giveth His beloved sleep”?

What would we give to our beloved ?
The hero’s heart, to be unmoved,
The poet’s star-tuned harp, to sweep,
The patriot’s voice, to teach and rouse,
The monarch’s crown to light the brows ?—

“He giveth His beloved sleep.”

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved,
A little dust to overweep
And bitter memories to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake:

“He giveth His beloved sleep.”

“Sleep soft, beloved!” we sometimes say,
But have no tune to charm away
Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep;
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber when

“We giveth [lis beloved sleep.”

34
Tur Maipen’s Conression.

BY ANN S. STEPHENS.
II whispered that he loved me,
And like the trembling: air
When dews are softly falling
And blossoms bend in prayer ;
Those whispered words of passion
Broke up the tranquil rest,
Where my heart lay like a lily,

With the green leaves on its breast.

He whispered that he loved me,
But I said not yes nor no;
For my limbs began to tremble,
And my cheeks were in a glow.
Then I felt him bending o’er me,
And my lips were softly pressed,
As red rose leaves fall together,

When they fold themselves to rest.

Then he left me, very softly,
As a shadow disappears,
To the tumult of my blushes,
To the heaven of my tears.
So I stole into iny chamber,
Which was rich with starry gloom,
And the breath of many roses

Went floating through the room.

Then T laid me down to slumber,



In the stillness of the night,

35
With the curtains brooding o’er,
So mysterious and white;
And there, in blissful weariness,
My trembling lips would part,
While my hands were tightly folded

O’er the beatings of my heart.

Then I felt the moonlight stealing —

Stealing softly toward my bed,
And its silvery wings unfolded

To the whispered words I said:
And it floated all around me,

And it trembled on the floor,
While [ whispered “that he loved me.

And would love me evermore!”

Thus I whispered to the moonbeaims—-
The night wind and the rose—
What I never breathe to mortal
When this full heart overflows;
For when feelings thrill our being
With thoughts above the carth,
Like prayers, we breathe them only

To things of heavenly birth.

When the morning sought my casement,
And flung its roses through

The snowy cloud of curtains
Dashed in with waves of blue,

I folded up my happiness
And not a word I spoke, —

Had I sileneed it at night time,

My o’ercharged heart had broke.

36



By rue ARNO.

oN og BY FRANK LEE BENEDICT.

E sat by Arno’s silvery stream
y , )

That poet famed and I;



Like some pale maiden in a dream,

The moon stole up the sky.

Ile pondered fancies sad or sweet,
While I sat mute beside,
And listened to the ripples beat

Like pulses in the tide.

A chime of bells soft echoes woke
Along the water’s reach ;
As if the sound some spell had broke,

lis thoughts surged into speech.

While pointing to a palace vast
Which towered in our sight,
Dark as a shadow from the past,

Across the summer night ;

Ife painted me in glowing words
Ilis brightest dream long o’er;
When hopes sprang up like mountain birds,

And soared as eagles soar.

39
He knew those chambers’ faded gold,
Where minstrel knights had sung,
And tales of love from days of old

. '
Their romance o’er them flung.

Three moons in turn had watched him there,
A hand within his own;
No face in heaven could be more fair,

Than that which on him shone.

That latest moon in darkness set,
That bright dream with it, fled ;
“To others blame, to us regret,”

His stern lips coldly said.

Fate’s recompense to both the same—
Instead of love, renown;
For her a royal state and name,

For him the poet’s crown.
——- <5}.

‘Trust.

ft would be God’s, must trust, not see;



Nor murmur, fear, demand,
Must wholly by Him guided be,
Led by His loving hand;
Must turn where’er he points, nor say,

“JT wonder where He leads the way.”

40










Ir is raining, little flower,
Be glad of rain;
Too much sun would wither thee —
Twill shine again.
The clouds are very black, ’tis true,
But just behind them shines the blue.

Art thou weary, tender heart,
Be glad of pain!

In sorrow sweetest things will grow,
Like flowers in rain;

God watches, and thou wilt have sun

When clouds their perfect work have done.



41





Tue Sevrisu Pansies.

BY PEARL EYTINGE.





Looking with fear and vague surprise,
At the maiden fair with ruthless hand,

Who bears them away from Fairy land.

No more wink they at the moon’s bold rays,
Never more yield to the wind’s wild ways,
Waving grasses whisper their loss,

8&8

To sweet wood violets under the moss.

Strange was the power that seemed to dwell,
Alone with the pansies down in the dell,
Lowly and modest to all they seem,

Of pride and vanity none would dream.

But a talkative bee saw fit to come,
Buzzing about with his gossipy hum;
Ile said, each pansy held an elf,

Who kept his hoard of sweets to himself,

42
Who knew of stores of honey and dew,
Which was tle purest breeze that blew,
Where the sunlight shone the best,

When it was sure to sink to rest.

So, you see, the news of flower land,
These clever pansies had at hand,
And, yet, not one had e’er been heard,

To send a whispering warping word,

To a sister blossom, “Danger is near,
Take care of your leaves, the storm is here.”
3ut hid its own sweet head from the rain,

And, when ’twas over, came out again.

And, thus it chanced on a day in June,
A maiden, singing an old love tune,
Went wandering through the silent wood

And by the purple pansies stood.

They looked at her with pleading eyes,
As, with a ery of glad surprise,
She plucked cach flower from its bed,

And twined it round her bonnie head.

The crimson rose, and lilies fair,
Still bud and bloom in beauty rare,
The maid is wooed and won and wed,

The pansies are forgot and dead.

EN eh

as
ce
Tue Brince or SIGHs.

BY KLIZABETIL STUART PHELPS.




Within a narrow hour of doubt and dole

Upon Life’s Bridge of Sighs to stand,
“A palace and a prison on each hand.”

O, palace of the rose-heart’s hue

Tow like a flower the warm light falls from you!
O, prison with the hollow eyes,

Beneath your stony walls no flowers arise !

O, palace of the rose-sweet sin,

How safe the heart that doth not enter in!

O, blessed prison walls! how true

The freedom of the soul that chooseth you!

ee —_____—
ve

SEPTEMBER.

BY HELEN HUNT.
4 HE golden-rod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown;

The trees in apple orchards



With fruits are bending down.

The gentian’s bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed

Its hidden silk has spun.

44
From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes’ sweet odors rise 5

At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow buttertlies.

By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer’s best of weather
And autumn’s best of cheer.
But none of all this beauty
Which floods the earth and air
Is unto me the secret

Which makes September fair.

Tis a thing which I remember ;
To nae it thrills me yet;
One day of one September

I never ean forget.

45













Tur Cuttpren OF THE Poor.
(From the French of Vietor Lugo.)

BY CHARLES ALGERNON SWINBURNE.




“/ AKE heed of this small child of earth;
\ He is great; he hath in him God most high,
//) Children before their fleshly birth

aes Are lights alive in the blue sky.

In our light, bitter world of wrong
They come; God gives us them awhile.
His speech is in their stammering tongue,

And His forgiveness in their smile,

Their sweet light rests upon our eyes.
Alas! their right to joy is plain.
If they are thirsty, Paradise

Weeps, and if hungry Heaven thrills with pain.

The want that saps their sinless flower
Speaks judgment on sin’s ministers.
Man holds an angel in his power.

Ah! deep in Heaven what thunder stirs
i

When God seeks out these tender things
Whom in the shadow where we sleep
Te sends us elothed about with wings,

And finds them ragged babes that weep.

46







Two Love Letters.

BY W. L. FALCONER.

Y Love, when you and I were young,
I wrote a letter, and you said

Your heart leaped in you as you read,



With such mad rhythm was it strung.

This is my second lover’s vow,
And in it throbs a quicker truth,
Tho’ not the musi¢ of our youth;

I only write—“T love you” —now.

In spite of all these spectral days,
That troop with sad accusing eyes

To pierce my poor love where it lies



I love you! When your tender gaze

Met coldness in my own, and when
I checked your laughter with «a frown,
And when I laughed your weepiny down,

‘ My Love, My Love, I loved you then!

The world had filled my heart with gall;
T held it to your thirsting lip;
And lightly let your warm hands slip

From mine —TI loved you, with it all!

Ah! such, then, is a passion’s life!
And now~—this little paper’s fold
To shut within your dead palm’s hold—

To tell you that I love you, Wife!

49
MipsuMMER.

BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE.

ni round this lovely valley rise

The purple hills of Paradise.



O, softly on yon banks of haze

[ler rosy face the Summer lays!
Becalmed along the azure sky,

The argosies of Cloudland lie,

Whose shores, with many a shining rift,

Far off their pearl-white peaks uplift.

Through all the long midsummer day

The meadow-sides are sweet with hay.

I seek the coolest sheltered seat,

Just where the field and forest meet, —
Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland,
The ancient oaks austere and grand,

And fringy roots and pebbles fret

The ripples of the rivulet.

I watch the mowers, as they go

Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row.
With even stroke their scythes they swing,
In tune their merry whetstones ring.
Behind, the nimble youngsters run,

And toss the thick swaths in the sun.

The cattle graze, while, warm and still,
Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill,
And bright, where summer breezes break,

The green wheat crinkles like a lake.

50
Sweet woodland music sinks and swells,
The brooklet rings its tinkling bells,
The swarming insects drone and hum,
The partridge beats his throbbing drum.
The squirrel leaps among the boughs,
And chatters in his leafy house,

The oriole flashes by; and, look

Into the mirror of the brook,

Where the vain bluebird trims his coat,

Two tiny feathers fall and float.

As silently, as tenderly,

The down of peace descends on me.
O, this is peace! I have no need

Of friend to talk, of book to read:
A dear Companion here abides ;
Close to my thrilling heart He hides;
The holy silence is His voice:

I lie and listen, and rejoice.









51
HeEspERIDES.

BY BELLE BREMER.

E read of a marvelous island fair,



A charming story and quaintly told,

Enea
Caen

- And a wonderful garden lying there,
Whose trees bear apples of yellow gold.
It is said if you sail o’er the shining seas
Steadily on to the glowing west,
You will surely come, with favoring breeze

Sometime, to the beautiful island blest.

But the eye of mortal has never seen
The far famed isle of the western seas,

With its garden bright in the flashing sheen
Of golden fruit on the magic trees:

You may gaze, and gaze, when the cloudlands pile
The sunset gold, till your eyes are dim,

You never will sight the Hesper isles,

Though you sail to the ocean’s furthest rim.

There’s a wider sea in its ebb and flow,

And ever its pulsing waves are curled
Round ships that sail and the ships below—

The Sea of Life and it laps the world ;—
And bright as a gem, in this circling sea,

On a happy isle, neath tropic skies,
Where the crimson current is swift and free,

A garden of golden fruitage lies.

But once, in sailing the wide sea o’er,

We sight this beautiful wonder - land —

52
The garden of Youth, with its golden store;
Once only our feet will touch the strand
Where the rosiest curtains ever drape
The windows of Day with a shining mist
And the bloom is still on the purple grape, —

The blush on the peach the sun-god kissed.

But one brief day in the garden is ours,

To have and hold till the sun goes down;
To eat of the fruit and pluck the flowers,

And gather the clustering nuts of brown:
And the hours go by on winged feet;

And never were hours so dear as these,
Where the golden fruit that we pluck and eat

Is sweet as honey from Hybla’s bees.

But the sun slips over the western wall,

The gold fades out of the twilight sky,
The evening shadows begin to fall;

Our day is now with the things gone by;
And our boat is ready to sail, alas!

For down by the shore the boatman calls,
And so, with lingering steps we pass

Outside the garden’s enchanted walls.



53
YEAR AFTER YEAR.

BY DINAH MULOCK CRAIK.





Year after year the skylarks thrill the air,
Year after year, in sunshine or in shadow,

Rolls the world round, love, and finds us as we were.
Year after year, as sure as birds returning,

Or field flowers blossoming above the wintry mould,
Year after year, in work or mirth or mourning,

Love we with Love’s own youth, that never can grow old.
Sweetheart and lady-love, queen of boyish passion,

Strong hope of manhood, content of age begun,
Loved in a hundred ways, each in a different fashion,

Yet loved supremely, solely, as we never love but one.
KB}
On tHE TERRACE.

BY GLEESON WHITE.



By a manor house, well builded in the days of good Queen Bess,

Stands, upon its river terrace, Lady Betty in distress ;

Lonely, in that old Dutch garden, with its avenues of box,

Tall white lilies, sweet carnations, and its stately hollyhocks,

Here she waits, despised, forsaken; never will she sne for pardon—

His the fault, and his alone (Ah! the serpent’s in this garden).

Shall she meekly bow to tyrant



she his newly dowered bride?

Nay, come death, come dire disaster, ere she yields her proper pride.

54
So she idly gazes seaward, toying with her folded fan,

Pouting, scheming. “Oh, how weary is this world’s disordered plan!”
Everything has Lady Betty, but the peace that knows content;

Seeking it in modish dresses, ever but on pleasure bent.

Losing it, may be for ever, in this day of royal June
5 ’ wo d >

Letting fancies wring her spirit, throwing all things out of tune.

Up, my Lady Betty, quickly, lest you tempt too long your fate;

Playing anger often changes to a real and bitter hate.

Happiness is love and duty, else discordance tierce and strong;
ae) 5?

d

Proverbs trite hold pointed morals, ‘Edged tools cut if played with long.’

“Bear and forbear,” since forgiveness is the attribute of power,

Winning love, while pride pays dearly for its tiny conauering hour,
gs 3 0 . 4 5


TuHroucH a Winpow.

BY LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.




“LIE here at rest in my chamber,
And look through the window again,
With eyes that are changed since the old time,
And the sting of an exquisite pain.

"Tis not much that I see for a picture,
Through boughs that are green with spring-
A barn with its roof gray and mossy,
And above it a bird on the wing.

Ah! once the roof was a prison,
My mind and the sky were free,

My thoughts with the birds went flying
And my hopes were a heaven to me.

Now I come from the limitless distance
Where I followed my youth’s wild will,

Where they press the wine of delusion
That you drink and are thirsty still;

And I know why the bird with the spring-time
To the gnarled old tree comes back —

He has tried the South and the summer,
He has felt what the sweet things lack.

So I come with a sad contentment,
With eyes that are changed I see;

The roof means peace, not a prison,
And Heaven smiles down on me.

56


"DEAR MAMMAS
Tue Cry or tHe DRreEaAmeER.

\ BY JOHN B. O’REILLY.




AM tired of planning and toiling

| °

In the crowded hives of men;
Heart weary of building and spoiling,

And spoiling and building again,
And I long for the dear old river,

Where [ dreamed my youth away ;
For a dreamer lives forever,

And a toiler dies in a day.

T am sick of the showy seeming,
Of a life that is half a lie;
Of the faces lined with scheming
In the throng that hurries by.
Krom the sleepless thoughts’ endeavor,
I would go where the children play;
For a dreamer lives forever,

And a toiler dies in a day.

No, no! from the street’s rude bustle,
From trophies of mart and stage,

{ would fly to the wood’s low rustle,
And the meadow’s kindly page.

Let me dream as of old by the river,
And be loved for the dream alway ;

For a dreamer lives forever,

And a toiler dies in a day.

59


Love's Flower.



BY MINNA IRVING.



Long and slender, slipping through
Ancient branches blossom -laden,
Pink and pearl against the blue,
With a youth of wondrous beauty,
Eyes of blue, and locks of light,
And a brow of Saxon fairness,

In my dreams I walked one night.

Low the flowery boughs above us
Bent, and all the air was sweet,
And a light wind sent the petals
Floating softly to our feet.
Every dewdrop was a diamond,
And a thousand to a spray,
For the time was in the morning,
And the year was in the May.

As we walked, within the hollow

Of a rock we found a pool,

60
Graceful branches drooping o’er it
Kept its quiet waters cool.
Smooth and silv’ry like a mirror,
Crystal-clear as April rain.
“This,” he murmured, “is the fountain

“That De Leon sought in vain.”

Then beneath the flowery arches
Came a round and rosy boy,
With a quiver full of lilies,
Singing clear as if for joy.
As he passed he dropped a lily
From his glowing finger- tips:
“Tt is Love,” he said, and turning

Touched my forehead with his lips.

Upward soared a lark to Heaven
With the angels to rejoice ;
Back between the banks of blossoms
Came the sound of Love’s sweet voice.
Some new passion filled and thrilled us,
Lips and hearts were nearer drawn,
Then I woke, to find the winter,
And the dull and dreary dawn.

Gone the dew-bespangled branches,
(one, alas! the fount of youth—
Lark and lilies, Love and lover,
All an airy dream in truth.
But I watched the cold rain falling
From the gray and sunless skies,
And I sighed for tender gladness,
And the blue of love-lit eyes.

61
Many a gallant comes to woo me.
Empty words their pleadings seem,
Not a one is fair and noble
As the lover of my dream!
And I know that somewhere under
Skies that snow, or suns that shine,
Near or far, he has his being,

And his spirit yearns for mine.

It may be alas! that never
Here on earth our paths will meet,
Love will never leave a lily
From his quiver at my feet,
3ut beyond the Vale of Shadows,
And beyond the Crystal Gate,
In the morning, in the May - time,

T will find my spirit’s mate!

I will know him by his graces,
And the glory of his hair;
I will drink at youth’s bright fountain,
And like him be more than fair.
We will walk the dewy orchard,
We will hear the seraphs sing,
Under flowers that fade not ever,

In a long immortal spring!





62
Ou, ror A Swine in tHE Otp Exim Tres.

BY ELIZABETH A. DAVIS.

1 for a swing in the old elm tree
And a breath from the clover fields!
I’d give the state of a palace hall

And the spices that India yields.

To lie once more in the thick soft grass
With the sweet winds brushing by,
The world outside and a heart at peace,

And above the summer sky;

To wateh the clouds in their shifting lights
And the mists on the distant hills,
And dream to the music of rustling leaves

And the voices of dancing rills;

To kneel again in the little chureh
Where [ prayed with a childish trust
Ere the haunting doubts of a later time

Had touched it with moth and rust;

To sleep once more ‘neath the moss-grown roof;
My spirit would find again
The long-lost chord of that happy time

And take up the glad refrain.

My heart grows sick and my eyes are dim
For a sight of familiar things ;
The grassy nook and the old elm tree

Would be more than the throne of kings.

63
THe Enp.

ANONYMOUS.
o) —- es

ea JE course of the weariest river

Ends in the great gray sea;




The acorn, for ever and ever,

Strives upward to the tree.

The rainbow, the sky adorning,
Shines promise through the storm ,
The glimmer of coming morning
a

Through midnight gloom will form.

By time all knots are riven,
Complex although they be,
And peace will at last be given,

Dear, both to you and to me.

Then, though the path may be dreary,
Look onward to the goal ;
Though the heart and the head be weary,

Let faith inspire the soul.

Seek the right, though the wrong be tempting,
Speak truth at any cost;
Vain is all weak exempting,

When once the gem is lost.

Let strong hand and keen eye be ready
For plain and ambushed foes;
Thought earnest and fancy steady,

Bear best unto the close.

64
The heavy clouds may be raining,
But with evening comes the light;
Through the dark low winds complaining,

Yet the sunrise gilds the height;

And Love has his hidden treasure
For the patient and the pure;
And Time gives his fullest measure

To the workers who endure;

And the Word that no law has shaken

Has the future pledge supplied;

For we know that when we awaken
We shall be satisfied.