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From a freak frets hidin Ecstatys
A two. Elph food, astar, a drugah me! Sametuma a hean, Tolley Jumeine hell.
eror A flame that book with Dantes trattis The folenn
abereon Milton Ilayed, And the clear glas where thakupenies shark falls A Rea this a-benare ale renturelle!
For like a fiord au Marron flor & land
Thou art the voice that silence uttereth,
-“ My Songs are All of Thee."
He alone is the perfect giver
Who swears that his gift is nought;
-“ He Knows Not the Path of Duty."
Rise swift and far,-
filed Along the horizon's edge; Like hooded monks that hark Through evening air The call to prayer; — Smiled once, and faded slow, slow, slow away; When, like a changing dream, the long cloud
wedge, Brown-gray, Grew saffron underneath, and ere I knew, The interspace, green-blue -The whole, illimitable, western, skyey shore, The tender, human, silent sunset smiled once
Wherever are tears and sighs,
- Easter. AUTUMN.
For autumn days To me not melancholy are, but full Of joy and hope, mysterious and high, And with strange promise rife. Then it me seems Not failing is the year, but gathering fire Even as the cold increases.
- An Autumn Meditation.
Sunset from the Train.
Grows a weed More richly here beside our mellow seas That is the Autumn's harbinger and pride. When fades the cardinal-flower, whose heart-red
eyes. Behold the white Wide three-fold beams that from the hidden sun
Following the sun, westward the march of power! The Rose of Might blooms in our new-worlu
- The Modern Rhymer.
SCARRED. Far nobler the sword that is nicked and worn, Far fairer the flag that is grimy and torn, Than when, to the battle, fresh they were borne,
He was tried and found true; he stood the test; 'Neath whirlwinds of doubt, when all the rest Crouched down and submitted, he fought best.
EORGE W. W. HOUGHTON was born at
Cambridge, Mass., August 12, 1850. He graduated from the High School of his native place in 1868, but did not attend college. His first publication was a · Christmas Buoklet," in 1872, fol. lowed by “Songs from Over the Sea,” 1874; “ Album Leaves,” 1877; “ Drift from York Harbor, Maine," 1879; “The Legend of St. Olaf's Kirk," 1880. Of the latter poem a second edition, revised, appeared in 1881. A year later a collection selected mainly from his previous publications was issued, entitled, “ Niagara and Other Poems.
Since 1882 Mr. Houghton has given very little verse to the public, but it is hoped that he has not resigned a garden which he has cultivated with marked success. Mr. Houghton is a member of the Authors Club, and for a number of years has been the editor of The Hub, a commercial paper, the leading representative of its particular field.
C. W. M
There are wounds on his breast that can never
be healed, There are gashes that bleed, and may not be
sealed, But wounded and gashed he won the field.
And others may dream in their easy-chairs,
- Album Leaves.
Must turn to find the test,
That nearest to the sky aspires,
- Ibid. REGRET. I've regretted most sincerely,
I've repented deeply, long,
- Ibid. PURITY.
Idol I found thee, unfeeling, challenging man but
to mock him, Whispering to one that is weak of voids that are
vast and almighty, Hinting of things heaven-high to one not winged
like an eagle, Telling of changeless parts to a leaflet that reddens
to perish; Ever, as nearer I fared, the mightier, less merciful
found thee, Till, after listening long, I faltered, forlorn and
disheartened; Wearied of ceaseless strife, and yearned for some
peaceful seclusion, Where to the chorusing throng both ear and eye
might be shuttered; Hated the turmoil of life, where sounds that are
sweetest are strangled, And into discord clash those martial measures,
that struggling, Should through the din of the dismalest fight,
with quavering echoes, Nerve the warrior anew, and fire his soul with devotion.
Let your truth stand sure,
And the world is true; Let your heart keep pure,
And the world will too.
He erred no doubt; perhaps he sinned;
Shall I then dare to cast a stone ? Perhaps this blotch, on a garment white, Counts less than the dingy robes I own.
- Ibid. DAISY. I gave my little girl back to the daisies,
From them it was that she took her name; I gave my precious one back to the daisies,
From where they caught their color, she came; And now, when I look in the face of a daisy,
My little girl's face I see, I see! My tears, down dropping, with theirs com
mingle, And they give my precious one back to me.
Weary with waiting, we climb to the hill-tops near
est to heaven, Find only floating fogs, and air too meagre to
nourish; Seeking the depths of the sea, we drop our plum
mets and feel them, Draw them in empty, or yellowed with clay, that
melts and tells nothing; Forests we thread, wide prairies unfenced, and
drenched morasses, Strike, with the fervor of youth, to the heart of
the tenantless deserts, Turn every boulder, still hoping to find beneath
them some prophet. — Find only thistles unsunn'd, green sloth, and
passionless creatures. Youth flitted by us, we faint, then sink in the ruts
of our fathers; Shift as we may with the old beliefs, and beat on
our bosoms; Seek less and hunger less keenly, still sorrow for
self and for others, Striving, by travail and tears, life's deeper mean
ing to strangle; Drag from sunset to sunset, too fainting to fear
for the morrow,