My love, my hope, my all will be
To look to heaven and look to thee!

Thy eyes will be the heavenly lights,
Thy voice the gentle summer breeze,
What time it sways, on moonlit nights,

The murmuring tops of leafy trees; And I will touch thy beauteous formi In June's red roses, rich and warm.

But thou thyself shalt come not down

From that pure region far above, But keep thy throne and wear thy crown, Queen of my heart and queen of love, A monarch in thy realm complete, And I a monarch at thy feet!

BEAUTY.

I HAD a dream one glorious summer night
In the rich bosom of imperial June.
Languid I lay upon an odorous couch,
Golden with amber, festooned wildly o'er
With crimson roses; and the longing stars
Wept tears of light upon their clustered leaves.
Above me soared the azure vault of heaven,
Vast and majestic; cinctured with that path
Whereby, perchance, the sea-born Venus found
Her way to higher spheres; that path which seems
A coronet of silver, gemmed with stars,
And bound upon the forehead of the night.
There, as I lay, the musical south wind
Shook all the roses into murmurous life,

And poured all their fragrance o'er me in a shower
Of crimson mist; and softly, through the mist
Came a low, sweet, enchanting melody,
A far-off echo from the land of dreams,
Which with delicious languor filled the air,
And steeped in bliss the senses and the soul.
Then rose a shape, a dim and ghostly shape,
Whereto no feature was, nor settled form,
A shadowy splendor, seeming as it came

A pearly summer cloud, shot through and through
With faintest rays of sunset; yet within
A spirit dwelt; and, floating from within,
A murmur trembled sweetly into words:
"I am the ghost of a most lovely dream,
Which haunted, in old days, a poet's mind.
And long he sought for, wept and prayed for me;
And searched through all the chambers of his soul,
And searched the secret places of the earth,
The lonely forest and the lonely shore
And listened to the voices of the sea,

What time the stars shone out, and the midnight cold

Slept on the dark waves whispering at his feet;

And sought the mystery in a human form,
Amid the haunts of men, and found it not;
And looked in woman's fond, bewildering eyes,
And mirrored there his own, and saw no sign.
But only in his sleep I came to him,
And gave him fitful glimpses of my face,
Whereof he after sang, in sweetest words,
Then died, and came to me. But evermore,
Through lonely days and passion-haunted nights,
A life of starlight gloom, do poets seek
To rend the mystic veil that covers me,
And evermore they grasp the empty air.
For only in their dreams I come to them,
And give them fitful glimpses of my face,
And lull them, siren-like, with words of hope
That promise something to their ravished eyes,
Beauty, the secret of the universe,

God's thought, that gives the soul eternal peace.' Then the voice ceased, and only through the mist The shaken roses murmured and the wind.

ORGIA.

WHO cares for nothing alone is free;
Sit down, good fellow, and drink with me!
With a careless heart and a merry eye,
He laughs at the world, as the world goes by.

He laughs at power, and wealth, and fame;
He laughs at virtue, he laughs at shame;

He laughs at hope, and he laughs at fear;
At memory's dead leaves, crisp and sere;
He laughs at the future, cold and dim,
Nor earth nor heaven is dear to him.

O, that is the comrade fit for me!
He cares for nothing, his soul is free,

Free as the soul of the fragrant wine!
Sit down, good fellow, my heart is thine!

For I heed not custom, creed, nor law; I care for nothing that ever I saw.

In every city my cups I quaff,
And over the chalice I riot and laugh.

I laugh like the cruel and turbulent wave;

I laugh at the church, and I laugh at the grave.

I laugh at joy, and well I know
That I merrily, merrily laugh at woe!

I terribly laugh, with an oath and a sneer, When I think that the hour of death is near.

For I know that death is a guest divine,
Who shall drink my blood as I drink this wine.

And he cares for nothing! a king is he! Come on, old fellow, and drink with me!

With you I will drink to the solemn past, Though the cup that I drain should be my last.

I will drink to the phantoms of love and truth, To ruined hopes and a wasted youth.

I will drink to the woman who wrought my woe, In the diamond morning of long ago;

To a heavenly face, in sweet repose,
To the lily's snow and the blood of the rose;

To the splendor, caught from orient skies,
That thrilled in the dark of her hazel eyes,
Her large eyes, wild with the fire of the south,
And the dewy wine of her warm, red mouth.

I will drink to the thoughts of a better time;
To innocence, gone like a death-bell chime.

I will drink to the shadow of coming doom; To the phantoms that wait in my lonely tomb.

I will drink to my soul in its terrible mood, Dimly and solemnly understood.

And, last of all, to the monarch of sin,
Who conquered that palace and reigns within.

My sight is fading; it dies away,

I can not tell is it night or day.

My heart is burnt and blackened with pain, And a horrible darkness crushes my brain.

I can not see you; the end is nigh,
But we'll laugh together before I die.
Through awful chasm I plunge and fall-

CONSTANCE.

WITH diamond dew the grass was wet; 'Twas in the spring and gentlest weather, And all the birds of morning met

And caroled in her heart together.

The wind blew softly o'er the land
And softly kissed the joyous ocean.
He walked beside her on the sand,

And gave and won a heart's devotion.

The thistledown was in the breeze,
With birds of passage homeward flying;
His fortune lured him o'er the seas,

And on the shore he left her, sighing.

She saw his barque glide down the bay, Through tears and fears she could not banish; She saw his white sails melt away,

She saw them fade, she saw them vanish.

And "Go," she said, "for winds are fair,

And love and blessing round you hover; When you sail backward through the air, Then I will trust the word of lover."

153

Still ebbed, still flowed the tide of years,
Now chilled with snows, now bright with roses,
And many smiles were turned to tears,

And somber morns to radiant closes.

And many ships came sailing by,

With many a golden promise freighted; But nevermore from sea or sky

Came love to bless her heart that waited.

Yet on, by tender patience led,

Her sacred footsteps walked, unbidden, Wherever sorrow bowed its head,

Or want, and care, and shame were hidden.

And they who saw her snow-white hair And dark, sad eyes, so deep with feeling, Breathed all at once the chancel air,

And seemed to hear the organ pealing.

Till once, at shut of autumn day,

In marble chill she paused and hearkened, With startled gaze where far away

The wastes of sky and ocean darkened.

There for a moment, faint and wan,

High up in the air, and landward striving, Stern-fore a spectral barque came on, Across the purple sunset driving.

Then something out of night she knew,
Some whisper heard, from heaven descended,

And peacefully, as falls the dew,

Her long and lonely vigil ended.

The violet and the bramble-rose

Make glad the grass that dreams above her, And, freed from time and all its woes,

She trusts again the word of lover.

THE BLUE AND THE BLACK.

HERE'S a health to the lass with the merry black eyes!

Here's a health to the lad with the blue ones! Here's a bumper to love, as it sparkles and flies,

And here's joy to the hearts that are true ones! Yes, joy to the hearts that are tender and true, With a passion that nothing can smother, To the eyes of the one that are pensive and blue, And the merry black eyes of the other!

Mind this now, my lad with the sweet eyes of blue,
That, whatever the graces invite you,

There is nothing for you in this world that will do
But a pair of black eyes to delight you.
And mind, my gay lass with the dear eyes of black,
In a pair of blue eyes to discover

That pure light of affection you never should lack,
And you'll always be true to your lover!

Long, long shall your eyes sparkle back with a kiss
To the eyes that live but to behold you!
Long, long shall the magic of mutual bliss
In a heaven of rapture enfold you!
And forever to you shall that singer be wise,
Whose sweet thought is the truest of true ones,
That the answering luster of merry black eyes
Is the life of a pair of true blue ones.

SINGLE POEMS.

EASTER.

Do saints keep holy day in heavenly places?
Does the old joy shine new in angel faees?

Are hymns still sung the night when Christ was born,

And anthems on the Resurrection Morn?

Because our little year of earth is run,
Do they make record there beyond the sun,
And, in their homes of light so far away,
Mark with us the sweet coming of this day?

What is their Easter? For they have no graves;
No shadow there the holy sunrise craves,
Deep in the heart of noontide marvelous
Whose breaking glory reaches down to us.

How did the Lord keep Easter? With His own!
Back to meet Mary where she grieved alone,
With face and mien all tenderly the same,
Unto the very sepulcher He came.

Ah, the dear message that He gave her then, Said, for the sake of all bruised hearts of men, "Go, tell those friends who have believed on Me, I before them into Galilee! go

"Into the life so poor and hard and plain,
That for a while they must take up again,
My presence passes! Where their feet toil slow,
Mine, shining swift with love, still foremsst go!

Say, Mary, I will meet them by the way To walk a little with them; where they stay, To bring My peace. Watch! For ye do not know The day, the hour, when I may find you so!"

And I do think, as he came back to her, The many mansions may be all astir With tender steps that hasten in the way, Seeking their own upon this Easter Day.

Parting the veil that hideth them about,
I think they do come, softly wistful, out
From homes of heaven that only seem so far,
And walk in gardens where the new tombs are!
A. D. T. WHITNEY.

FLOWERS.

SWEET letters of the angel tongue,

I've loved ye long and well,

And never have failed in your fragrance sweet To find some secret spell,

A charm that has bound me with witching power, For mine is the old belief,

That, midst your sweets and midst your bloom, There's a soul in every leaf!

Illuminated words from God's own hand,
How fast my pulses beat,

As each quick sense in rapture comes

Your varied sweets to greet!

Alone and in silence I love you best,

For mine is the old belief,

That, midst your sweets and midst your bloom, There's a soul in every leaf!

Ye are prophets sents to this heedless world,
The skeptic's heart to teach,

And 'tis well to read your lore aright,

And mark the creed ye preach.

I never could pass ye careless by,

For mine is the old belief,

That, midst your sweets and midst your bloom,

There's a soul in every leaf!

MARTIN M. BALLOU.

155

HOW SIR RICHARD DIED.

STATELY as bridegroom to a feast

Sir Richard trod the scaffold stair, And, bowing to the crowd, untied

The love-locks from his sable hair; Took off his watch, "Give that to Ned, I've done with time," he proudly said.

'Twas bitter cold; it made him shake.

Said one: "Ah! see the villain's look!" Sir Richard, with a scornful frown,

Cried, “Frost, not fear, my body shook!” Giving a gold-piece to the slave,

He laughed, "Now praise me, master knave!"

They pointed, with a sneering smile,

Unto a black box, long and grim; But no white shroud or badge of death Had power to draw a tear from him. "It needs no lock," he said in jest, "This chamber where to-night I rest."

Then crying out: "God save the King!"
In spite of hiss and shout and frown,
He stripped his doublet, dropped his cloak,
And gave the headsman's man a crown,
Then "On for heaven!" he proudly cried,
And bowed his head, and so he died.

WALTER THORNBURY.

CARPE DIEM.

RONDEAU.

Is there not a soul beyond utterance, half nymph, half child, in these delicate petals which glow and breathe about the centers of deep color?-George Eliot.

TO-DAY what is there in the air

That makes December seem sweet May?
There are no swallows anywhere,
Nor crocuses to crown your hair

And hail you down my garden way.

Last night the full-moon's frozen stare Struck me, perhaps; or did you say, Really, you'd come, sweet friend and fair, To-day?

To-day is here. Come, crown to-day

With spring's delight or spring's despair!
Love can not bide old Time's delay;
Down my glad gardens light winds play,
And my whole life shall bloom and bear
To-day.

THEOPHILE MARZIALS.

SLEEP.

A poem by the Financier of the Revolution, who, after serving his country with marked munificence in her time of sorest need, was allowed to pass the last days of his life in prison for debt.

REST for the weary, freshness, strength and rest.
O sleep! thy balm is to the troubled breast
As time to sorrow. Gently dost thou take
The arrows from the heart about to break,
And with thy stealthy step and quiet eye,
Around the couch in grateful ministry,
Thy form, as noiseless as the foot of love,
Doth like the spirit of an angel move.
Life may not be without thee, gentle sleep,
But with thee, 'mid the desert, on the deep,
Still to the careworn heart some joy remains,
Some sunny spot amid thy mystic plains.
ROBERT MORRIS.

-)(

CURRENT POEMS.

THE EXODUS OF ELDER TWIGGS.

I BEEN here in the city now since last Thanksgiving day,

A-savin' steps for Nelly-chorin' like as you might say;

A-dubbin' 'round fer David and a putterin' about, A-takin' care of little Bill when him an' her goes out. A-course I've hed my pastimes an' the things that I admire,

Like watchin' people movin' safes an' runnin' to a fire,

An' talkin' to the milkman-singin' "Buckle Up My Shoe"

Fer little Bill to laff at like his mother used to do. But 'en my other daughters writ fer me to come

agin,

So I guess I'll go to Julia when the spring sets in.

They hadn't no settled weather much till after March I know;

I want to be on deck, though, as the sayin' used to go.

I want to be on hand the day the younguns rake the yard,

An' the night they have thur bonfire; and when

Julia rends her lard

I want to cut the fat fer her, an' if they kill a shoat To get a little fresh spring meat, I want to have a

vote

In givin' Budd the fixins an' the tail to little 'Net; An' someone's left the stone off the pickle pork

I bet.

The brine must need a change by now-to let it spoil's a sin

So I guess I'll go to Julia when the spring sets in.

I want to be around the day they take the peachblows out,

An' he'p Budd sort 'em over an' to find the longest sprout,

I want to scrape a apple jest uncovered from the ground

Fer Julia's youngest baby, while the ol' familiar sound

Of stirrin' up the buckwheat cakes the hour of bedtime tells,

An' soothes the heart to rest jes' like a chime of home-made bells.

I want to see the children in their nighties like a

swarm

Of little home-made angels bring thur pillows down to warm.

I want to taste ol' home-made joy and home-made love of kin

So I guess I'll go to Julia when the spring sets in.

I think 'at when the weather limbers up and easies down,

I'd like it, say some Sunday, fer to jes' sneak through the town,

An' rack out fer the timber, takin' little Budd along,

An' him an' me smoke grapevine an' pertend they's nothin' wrong;

An' stretch out in the sunshine on the gravel by the crick

A-knowin' meetin's goin' on-not carin', though, a lick;

A-gettin' loads of red buds an' sweet-will-yums an' (b' gosh

A mess of greens to boil for Monday's dinner when they wash!

Then, leaning over and peering in,
He was pointing out what he said was tin
In the ten-foot lode—a crash, a jar,

A grasping hand, and a splintered bar,
Gone in his strength,

With the lips that laughed!
Oh, the pale faces at Pennarby Shaft!
Far down on a narrow ledge

They saw him cling to the crumbling edge.
"Wait for the bucket! Hi, man, stay!
That rope ain't safe; it's worn away!
He's taking his chance: