M ALEXANDER MACAULEY. ALEXANDER MACAULEY. R. MACAULEY was born in the year 1844 in Rochester, N. Y. Most of his life has been devoted to business, not only in Rochester, but in Detroit, Mich., where he resided for twenty years. Aside from his business career Mr. Macauley has spent not a few leisure hours in writing for the press. He has written for Theodore Tilton's Golden Age, the New York Sunday Sun, Independent, Interior, Current and other publications. At school he was noted for his scholarly mathematical productions and also excelled in algebra. It was a delight in those early days, for him to labor untiringly over some difficult problem until its solution was successfully accomplished. Mr. Macauley has always been a great reader of both prose and poetry. He once said, "I consider my favorite authors much like Southey when he writes: 'My never-failing friends are they With whom I converse day by day.'" He has always been a devoted admirer of the opera and drama, and spends many enjoyable hours listening to some of the best talent in the country. He now resides in Rochester. H.A. K. THE TELL-TALE WATER. As he stooped to dip from the crystal spring (Which like a mirror shone beneath their gaze) Some water for the fair one lingering So closely at his side, to his amaze, He saw a look reflected from her face Which he had thought would never find a place Within its lineaments: a look of love So deep, so earnest, so unmistakable In all its bearings, so ineffably above All other looks that ever from her fell, He dropped the half-raised goblet in the stream, A moment standing as in blissful dream, Then, turning, held her close till he had won THE TORNADO. It came like the flash of a scimitar's blade Resembled the cry which arose on that day, 337 When right over their heads frightened people did see The most terrible cloud that e'er darkened the earth, And the way they did shout, and the way they did flee, One could not but think of the judgment-day's birth. Who will picture the scene when the whirlwind is spent, And tell of the woe and despiar that were there? How a mother in agony o'er her child bent, Too stricken for tears and too palsied for prayer, How speak of the houseless and homeless who stand Bewailing their loss in such pitiful tones That sympathy's tears have a power to command An expression of sorrow even from stones. RIZPAH. WITH staff in hand, stern Rizpah dauntless stands In ghastly form, a terror to all lands. She backward drives the birds and beasts again, By wondrous power and might of eyes and hands. Rizpah! thy name comes blazoned through long years For showing all the strength and fearlessness THE SONNET. I LIKE the sonnet, for its length is right And glorious as a beauteous morn of May So do I love to list to Shakespeare's voice JUNE. WHO does not love the golden month of June, For now has nature donned her royal dress, And shines resplendent as divinest queen, Who beams on all around her loveliness, Eager for glory, anxious to be seen. And I would on her face untiring gaze, While linger yet fair June's delicious days. CLEOPATRA. DEATH lurked within the velvet of her cheek, Brave Antony! whene'er I pause to think Of all thou wert and all thou might'st have been, Thy soul enmeshed and ever on the brink Of cureless woe thus bound to Egypt's queen, From tears of pity I can scarce refrain, That in her arms did melt such soul and brain. INTIMATIONS OF SPRING. TO-DAY the ground is cold, and hard, and bare, So when the winter of our lives has sped, And wafted toward us as on angel's wing, To fit us for the land where dwell the dead After their days of early blossoming. RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL. AWAY in Eastern land, a day of peace, When, in the hot impatience of thy youth, His presence, and of themselves wide open stand. As water whose depths only can be guessed! LIFE'S INTERCHANGE. IN every joy there lurks a sorrow; In every pleasure bides a pain; Mirth to-day will fly to-morrow; The Proteus like appear again. What if there were ceaseless pleasure We should sink 'neath life's full measure, O fool, in vain May stretch and strain Laocoon in sweat and pain! Far better play At liberty, And dream we choose the escapeless way! DAUGHTERS OF TOIL. O, PALE with want and still despair, And faint with hastening others' gain, Whose finely fibred natures bear The double curse of work and pain ; Whose days are long with toil unpaid, And short to meet the crowding want; Whose nights are short for rest delayed, And long for stealthy fears to haunt To whom my lady, hearing faint The distance-muffled cry of need, Grants, through some alms-dispensing saint, The cup of water, cold indeed, The while my lord, pursuing gains Amid the market's sordid strife, With wageless labor from your veins Wrings out the warm, red wine of life,— What hope for you that better days Shall climb the yet unreddened east? When famine in the morning slays, Why look for joy at midday feast? Far shines the good, and faintly throws A doubtful gleam through mist and rain ; But evil darkness presses close His face against the window pane. What hope for you that mansions free This slender daylight beams too pale, For Heaven's all-loving warmth to shine, Or God's blue tenderness avail. O brothers, sisters, who would fain One note of some despairing cry— Whose good designs uncertain wait, By tangled social bands perplexed, Oh, read the sacred sentence straight; Do justly first-love mercy next! No longer blooms in field or meadow sere, The gentians blue, and, like sad funeral bells, Which Nature grants to those who humbly bow Before her throne? Sweet love, I ne'er shall cease To mourn the death of this fond year, I trow. ROSALIND. As often, on a quiet summer's day, A silvery cloud floats multiform on high Across the wearying azure of the sky, Delaying but a bit, and then is gone away; So dost thou, lovely creature, play In Arden's tiresome glades, and multiply Though thou art playful, yet thou could'st be proud; THEISM. A VIOLET up-springing from its humble sod, The atheist believed; and bowed his head, and prayed. |