And Christ was honored, and heaven's light came streaming To glorify the least that he could do. How oft pale Envy wounds our hearts with sorrow! While Malice will invade our holiest thought; And shrouds to-day, and threatens us to-morrow, Although but kindness in our deeds is wrought. There is a lesson in this legend olden; Despise no sacrifice on sea or land; Thy brother's pure intent makes his act golden; Learn that no grace transcends the helping hand. A WINTER LESSON. I WATCHED a tiny snow-flake in its flight, How like the Christmas yule log, warm and bright, To him who treads life's moorland, cold and drear, The aid that lights again his old home fire; Bright days long gone are his; 'mid falling tears, He hears an echo from the heavenly choir, When love rolls off the burden of the years! Ye who are warm, forget not in your thought, No chime of bells like sound of kindly words; No sermon grander than the hand that gives; Ah, sweeter than the matins of the birds, One sainted almoner of earth, who lives To bless from bounty's store, so oft denied, The worthy, patient poor, at Christmas-tide! LOWELL. In mystic whispers, lisp a nation's grief, M' LOVE M. WILLIS. RS. WILLIS'S maiden name was Love M. Whitcomb. She is a native of Hancock, N. H., and sprung from a long line of thinkers in the liberal ranks of New England. She inherited freedom of thought and a happy gift of expression. Her writing for the public has been done principally for magazines and newspapers and consisted of stories for children, philosophical and religious articles and occasional hymns and poems. At one time she edited Tiffany's Monthly, a philosophical journal published in New York City. One book of hers, entitled "Scripture Text Illustrated," written for Sunday school children, awakened considerable interest and some controversy. Mrs. Willis's daughter, Mrs. Linn, is mentioned elsewhere in this magazine. Editor. THE SOUL'S VENTURE. When the morning splendor gleams, Faintly breathing, hark! the whisper From the farther shore now dimly As they fall upon the strand. Who will bear me o'er the waters Hasten, for the shadows thicken, There! now bear your trav'ler swiftly, Ah! the mist is floating o'er us; Gone the brightness from the strand, Hushed are now the loving voices, Faded is the beck'ning hand! GEORGE NEWELL LOVEJOY. Onward through the silent darkness! I am tempted back no more, For to me the beauteous dream-land Lies in shadowy hope before. ASPIRATION. FATHER, hear the prayer I offer, For sweet peace I do not cry, But for grace that I may ever A Live my life courageously. Not within the fresh, green pasture Not beside the clear, still waters If I go where flowers of summer Not the glorious sunlight only Will I crave, oh God, of Thee! But to see Thy fiery pillar In the darkness guiding me. Be my strength in every weakness, -)( GEORGE NEWELL LOVEJOY. BIOGRAPHICAL sketch of Mr. Lovejoy, with several selections from his poems, will be found in THE Magazine of POETRY, April, 1890, vol II., p 220. Much of his literary work has been identified with Rochester. Editor. UNREALIZATION. He came to me day after day, His words were few, yet each to me There beamed for me Love's tender grace. Still, all unconscious was my heart He would become of me a part So much of self,-to prove, indeed, In every hour a gracious need. 383 In faltering tones: "Thy friend is dead!"' Or feel that presence through whose spell For now, amid my tears and loss, I realized too well-at last Recalling all the happy past, How much of my own life was he ENVIRONMENT. THE Poet sat in his chamber And sought to sing of Spring, 'Twas a day of days, one of royal May'sWhen one should feel to sing! But trying never so hard To lift his voice, ah, me! No musical note fell from his throat, But the Poet went out of his chamber The earth, and the sky above. And he found his voice as he went along, And sweet was each note that fell from his throat THE PERFECT JUNE. TAKE all the rapturous glow of Summer's morn,— With elfin hues, and odors rich and rare; MY LITTLE BOY. ELMER JAMES BAILEY. THE old square clock had struck the hour of eight, My little boy was standing by my knee, One small white foot was bare upon the floor; A pair of shining eyes were bent on me; His face was eloquent with hopes in store, For hanging by the chimney I could see The little fleecy sock my darling wore. He had been telling me in eager speech Of all the treasures Santa Claus would bring; There were no bounds his sweet faith could not reach, His trust was simple and unquestioning, While I had learned the whole that life could teach Of bitter doubt and cruel suffering! I listened to him with a wistful prayer, I longed to make some helpful faith my own; That into my poor life of grief and care Might creep a truer grace than it had known, Some blessed trust that would not prove a snare, Some love more honest than the world had shown. And then I said, "The Christmas is to me It brings me gifts of pain and treachery, And deals them through a loved and trusted hand. It brings a broken truth my staff to be, And leaves me nothing that will hold or stand!" My blessed child broke in upon my woe, "You still have something left; there's me you know! Why, one might think your little boy was dead! I'm little now, but when I larger grow I will take care of you, mamma," he said. I caught him with a passionate surprise; I covered him with kisses burning sweet! My life grew richer, looking in his eyes, Though other loves were poor and incomplete; And praying God to make him good and wise, I tucked the cover soft about his feet. E ELMER JAMES BAILEY. 385 'LMER JAMES BAILEY was born on May 19th, 1870. He became an Alumnus of the University of Rochester in June 1894 with the degree of Bachelor of Philosophy. He has evinced the possible utility of studies apparently so entirely outside the college curriculum as music, both piano and vocal. These have had an important influence on a finely wrought temperament, and, indirectly, upon poetic expression, which has been shown in many verses published in magazines of Boston, New York, Rochester, Buffalo, Chicago and St. Louis. Without a classical education; without the most catholic interest in the literature of the ages, and of different people, Mr. Bailey would never have conceived and could not have executed, in addition to his original work, translations in prose and verse which have been published by him from the Sanskrit, Latin, German, French, Italian and Spanish. Some of his poems have been set to music. D. L. C. NOT AS I WILL. "Not as I will," the Father's child, Tho' for a time from joy exiled, So, Father, by no doubt defiled, Still would I bear with tranquil heart AH! JUST TO LIVE IS VERY SWEET! AH! just to live is very sweet, The years have taught me as they fly, Tho' life has thorns and joy is fleet. So 'gainst my fate no more I beat With bleeding hands, with wailing cry, For just to live is very sweet. And sometimes to my happy feet The roads thro' pleasant pastures lie, Tho' life has thorns and joy is fleet. |