Coming year by year together they have made a deeper flow,

And the music grows more solemn as the summers come and go.

As the river of existence onward to the ocean

moves,

Dear and dearer grow the beauties that our child

hood lightly loves.

Manhood with its beauteous promise only partly kept at best,

Turns with longing to the Eastland, looks inquiring to the west.

Wonders if beyond the sunset waits the morn of

endless youth,

Wonders if earth's false pretending presages a reign of truth.

Can it be I read the promise in the buds of youth amiss?

That a bloom too dear was hinted for a wilderness like this?

Were the hues immortal signals in the sky at early morn?

Was it rustling of the ages that I heard among the corn?

By my side with kindred musings others sail upon the tide;

Broad and broader grows, the river, dim the banks on either side.

Many a boat has gone before me and has drifted out of sight,

Many a friend I've watched till folded in the bosom of the night;

And of all who thus have vanished, none bring back the welcome truth

Of the mirth and the enjoyment outlined in the days of youth.

Still God's promise made in childhood to the heart I hold is good,

Though the ways of the Almighty by us are not understood.

We're in haste, but God has leisure to unfold the wondrous plan,

And His thoughts are all diviner than the intellect of man.

In His sight a thousand ages are as yesterday that's past,

And the good that is unfolding to eternity shall last.

So I drift on to the ocean, rising now upon my view,

See the blessed islands outlined in the evening's latest dew,

Hear the angels in the distance strike on all their harps with might,

419

God is good, and life's completion waits upon the morning light.

THE BROOK.

In the summer, when the morning
Throws its gold upon the pine,
And the bee in quest of honey

Hums amid the celandine,
Flows the brook with noisy going

O'er the pebbles, smooth and round, Like the sound of merry voices When the dew is on the ground.

In the evening, when the sunset
Throws its light upon the tower,
And the late bee is returning

With the sweets of many a flower, And the night is closing softly

In upon the mead and stream, Flows the brook with drowsy murmur Like the music of a dream.

THE MIRTH IS OVER NOW.

THE morning breaks, the sad world wakes,
We part with never a vow,

That lovely dream is passed away,
The mirth is over now.

Though all that might have been, was not,
And all that was, is o'er,

There's still an hour in which we meet
In fancy as before.

Her dear form floats from in the Heav'n,
The life-dew on her brow,

She loved me here beneath the stars,
She loves above them now.

And Oh to sleep my life away,
And be with her at rest,

And no more wake upon the earth,
Ah, then my life were blest!

The hallowed night with smile and light,
Is in a moment gone,

And in the sky the yellow stars
Are melting one by one.

The morning breaks, the sad world wakes,
We part with never a vow,

That lovely dream is passed away,
The mirth is over now.

FREDERIC ALLISON TUPPER.

REDERIC ALLISON TUPPER was born on August 17th, 1858, in the town of Holliston, Mass. His father, Rev. Samuel Tupper, belonged to the old and illustrious family which numbers among its members Martin Farquhar Tupper and Sir Charles Tupper, Baronet, the Canadian High Commissioner. An interesting historical sketch of the family appeared in the Magazine of American History for October, 1889. Mr. Tupper was educated in the Roxbury Latin School and in Harvard College, from which latter institution he was graduated with high honors in 1880, having previously become a member of the Phi Beta Kappa Society. After having been for five years the vice-principal of the high school in New Brunswick, N. J., and having served for the same length of time in the capacity of principal of the Arms Academy in Shelburne Falls, Mass., Mr. Tupper was, in 1892, elected head master of the high school in Quincy, Mass., which position he holds at present. In 1884 he published a romance entitled "Moonshine," which dealt with incidents of the reconstruction period and was received with marked favor both by the press and the public. A number of his poems also appeared in the collection entitled "America's Younger Poets," published in 1888, and in 1890 he issued a volume of verse entitled "Echoes from Dreamland." In addition to these, Mr. Tupper has contributed frequently to the Boston Transcript. Among his offerings to that paper have been several translations from the French. Mr. Tupper is a thorough man of the world, a ripe scholar, and an original thinker in no way hampered by prejudice-a refreshing state of mind to contemplate in these days of gregarious appreciation and conventional judgment. J. M. S.

MY SHIP.

MANY a year ago, my ship sailed out to sea, With ballast of hopes, and silken ropes,

And banners floating free.

A wind came from the land, and blew my ship away,

I saw it fade, like a ghostly shade,

And leave behind the bay.

When I saw but the waste of ocean dark and shore,

Beneath the blue called the brown curlew; Sweet was the breaker's roar.

Many a ship has come, but my ship comes not home,

With pennons of red, and blue o'erhead: Beneath, the dazzling foam.

"Oh, sun-browned sailor-men, with merry, hazel

eyes,

Hast thou seen a sail that scorns the gale; Hast heard full joyous cries?”

"Countless the sails I've seen," the sailor-man replies,

"We tarried awhile at Fortune's Isle, Where beam the brightest skies;

"And thy ship, saw I there, all fraught with gems and gold,

With snowy sail that scorned the gale, And homeward hastened bold."

Ah me! but others tell of rocky, barren coasts,
Of storm-beat mast on lone beach cast,
And seaward-staring ghosts.

My good ship never comes, yet watch I from gray crags,

For filling sails that scorn the gales, And rippling joy of flags.

KILLING TIME.

My lovely lady captive lies

In Time's dark dungeon keep;
Bright tears bedew her sweet brown eyes,
A traitor false is sleep.

Gigantic days keep watch and ward,
Fierce hours are their esquires,
A host of moments pace the sward
To do what Time requires.

And I, like errant knight of old,
Rode on against the foe,
Love is my squire, an archer bold,
To lay the foeman low.

And, one by one, the giant days

Fall 'neath my flashing blade;
The hours and moments meet in haze,
Old Time is prostrate laid.

The castle doors fly open wide,

I break my lady's chains,
Love smiling gayly by my side
Triumphant o'er all pains.

I came with Love as my esquire;
Brown eyes sweet welcome beam;
Now Time is dead and my desire
Is filled with "Love's young dream.”