Lieth wrecked in the caverns where death is, I rise like a ghost in the dark

Crying out to thee, Come from thy palace,

Thy palace where praises belong, And hold to my white lips thy chalice, O, comforting Spirit of Song !

O'er the path of my past thou hast fluttered

Sometimes like a breeze o'er the sea, And a few of all words I have uttered,

Had in them a little of thee.

It is not enough! Do the shadows

Of ships that are stately and strong
Save the drowning? or dreams of old meadows
Where home is? O, Spirit of Song !

Nay, nay! hold me hard! I am done with
All things that the world deemeth dear;
All dreams that my lone life begun with
Forever and ever end here-

Save its one dream of thee. Lo! I cover
Them carefully, crying to thee;

Be more than a mother or lover,
Henceforth and forever to me!

Be life of my life! be the duty

That life's weary way making sweet! Be brightness, be bloom and be beauty, Be calm and be comfort complete! Forgetting to weep or to wonder

Grown quiet, majestic and strong,
Let me be like an immortelle under
Thy mantle, O, Spirit of Song !

Hand in hand let us con the old pages
By poet-souls written and read;
Heart to heart let us traverse old ages
By poet-lips never named dead;
By a ladder more rosy than roses,

'Neath banners, by angels unfurled,

Let us climb where heaven's portal uncloses High over a wondering world.

Behold me! I lay on thine altar

All days and all deeds I have loved; All faith that my soul has seen falter; All loves I have proved or disproved. And I swear by my life that was lonely, By my soul that with thee waxeth strong, Evermore to be thine, and thine only, Thou comforting Spirit of Song !

MARGUERITE.

SHE made on the upland a picture that never an artist could paint,

Sandled with sheen of a sunset-crowned with the calm of a saint.

Her face from the face of her lover turned, touched with a breath from the sea:

Her heart held the words of her lover: "The cup is most bitter for me!"

"The cup is most bitter?'"' she echoed. "I know it, O tenderest friend;

And the way stretches darkly before you; but you will go straight to the end."

"To the end?' and what then?"-all the doubt of his soul surging into his tone

"Missing you, though I journey with angels, I journey forever alone!"

"You'll not miss me," she said smiling softly, her eyes on the opal afar,

Their light burning steadily, clearly, as once burned the Bethlehem star,

And all her poor, pitiful pallor that told its own story of strife,

Flushing warmly, as if for an instant some seraph had kissed it to life.

"Dear friend, you'll not miss me—since fetters were fashioned for only the clay

Since love is immortal as God is-since we two are wedded for aye.

"You go where the night is, and with you a sorrow more deathful than death;

But you follow the white feet of Duty-your hand in the white hand of Faith.

"And you will bear bravely the tempest of agonies sharper than hail,

Nor shrink from the sands of the desert-nor falter where others would fail.

"For you are my hero, belovéd, my king—among cowards of men

And the time is not long to the sunrise; wait, work and be brave until then."

"You walk with the angels, my darling-you echo their music," he said,

A smile on his lips, such as lingers sometimes on the lips of the dead.

And so, on the upland, they parted; dim shadows stole into the skies;

Only the chill of her fingers answered the prayer in his eyes.

WITH YOU.

An hour of hours and a time for dreaming,

The slow sun sinking in a sea of mist; God's grace our own, and all his heaven seeming To near us through the fading amethyst. My hand in yours, I hear your words low spoken; "He leadeth you the way your darling went " And know them true by many a tender token,

Trying for her sweet sake, to be content.

And yet, somehow, the dead leaves drifting round us,
The whispers in the hemlock and the fir,
The very calm and quiet that have found us,
Seem but to make me hungrier for her.
Across the mountains sleep is sweet upon her;

I would not loose his strong hold if I might; But oh, my friend, my friend, had death not won her,

How changed to me were all the world to-night.

If as in days I can not make seem olden,

Facing the dark, I faced my darling, too, Feeling the fairness of her locks so golden,

Feeling the fullness of her love so true, A something tenderer I could discover

In all the touches of the tender wind;

A something sweeter where my sweet thoughts hover,

A something dearer in the dream behind.

I try to think what the long years have brought her, The years since she was made so all-divine, What happy songs the angels may have taught her, To sing at morn and eve, instead of mine.

I try to think how she will fly to meet me

In some glad hour that may not be afar, And with what words of welcome she will greet me Beyond the valley where the shadows are.

But thought so burdens! and the mother in me

Cries for the clinging of the warm young mouth; The voice's call that from the grave could win me,

The slow breath, sweeter than our own sweet
South;

The nut-brown eyes filled over-full of laughter;

The fine, gold tresses treasuring the light; Oh, friend! how can I wait for the hereafter,

That seems, for me, so far away to-night? Forgive me! Tears are hot upon your lashes, And pain is hiding in your patient eyes; Yet I have brought you gold from out the ashes Of that one pure and priceless sacrifice. And heaven itself hath nothing worth the finding If I shall miss therefrom the hand I hold, And the calm presence that to-night is binding My life to earth as nothing could of old.

JOHNNY AND I.

We were barefooted children together,
Driving the Alderney cows,

In the 'witching and wonderful weather
Familiar with perfumes and plows.
There was Bessie, and Beauty, and Brindle,
And Fanny-as fleet as a deer,
With eyes that would color and kindle
Whenever we children were near.

483

ELIZABETH MARTHA OLMSTED.

M'

RS. ELIZABETH M. OLMSTED was born in Caledonia, N. Y., December 31st, 1825. Her ancestral stock was from Pittsfield, Mass. Her father, Oliver Allen, belonged to the family of Ethan Allen. She was educated carefully and liberally. She was a child of strong mental powers and inquiring mind. Her poetic trend was apparent in childhood, and in her youth she wrote poems of much merit. She became the wife, in February, 1853, of John R. Olmsted, of Le Roy, N. Y., and she has ever since resided in that town. The Olmsteds are descended from the first settlers of Hartford, Conn., and pioneers of the Genesee valley. Mrs. Olmsted has contributed to the New York Independent and other papers. During the Civil War she wrote many spirited war lyrics, among which are the well-known "Our Boys Going to the War" and "The Clarion." Her poem, "The Upas," first appeared in the Independent of January 16th, 1862. She has published a number of sonnets of great excellence. Her productions are characterized by moral tone, fine diction and polish. J. L.

NOBLESSE oblige.

LIKE Some emblazoned honor roll,

We saw upon our walls the scroll

That youthful fingers, deft and fleet,

Had wrought for welcome proud and sweet:
NOBLESSE OBLIGE! With sudden thrill
Youth's holy ardor burned, until

Each looked to each with kindling eyes,
"What hast thou wrought of high emprise?
Art thou, O friend, the Chevalier
That knew not of reproach or fear?
What patient victory hast thou won?
What deeds unselfish, silent done?
The cup of water hast thou given,
And till the dawn with angels striven?
What act of love so lowly, good,
That but the Master understood?

Hast thou been Sorrow's tender liege?

Then may'st thou wear NOBLESSE OBLIGE."

AUREOLA.

WHEN Mary, mother of the Holy Child,
Beheld, with wondering eyes, her burden bright
The star stood over, with its effluence mild
And peaceful splendor lit the natal night;

The wise men knelt with frankincense and myrrh, Glory to God swept onward, deep and grand, And fluttering pinions joyously astir,

Proclaimed good will to men in every land.
Oh Love Divine! new-born thou ever art
When Innocence beams from its cradle-bed;
All sweet humanities bestir the heart,

The halo circling round the infant's head,
To us a child is born, a son is given
The Wonderful, to link our earth to Heaven.

THE CLARION.

ARM, arm, swifter than winds!

Listen the voice that saith: "Strike for the right with a terrible might, Victory now or death."

Stand, stand as the gray old rock

Where the ocean surges roar, Beat them back or die in the track As our fathers died of yore.

Strike, strike with a steady hand,
Battle through fire and flood;
The curse of Cain for a brother slain
Crimsons the land with blood.

Rest, rest when the work is done,

And the shackled hands are free,

When the sons of toil from the blood-cleansed soil Shout "Welcome Liberty!"

THE UPAS.

It was very fair to see,
This patriarchal tree,

Spreading wide!

Shading all the southern rills, Overtopping northern hills

In its pride.

There the worshipers appeared, Treading softly as they feared

Holy ground;

Underneath its somber shade, Their tinkling vestments made Pleasant sound.

Every morn there fell the rain;
It was red as battle stain;
And the dew

Was rounded from the tears
Wept through all the hopeless years
Since it grew.