47

ARTHUR W. AUSTIN.

M

R. ARTHUR W. AUSTIN was born in Sur

biton, Kingston-on-Thames, England, February 9th, 1853. His family came to America in 1863. Arthur lived for some time on the farm of his uncle, John Whittaker, in the town of Wales, Erie co., N. Y. He went to Buffalo in 1866. After leaving school, he was employed in the circulating department of the Buffalo Commercial and in 1872 became a reporter on the staff of that paper. In 1878 he was appointed city editor, which position he still holds. Mr. Austin has written considerable verse for newspapers and periodicals. Some of his fugitive pieces have been widely copied in American and English journals.

B. L. E.

Fast on the hapless Christians' track the turbaned

horsemen pressed, Maddened with wild, fanatic zeal, that glowed in

every breast, Until, defenseless to their sight, spread in a pleas

ant vale, They saw the weary exiles' camp-how should

their purpose fail ?

And when she knew the tidings true of that base,

traitorous deed, Love left its throne within her breast, for hatred to

succeed, That burned with strong and potent force, as, with

the exiled band, She journeyed forth to seek a home in some far

I REJOICE, O, beloved of my heart,

That you are a music-lover, Nor fail in the glorious art

New beauties and charms to discover; For thus may our spirits combine

In the love of the beautiful truly, 1, loving the rhythmical line,

You, the bar of sweet music as duly;

The soul of Schumann, wandering in a maze

Of dreamsul melody, made music so

Express emotions deep which all may know, When memory leads the mind through devious

ways Of joy or grief, and scenes of other days,

Strange, varied pictures of the long ago,

Glide into view, now rapidly, now slow,
While each a separate influence conveys.
This was my thought when first my listening soul
Heard with delight the Träumerei's tender

strain,
And still its wondrous melodies remain,
Holding a sure, unchangeable control.
The Träumerei! tone picture of a dream
Drawn with a skill that glorifies the theme!

See how they writhe and twist and moan:
“When will the earth give up its own?”
Scourged by the wind, all black and dry,
Outlined, etched on a waste of sky,
Gnarled and beaten and shorn of dress,
Watchers still in their dreariness,
Wrapped and coiled in a shroud of snow,
Boughs spread over the mounds below,
That God may set his sleepers free,
The trees are telling a rosary.

THE PASSING OF THE BEAUTIFUL.

QUIVERING water and throbbing air,
Vanishing beauty everywhere,
Grass grown gray from a frosty touch,
Flowers that tremble and droop too much.

TO A FISHER GIRL.

(FROM HEINE.) O LOVELY fishermaiden,

Thy shallop speed to land; Come hither, sit beside me,

We'll dally hand in hand.

I LAUGHED as I stood in the roadway,

Half turning to glance once more,
Where a glint of vagrant sunshine,

Stole in through the open door;
I laughed, but my lips were trembling,

And deep in my heart I knew
That my other self, old school-house,

I had left behind with you.
I laughed, as I stood in the roadway,

Chiding myself for the tears
That hid the world with a cloud of mist,

Like the wraiths of coming years.
I laughed and the ghost of childhood

Fled from the empty mirth;
The spirit of strife had risen,

Though I knew not of its birth.
I laughed as I stood in the roadway,

And flung my cap in the air;
The woods, I thought, and the drowsy town

Had never looked half so fair.
I laughed, but the mocking echo

Wavered and changed to a sigh;
I cried, I'm afraid, old school-house,

When I bade you a last good-bye.

RECOLLECTIONS,

A SIMPLE word, a pleading look,
The turned-down page of a musty book,
A throb of loneliness, a sigh-
The forms of the past go trooping by.
Through the gray mist of distant years,
Silent they come in a veil of tears,
Come unsummoned—the holy dead.
Come and go ere the heartache's fled.

Ah, if to the days long fled, -
Happier hours,—my thoughts be led,
Then I ever yearn to see
Those dear friends, death reft from me.

A song, a strain of music sweet,
A glow where sunlight and shadow meet;
Our hearts are instruments turned by fate,
Love strikes a chord, and the strings vibrate.

Yet what keeps all friendship whole Is when ul communes with soul. Soulful were the hours we passed, Soulful ties still bind me fast.

a