Take, oh, boatman, thrice thy fee;
And, with joy, I give it thee;
For two friends I once deemed lost,
Have with me in spirit crossed.

IONE.

SWEETNESS, Purity and Truth
Are the handmaids of thy youth;
And thy friendship, that doth last,
Makes the future as the past,
And about the present throws
All the perfume of the rose.

Oh, thy smile is like the smiling
Of some dream at morn beguiling,
All the senses with the tender
Glamour hopes to memories render;
Noble, fair and true thou art,
And all-golden is thy heart.

TO A FAYRE LADYE.

SWEETE Frende, acros ye purpell yeares
Of Lyfe's dissolvynge Dreame,

Alle shinynge thro a Myst of Teares
Ye Starres of Frendshyp gleame.

Inne Splendore's Sonne theyre Lyghte ys loste,
Inne Troubell's Nyghte theyre Raye
Shines onne Hope's Barke ruf-Tempeste-toste,
Wyth Lyghte more sweete than Daye.

Soe where my Skiffe hath onwarde spedde
Towards prosperus Landes afarre,
Thie Frendshyp thro ye Storme hath ledde,
A pure and guidynge Starre.

NEAR ART THOU, MY BELOVED.
Goethe's "Nahe des Geliebten."

I THINK of thee, when from the sea's expanses
The sunshine beams;

I think of thee, when rippling moonlight dances In picturing streams.

I vision thee, when on the distant ridgeway
The dust appears,

In darksome night, when on the slender bridgeway
The wanderer fears.

'Tis thee I hear, when yon with echoing voices The billow calls;

Thy whisper in still woods my heart rejoices, When silence falls.

With thee I dwell. Though I be far that love thee, Yet art thou near!

The sunlight fails; soon shine the stars above me, O, wert thou here!

LOVE CONQUEROR.

TWAIN Souls came to the loveless mead of hell,
Wherein no flower of beauty e'er had bloomed,
And whose reed shores by Acheron were laved;
Nor ever sun shone in that midnight land,
But sable darkness dwelt, and a wind blew
Like snow-drowned bay of Alpine Bernard's

hounds,

Or wail of the primeval forest drear,

Blown by mysterious and voiceful winds

Whose birth men ken not of; and all was woe,

A woe walled in by black infinitude.

And they, who loved aforetime, here were met,—
Who loved, yet of their mighty love were dumb,
Who let love's torch lie smoking in the dust,
Nor lit life's light from that ambrosial flame:
So joy's soft splendor faded from their days;
As dies away Aurora's rosy glance
In the dim depths of ancient Tithon's orbs.
But on this shore of sorrow now they stood,
With face a-cold that marked each other not,
Till their eyes met that ever yearned for love;
And lo! the frozen winter of their looks
Broke into orient dawns of joy supreme,
And that sweet song, unsung in days of yore,
Leaped to the music of a hope fulfilled,

And in that hour Love changed their hell to heaven.

WHEN HERRICK SANG.

WHEN Herrick sang, the skies were blue, And flowers wore a lovelier hue,

Nor was affection sweet a tale Like down of thistle on the gale, For swains and maidens then were true.

Each haply did a path pursue
Where nature's beauties sprang to view,
Nor did life's fragrance ever fail,
When Herrick sang.

Quaint bard of love! To him are due
The thanks that breathe the ages through;
For roses red and lilies pale,

And all the blooms that scent the dale, To sweet and sweeter perfume grew,

When Herrick sang.

Of flood and fire and fallen man's unrest, Roll now o'er Calvary their gleaming spheres, As when the Son of God, through human tears, Did set the star of hope among the rest.

"An island life," on lonely seas, apart,

To bear the stress of mortal sin and woe He left immortal bliss, that we might know How Love divine can bid our fears depart, Because the self-same surge that rent His heart, Swept o'er our sins and left them white as snow.

Forevermore unto the shores of time

The fragrance of His broken life is blown Across the surfs of doubt, that ceaseless moan, And through the mists of grief in every clime His arc of light forever shines sublime,

And spans the space to God's supernal throne.

MODJESKA.

THOUGH dark and void of pleasure is the place Where thou, dear lady, crowned with thought and power

And that rare charm which is thy lasting dower, Ennobledst the rude passions of our race,

Where with strange art, thou touchedst anew to life Those sleeping queens the poet's skill hath wrought,

And vivifiedst the marvelous pictures fraught With pain and pleasure, deathless love and strife,

Still, still, thy magic works within the brain;
Thy very name, a wonder-weaving spell,
Wakes echoes of thy voice, remembered well,
And recreates thy changeful grace again;

Till now, on lids close-pressed, a fitting scene
For visions bright, the prompter, Memory, calls
Each radiant form, that in its turn enthralls,
Yet yields to others of still fairer mien.

Oh linger, lovely shapes, grave and demure,
Tragic and tender; for each face doth show
The same dark eyes divine, through which doth
glow

The same sweet woman's soul, serene and pure.

ALFONSO.

AWAY, ye haunting shapes, ambition, pride.
Of kingly state, plans unfulfilled that cower
With gloomy eyes, desire, youth's wayward

flower,

And ruined youth itself, of hope denied!
As phantoms of the night ye, mocking, glide
Before my fading eyes in this last hour,
And me defy; nor hath my scepter power
To bid ye go, nor stay Death's rising tide.
Yet go ye must! For Memory holds the day
When Love alone was king, and life grew fair,
And cares of state were light as frosts of May,
And breath of violets filled the happy air.
Ah, Mercedes! I see thee smiling there!
Death grants me love, earth's anguish slips away!

THE SHEPHERD'S SONG TO HIS LOVE.

DEEP in the valley,

Where the charmed winds dally,

Where a warm hand encloses

The fragrance of roses

Lieth and sleepeth and dreameth My Love.

In tangled bowers

I sought the flowers; I tore off the thorn, And to her, my own,

I bore them, exhaling the sweetness of love.

Ah, crimson rose, My secret disclose, Tell to her heart,

What I dare not,

And breathe through her being the rapture of love!

Sleep, dear heart, sleep, while my watch I keep; Guard her, ye soft winds that tenderly rove; Nor let my sigh

From the mountain high

Even hint to her heart of the anguish of love.

MR

IDA WORDEN WHEELER.

RS. IDA WORDEN WHEELER was born in Clarence, N. Y., of Scotch and early Puritan ancestry. She was the only child of John Warren Worden and Sarah Elizabeth Kinne. Her father was a patriotic enthusiast, who gave up his life for his country in the late Civil War. At the age of fifteen her mother was in sole charge of a village school numbering ninety pupils. Both parents were appreciative students of books. Orphaned in babyhood, Mrs. Wheeler was welcomed to the home of her grandfather, James Kinne, whose forefathers settled in Niagara county in the early days of the present century.

Mrs. Wheeler was educated in the Union School in Lockport. Although several of her stories and sketches appeared anonymously in various periodicals about that time, it was not until after her marriage and removal to Buffalo that she began serious work. In 1891 she engaged as summer correspondent for the Buffalo Express and Times. In 1892 the call for her letters had doubled, and in 1893 she was regularly employed by six prominent dailies and as many Sunday papers. Two years ago Mrs. Wheeler sent her first poem, A Welcome Guest," to the editor of the Ladies' Home Journal. It was promptly accepted and shortly published. This was soon followed by "A Lost Delight” in the same monthly and "Two Women" and "Fruition" in the New England Magazine. Latterly she has taken up reviewing, “A Talk with Trowbridge" and "An Hour with Mary J. Holmes" having recently appeared in the Buffalo Illustrated Express. D. J..C.

A WELCOME GUEST.

WHEN baby comes! The earth will smile
And with her spring-time arts beguile
The sleepy blossoms from their rest,
And truant song-birds to their nest,
To greet my guest.

When baby comes! Now fades from mind All thought of self. The world grows kind. Old wounds are healed, old wrongs forgot, Sorrow and pain remembered not;

Life holds no blot.

When baby comes! Methinks I see
The winsome face that is to be,
And old-time doubts and haunting fears
Are lost in dreams of happier years.
Smiles follow tears.

When baby comes! God make me good
And rich in grace of motherhood.
Make white this woman's soul of mine,
And meet for this great gift of Thine,
In that glad time.

LET US FORGET.

LET us forget

The memories that bind us fast
To our mistakes, outgrown and past.
The trust betrayed, the tarnished name,
The look of scorn, the blush of shame,
Let us forget.

Let us forget

That once we strove for selfish gain,
Regardless of another's pain.
The vain remorse, the sense of loss,
The burden of our self-made cross,
Let us forget.

Let us forget

The sighs, the stings, the anguished tears
That marked the paths of by-gone years.
The bitter cup, the deep despair,
The one dark hour which none might share,
Let us forget.

Let us forget

All but the love, the grace, the light That bore us to our present height, And haunting ghosts of grief and care The guise of angel hosts shall wear. Let us forget.

TWO WOMΕΝ.

Low seated in her hearth's red glow, one blessed
Her fate while fashioning with dainty art
The robes in which upon her mother heart
She fondly dreamed a babe might one day rest.
Wild-eyed and voiceless, as in hopeless quest,
A love-wronged soul stole shuddering apart
To mark that scene whose luring home-lights
dart

Like rankling arrows to her brooding breast.

Both to the churchyard came when years were done,

One robed in night, and one with face grown mild,

Guided the footsteps of her babbling son.

The yearning mourner looked and wanly smiled To see him pluck the daisies one by one,

That grew white-faced above her own dead child.