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Through forest ways with rustling leaves o'er
spread The pine-boughs whispered low of bodings
One only answer is; there truth belongs;
Lo, I am life, life's PRINCE! Lo, thou mayst see
And all the air a mystery seemed to fill.
Where sloped the hillside from the upper glade, Fell a baptismal robe of beauty rare;
I sought cool rest within a maple shade;
In mimic torrent from the rugged hill,
Till, winding down, it coursed through meadows ROBERT BURNS.
In laughing ripples and in glittering sheen.
Nature's own music in melodious treat
Filled all my senses with their voices sweet. There stirred within him, masterful and strong, From the far pasture of the woody dell
The impulse of a heaven-sent gift of song. Came soft vibrations of the tinkling bell; In strains now blithe, now sad, his verses told And from the meadows, and the flowery leas, The simple rugged nature, grandly bold
With the chirp of insects and the hum of bees, In honest manhood's cause to battle wrong; Came the sweet discord of unmeasured notes The joys that unto homely lives belong;
From feathered songsters, with uplifted throats. Though oft his days were dark and skies were cold, 1 From the soft rustle of the swaying trees, What heed we of the wintry winds to-night ! And their leaves' Autter in the gentle breeze,
When hearts within are warm with friendly cheer? There came co-mingling and falling round
We sing his songs, and dwell in scenes more fair, The ceaseless cadence of symphonious sound. Where summer's treasures deck the meadows While thus entranced with all this wordless psalm, bright,
My nature softened in its mellow balm; Where daisies bloom, and glittering waves are There soon came stealing o'er my grateful sense clear,
(My soul beguiling with its recompense) By banks o' bonnie Doon and brigs of Ayr. Half conscious sleep; then did the music seem
Vague as the vision of a forgotten dream.
The song of bird, and bee, and babbling rill,
The leaves' soft murmur, and the tinkling bell,
By strange transition in the passive mind, ORN near New London, Conn. Mr. Darrow
Changed then to music of another kind. has lived in Buffalo
many years. He pub- Out of old years with their memories fraught, lished a small volume of poems for private circula- Again came visions and unbidden thought. tion in 1888, entitled “Iphigenia, a Legend of the
I sat in a classic hall amid the throng Iliad and Other Poems."
Editor Who came to worship at the shrine of song.
There standing forth, the “Prima Donna" made
Her voice ring grandly through the great arcade, A SONNET OF LIFE.
Then sweet and low, borne faintly through the air,
The notes came softly to the people there, Thou mystery of life! O, faltering thought,
Until to all did that grand song impart That, seeking, fain would find the secret dower
The strange enchantment of her wondrous art. Of thy eternal, unborn source and power, Thy mystic vital essence, ne'er forthwrought, Again I sat where somber shadow falls Though by all science's tireless searching sought. Through Gothic arches in sacred temple walls; Who hid thy secret in the acorn's cell,
While from the organ, in its swelling sound, The seed of flower and the bird's egg-shell ? To the soul came speaking in notes profound, Whenceforth by subtle energy are brought
The song of angels, while by human tongue Strength, beauty and glad-voiced trill of songs. The words were vocal, as the song was sung. Vain finite mind of scientist or sage,
'Twas “Gloria in Excelsis" to the Lord of grace, Vain strife of human thought in every age,
Who gave salvation to our ruined race.
ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS.
Again I stood within the tented camp
The Dancing Faun.
Thou dancer of to-day,
What Bacchic lay,
Down their forgotten way?
Has charmed eternally
Left lingering with thee?
That round thee used to meet?
But, wild and sweet,
To its unuttered beat.
And, when at last Time's weary will
Brought thee again to sight,
Into the light,
Of centuries of night.
The early faith is gone!
All, all are gone!
The satyr and the faun.
On many an Elian hill
The distant trill
Broken his pipes and still.
When was unwrapped the ashen winding sheet
grapes, And all the pleasant demi-gods and fauns Who thronged the woods and kept the fountains
pure. They could not die; no fear of time had they, For they were born of art and must endure While art should live. The stricken city lay About them, yet they took nor note nor care Of unseen evenings and of darkened dawns; In passing years they had no place, no part, Until at last the soft Italian day Peered in upon them, standing silent there, Divine in the divinity of art. And one there was, a faun, among the throng, With limbs for ever leaping into dance, With head thrown back, as though he heard, per
chance, The far off echo of some lost Greek song.
Broken his pipes, his sweet notes dead,
Save those that charm thine ear,
His groves are drear;
I would not have thee hear!
Ah, gracious art, whose creatures do not die,
We too have heard the far-off magic song,
We too have caught the spirit of the long, Soft southern days and sheen of sapphire sky;
And so we listen, like the dancing faun, We in our snow-bound new-world haunts, and hear Thy music nearer coming-near, more near
And feel the promise of thy brightening dawn.