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THE CELESTIAL PASSION.
Lest he discover;
Pity me, lean to me, Thou God above me!
O WHITE and midnight sky, O starry bath,
Wash me in thy pure, heavenly, crystal flood; Cleanse me, ye stars, from earthly soil and
scath Let not one taint remain in spirit or blood! Receive my soul, ye burning, awful deeps;
Touch and baptize me with the mighty power That in ye thrills, while the dark planet sleeps;
Make me all yours for one blest, secret hour! O glittering host, О high angelic choir,
Silence each tone that with thy music jars;
Fill me even as an urn with thy white fire Till all I am is kindred to the stars!
Make me thy child, thou infinite, holy night,So shall my days be full of heavenly light!
I. Oh, how shall I help to right the world that is
going wrong! And what can I do to hurry the promised time of
peace! The day of work is short and the night of sleep is
long; And whether to pray or preach, or whether to sing
a song, To plow in my neighbor's feld, or to seek the
golden fleece, Or to sit with my hands in my lap, and wish that
ill would cease!
“EACH MOMENT HOLY IS.”
Each moment holy is, for out from God
The Sonnen What is a truet? Mi tto. peare obele
that nuonumes of the far off murmuring hea,
Aprecian jewel cand sunt curionely oko a Little Lietur lances will Whaha
ainmek? Jithe teas Tindfell From a forti
freak frets hidin Ecstaty; A
two. Elpa forond, astar, a song-ah Sruituaná a hear-tollins Jumeine hell. This on a flame that shook aulk Drutes rathy
The folenn you aberen Milton Ilayed,
Hui -Lenae pile ruluretta!
Thou art the voice that silence uttereth,
-“My Songs are All of Thee."
He alone is the perfect giver
Who swears that his gift is nought;
_" He Knows Not the Path of Duty."
Rise swift and far,-
filed Along the horizon's edge; Like hooded monks that hark Through evening air The call to prayer; — Smiled once, and faded slow, slow, slow away: When, like a changing dream, the long cloud
wedge, Brown-gray, Grew saffron underneath, and ere I knew, The interspace, green-blueThe whole, illimitable, western, skyey shore, The tender, human, silent sunset smiled once
Wherever are tears and sighs,
- Easter. AUTUMN.
Sunset from the Train.
For autumn days To me pot melancholy are, but full Of joy and hope, mysterious and high, And with strange promise rife. Then it me seems Not failing is the year, but gathering fire Even as the cold increases.
An Autumn Meditation.
Grows a weed More richly here beside our mellow seas That is the Autumn's harbinger and pride. When fades the cardinal-flower, whose heart-red
eyes. Behold the white Wide three-fold beams that from the hidden sun
Following the sun, westward the march of power! The Rose of Might blooms in our new-worlu
— The Modern Rhymer.
I know a girl — she is a poet's daughter,
And many-mooded as a poet's day, And changing as the Mediterranean water.
, Mass. August 22, 2018 30. He
EORGE W. W. HOUGHTON was born at
Cambridge, Mass., August 12, 1850. He graduated from the High School of his native place in 1868, but did not attend college. His first publication was a Christmas Booklet," in 1872, fol. lowed by "Songs from Over the Sea," 1874; “ Album Leaves," 1877 ; “ Drift from York Harbor, Maine," 1879; “ The Legend of St. Olaf's Kirk,” 1880.
Of the latter poem a second edition, revised, appeared in 1881. A year later a collection selected mainly from his previous publications was issued, entitled, “Niagara and Other Poems.”
Since 1882 Mr. Houghton has given very little verse to the public, but it is hoped that he has not resigned a garden which he has cultivated with marked success. Mr. Houghton is a member of the Authors Club, and for a number of years has been the editor of The Hub, a commercial paper, the leading representative of its particular field.
C. W. M
I. “ Thou shalt not whimper, daughter mine!
No selfish season this for sighs! There are kine to milk, and paths to be digged,
And the hind — hear how it grieves and cries! Fresh snow on the roof-tree lieth thick,
Still heavy the drifts weigh down the skies; This be a day to do and dare,
Then up, Wynhilda, — dry thine eyes!”
II. " It's not from the hand work I hold back,
It's not for frost I fret and weep; My fingers are willing,– but faith grows faint,
O prithee, mother, let me sleep!"
III. “ Weak words, thy words, Wynhilda mine!
These days, bear-fierce, must hearts be dead: Though Edwald sleep face-down to-night,
And firebrand show his bosom red With axe and war-bill, vain be tears!
This morn's no morn to hang the head; Our clansman's woe is our common woe,
And death were his proudest marriage-bed!"
IV. "Nay, stay thy chiding, mother mine!
I've flown this night to the field, rock-girt; I weep, but not for Edwald slain,
A caitiff he skulked, alone unhurt!"
Far nobler the sword that is nicked and worn,
He was tried and found true; he stood the test; 'Neath whirlwinds of doubt, when all the rest Crouched down and submitted, he fought best.
There are wounds on his breast that can never
be healed, There are gashes that bleed, and may not be
And others may dream in their easy-chairs,
A VACATION EPISODE.
We crossed the pasture-land together,
I knew that now my time drew near, And hastened, longing for the moment,
Yet lingering, holding back in fear.
I wished the sunshine would not flicker
Across the river in my eyes;
How could I talk through that disguise!
I wished the catbird would not whistle,
I paused till he grew tired and still; And then the frogs took up the music,
And lambs came bleating from the hill,
Now all was silent; in the stubble
The crickets even held their peace; But yet I waited, wishing only
That all the crickets would not cease.
I saw the gateway as we neared it,
I shaped my mouth and formed the word, When from her bonnet, bent demurely,
A little laugh I thought I heard.
A ploughboy passing, smiled and nodded,
i I bit my lip and blushed for shame; Then stooped to pick a blood-red berry,'Twas sour,
and speechless I became.
I leaned upon the bars; she fluttered
A farewell signal back to me;
Gray fog came drifting from the sea.