THE CELESTIAL PASSION.

Lest he discover;
Showing no sign to him
By look of mine to him
What he has been to me-
How my heart turns to him,
Follows him, yearns to him,
Prays him to love me.

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!

REFORM.

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
Each moment flashes forth a human soul.
Holy each moment is, for back to him
Some wandering soul each moment home

returns.

VOICE.

Thou art the voice that silence uttereth,
And of all sound thou art the sense.

-“My Songs are All of Thee."

GIFTS.

He alone is the perfect giver

Who swears that his gift is nought;
And he is the sure receiver
Who gains what he never sought.

_" He Knows Not the Path of Duty."

Rise swift and far,-
One where Orion keeps
His arméd watch, and one
That to the midmost starry heaven upleaps;
The third blots out the firm-fixed Northern Star.

- Ode.
SUNSET.
But then the sunset smiled,
Smiled once and turned toward dark,
Above the distant, wavering line of trees that

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

CHRISTIANITY.

Wherever are tears and sighs,
Wherever are children's eyes,
Where man calls man his brother,
And loves as himself another,
Christ lives!

- Easter. AUTUMN.

more.

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.

ART.

GOLDEN ROD.

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

bloom
Glows like a living coal upon the green
Of the midsummer meadows, then how bright,
How deepening bright like mounting flame doth

burn
The golden rod upon a thousand hills!
This is the Autumn's flower, and to my soul
A token fresh of beauty and of life,
And life's supreme delight.

- Ibid.
MORNING.
I am the spirit of the morning sea;
I am the awakening and the glad surprise;
I fill the skies
With laughter and with light.
Not tears, but jollity
At birth of day brim the strong man-child's

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

mart:
But see, just bursting forth from bud to flower,
A late, slow growth,- the fairer Rose of Art.

— Impromptus.
ORIGINALITY.
Now you who rhyme, and I who rhyme,
Have not we sworn it, many a time,
That we no more our verse would scrawl,
For Shakespeare he had said it all!
And yet whatever others see
The earth is fresh to you and me
And birds that sing, and winds that blow,
And blooms that make the country glow,
And lusty swains, and maidens bright,
And clouds by day, and stars by night,
And all the pictures in the skies
That passed before Will Shakespeare's eyes ;
Love, hate, and scorn,-frost, fire, and flower,-
On us as well as him have power.

— The Modern Rhymer.

FICKLENESS.

I know a girl — she is a poet's daughter,

And many-mooded as a poet's day, And changing as the Mediterranean water.

--Port Fino.

GEORGE HOUGHTON.

G Cambridge

, 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

WYNHILDA.

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!"