Nor heeds the eternal doom that followeth,
Ah, precious days of unreflecting breath!
There lay (so might we fancy) one who smiled
Through all life's paradox unreconciled,
Enjoying years the grown man squandereth.
And if his latest hour was touched with pain,
And some dim trouble crossed his childish brain,
He knew no fear,--in death more blest than we.
And now from God's clear light he smiles again,
Not ill-content his mortal part to see
In such a spot, amid such company.

E. C. LEFROY.

They gave him light in his ways,
And love, and a space for delight,
And beauty and length of days,

And night, and sleep in the night.
His speech is a burning fire;

With his lips he travaileth; In his heart is a blind desire,

In his eyes foreknowledge of death; He weaves, and is clothed with derision; Sows, and he shall not reap;

His life is a watch or a vision
Between a sleep and a sleep.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

And the high gods took in hand
Fire, and the falling of tears,
And a measure of sliding sand
From under the feet of the years;
And froth and drift of the sea;

And dust of the laboring earth;
And bodies of things to be

In the houses of death and of birth; And wrought with weeping and laughter, And fashioned with loathing and love, With life before and after

And death beneath and above,

For a day and a night and a morrow,

That his strength might endure for a span With travail and heavy sorrow, The holy spirit of man.

From the winds of the north and the south
They gathered as unto strife;
They breathed upon his mouth,

They filled his body with life;
Eyesight and speech they wrought
For the veils of the soul therein,

A time for labor and thought,
A time to serve and to sin;

THE WELL OF ST. JOHN.

"THERE is plenty of room for two in here, Within the steep tunnel of old gray stone; And the well is so dark, and the spring is so clear,

It is quite unsafe to go down alone."

"It is perfectly safe depend upon it,

For a girl who can count the steps like me, And if ever I saw dear mother's bonnet,

It is there on the hill by the old ash tree." "There is nobody but Rees Morgan's cow

Watching the dusk on the milk-white sea. 'Tis the time and place for a life-long vow, Such as I owe you, and you owe me."

"Oh, Willie, how can I, in this dark well? I shall drop the brown pitcher, if you let go: The long roof is murmuring like a sea-shell, And the shadows are shuddering to and fro." "Tis the sound of the ebb in Newton Bay, Quickens the spring as the tide grows less, Even as true love flows alway

Counter the flood of the world's success."

"There is no other way for love to flow;
Whenever it springs in a woman's breast,
To the home of its own heart it must go,
And run contrary to all the rest."

"Then fill the sweet cup of your hand, my love,
And pledge me your maiden faith thereon,
By the touch of the lettered stone above,
And the holy water of St. John."

"Oh what shall I say? My heart drops low;
My fingers are cold, and my hand too flat.

Is love to be measured hy handful so?

And you know that I love you-without that.”

They stooped in the gleam of the faint light over The print of themselves on the limpid gloom; And she lifted her full palm toward her lover, With her lips prepared for the words of doom.

But the warm heart rose, and the cold hand fell, And the pledge of her faith sprang, sweet and clear.

From a holier source than the old saint's well,
From the never-ebbing tide of love-a tear.

RICHARD DODDRIDGE BLACKMORE.

THE PLAGUES OF IRELAND.

Он, Ireland, my country, the hour

Of thy pride and thy splendor hath passed, And the chain that was spurned in thy moments of power

Hangs heavy around thee at last.

There are marks in the fate of each clime,

There are times in the fortunes of men,

But the changes of realms and the chances of time Shall never restore thee again.

Thou art chained to the wheel of the foe

By links which a world cannot sever, With thy tyrant through storm and through calm thou shalt go,

And thy sentence is bondage forever. Thou art doomed for the thankless to toil,

Thou art left for the proud to disdain,

And the blood of thy sons and the wealth of thy soil Shall be lavished and lavished in vain.

Thy riches with taunts shall be taken,

Thy valor with coldness be paid,

And of millions who see thee thus sunk and forsaken

Not one shall stand forth in thine aid.

In the nations thy place is left void,

Thou art lost in the list of the free;

Even realms by the plague and the earthquake destroyed

May revive, but no hope is for thee.

Bring back, bring back, the vanished years, Oh! bring me back one vanished face

I lost in that thick mist of tears;

Fill once again her vacant place.

Once more, once more, oh! bring once more,
To my cold heart the swell and glow,
That dear voice brought in days of yore;
Sing low, sweet birds, sing soft and low!

Bring back, bring back, the olden time,
When we were children, she and I,
And life was one long rush of rhyme;
Ah! sing dear birds, sing clear and high!

Time creeps or flies, and all things change;
Who keepeth aught of all he had?
The dear old dreams grow cold and strange;
Sing low, sweet birds, sing low and sad!

And who hath done what once he planned,
When first he gaily hoisted sail,
And shaped his course for his dreamland?
Ah! wild birds droop your wings and wail

All-all that course is scattered o'er

With cold, dead hopes that shrouded lie, Whose wailing ghosts for evermore

Haunt our low steps, and moan and cry!

With outstretched hands, in dark and gloom,
We grope our way we know not where;
Uncertain shades beside a tomb;
Oh, birds your wailing seems despair!
The shadows fall and day is past,

The cold white moon gleams o'er the hill; The last faint whispering notes-the last! Tremble and cease, and all is still.

PHILIP GARTH.

THE FUTURE IS BETTER THAN THE PAST.

NOT where long passed ages sleep,

Seek we Eden's golden trees,

THOMAS FURLONG.

In the future folded deep,

In the spirits' perfect air,

In the passions tame and kind,

Innocence from selfish care,

The real Eden we shall find.

It is coming, it shall come,

To the patient and the striving, To the quiet heart at home,

Thinking wise and faithful living. When all error is worked out,

From the heart and from the life; When the sensuous is laid low,

Through the Spirit's holy strife; When the soul to sin hath died,

True and beautiful and sound; Then all earth is sanctified,

Up springs paradise around.
Then shall come the Eden days,
Guardian watch from seraph eyes;
Angels on the slanting rays,

Voices from the opening skies.

From this spirit land, afar,

All disturbing force shall flee; Stir nor toil nor hope shall mar Its immortal unity.

ELIZA THAYER CLAPP.

FLOWERS.

How bright and beauteous are the flowers, Those undertones of love,

Which God has given to us below,

From Eden bowers above.

They bloom upon the hillside,
And in the lovely glen,
They brighten children's faces,

And cheer the hearts of men.

Their fragrance fills the evening air,
Floats on the evening breeze,
And like an angel whisper,

Speaks to the hearts of ease.
The flowers of spring are beautiful,

But summer blooms more rare,
The autumn and the winter flowers,

May teach us-ne'er despair.

The springtime of our life would seem
A landscape, covered o'er
With flowers in bright and rich array,

Exhaustless in their store;

While summer flowers of life are filled
With dews distilled from care,
We find no rose without a thorn,
How e'er so bright and fair.

GOING OUT AND COMING IN.

GOING out to fame and triumph,

Going out to love and light; Coming in to pain and sorrow,

Coming in to gloom and night.
Going out with joy and gladness,
Coming in with woe and sin;
Ceaseless streams of restless pilgrims
Going out and coming in!

Through the portals of the homestead,
From beneath the blooming vine;
To the trumpet tones of glory,
Where the bays and laurels twine;
From the loving home-caresses

To the chill voice of the world-
Going out with gallant canvass

To the summer breeze unfurled.

Through the gateway, down the footpath,
Through the lilacs by the way;
Through the clover by the meadow,
Where the gentle home-lights stray;
To the wide world of ambition,
Up the toilsome hill of fame,
Winning oft a mighty triumph,

Winning oft a noble name.

Coming back all worn and weary,

Weary with the world's cold breath;
Coming to the dear old homestead,
Coming in to age and death.
Weary of its empty flattery,
Weary of its ceaseless din,
Weary of its heartless sneering,
Coming from the bleak world in.
Going out with hopes of glory,

Coming in with sorrows dark;
Going out with sails all flying,

Coming in with mastless barque. Restless stream of pilgrims, striving Wreaths of fame and love to win, From the doorways of the homestead Going out and coming in!

MRS. MOLLIE E. MOORE DAVIS.

PRIZE QUOTATIONS.

Cash prizes to the amount of Three Hundred Dollars will be awarded by the Publisher to the persons who will name the author of the greatest number of the Prize Quotations Rules for Competitors may be found on another page.

135.

A creature not too bright nor good
For human nature's daily food,

For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

136.

Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, And play the prelude of our fate

137.

How beautiful is gentleness, whose face

Like April sunshine, or the summer rain, Swells everywhere the buds of generous thought? So easy, and so sweet it is; its grace

Smoothes out so soon the tangled knots of pain.

Can ye not learn it will ye not be taught?

138.

With deep affection and recollection,

I often think of those Shandon Bells,
Whose sounds, so wild, would

In the days of childhood,

Fling round my cradle their magic spells.

139.

The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find;

Yet it creates transcending these,

Far other worlds, and other seas.

140.

Stop, Mortal! Here thy brother lies,
The Poet of the Poor.

His books were rivers, woods, and skies,
The meadow, and the moor;

His teachers were the torn hearts' wail, The tyrant and the slave,

The street, the factory, the jail,

The palace-and the grave!

141.

Star after star from heaven's high arch shall rush,
Suns sink on suns, and systems, systems crush,
Headlong, extinct, to one dark centre fall,
And death, and night, and chaos mingle all!
Till o'er the wreck, emerging from the storm,
Immortal nature lifts her changeful form,
Mounts from her funeral pyre on wings of flame,
And soars and shines, another and the same.

142.

O, the good gods,

How blind is pride! What eagles are we still
In matters that belong to other men!
What beetles in our own!

143.

Pride-of all others the most dangerous fault-
Proceeds from want of sense, or want of thought.
The men who labor and digest things most,
Will be much apter to despond than boast.
144.

There is nothing lighter than vain praise.
145.

Yellow, yellow leaves,
Falling, falling, falling!
Death is best, when hope
There is no recalling;

Yet O, yellow leaves,
How the parting grieves.
146.

The impatient Wish, that never feels repose,
Desire, that with perpetual current flows;
The fluctuating pangs, of Hope and Fear,
Joy distant still, and Sorrow ever near