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THE pale day died in the rain to-night,

And its hurrying ghost, the wind, goes by: The mountains loom in their silent might,

And darkly frown at the sea and sky.

But when at night he came upon the stage,
Cheer after cheer went up from that wide throng,
And flowers rained on him: naught could assuage
The tumult of the welcome, save the song
That he had sweetly sung, with covered face,
For the two beggars in the market-place.


The petrel wings close to his surging home,

And stabs with a shriek the shuddering night: The mad wave beckons with hands of foam

Dipped in the blood of the sea-tower's light. So, in my heart, is a storm to-night,

Storm and tumult that will not cease; And my soul, in bitterness, longs for the light,

For the waking bird and the dawn of peace.

WHEN from the vaulted wonder of the sky

The curtain of the light is drawn aside,

And I behold the stars in all their wide
Significance and glorious mystery,
Assured that those more distant orbs are suns

Round which innumerable worlds revolve,
My faith grows strong, my day-born doubts dis.

solve, And death, that dread annulment which life shuns, Or fain would shun, becomes to life the way,

The thoroughfare to greater worlds on high, The bridge from star to star. Seek how we may,

There is no other road across the sky; And, looking up, I hear star-voices say:

“You could not reach us if you did not die."

THE SINGER'S ALMS. In Lyons, in the mart of that French town, Years since, a woman, leading a fair child, Craved a small alms of one who, walking down The thoroughfare, caught the child's glance, and

smiled To see, behind its eyes, a noble soul. He paused, but found he had no coin to dole.


His guardian angel warned him not to lose
This chance of pearl to do another good;
So as he waited, sorry to refuse
The asked-for penny, there aside he stood,
And with his hat held as by limb the nest
He covered his kind face, and sang his best.

And once I knew a meditative rose
That never raised its head from bowing down,
Yet drew its inspiration from the stars.
It bloomed and faded here beside the road,
And, being a poet, wrote on emply air
With fragrance all the beauty of its soul.

- A Morning Pastoral.


The sky was blue above, and all the lane
Of commerce where the singer stood was filled,
And many paused, and, listening, paused again,
To hear the voice that through and through them

I think the guardian angel helped along
That cry for pity woven in a song.

The singer stood between the beggars there,
Before a church, and, overhead, the spire,
A slim, perpetual finger in the air
Held toward heaven, land of the heart's desire,
As if an angel, pointing up, had said,
“ Yonder a crown awaits this singer's head."

The artist labors while he may,
But finds at best too brief the day;
And, tho' his works outlast the time
And nation that they make sublime,
He feels and sees that Nature knows
Nothing of time in what she does,
But has a leisure infinite
Wherein to do her work aright.

Along the Nile.
As faint as the fond remembrance

Of joy that was only dreamed,
And like a divine suggestion
The scent of the flower seemed.

Trailing Arbutus.

By sad waves tossed, She was a spray of coral fair to see,

The hat of its stamped brood was emptied soon
Into the woman's lap, who drenched with tears
Her kiss upon the hand of help: 't was noon,
And noon in her glad heart drove forth her fears.
The singer, pleased, passed on, and softly thought,
" Men will not know by whom this deed was




Found on the shore where death's impatient deep Hems in the narrow continent of life.

- Karagwe.

LOVE. Her love welled up like water in a spring, From which the more she gave the more was left, And purer for the gift.

- Ibid.
Sorrow, drunken on the wine of tears,
Sobbed, desperate, and, sighing, drank again.

Most men are prisoners at best,
Who some strong habit ever drag about
Like chain and ball.

The Galley Slave.

STORM. Last night you heard the tempest, love — the wind

entangled pines, The spraying waves, the sobbing sky that lowered

in gloomy lines; The storm was like a hopeless soul, that stood be

side the sea, And wept in dismal rain and moaned for what could never be.

- Autumn Ballad.

The night pervaded space, and had no bounds.

- Irak.
On desert sands a crust is more than gold,
In peril arms, and on the sea a plank;
The moment gives the value to a thing.

The Giant Spider.
Humility is the excess of love
We have for others.

The Host's Humility.


Natchez, Mississippi. Her original name was Griffith, but at the age of nine months her mother died, leaving her to the care of her maternal aunt, whose child she became by adoption, and whose name she received with a mother's love and nur

Mr. Griffith, the father of Mrs. Jeffrey, was a gentleman of cultivated literary tastes and a practiced and graceful writer in both prose and

He died in 1853, just as the sure gifts of his daughter were winning recognition.

Rosa Vertner's early childhood was passed at Burlington, a beaatiful country-seat near Port Gibson, Mississippi, and the home of her adopted parents. When she was ten years of age her parents removed to Kentucky for the purpose of superintending her education, which was obtained principally at a seminary in Lexington. At the age of seventeen she married Mr. Claude M. Johnson, and has since resided mostly in Lexington. Being blessed far beyond most women with both beauty of face and mind, and having an ample fortune at her command, her position in the social world has been a continued triumph, not only in her own immediate circle but in Washington and other cities she has been recognized as a leader. Mrs. Ellet considered her one of the “Queens of American Society.” Mrs. Johnson was left a widow just as the war broke out, and about two years after was married to Alexander Jeffrey. She lived in Rochester, N. Y., during the war, and there wrote her first novel entitled “ Woodburn." She has since written several dramas, and published another novel.

As a poet Mrs. Jeffrey was the first Southern womand after Amelia Welby) whose writings at. tracted attention or approval throughout the United States. She commenced composing before she could write. At the early age of seven her mother copied the lines for her. At fifteen she wrote“ The Legend of the Opal.” Mrs. Jeffrey's first literary friend was George D. Prentice, who encouraged her in many ways. Other friends were George P. Morris, N. P. Willis, Washington Irving, Edward Everett, John G. Saxe and George Bancroft. Upon the publication of her poems in 1857, Northern and Southern critics alike awarded her such high praise that her position among the leading poets of this country was seemingly established, but the Civil War came and with it that prejudice against all things Southern which time has only recently effaced. The reputation was indeed won, but new writers and a new school have taken their place in the literature of the day, and like Rip Van Winkle a one time popular author finds herself almost for. gotten. How unjust this verdict has been the accompanying study will show. N. L. M.


Envy is the coward side of Hate,
And all her ways are bleak and desolate.


When black the sky and dire with war,

When every heart was wrung with fear, He rose serene, and took his place,

The great occasion's mighty peer. He smote armed opposition down,

And bade the storm and darkness cease, Till o'er the long-distracted land Shone out the smiling sun of peace.

- Verses in Memory of General Grant.


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