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Come then, in thought, if that alone may be,
O friend! and bring with thee Thy calm assurance of transcendent Spheres,
And the Eternal Years! OAK KNOLL, August 31, 1890.
John GREENLEAF WHITTIER. — The Independent, November 27, 1890.
He had raised a numerous family, straight and
sturdy as he could, And his boys were all considered as unnaturally
good; And his "slender sal’ry” kept him till went forth
the proclamation“We will pay him up this season with a gen'rous,
TO THE SUNSET BREEZE.
So they brought him hay and barley, and some corn
upon the ear, Straw enough to bed his pony for forever and a year; And they strewed him with potatoes of inconse
quential size, And some onions whose completeness drew the
moisture from his eyes; And some cider-more like water, in an inventory
strict, And some apples, pears and peaches, that the
autumn gales had picked; And some strings of dried-up apples-mummies of
the fruit creationCame to swell the doleful census of old Elder Lamb's
Ah, whispering something again, unseen,
dow, door, Thou, laving, tempering all, cool-freshing, gently
vitalizing Me, old, alone, sick, weak-down, melted-worn with
sweat; Thou, nestling, folding close and firm yet soft, com
panion better than talk, book, art, (Thou hast, О Nature! elements! utterance to my
heart beyond the rest-and this is of them,) So sweet thy primitive taste to breathe within-thy
soothing fingers on my face and hands, Thou, messenger-magical strange bringer to body
and spirit of me, (Distances balked - occult medicines penetrating
me from head to foot.) I feel the sky, the prairies vast-I feel the mighty
northern lakes, I feel the ocean and the forest-somehow I feel the
globe itself swift-swimming in space; Thou blown from lips so loved, now gone-haply
from endless store, God-sent, (For thou art spiritual, Godly, most of all known to
my sense,) Minister to speak to me, here and now, what word
has never told, and cannot tell, Art thou not universal concrete's distillation ?
Law's, all Astronomy's last refinement ? Hast thou no soul? Can I not know, identify thee?
WALT WHITMAN. -Lippincott's Magazine, December, 1890.
Also radishes and turnips pressed the pumpkin's
cheerful cheek, Likewise beans enough to furnish half of Boston
for a week; And some butter that was worthy to have Sampson
for a foe, And some eggs whose inner-nature held the legend
- “Long Ago;" And some stove-wood, green and crooked, on his
flower-beds was laid, Fit to furnish fire departments with the most sub
stantial aid. All things unappreciated found this night their true
vocation In the Museum of Relics, known as Elder Lamb's
ELDER LAMB'S DONATION.
Good old Elder Lamb had labored for a thousand
nights and days, And had preached the blessed Bible in a multitude
There were biscuits whose material was their own
secure defense; There were sauces whose acuteness bore the sad
pluperfect tense; There were jellies undissected, there were mystery
laden pies; There was bread that long had waited for the signal
to arise. There were cookies tasting clearly of the drear and
musty past; There were doughnuts that in justice 'mongst thie
metals might be classed; There were chickens, geese and turkeys, that had
long been on probation,
Had received a message daily over Faith's celestial
wire, And had kept his little chapel full of fames of
Now received in full connection at old Elder Lamb's
The point of time is Christmas morn;
The star, of Bethlehem;
A lost world to redeem.
O, mark the time! behold the star!
Adore the sacred Name! And thou shalt all the blessings share,
For which to earth He came.
Then they gave his wife a wrapper made for some
one not so tall, And they brought him twenty slippers, every pair
of which was small; And they covered him with sack-cloth, as it were,
in various bits, And they clothed his helpless children in a ward
robe of misfits; And they trimmed his house with “Welcome,” and
some bric-a-bracish trash, And one absent-minded brother brought five dol
lars all in cash! Which the good old pastor handled with a thrill of
exultation, Wishing that in filthy lucre might have come his
With angels sing, with shepherds watch,
With sages gifts bestow; The radiance of His sweet smile catch,
And let thy joys o'erflow!
His law of kindness in thy mind,
His love within thy heart. Go forth, and tell to all mankind
What grace He doth impart.
And when no more the Christmas light
Shall shine upon thee here;
J. T. WARD. -For The Magazine of Poetry.
Morning came at last, in splendor; but the Elder,
wrapped in gloom, Knelt amid decaying produce and the ruins of his
home; And his piety had never till that morning been so
bright: For he prayed for those who brought him to that
unexpected plight. But some worldly thoughts intruded; for he won
dered o'er and o’er If they'd buy that day at auction, what they gave
the night before; And his fervent prayer concluded with the natural
exclamation: “Take me to Thyself in mercy, Lord, before my next donation!”
WILL CARLETON. - The Ladies' Home Journal, November, 1890.
A PICTURE. ( To the portrait of the late Emily Pfeiffer, in “ The Maga
zine of Poetry.") Both young and fair, thy portrait speaks thee so;
A smiling, yet withal a serious face;
Thy whole expression one of rarest grace; But what a gentle archness still doth show! Thy fillet-banded head, as soft winds blow
A flower, bends lightly to one side. A trace
Of merry pleasantry lies here; erase This, and the half-smile on thy lips, and lo! What have we left? A brow intense with thought,
Lips that in losing smiles, sweet pathos keep; Uplifted, questioning eyes, oh, had they caught
Shadows from coming nights bereft of sleep? Grief smites us in thy sad and early graveGod rest thee, poet, gifted soul and brave! NORTHAMPTON, MASS., October 7, 1890.
ELLA C. DRABBLE. -Hartford Times.
There is a time, on history's page,
More noted far than all, Which chroniclers, in every age,
The standard-time do call.
There is a star that shines more bright
Than all the stars that shine; Which crowns the diadem of night
With lustre all divine.
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.
There is a Name that far excels
All others ever heard; Of love and peace and joy it tells,
And all good, in a word.
BORN IN 1801. DIED AUGUST II, 1890. The “Kindly Light” hath led the willing heart Beyond the “encircling gloom” and shades of
Night, And now the far-off better Home made bright
With yearnings like the waves that beat Within a rock-bound, sunless cave.
Till lo! the ceaseless toil hath brou
A recompense. On some glad day
They find the rock hath worn away, A glimpse of heaven they have caught.
With “angel-faces loved and lost awhile,"
Is his at close of Life's long weary fight:
For “moor and fen” with thorns and briars crost, “Torrent and crag,” where oft the "will"
roamed lost, The City, lighted by Love's winning smile, Gold paved, and with the gates of pearl set
round, The “heart” no longer “ruled by pride" hath
found: There, with the “Well done” ringing in his ears, His to rest, far removed from earth-born cares and “fears."
John FULLERTON. -For The Magazine of Poetry.
E'en so my heart, so highly strung,
Which none, save one, may understand,
And which, save to the master's hand, Shall keep its songs fore'er unsung.
Which for its master long did wait,
Alas! it searched through all the years,
Through unknown ways and rain of tears, To find him when it was too late.
For there fate stood “all mocking by!”
She knew the life that she had marred
From this new bliss should be debarred And heaven-born love in dungeons lie.
Her accursed smile struck like a knife;
For well she knew of all beside,
The hardest, this, to be denied, This ray of light to darkened life.
( Written for the Sixth Centenary Celebration at Florence.) What new notes to a minstrel may remain
In praise of Beatrice? Or what words may tell
How from her feet, far-gleaming, falls a spell
To do her honor, as when first the knell
That told her passing hence, on sad ears fell, Untaught as yet to follow Dante's strain. We seek with him that wondrous smile to see For which Love's loftiest bard no word could
frame; We know that through all ages yet to be,
On heights of glory, in her robe of flame, With olive crown and snowy veil, stands she Who lives forever linked with Dante's fame.
CONSTANCE E. Dixon. -For The Magazine of Poetry.
THE RAISING OF THE BAN.
Ah! well she knew the subtle art
And saw through all the hollow guise,
The yearning, burning, haunted eyes, The stricken, bleeding, hopeless heart.
There is a fate that knows my heart,
Its possibilities of bliss,
And yet decrees that it shall miss Each joy, or gain a meagre part. Aye, just enough to tantalize
To make it keenly feel the pain
Of knowing that it shall not gain That which it would so fully prize. Poor heart, with none to bless or save!
With vain imaginings sad as sweet;
She, ghoul-like, “cruel as the grave!”
To know she'd wrought this misery,
And yet to wish the world might see The markings of the blow she gave!
And so she said, “Ah! even now,
If I should deign, I have the power
To grant your wish. If for one hour I raise the ban, then will you vow
Ah, Disappointment, prithee show Some mercy unto me, some ruth.”. “Thou call'st me false : my name is Truth.”
JULIE M. LIPPMANN. - The Critic, November 8, 1890.
“That you — who have so reckless grown
Will ne'er again my laws defy,
Nor in the face of destiny fly, Nor hide the wounds that mark my own.”
THE GRANDE RONDE VALLEY.
And to the tyrant I said, “Yes,
I give my promise; let me free,
And all my life I'll bend to thee, If this one hour my life may bless."
And so, that's how I came to you,
Came all unheard within your door
You looked at me as ne'er before, And when you smiled, ah! well I knew
That you were all I hoped to find.
You bade me welcome, aye, and more –
Who was it, dear, that closed the door? And you were gentle, you were kind.
I KNOW a valley that is low and green,
Girt round by purple hills on every side,
Wherein content and dreamy peace abide; Foam-crested clouds for blue skies make a screen, And pale, soft tints of opal blend between. There fields on fields of wheat stretch green
and wide, Like swelling seas borne in on flowing tide, Beneath God's rain-sweet winds; tall pine trees
lean To the horizon, and spiced sweetness fling
Broadcast through the voluptuous, mellow air; Larks voiced in heaven across the meadow sing Their sweet souls out,--and spring runs riot
Ella HIGGINSON. -Overland, December, 1890.
THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS.
And you - you spoke first and you
said You said — and, oh, your voice was sweet!
The words my poor heart shall repeat Through all the years, till I am dead.
When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on
Eden's green and gold, Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched
with a stick in the mould; And the first rude sketch that the world had seen
was joy to his mighty heart, Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves: “It's
pretty, but is it art?”
You said, “My own! my love so true!
Your voice so filled me with its bliss
I could not speak, but gave the kiss That trembled on my lips for you.
The minutes just like seconds seemed,
The hour a minute — nothing more.
And am I banished from your door?
LIBBIE C. BAER. -The Arkansas Traveler.
Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion
his work anewThe first of his race who cared a fig for the first,
most dread review; And he left his lore to the use of his sons--and that
was a glorious gain When the Devil chuckled: “Is it art?" in the ear of
the branded Cain.
They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench
the stars apart, Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: “It's strik
ing, but is it art?" The stone was dropped by quarry-side, and the idle
A GRIM companion followed me Where'er I went o'er land and sea. Evade him? Never. Shun him ? No.
While each man talked of the aims of art, and each
in an alien tongue.
They fought and they talked in the north and the
south, they talked and they fought in the west, Till the waters rose on the jabbering land, and the
poor Red Clay had restHad rest till the dank blank-canvas dawn when the
dove was preened to start, And the Devil bubbled below the keel: “It's human,
but is it art?"
The breath of life. Silent its pain I bear,
I shall win nothing, -for I dare not sue;
Unconscious of Love's whispers murmured low. To duty faithful as a saint, some day Reading these lines, all filled with her, she'll say, “Who was this woman?” and will never know.
MRS. E. W. LATIMER. -Lippincott's Magazine, November, 1890.
WORKS CONSULTED IN THE PREPARATION OF THIS
NUMBER OF “THE MAGAZINE OF POETRY."
We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the
shape of a surplice peg, We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the
yolk of an addled egg, We know that the tail must wag the dog, as the
horse is drawn by the cart; But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: “It's
clever, but is it art?"
When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the
club-room's green and gold, The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with
their pens in the mouldThey scratch with their pens in the mould of their
graves, and the ink and the anguish start When the Devil mutters behind the leaves: “It's
pretty, but is it art?”
Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the
four great rivers flow, And the wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left
it long ago, And if we could come when the sentry slept, and
softly scurry through, By the favor of God we might know as much-as our father Adam knew.
RUDYARD KIPLING. - The Scots Observer.
Riley, JAMES WHITCOMB. The Old Swimmin'Hole and 'Leven More Poems. Indianapolis, Ind.: The Bowen-Merrill Co.
Ibid. The Boss Girl: A Christmas Story and Other Sketches and Poems. Indianapolis, Ind.: The Bowen-Merrill Co., 1886. 12mo, pp. 263.
IBID. Afterwhiles. Indianapolis, Ind.: The Bowen-Merrill Co., 1888. 12mo, pp. vi and 160.
Ibid. Pipes O'Pan at Zekesbury. Indianapolis, Ind.: The Bowen-Merrill Co., 1889. 12mo, pp. 245.
Ibid. Old-Fashioned Roses. London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1889. Indianapolis, Ind.: The Bowen-Merrill Co. 16mo, pp. ix and 145.
IBID. Rhymes of Childhood. Indianapolis, Ind.: The Bowen-Merrill Co., 1891. 12mo, pp. xii and 186.
Cooper, GEORGE. Miscellaneous poems.
Dorr, JULIA C. R. Friar Anselmo and Other Poems. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1879. 12mo, pp. ix and 178.
IBID. Afternoon Songs. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1885. 12mo, pp. xi and 184.
SHERWOOD, KATE BROWNLEE. Camp-Fire, Memorial-Day, and Other Poems. Chicago: Jansen, McClurg & Co., 1885. 16mo, pp. 212.
THE FAMOUS SONNET OF ARVERS.
My soul has its own secret; life its care:
A hopeless love, that in one moment drew