There will be a cry of wonder When the veil is rent asunder, And a shout among the reapers In the New Time rolling on.

Shot and steel and iron rain
In a mighty rushing rhyme,
Are but liberty's refrain

To the steady tramp of time; And the green world, never waiting For the loving or the hating,

Swings sublime,

Until souls that look for morning

From the rack, the scourge, the scorning,
Find God's light upon their faces
In the New Time rolling on.

Lo, the heavy night is gone,
And the stone is rolled away.
From the sepulcher at dawn,—
To a risen Lord we pray,
That the glory of Mount Tabor
May transform the sons of labor
With its ray,

And the tender heart and lowly
That made Palestine so holy,
Aye shall beat within the bosom
Of the New Time rolling on.

PAINTING A POET.

"KNOW thou, my recluse, the one ideal face
That the poet must love is a vision of grace,
The tint of a sunset, the curve of a lily,
The eye of a violet hid in the valley;

He fancies his queen rose of roses unveiled

In the blush of a cheek, and straightway is impaled

On the thorns of a vixen-the thought makes me shiver

Like a hand floating up from a dark flowing river:

In his dreaming he climbs some Delectable hill, And the world is before him to choose where he will;

There are forms for all orders the dealer may take,

There are glances that dawn like a sunny daybreak,

And eyes deep as stars in a still mountain lake. There are gifts for all winnings, the grave and the gay,

There are faces that glow like the rose of Cathay, And tenement faces with souls moved away!

MF

ZADEL BARNES GUSTAFSON.

RS. GUSTAFSON, in her girlhood, was a successful contributor of prose and poetry to journals of the first class, like the Springfield Republican (for which she wrote, besides poems and short stories, critical musical and literary notes), the Home Journal and the Independent. She did, also, a great deal of unsigned writing, editorially and otherwise. But it was in 1871 that she first became widely known through "The Voice of Christmas Past," -a tribute to Dickens, the first written after his death,- published in Harper's Magazine. It was in every way characteristic of the young author-of a poetic strain so compelling that her prose seemed to sing; of intense dramatic power-grouping all the characters of Dickens' novels into a world where each took its place and part as in some great orchestra led by a master's hand; and of a most wonderful and intelligent sympathy. This piece and "Where is the Child?" published two years later in the same magazine, were a complete showing of the shadows of modern social life and of the waste in that life of its most precious and vital forces. The note here struck was the key to Mrs. Gustafson's best work in her subsequent pieces published in Harper's, such as "The Bard of Abbottsford," a centenary tribute to Scott, "The Children's Night," and "Little Martin Craghan," a poem copied nearly as widely as Bret Harte's "Heathen Chinee."

In 1878 a volume of Mrs. Gustafson's poems was published, taking its title from "Meg: a Pastoral," the leading poem. It was a book of poems calling forth especially the love and admiration of poets. Whittier warmly praised the whole volume, and said of "Meg," the opening poem: "It is as sweet and melodious as the songs of the thrushes and song-sparrows in spring. But the elegy on Bryant! I can only compare it with Milton's 'Lycidas;' it is worthy of any living poet at least." Bryant, who had seen the poem “Flower of May," before its publication in book form, said it was "the most exquisite dress that flower had ever worn in the English language." The late Edwin P. Whipple wrote to the author that he had read the whole volume at a sitting, and especially praised “On the Sands" and "The Prisoner,” as ranking with the best English verse. He, like others, alluded to the broad, healthful inspiration of the volume, so unlike the morbid, complaining and self-absorbed tone of most American poetry. The poet Longfellow congratulated the author, saying that the book placed her beyond doubt in the foremost ranks of the younger poets. About the same

time also appeared her novel “Can the Old Love?" a strikingly original book, both in subject and treatment, of a fine analytical quality, and marked by great dramatic and poetic power.

"Maria del Occidente," in Harper's Magazine for January, 1879, was a tribute to a then almost forgotten American author, Maria Gowan Brooks, whose poem, "Zophiel, or the Bride of Seven,' had made a profound impression upon Mrs. Gustafson's mind in childhood. She edited this poem, "Zophiel," and caused it to be published in 1879. It was a labor of love, involving for its thorough completion a long and varied correspondence with Mrs. Brooks' American relatives, and with her English friends the Southeys and Coleridges.

Those who have read Mrs. Gustafson's short stories find in them the same delicate quality of imagination and the same freshness of spirit that characterize her poetry. "Laquelle" has a quiet charm; it is a bright, sprite-like creation of the uncertain twilight, subtle, attractive, surprising. “Karin,” a Swedish sketch, is so full of action and deep feeling that Longfellow advised the author to dramatize it.

Mrs. Gustafson's residence in London, 1880-1889, brought her into delightful personal relations with the most remarkable men and women, not only of England, but of other countries-London being the great rendezvous of the world's choice spirits during some part of every year. Charles Reade, and the eccentric but brilliant R. H. Horne, were her special friends, as were also the late Philip Bourke Marston, the blind poet, and his poet friend, H. E. Clarke. Her breadth of mind and the liberality of her spirit are illustrated by the range of her varied personal associations, including eminent representatives in every field of social life, from the primate of England to the greatest exponent of Nihilism.

What Mrs. Gustafson and her husband, Axel Gustafson, saw in London of the horrors of intemperance, stirred in their hearts the impulse to a crusade against drink. The result was "The Foundation of Death: a Study of the Drink Question,” written by them both, and pronounced by the ablest thinkers in all countries to be the most complete and effective and the best considered work ever published on that subject. Its sales in England and in South Africa, India, the far East and Australia, have been unprecedented for a work of this character. She is now in the very prime of intellectual vigor, and her more practical life of recent years has enriched and ripened the genius shown in her earlier work. Mrs. Gustafson was born in Middletown, Conn., March 9, 1841, but resides mostly in London. L. H. D.

ZLOBANE.

AS SWAYETH in the summer wind
The close and stalwart grain,
So moved the serried Zulu shields
That day on wild Zlobane.

The white shield of the husband,
Who hath twice need of life,
The black shield of the young chief,
Who hath not yet a wife.

Unrecking harm, the British lay,
Secure as if they slept,

While close on front and either flank
The live, black crescent crept;

Then burst their wild and frightful cry Upon the British ears,

With whir of bullets, glare of shields, And flash of Zulu spears.

They gathered as a cloud, swift rolled, 'Twixt sun and summer scene, They thickened down as the locusts That leave no living green.

Uprose the British; in the shock

Reeled but an instant; then, Shoulder to shoulder, faced the foe, And met their doom like men.

But one was there whose heart was torn
In a more awful strife;
He had the soldier's steady nerve,
And calm disdain of life,—

Yet now, half turning from the fray,
Knee smiting against knee,
He scanned the hills, if yet were left
An open way to flee.

Not for himself. His little son,

Scarce thirteen summers born, With hair that shone upon his brows Like tassels of the corn,

And lips yet curled in that sweet pout Shaped by the mother's breast, Stood by his side, and silently

To his brave father pressed.

The horse stood nigh; the father kissed
And tossed the boy astride.
"Farewell!" he cried, "and for thy life,
That way, my darling, ride!"

KATIE, THE BELLE OF GLENCO'.

HAVE you ever seen Katie,

The belle of Glenco'? She has witching black eyes, That puzzle one so! With round glowing cheeks, And long glossy hair, And lips that pout, "Kiss me, Young man, if you dare!"

The youth of Glenco' were deeply in love
With this dark-eyed, ensnaring coquette;
But she smiled and she frowned,
Tapped her foot on the ground,

And then with a toss of her beautiful head
At all the fine things her lover had said,
She blushingly murmured, "Not yet."
O beautiful Katie,

I pray you beware!
"Not yet!" "Not yet!"

Ah! Katie, take care!
You never have met
Young Robin Adair.

In the mellow dusk of the even
She stood by her blind mother's chair
With her little hands meekly folded,

And her round arms dimpled and bare; And she spoke with a timid accent,

A shy and maidenly air,— "I think I should like, dear mother, To marry young Robin Adair."

In the pale moonlight, by the well, She stood with Robin Adair, And blossoms of purple and gold Were looped in her braided hair. "I have been wayward and wild," She said with a womanly air. "But I repent of my pride;

And I love you, Robin Adair."

IN THE GARDEN.

THERE are white lilies in the garden,
White-blooming, sweets breathing, close to the

gate;

Their glimmer, I thought, was her raiment,
Last night when I came by so late.
As a spring bubbles up in a wood athirst,
My heart began beating as it would burst;
And breathless I called in the darkness
To my darling, "Oh, wait for me! wait!"

But she was not there: in her window
Was the changing of shadow and light;
And my thoughts knelt down with veiled faces
By her bed, and wished her good-night.

That was but yesterday, and it seems-
It seems such an infinite time ago!

For to-night, when she stood at the gate,—
The red garden-roses were all in blow,
And the tall lilies were full of dew,
And the deepening dusk embowered us two,
Kindly enclosed us from every eye;

We were not shamed by the seeing sky,-
I bent down in the soft air that blew,
Full of the flutter of folding wings of birds
And murmuring plash of streams, from the south,
And kissed the sweet woman I love on her sweet
mouth.

And before the kiss, if I uttered words,
I cannot remember; they had no place
In that first full moment of love's embrace.
Does the wave recall that it foamed before
In its flood-tide throb on the waiting shore?
But, under the trees, I remember this,—
My hand, pushing back the leaves, touched a cheek
That bloomed at my touch; and after that kiss
She turned sweetly trembling; she did not speak,
But raised her clear eyes, that I might see
My heaven in their loving trust in me.

We did not feel the sacred moments pass;
A wide cloud rose and curtained all the sky,
And dimmed the daisies in the long, cool grass;
We heard, but could not see, the swallow fly,
And soon were hidden from each other's eye,
So dark it grew; but I could feel the beat
Of her true heart with mine in rhythm sweet,
And so, not seeing, knew my love was nigh.

MORNING.

'Tis early morning, and receding night
Leaves dimly burning in the southern sky
The airy crescent of the summer moon,
The misty lustre of one lingering star.
Thin clouds, the tintless heralds of the dawn,
Come trooping noiseless, wafted from the west:
Pale flames of amber, in uncertain gleams,
Reveal these shadowy Ariels as they glide
To tip the golden turrets of the east.
From the green leaves that rustle near the sill
Now rise the first sweet arias of the birds;
And gentlest murmurs of the breeze complete
The early harmony. The violets lie
Dew-pearled in purple clusters in the grass;