Gerald Massey.

Born 1828.

BORN at Tring, in Hertfordshire, in 1828. He was in early life an errandboy. He fought his way to distinction amid the greatest discouragements, and in 1854 established his name as a poet by the publication of the ballad of "Babe Christabel and other Poems," which met with great success. In 1856 he published "Craigcrook Castle," a volume which sustained his reputation; he is also a contributor to literary journals, and has adopted literature as his profession.

FROM "BABE CHRISTABEL."

AND thou hast stolen a jewel, Death!
Shall light thy dark up like a star,
A beacon kindling from afar
Our light of love, and fainting faith.

Through tears it gleams perpetually,

And glitters through the thickest glooms,
Till the eternal morning comes

To light us o'er the jasper sea.

With our best branch in tenderest leaf,

We've strewn the way our Lord doth come;

And, ready for the harvest home,

His reapers bind our ripest sheaf.

Our beautiful bird of light hath fled:
Awhile she sat with folded wings-
Sang round us a few hoverings-

Then straightway into glory sped.

And white-winged angels nurture her;

With heaven's white radiance robed and crowned,
And all love's purple glory round,

She summers on the hills of myrrh.

Through childhood's morning-land, serene

She walked betwixt us twain, like love;
While, in a robe of light above,

Her better angel walked unseen,

Till life's highway broke bleak and wild;
Then, lest her starry garments trail
In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail,
The angel's arms caught up the child.

Her wave of life hath backward rolled

To the great ocean; on whose shore

We wander up and down, to store
Some treasures of the times of old:
And aye we seek and hunger on

For precious pearls and relics rare,
Strewn on the sands for us to wear
At heart for love of her that's gone.

O weep no more! there yet is balm
In Gilead! Love doth ever shed
Rich healing where it nestles-spread
O'er desert pillows some green palm!

Strange glory streams through life's wild rents,
And through the open door of death
We see the heaven that beckoneth

To the beloved going hence.

God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed;

The best fruit loads the broken bough;
And in the wounds our sufferings plough,
Immortal love sows sovereign seed.

Alexander Smith.

Born 1830.

BORN in Kilmarnock, on 31st December 1830, has earned a reputation as a poet. He was originally employed as a pattern-drawer in a Glasgow factory, till in 1853 appeared "A Life Drama," which was so well received that the public attention was directed to the author, and in 1854 he was elected Secretary to the Edinburgh University. The situation gave him good opportunities of cultivating his literary talents, and in 1857 appeared "City Poems." He is also a contributor to several periodicals.

FROM "A LIFE DRAMA."

As a wild maiden, with love-drinking eyes,
Sees in sweet dreams a beaming youth of glory,
And wakes to weep, and ever after sighs
For that bright vision till her hair is hoary;
Ev'n so, alas! is my life's passion story.
For Poesy, my heart and pulses beat;
For Poesy my blood runs red and fleet;

As Moses' serpent the Egyptians' swallow'd,
One passion eats the rest. My soul is follow'd
By strong ambition to out-roll a lay

Whose melody will haunt the world for aye,
Charming it onward on its golden way.
Oh, that my heart was quiet as a grave
Asleep in moonlight!

For, as a torrid sunset boils with gold
Up to the zenith, fierce within my soul
A passion burns from basement to the cope.
Poesy! Poesy! I'd give to thee,

As passionately, my rich-laden years,
My bubble pleasures, and my awful joys,
As Hero gave her trembling sighs to find
Delicious death on wet Leander's lip.

Bare, bald, and tawdry, as a fingered moth,
Is my poor life, but with one smile thou canst
Clothe me with kingdoms. Wilt thou smile on me?
Wilt bid me die for thee? O fair and cold!
As well may some wild maiden waste her love
Upon the calm front of a marble Jove.

I cannot draw regard of thy great eyes.
I love thee, Poesy! thou art a rock,
I, a weak wave, would break on thee, and die!

How tenderly the moon doth fill the night!
Not like the passion that doth fill my soul;
It burns within me like an Indian sun.
A star is trembling on the horizon's verge,
That star shall grow and broaden on the night,
Until it hangs divine and beautiful

In the proud zenith

Might I so broaden on the skies of fame!

O Fame! Fame! Fame! next grandest word to God!
I seek the look of Fame! Poor fool-so tries

Some lonely wanderer 'mong the desert sands
By shouts to gain the notice of the Sphinx,
Staring right on with calm eternal eyes.

Adelaide Anne Procter.

Born 1835.

DAUGHTER of "Barry Cornwall," and author of two volumes of poems entitled "Lyrics and Legends."

A DOUBTING HEART.

WHERE are the swallows fled ?

Frozen and dead,

Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.

O doubting heart!

Far over purple seas,

They wait in sunny ease

The balmy southern breeze,

To bring them to their northern home once more.

Why must the flowers die ?
Prisoned they lie

In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.

O doubting heart!

They only sleep below

The soft white ermine snow

While winter winds shall blow,

To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid its rays

These many days;

Will dreary hours never leave the earth!

O doubting heart!

The stormy clouds on high

Veil the same sunny sky

That soon-for spring is nigh

Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.

Fair hope is dead, and light

Is quenched in night.

What sound can break the silence of despair?

O doubting heart!

The sky is overcast,

Yet stars shall rise at last,

Brighter for darkness past,

And angels' silver voices stir the air.

Miscellaneous.

THERE IS A TONGUE IN EVERY LEAF. THERE is a tongue in every leaf,

A voice in every rill

A voice that speaketh everywhere,
In flood and fire, through earth and air!
A tongue that's never still!

'Tis the Great Spirit, wide diffused
Through everything we see,
That with our spirits communeth
Of things mysterious-life and death,
Time and eternity!

I see Him in the blazing sun,
And in the thunder-cloud;
I hear Him in the mighty roar
That rusheth through the forest hoar
When winds are raging loud.

I feel Him in the silent dews,
By grateful earth betrayed;

I feel Him in the gentle showers,

The soft south wind, the breath of flowers,
The sunshine, and the shade.

I see Him, hear Him, everywhere,
In all things darkness, light,
Silence, and sound; but, most of all,
When slumber's dusky curtains fall
In the still hour of night.

THE LOST LITTLE ONE.

WE miss her footfall on the floor,
Amidst the nursery din,

Her tip-tap at our bed-room door,
Her bright face peeping in.

And when to Heaven's high court above
Ascends our social prayer,

Though there are voices that we love,

One sweet voice is not there.