above,

Darkens with storms or melts in hues

of love;

books:

Shakespeare consoles
My heart with true philosophies; a balm
Of spiritual dews from humbler song
or psalm

Fills me with tender calm, Or through hushed heavens of soul Milton's deep thunder rolls!

And more than all, o'er shattered
wrecks of Fate,

The relics of a happier time and state,
My nobler life

Shines on unquenched! O deathless
love that lies

In the clear midnight of those passionate eyes!

Joy waneth! Fortune flies! What then? Thou still art here, soul of my soul, my Wife!

ISA CRAIG KNOX.

BALLAD OF THE BRIDES OF QUAIR.

A STILLNESS crept about the house,
At evenfall, in noontide glare;
Upon the silent hills looked forth

The many-windowed House of Quair.

The peacock on the terrace screamed;

Browsed on the lawn the timid hare;
The great trees grew i' the avenue,
Calm by the sheltered House of Quair.

The pool was still; around its brim
The alders sickened all the air;

The days hold on their wonted pace,
And men to court and camp repair,
Their part to fill, of good or ill,

While women keep the House of Quair,

And one is clad in widow's weeds,

And one is maiden-like and fair, And day by day they seek the paths About the lonely fields of Quair.

To see the trout leap in the streams,

The maiden loves in pensive dreams
The summer clouds reflected there,

To hang o'er silver Tweed and Quair. Within, in pall-black velvet clad,

Sits stately in her oaken chair
A stately dame of ancient name-
The mother of the House of Quair.

Her daughter broiders by her side,
And listens to her frequent plaint,
With heavy drooping golden hair,

"Ill fare the brides that come to Quail

"For more than one hath lived in pine,

And more than one hath died of care And more than one hath sorely sinned, Left lonely in the House of Quair.

"Alas! and ere thy father died

I had not in his heart a share, And now-may God forfend her illThy brother brings his bride to Quair.” She came; they kissed her in the hall, They kissed her on the winding stair, They led her to the chamber high,

The fairest in the House of Quair.

That age to childhood bind,

by,

The brown of autumn corn.

Is the lighthouse tall on Fire Island Head?

know

brow,

And the pilot watches the heaving lead.

I stand at the wheel, and with eager eyeTo sea and to sky and to shore I gaze, Till the muttered order of Full and by!" Is suddenly changed for "Full for stays!"

The ship bends lower before the breeze, As her broadside fair to the blast she lays, And she swifter springs to the rising seas, As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays!"

It is silence all, as each in his place, With the gathered coil in his hardened hands,

By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace, Waiting the watchword impatient stands.

squall?

I steady the helm for the open sea; The first mate clamors, "Belay there, all!"

And the captain's breath once more comes free.

LOVE, when all these years are silent, vanished quite and laid to rest, When you and I are sleeping, folded breathless breast to breast,

When no morrow is before us, and the

long grass tosses o'er us, And our grave remains forgotten, or by alien footsteps pressed,

Still that love of ours will linger, that great love enrich the earth, Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes blowing joyous mirth;

Fragrance fanning off from flowers,

Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires round the melody of summer showers, happy autumn hearth.

That's our love. But you and I, dear, -shall we linger with it yet, Mingled in one dewdrop, tangled in one sunbeam's golden net,

On the violet's purple bosom, I the

sheen, but you the blossom, Stream on sunset winds and be the haze with which some hill is wet?

313

so'er that way defile,

Not a film shall part us through the sons of that mighty while,

In the fair eternal weather, even as phantoms still together,

To usher in the eternal day! of these weak terrors make an end, And charm the paltry chains away That bind me to this timorous clay!

light of God's great smile!

SONG.

In the summer twilight,

While yet the dew was hoar, I went plucking purple pansies Till my love should come to shore. The fishing-lights their dances

Were keeping out at sea, And, "Come," I sang, "my true love, Come hasten home to me!

But the sea it fell a-moaning,

And the white gulls rocked thereon, And the young moon dropped from heaven, And the lights hid, one by one. All silently their glances

Slipped down the cruel sea,

And, "Wait," cried the night and wind and storm,

"Wait till I come to thee."

To sunrise and the winds of morn, And every grandeur that has been Since this all-glorious world was born, Nor longer droop in my own scorn.

Come, when the way grows dark and chill,
Come, when the baffled mind is weak,
And in the heart that voice is still

Which used in happier days to speak,
Or only whispers sadly meek.

Come with a smile that dims the sun!

With pitying heart and gentle hand! And waft me, from a work that's done, To peace that waits on thy command, In God's mysterious better land!

WILLIAM WINTER.

[U. S. A.]

AZRAEL.

COMEwith a smile, when come thou must,
Evangel of the world to be,
And touch and glorify this dust, -
This shuddering dust that now is me,
And from this prison set me free!

Long in those awful eyes I quail,
That gaze across the grim profound:
Upon that sea there is no sail,

Nor any light, nor any sound,
From the far shore that girds it round.

Only two still and steady rays,
That those twin orbs of doom o'ertop;
Only a quiet, patient gaze

That drinks my being, drop by drop,
And bids the pulse of nature stop.

JOAQUIN MILLER.

[U. s. A.]

FROM "WALKER IN NICARAGUA.”

SUCCESS had made him more than king;
Defeat made him the vilest thing
In name, contempt or hate can bring:
So much the loaded dice of war
Do make or mar of character.
Speak ill who will of him, he died
In all disgrace; say of the dead
His heart was black, his hands were
red,

Say this much, and be satisfied.

I lay this crude wreath on his dust,
Inwove with sad, sweet memories
Recalled here by these colder seas.
I leave the wild bird with his trust,
To sing and say him nothing wrong;
I wake no rivalry of song.

He lies low in the levelled sand,
Unsheltered from the tropic sun,
And now of all he knew, not one
Will speak him fair, in that far land.
Perhaps 't was this that made me seek,
Disguised, his grave one winter-tide;

A weakness for the weaker side,
A siding with the helpless weak.

A palm not far held out a hand;
Hard by a long green bamboo swung,
And bent like some great bow unstrung,
And quivered like a willow wand;
Beneath a broad banana's leaf,
Perched on its fruits that crooked hung,
A bird in rainbow splendor sung
A low, sad song of tempered grief.

No sod, no sign, no cross nor stone, But at his side a cactus green Upheld its lances long and keen; It stood in hot red sands alone, Flat-palmed and fierce with lifted spears; One bloom of crimson crowned its head, A drop of blood, so bright, so red, Yet redolent as roses' tears. In my left hand I held a shell, All rosy lipped and pearly red; I laid it by his lowly bed, For he did love so passing well The grand songs of the solemn sea. O shell! sing well, wild, with a will, When storms blow hard and birds be still, The wildest sea-song known to thee!

I said some things, with folded hands,
Soft whispered in the dim sea-sound,
And eyes held humbly to the ground,
And frail knees sunken in the sands.
He had done more than this for me,
And yet I could not well do more:
I turned me down the olive shore,
And set a sad face to the sea.

Brave old water-dogs, wed to the sea, First to their labors and last to their rests.

Ships are moving! I hear a horn;
Deep-voiced and musical, far a-sea . . .
A silver trumpet it sounds to me,
Answers back, and again it calls.
'Tis the sentinel boats that watch the town
All night, as mounting her watery walls,
And watching for pirate or smuggler.
Down

Over the sea, and reaching away,
And against the east, a soft light falls,
Silvery soft as the mist of morn,
And I catch a breath like the breath of
day.

The east is blossoming! Yea, a rose,
Vast as the heavens, soft as a kiss,
Sweet as the presence of woman is,
Rises and reaches and widens and grows
Right out of the sea, as a blossoming tree;
Richer and richer, so higher and higher,
Deeper and deeper it takes its hue;
Brighter and brighter it reaches through
Till all is as rich as a rose can be,
The space of heaven and the place of stars,

And my rose-leaves fall into billows of fire.
Then beams reach upward as arms from

a sea;

Then lances and arrows are aimed at me. Then lances and spangles and spars and

bars

Are broken and shivered and strown on the sea;

And around and about me tower and spire Start from the billows like tongues of fire.

SUNRISE IN VENICE.

NIGHT seems troubled and scarce asleep;
Her brows are gathered in broken rest;
Sullen old lion of dark St. Mark,
And a star in the east starts up from the
deep;

White as my lilies that grow in the west.
Hist! men are passing hurriedly.
I see the yellow wide wings of a bark
Sail silently over my morning-star.
I see men move in the moving dark,
Tall and silent as columns are,-
Great sinewy men that are good to see,
With hair pushed back and with open

breasts;

Barefooted fishermen seeking their boats, Brown as walnuts and hairy as goats,