For a day and a night and a morrow,
That his strength might endure for a span,
With travail and heavy sorrow,

The holy spirit of man.

From the winds of the North and the South

They gathered as unto strife; They breathed up in his mouth, They filled his body with life; Eyesight and speech they wrought For the veils of the soul therein; A time for labor and thought,

A time to serve and to sin; They gave him light in his ways,

And love, and a space for delight,
And beauty and length of days,

And night, and sleep in the night.
His speech is a burning fire;
With his lips he travaileth;

In his heart is a blind desire,

In his eyes foreknowledge of death.
He weaves, and is clothed with derision;
Sows, and he shall not reap;

His life is a watch or a vision

Between a sleep and a sleep.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

The New Comer.

Lancashire Dialect.

'HA 'rt welcome, little bonny brid,

THA

But should n't ha' come just when tha did;
Toimes are bad.

We're short o' pobbies for eawr Joe,
But that, of course, tha did n't know,
Did ta, lad?

THE NEW COMER.

Aw 've often yeard mi feyther tell

'At when aw coom i' th' world misel
Trade wur slack;

An' neaw it's hard wark pooin' throo-
But aw munna fear thee, iv aw do
Tha 'll go back.

Cheer up! these toimes 'll awter soon;
Aw 'm beawn to beigh another spoon
One for thee;

An', as tha's sich a pratty face,

Aw 'll let thee have eawr Charley's place
On mi knee.

Hush! hush! tha munno cry this way,
But get this sope o' cinder tay
While it's warm;

Mi mother used to give it me,
When aw wur sich a lad as thee,
In her arm.

Hush a babby, hush a bee

Oh, what a temper! dear a me,
Heaw tha skroikes!

Here's a bit o' sugar, sithee;

Howd thi noise, an' then aw 'll gie thee
Owt tha loikes.

We 'n nobbut getten coarsish fare,
But eawt o' this tha 'll ha' thi share,
Never fear.

Aw hope tha 'll never want a meal,
But allus fill thi bally weel

While tha 'rt here.

And tho' we 'n childer two or three,

We'll make a bit o' reawm for thee

Bless thee, lad!

Tha'rt th' prattiest brid we han i' th' nest;
Come, hutch up closer to mi breast-

Aw 'm thi dad.

ANONYMOUS.

3

Indirection.

AIR are the flowers and the children, but their subtle

FAIR

suggestion is fairer ;

Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it

is rarer;

Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes it is sweeter;

And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning out-mastered the metre.

Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the growing;

Never a river that flows, but a majesty scepters the flow

ing;

Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a stronger than he did enfold him;

Nor ever a prophet foretells, but a mightier seer hath foretold him.

Back of the canvas that throbs the painter is hinted and

hidden;

Into the statue that breathes the soul of the sculptor is

bidden;

Under the joy that is felt lie the infinite issues of feeling; Crowning the glory revealed is the glory that crowns the revealing.

Great are the symbols of being, but that which is symboled is greater;

Vast the create and beheld, but vaster the inward creator; Back of the sound broods the silence, back of the gift

stands the giving,

Back of the hand that receives thrill the sensitive nerves of receiving.

CASTLE-BUILDING.

5

Space is as nothing to spirit, the deed is outdone by the

doing;

The heart of the wooer is warm, but warmer the heart of

the wooing;

And up from the pits where these shiver, and up from the heights where those shine,

Twin voices and shadows swim starward, and the essence of life is divine.

RICHARD Realf.

WE

Castle-Building.

E wandered down the deep ravine
When sunset fires were redly glowing,

And all the vale with purple sheen

And golden smokes was overflowing.
The mountain slopes were still ablaze,
The tree-tops burned like waving torches,
And rainbow rays of rosy haze

Were flushing all the woodland porches.

Beyond we saw the sunset skies,

With gates and walls, and turrets builded,
Embattled piles that seemed to rise,
Tier after tier, with glory gilded.

Oh, look, my love! what mansions bright!
How rich and grand each climbing story!

Look up, my love! I'll build to-night,

For you and me, a House of Glory!

So, hand in hand, we rested still,

And upward looked through sunset splendor;
So, heart in heart, in loving thrill,

Grew mute beneath the glamour tender.

And thus we built, with painted mist,

Our castles grand, from floor to coping,

Until the last low sunbeam kissed

The gay ravine, and left us - groping.

Ah me, my love! the darkness falls

Full soon to shroud our brightest dreaming; And golden roofs and crystal walls

Are based, too oft, on cloudy seeming; But, hand in hand, and heart with heart, We twain abide the twilight hoary, And wait until the shadows part

That hide from us our House of Glory.

AUGUSTINE J. H. DUGANNE.

Toujours Amour.

PRITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin,

At what age does love begin?

Your blue eyes have scarcely seen
Summers three, my fairy queen,
But a miracle of sweets,

Soft approaches, sly retreats,
Show the little archer there,
Hidden in your pretty hair;

When didst learn a heart to win?

Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!
"Oh!" the rosy lips reply,

"I can't tell you if I try.
'T is so long I can't remember:
Ask some younger lass than I."

Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face,
Do your heart and head keep pace ?
When does hoary Love expire,
When do frosts put out the fire?