THE TREE OF STATE. THE MAPLE. PROUD emblem tree of the Empire State! The field of all my earlier toil, For future time, my kindred dust; The play-ground of my childhood years, The cradle of my dreams, loves, fears; The very dust is dear which creeps About thy roots and vigil keeps. And every fibre of thy growth, Endeared to me since early youth, Grows dearer still, while dreaming where Magnolia bloom fills all the air. FIRST VERSE. I see thee now before the storm king bending, Their works have told in tones of fiercest thunder. Oh, emblem tree of the Empire State! SECOND VERSE. I see thee now, well-rounded, calm, and blending That strange, soft something, 'twixt a glow and flush, Which holds entranced, e'en while I wait, THIRD VERSE. Now lo! behold! Two happy lovers straying Athwart their path, are stealthily betraying So, 'neath thy shade, they trembling wait, FOURTH VERSE. E'en merry urchins 'neath thy branches swinging, FIFTH VERSE. I see them now, thy garnered leaves, adorning SIXTH VERSE. But words are sounding voids, when hands are waiting To set the royal seal of praise to-day, UNCAGED. THE Zone which binds the higher life, Our narrow selves outgrown, we sing Advances now with rapid strides Broad day, and we, earth-bound shrink back, That duty's hour may know no lack, To find our fitness amplified, Our feet run with a lighter trip, Our hands now eager grasp their toil, Then rise, oh, burdened soul, and let LINCOLN. LINCOLN, ordained to meet a country's want, America's proud heirloom ne'er shall be Mildewed in shelved and worthless history. Both victims and the masters of the crime Alike revere the name that set them free. All write him proudest hero of his time, Illustrious martyr of a cause sublime. SEA MOSSES. I'VE gathered sea mosses, all wet with the sea, 'Mong the rocks on the shore, From the coquettish wavelets, so thoughtless and gay, This bunch of sea mosses, all dripping with spray, And I just came up slyly and stole them away. CLEMENT SCOTT. ~HERE are in the variety and multiplicity of THERE our labors some tasks that we approach with peculiar, and, indeed, cordial pleasure; and to discourse of the qualities of a man the gracefulness and purity of whose writings we have learned to admire and to hold in high esteem, may be allowed to rank with the first of these. Mr. Clement Scott has many admirers. As a poet his touching sentiments and dainty conceits appeal to a large circle; as a dramatist he finds numerous followers; whilst as a philanthropist, and one, moreover, whose words and deeds are full of the milk of human kindness, he has accomplished much good and useful work. To this delightful trinity of characters Mr. Scott adds the role of critic; and it is as critic that he is best known and most respected. When the leaves on the trees were changing their color in 1888, and the berries on the hedges were beginning to ripen, Mr. Scott, who commenced his career on the Sunday Times, was celebrating, on the staff of the Daily Telegraph, his silver wedding with dramatic criticism. Through long years he has worked honorably at a post in which he has attained a position that may be regarded as unique. The dramatic student does not live who cannot follow with pleasure and delight this critic's detailed reviews of new productions and interesting revivals. There is a refinement, an artistic finish, a surpassing thoroughness about these works that no other contemporary critic, if we except, perhaps, Mr. William Archer, has yet revealed. When, moreover, we remember that these criticisms are written when the day's work is ordinarily over, and that there can be no parleying with Time or the relentless printer, we may well wonder that even this facile pen never falters, and that every idea is as perfectly connected as it is set down lucidly and clearly. The son of a benevolent clergyman, Mr. Scott has inherited in an unusual degree his father's noble views and lofty sentiments. He was born nine and forty years ago at Christ Church Parsonage, Hoxton, and received his education at Marlborough College, Wiltshire. Here it was, a diligent, lively lad at school, that he wrote his first poem, which appeared under the title of "The Wreck of the Royal Charter" in the poets' corner of the Marlborough Times. On quitting college in the year 1860, he was appointed, by Lord Herbert of Lea, to a clerkship in the War Office. To many a man of literary aims and high ambitions, the duties of the desk would have proved insufferably irksome. Mr. Scott, however, did not seem to find them so, for the appointment he had secured he held with out intermission till the spring of 1879, when he retired on a pension. Happily for the development of those abilities which he displayed at an early age, Mr. Scott found ample leisure in these years spent at the War Office to pursue his studies in literature and to follow that profession for which he was so eminently qualified. His first Vers de Société having been printed in Temple Bar, by Edmund Yates, we find him subsequently a constant contributor to Fun in such excellent company as that of Harry Leigh, Jeff Prowse, and Savile Clarke. As dramatic critic he was employed until the year 1873, when his connection with the Daily Telegraph commenced-successively on the Sunday Times, the Weekly Dispatch, and the Observer. In addition to his contributions to Fun, he also wrote poetry for Punch after Mr. Burnand assumed the editorship. In his satiric journal appeared many of those poems afterwards issued in volume form, under the titles, "Lays of a Londoner,” "Poems for Recitation," and lastly a volume of collected poems, "Lays and Lyrics," in the charming handy volume series published by Routledge and Sons. In connection with the second-named, it may be interesting to mention that his first work of this nature, "The Cry of the Clerk,” was quoted in extenso in the Times. If we follow further his career, we shall find that it has been Mr. Scott's happy custom to publish in volume form the pink of his contributed articles, whether in prose or poetry. In this manner his holiday papers, "Round About the Islands" and "Poppy Land Papers," have been collected and issued as separate publications. Mr. Scott is still associated with the editorial staff of the Daily Telegraph, whose columns, in addition to those of the Illustrated London News, to which he is a frequent contributor, his graceful and smooth-flowing contributions help materially to adorn. F. A. H. E. THREE KISSES. An angel, with three lilies in her hand, First was the kiss of purity and peace— Two aimless souls had ceased their wandering, Next was the kiss of soul bound unto soul- Last came the kiss of dear love perfected, But brighter yet in distance far away, A gathered army of the souls that live; The golden dawn of a transcendent day, When angels of the lilies come to give The Kiss - Eternity! THE MIDNIGHT CHARGE. PASS the word to the boys to-night! lying about 'midst dying and dead Whisper it low; make ready to fight! stand like men at your horse's head! Look to your stirrups and swords, my lads, and into your saddles your pistols thrust; Then, setting your teeth as your fathers did, you'll make the enemy bite the dust! What did they call us, boys, at home?" Featherbed soldiers!"-faith, it's true! "Kept to be seen in her Majesty's parks, and mightily smart at a grand review!" Feather-bed soldiers? Curse their chaff! Where in the world, I should like to know, When a war broke out and the country called, was an English soldier sorry to go? Brothers in arms, and brothers in heart! cavalry! infantry! there and then; No matter what careless lives they lived, they were ready to die like Englishmen! So pass the word in the sultry night, Stand to your saddles! make ready to fight! We are sick to death of the scorching sun, and the desert stretching for miles away; We are all of us longing to get at the foe, and sweep the sand with our swords to-day! Our horses look with piteous eyes- they have little to eat, and nothing to do; And the land around is horribly white, and the sky above is terribly blue. But it's over now, so the Colonel says; he is ready to start, we are ready to go: And the cavalry boys will be led by men-Ewart! and Russell! and Drury-Lowe! Just once again let me stroke the mane-let me kiss the neck and feel the breath Of the good little horse who will carry me on to the end of the battle-to life or death! "Give us a grip of your fist, old man! let us all keep close when the charge begins! God is watching o'er those at home! God have mercy on all our sins! So pass the word in the dark, and then, Out we went in the dead of the night! away to the desert, across the sand Guided alone by the stars of heaven! a speechless host, a ghostly band! No cheery voice that silence broke; forbidden to speak, we could hear no sound But the whispered words, "Be firm, my boys!" and the horses' hoofs on the sandy ground. "What were we thinking of then?" Look here! if this is the last true word I speak, I felt a lump in my throat-just here—and a tear came trickling down my cheek. If a man dares say that I funked, he lies! But a man is a man, though he gives his life For his country's cause, as a soldier should-he has still got a heart for his child and wife! But I still rode on in a kind of dream; I was thinking of home and the boys--and then The silence broke! and a bugle blew! then a voice rang cheerily, "Charge, my men!" So pass the word in the thick of the fight, For England's honor, and England's might! What is it like, a cavalry charge in the dead of night? I can scarcely tell, For when it is over it's like a dream, and when you are in it a kind of hell! I should like you to see the officers lead-forgetting their swagger and Bond Street air Like brothers and men at the head of the troop, while bugles echo, and troopers swear! With a rush we are in it, and hard at work-there's scarcely a minute to think or pause— For right and left we are fighting hard for the regiment's honor, and country's cause! Feather-bed warriors! On my life, be they Life Guards red, or Horse Guards blue, They haven't lost much of the pluck, my boys, that their fathers showed them at Waterloo! It isn't for us who are soldiers bred, to chatter of wars, be they wrong or right; We've to keep the oath that we gave our Queen! Pass the word to the boys to-night, now that the battle is fairly won, A message has come from the Empress-Queenjust what we wanted-a brief "Well done!" The swords and stirrups are sorely stained, and the pistol barrels are empty quite, And the poor old chargers' piteous eyes bear evidence clear of the desperate fight. There's many a wound and many a gash, and the sun-burned face is scarred and red; There's many a trooper safe and sound, and many a tear for the "pal" whose dead; I care so little for rights and wrongs of a terrible war; but the world at large It knows so well when duty's done!-it will think sometimes of our cavalry charge! Brothers in arms and brothers in heart! we have solemnly taken an oath! and then, In all the battles throughout the world, we have followed our fathers like Englishmen! So pass this blessing the lips between— L'ADDIO PENSEROSO. WE met but for a moment's space And saddened all my rhyme. The depth of sorrow's snow. But not the strength to part! 'Tis past, but how can I forget That night! the moonlit lake! I left unheard another's tears, |