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And the great sky, the royal heaven | There came no murmur from the streams, Though nigh flowed Leither, Tweed, and Quair.

above,

Darkens with storms or melts in hues

of love;

While far remote,

Just where the sunlight smites the woods with fire,

Wakens the multitudinous sylvan choir;

Their innocent love's desire Poured in a rill of song from each harmonious throat.

My walls are crumbling, but immortal looks

Smile on me here from faces of rare

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,

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"Ill fare the brides that come to Quai

"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.

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SPRING, with that nameless pathos in the At times a fragrant breeze comes floating

air

Which dwells with all things fair, Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,

Is with us once again.

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court with green festoons
The banks of dark lagoons.

In the deep heart of every forest tree
The blood is all aglee,

And there's a look about the leafless
bowers

As if they dreamed of flowers.

Yet still on every side we trace the hand
Of Winter in the land,

Save where the maple reddens on the
lawn,

Flushed by the season's dawn;

Or where, like those strange semblances

we find

That age to childhood bind,

by,

And brings, you know not why,
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate

Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce
If from a beech's heart,
would start,

A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should
say,
"Behold me! I am May!"

WALTER F. MITCHELL.

[U. s. A.]

TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE.

THE weather-leech of the topsail shivers, The bow-lines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken,

The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, And the waves with the coming squallcloud blacken.

The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, Open one point on the weather-bow,

The brown of autumn corn.

Is the lighthouse tall on Fire Island
Head?

As yet the turf is dark, although you There's a shade of doubt on the captain's

know

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brow,

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And the light on Fire Island Head draws | What matters the reef, or the rain, or the

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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.

And so off shore let the good ship fly; Little care I how the gusts may blow, fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry, Eight bells have struck, and my watch is

In

my

below.

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

[U. S. A.]

HEREAFTER.

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?

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WILLIAM WINTER. - JOAQUIN MILLER.

313

Only this our yearning answers, -where- | Come with a smile, auspicious friend,

so'er that way defile,

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

In the fair eternal weather, even as phantoms still together, Floating, floating, one forever, in the 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 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!

And let me know my soul akin

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.

COME with 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.

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