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PROGRESS. We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move; The sun flies forward to his brother sun; The dark earth follows wheel'd in her ellipse; And human things returning on themselves Move onward, leading up the golden year.

- The Golden Year.


And forth into the fields I went,
And Nature's living motion lent
The pulse of hope to discontent.
I wonder'd at the bounteous hours,
The slow result of winter showers;
You scarce could see the grass for flowers.
I wonder'd, while I paced along;
The woods were fill'd so full with song,
There seemed no room for sense of wrong.

- The Two Voices.


Whatever crazy sorrow saith,
No life that breathes with human breath
Has ever truly long'd for death.

I heard a saying in Egypt, that ambition
Is like the sea wave, which the more you drink,
The more you thirst; yea, drink too much, as men
Have done on rafts of wrecks-it drives you mad.

- The Cup.
Then what use in passions ?
To warm the cold bounds of our dying life
And, lest we freeze in mortal apathy,
Employ us, heat us, quicken us, help us, keep us
From seeing all too near that urn, those ashes
Which all must be. Well used, they serve us well.

In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers;
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.
It is the little rift within the lute,
That by and by will make the music mute,
And ever widening slowly silence all.

- Merlin and Vivien.

I hold it true, whate'er befall;

I feel it, when I sorrow most;

'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.

- In Memoriam. SORROW.

Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break.

There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.

- Ibid.
Hold thou the good; define it well;

For fear divine Philosophy

Should push beyond her mark, and be
Procuress to the Lords of Hell.


LIFE. Two children in two neighbor villages Playing mad pranks along the healthy leas; Two strangers meeting at a festival; Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall; Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease; Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower Wash'd with still rains and daisy-blossomed; Two children in one hamlet born and bred; So runs the round of life from hour to hour.

- Circumstance.

SPRING. In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the

robin's breast; In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself

another crest; In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd

dove; In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

-Locksley Hall,

KISS. And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips.

-Ibid. LOVE.

Love is love for evermore.



WIFE. My name, once mine, now thine, is closelier mine, For fame, could fame be mine, that fame were

thine, And shame, could shame be thine, that shame were

mine. So trust me not at all, or all in all. -Ibid.

Comfort ? comfort scorn'd of devils! this is truth

the poet sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.





Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping

something new; That which they have done but earnest of the things

that they shall do; For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could

see; Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder

that would be; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of

magic sails; Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales.

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt which
Honor feels.

In thee all passion becomes passionless,
Touch'd by thy spirit's mellowness.


FLOWERS. Dead mountain flowers, dead mountain-meadow

flowers, Dearer than when you made your mountain gay, Sweeter than any violet of to-day, Richer than all the wide world-wealth of May, To me, tho' all your bloom has died away, You bloom again, dead mountain-meadow flowers.

-The Falcon.

BIRDS. “These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you

they sing Like poets, from the vanity of song? Or have they any sense of why they sing? And would they praise the heavens for what they have?

- The Gardener's Daughter.

He had never kindly heart,
Nor ever cared to better his own kind,
Who first wrote satire, with no pity in it.


The sin
That neither God nor man can well forgive.

- Ibid.
Yet was there one thro' whom I loved her, one
Not learned, save in gracious household ways,
Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants;
No angel, but a dearer being, all dipt
In angel instincts, breathing Paradise,
Interpreter between the Gods and men,
Who look'd all native to her place, and yet
On tiptoe seem'd to touch upon a sphere
Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce
Sway'd to her from their orbits as they moved,
And girdled her with music. Happy he
With such a mother! faith in womankind
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high
Comes easy to him, and tho' he trip and fall
He shall not blind his soul with clay.

- The Princess.

MARRIAGE. Woman is not undevelopt man, But diverse; could we make her as the man, Sweet Love were slain; his dearest bond is this, Not like to like, but like in difference. Yet in the long years liker must they grow. The man be more of woman, she of man; He gain in sweetness and in moral height, Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world; She mental breadth nor fail in childward care, Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind; Till at the last she set herself to man, Like perfect music into noble words.

-Ibid. NIGHT. “Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font; The fire-fly wakens.”


PEACE. Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days

gone by, When the poor are hovel'd and hustled together,

each sex, like swine; When only the leger lives, and when only not all

men lie; Peace in her vineyard-yes!—but a company forges the wine.

- Maud.


Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells-
Of that which came between, more sweet than each,
In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves
That tremble round a nightingale; in sighs
Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utterance,
Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell
Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given,
And vows where there was never need of vows.

And then began to bloat himself, and ooze
All over with the fat affectionate smile
That makes the widow lean.

-Sea Dreams.

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We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair

in her flower; Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen

hand at a game That pushes us off from the board, and others ever

succeed? Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for

an hour; We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a

brother's shame; However we brave it out, we men are a little breed.

- Ibid.
Often a man's own angry pride
Is cap and bells for a fool.


Love that hath us in the net
Can he pass, and we forget?
Many suns arise and set,
Many a chance the years beget,
Love the gift is Love the debt;

Even so.
Love is hurt with jar and fret.
Love is made a deep regret.
Eyes with idle tears are wet.
Idle habits link us yet.
What is love? for we forget:

Ah, no! no!
The Miller's Daughter.

MONG the charming residences which make

Bangor the favorite city of homes in the Pine Tree State, that over which Mrs. Corelli C. W. Simpson presides with graceful hospitality is well known and delightful. To this happy wife and mother, in a home which gives pleasure to all her friends, the poetic gift is the crowning happiness of her life. Mrs. Simpson was one of twin daughters born to Capt. Francis Dighton Williams in Taunton, Mass., February 20, 1837. She is justifiably proud of the best New England ancestry on her father's side and also that of her mother, Corelli Caswell. Her grandfather, Cyrus Caswell, who was a lover of music, gave to his daughter the Italian name Corelli, from an air he was fond of playing on his violin. She handed it down by giving to her twin daughters the names Corelli and Salome. So much alike were these little sisters that they were designated, even in the family, by their pink and blue ribbons, and in maturer life the resemblance is still remarkable.

Corelli C. Williams was thoroughly educated in schools both public and private, chiefly the Bristol Academy and Taunton High School. After visiting Bangor, Me., she opened the first kindergarten known in that city in 1864. A hearty lover of children, cheerful, sympathetic and unwearied in her efforts, she became at once very popular, and it is not strange that A. L. Simpson, a member of the Penobscot bar and at that time a widower, as he led his little Gertrude daily to the kindergarten teacher, should perceive her rare qualities and covet the happiness of leading the teacher herself to preside over his home. They were married September 20, 1865. In December, 1866, the little Gertrude welcomed a sister Maude, and the family circle was complete on May 22, 1872, upon the advent of a son, Howard Williams, at present a law student in his father's office. Mrs. Simpson has written her poems in moments of inspiration and not as a serious task. Overflowing with enthusiasm and ardor, she finds in verse the natural expression of her feelings. Her writings have appeared in various popular periodicals, and are always warmly received. A few years ago a fair for the benefit of the Young Men's Christian Association was held in Bangor, and she was applied to for something saleable. The result was a Tête-à-Tête Cook Book, a gem of culinary art, the most of its delicious recipes being original with her, and this dainty work had an immense sale. She has since had a second copyrighted edition published. She has absolutely perfect health, and walks frequently five or six


O dear spirit half-lost
In thine own shadow and this fleshly sign
That thou art thou—who wailest being born
And banish'd into mystery, and the pain
Of this divisible-indivisible world
Among the numerable-innumerable
Sun, sun, and sun, thro' finite-infinite space
In finite-infinite Time-our mortal veil
And shatter'd phantom of that infinite one,
Who made thee unconceivably Thyself
Out of this whole World-self and all in all.

-De Profundis.
More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of.

-Morte d'Arthar.


Soiling another will never make one's self clean.

- The Grandmother.

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