UNCROWNED KINGS. O ye uncrowned but kingly kings! Where men know naught but sordid things,— O ye uncrowned but kingly kings! WONDERLAND. CRADOCK NEWTON (ENGLISH-1851). Mournfully listening to the waves' strange talk, A mighty longing stealeth o'er the soul; Her heart be treasured for him,-if her eyes Ah, happy, happy land! The busy soul Leave far behind thee the vexed earth, where men Spend their dark days in weaving their own shrouds ; And Fraud and Wrong are crownéd kings; and Toil For, if one say "I love thee," what poor words There larger natures sport themselves at ease Alas! the rugged steersman at the wheel Believe and wait; and it may be that he MISCHIEVOUS WOMAN. BY "THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD" (SEE PAGE 277). Could this ill warld ha'e been contrived To stand without mischievous woman, How peacefu' bodies might ha'e lived, Released frae a' the ills sae common ! But since it is the waefu' case That man maun ha'e this teasing crony, Why sic a sweet bewitching face? O had she no been made sae bonny! I might ha'e roamed wi' cheerfu' mind, As happy as the lamb beside me: I saw the danger, feared the dart, An' gat the wound that keeps me waking. My harp waves on the willow green,Of wild witch-notes it has nae ony Sin e'er I saw that pawky quean, Sae sweet, sae wicked, an' sae bonny! THE WATER-DRINKER. EDWARD JOHNSON, M.D. (London Metropolitan Magazine-1837). Oh, water for me! Bright water for me! It comes o'er the sense like a breeze from the sea, Oh, water, bright water, for me, for me! Fill to the brim! Fill, fill to the brim! THE FIRST SPRING DAY. JOHN TODHUNTER, AUTHOR OF "LAURELLA, AND OTHER POEMS," LONDON, 1876. But one short week ago the trees were bare; UNBELIEF. ANONYMOUS (BRITISH-19TH CENTURY). There is no unbelief: Whoever plants a seed beneath the sod And waits to see it push away the clod,— He trusts in God. Whoever says, when clouds are in the sky, “Be patient, heart; light breaketh by-and-by," Trusts the Most High. Whoever sees, 'neath Winter's field of snow, The silent harvest of the future grow,— God's power must know. Whoever lies down on his couch to sleep, Content to lock each sense in slumber deep, Knows God will keep. Whoever says, "To-morrow," ," "The Unknown,” "The Future," trusts that Power alone, He dares disown. The heart that looks on when the eyelids close, And dares to live when life has only woes, God's comfort knows. There is no unbelief: And day by day, and night, unconsciously, The heart lives by that faith the lips denyGod knoweth why! ON A VIRTUOUS YOUNG GENTLEWOMAN WHO DIED SUDDENLY. These lines, given in some collections as anonymous, were written by William Cartwright, born in England in 1611, and educated at Oxford. He took orders, and in 1643 became junior proctor and reader in metaphysics at the University, but died the same year of a malignant fever. A collected edition of his "Comedies, Tragi-Comedies, and other Poems," appeared in 1647, and again in 1651. He seems to have been a favorite with his contemporaries; and Ben Jonson remarked of him, “My son Cartwright writes all like a man." He must have cultivated poetry in his youth, for he was only twenty-six at the time of the death of Jonson, whose loss he mourned in a enlogy of which the following lines are a specimen : "But thou still putt'st true passion on; dost write With the same courage that tried captains fight; Giv'st the right blush and color unto things; Low without creeping, high without loss of wings; Smooth yet not weak, and, by a thorough care, Big without swelling, without painting, fair." When the old flaming Prophet climbed the sky, Who at one glimpse did vanish, and not die, He made more preface to a death than this: So far from sick she did not breathe amiss. She who to Heaven more heaven doth annex, Whose lowest thought was above all our sex, Accounted nothing death but t' be reprieved, And died as free from sickness as she lived. Others are dragged away, or must be driven; She only saw her time, and stepped to Heaven, Where Seraphims view all her glories o'er As one returned, that had been there before. For while she did this lower world adorn, Her body seemed rather assumed than born: So rarefied, advanced, so pure and whole, That body might have been another's soul; And equally a miracle it were That she could die, or that she could live here. THE WAY. WILLIAM S. SHURTLEFF (AMERICAN-1877). First, find thou Truth, and thenAlthough she strays From beaten paths of men To untrod ways- And whether smiles or scorn Thy passing greet, Or find'st thou flower or thorn Fare on! nor fear thy fate |