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Not in rewards, but in the strength to strive,

The blessing lies, and new experience gained;
In daily duties done, hope kept alive,
That Love and Thought are housed and enter-

- Twoscore and Ten.

MOUNTAINS. As he breathes once more the mountain breeze, And looks from the hill-side far away, Over pasture and fallow and field of hay, To the hazy peaks of the azure range, Which change forever, yet never change.

- Tom's Come Home.


ABRAHAM LINCOLN. Heroic soul, in homely garb half hid,

Sincere, sagacious, melancholy, quaint, What he endured, no less than what he did, Has reared his monument and crowned him saint.

-Quatrains and Epigrams.

How sweet, till past, then hideous evermore!

Like that false fay the legend tells us of, That seemed a lovely woman, viewed before, But, from behind, all hollow, like a trough.

-Ibid. MATERIALIST. He took a tawny handful from the strand: “What we can grasp," he said, we understand, And nothing more:" when, lo! the laughing sand Slid swiftly from his vainly clutching hand.

- Ibid. SENSUALIST. “ Live while we live!” he cried; but did not guess, Fooled by the phantom, Pleasure, how much less Enjoyment runs in rivers of excess Than overbrims divine abstemiousness.

When to my haughty spirit I rehearse

My verse,
Faulty enough it seems; yet sometimes when
I measure it by that of other men,

Why, then
I see how easily it might be worse.

- Ibid. OCEAN. Pulse of the world! hoarse sea with heaving

breath, Swaying some grief's great burden to and fro! Fierce heart that neither hears nor answereth,

Sounding its own eternal wail of woe! Punctual as day, unheeding life or death,

Wasting the ribs of earth with ceaseless throe; Remorseless, strong, resistless, resting never, The tides come in, the tides come in forever!

- The Wreck of the Fishing-Boat.

And men are polished, through act and speech,

Each by each,
As pebbles are smoothed on the rolling beach.

- A Home Idyl.

CHILDHOOD. 0:d convulsions of the planet in the new earth

leave their trace, And the child's heart is an index to the story of his race.


Women can do with us what they will:

'Twas only a village girl, but she,
With the flash of a glance, had shown to me
The wretch I was, and the self I still
Might strive to be.

-Sheriff Thorne.

Men call him crazed whose eyes are raised

To look beyond his times;
And they are learnéd, who too fast
Are anchored in the changeless past,

To seek Truth's newer climes!
Yet act thy part, heroic heart!

For only by the strong
Are great and noble deeds achieved;---
No truth was ever yet believed
That had not struggled long.

-- The Story of Columbus.

PATIENCE. Learn patience from the lesson'

Though the night be drear and long, To the darkest sorrow there comes a morrow, A right to every wrong.

- The Frozen Harbor.

For so I found my forest bird, -

The pewee of the loneliest woods,

Sole singer in these solitudes, Which never robin's whistle stirred,

Where never bluebird's plume intrudes.
Quick darting through the dewy morn,
The redstart trilled his twittering horn,
And vanished in thick boughs: at even,
Like liquid pearls fresh showered from heaven,
The high notes of the lone wood-thrush
Fall on the forest's holy hush:

But thou all day complainest here, -
“Pe-wee! pe-wee! perr!"

- The Pewee.



T is very difficult to attempt to define the place

( And that thou canst, I trow); If thou canst make the Spring to dawn, Hawthorn to put her brav'ry on, Willow, her weeds of fine green lawn, Say why thou dost not so

Aye, aye!

Say why
Thou dost not so!

If thou canst chase the stormy rack,

And bid the soft winds blow

(And that thou canst, I trow); If thou canst call the thrushes back To give the groves the songs they lack, And wake the violet in thy track,Say why thou dost not so

Aye, aye!

Say why
Thou dost not so!

fill in the gallery of American poets. She is already a conspicuous figure, and her poems have attracted much attention. Born in Chatham, Medina county, Ohio, of a family of Connecticut settlers, Miss Thomas at an early age developed strong literary proclivities. She was educated at the Normal School in Geneva, Ohio, where most of her life was spent up to eighteen months ago. While at school she contributed several poems of a sentimental nature to the leading Ohio newspapers, which poems were extensively copied by newspapers and magazines throughout the country. Helen Hunt Jackson, who was ever ready to assist the youthful literary aspirant struggling for fame, became very favorably impressed with many of these stray poems. She formed the acquaintance of Miss Thomas whom she introduced to the editors of the Atlantic Monthly and Century Magazines a few years before her death. Until her meeting with Mrs. Jackson, Miss Thomas was almost an unknown quantity, but with the aid and kindly counsel of “ H. H.” her success was only a question of time. She had the talent and only wanted an opportunity to develop it. Shortly afterwards the Century Magazine reprinted a page of her verse. Four years ago she published her first volume of poems entitled "A New Year's Masque and other Poeins.” The book was at once successful. This volume was so immediately popular that it created a demand for another published work of the author. A year and a half later a series of prose papers entitled “ The Round Year" appeared. Then followed, in 1887, another volume of poems —" Lyrics and Sonnets."

Miss Thomas is slight, and of medium height. Her face is an expressive one, and her brow is remarkably handsome. It is full, and indicative of intellectuality. Her hair is naturally curly, and is brushed back from her face with careless grace. In formation her head is very like Helen Hunt Jackson's, and there is a further resemblance to this great woman in her rare conversational gifts. She is modest, retiring and evidently not anxious to be praised. A little over a year ago she came to New York, and took up her residence at the Colonnade Hotel, where she still lives and performs most of her literary work. The demands upon her pen exclude the possibility of much social enjoyment. Her gifts are greater than she herself suspects.

J. W. G.

If thou canst make my Winter Spring,

With one word breathéd low

(And that thou canst, I know); If, in the closure of a ring, Thou canst to me such treasure bring, My state shall be above a king, Say why thou dost not so

Aye, aye!

Say why
Thou dost not so!


This is vintage of the ages,
Best to cool the fever's rages;
He that drinks it when 't is beading
Hath a quick and happy speeding.

I've known joy, and I've known sorrow,
Care that broods upon the morrow;
I've been trist, and I've been merry,-
“ Lackaday," and "hey down derry"!
I've been free, and I've been fettered, -
Fortunes ill, and fortunes bettered;
I've been crafty, I've been simple,
Courted Wisdom, wooed a dimple!
I've known faith, and I've known treason,
Frost-nipt flowers in summer season;
I've seen feasts and fush cups sparkling,
Guests dispersed and torches darkling;
I've known Love, and ah, the pity!
Heard his knell and funeral ditty:
Hapless seeing, fatal knowing!
Drain the cup, and I'll be going.


If thou canst make the frost be gone,

And feet away the snow

In this vintage, stored for ages,
I will pledge the souls of sages,
Princes, heroes, bards, and lovers,
Whom the night of Old Time covers.
I will drink as deep as they did,
See the dreams their eyelids shaded;
I shall find what planets hold them,
What rose-bowers and myrtles fold them;
I shall hear the talk of sages
As they turn immortal pages, –
Hear the shepherd pipes contending
In a tuneful bout unending;
I shall see the dancers swaying,
Lovers in the green wood straying,
Children in the fields a-Maying:
Lovely seeing, happy knowing!
Life, good-by! I would be going!


Open to the gemméd sky.
Me with starlight she hath crowned,
And with purple wrapped me round,-
Darkling purple, strangely wrought
By the servants of her thought.
Mortal, whosoe'er thou art,
That dost bear a fevered heart,
Hither come and healed be:
Night such grace will show to thee,
Thou shalt tread the dewy stubble
Stranger to all fret and trouble,
While bright Hesper leans from heaven
Through the soft, dove-colored even,
While the grass-bird calleth peace
On the fields that have release
From the sickle and the rake.
Happy sigher! thou shalt take
The rich breath of blossomed maize,
As the moist wind smoothly plays
With its misty silks and plumes.
Thou shalt peer through tangled glooms,
Where the fruited briar-rose
Fragrance on thy pathway throws,
And the firefly bears a link;
Where swart bramble-berries drink
Spicy dew, and shall be sweet,
Ripened by to-morrow's heat;
Still, wherever thou dost pass,
Chimes the cricket in the grass;
And the plover's note is heard,
Moonlight's wild enchanted bird,
Flitting, wakeful and forlorn,
Round the meadows lately shorn.
Wilt thou come, and healéd be
Of the wounds Day gave to thee?-
Come and dwell, an acolyte
Of the deep-browed holy Night.

He rides away at early light,

Amid the tingling frost, And in the mist that sweeps her sight

His form is quickly lost.

He crosses now the silent stream,

Now skirts the forest drear, Whose thickets cast a silver gleam

From leafage thin and sear.

Long falls the shadow at his back

(The morning springs before); His thoughts fly down the shadowed track,

And haunt his cottage-door.
Miles gone, upon a hilltop bare

He draws a sudden rein:
His name, her voice, rings on the air,

Then all is still again!


She sits at home, she speaks no word,

But deeply calls her heart; And this it is that he has heard,

Though they are miles apart.

A NOCTURN. I HAVE been an acolyte In the service of the Night; Subtile incense I have burned, Songs of silence I have learned, Spirit-uttered antiphon That from isle to isle doth run Through the deep cathedral wood. There she blessed me as I stood, There, or in her courts that lie

O Spirit of the Spring, delay, delay!
Be chary of thy gifts; by slow degrees
Roll back the leafy tide on forest trees;
And in all fields keep thou a jealous sway,
Lest the low grass break into sudden spray,
And clover toss its purples on the breeze.
Bind fast those lily-buds, that prying bees
Shall have no entrance, murmur as they may.
Scatter not yet the orchard's scented snows,
Nor break the cage that holds the butterfly,
Nor let the blow-ball wander up the sky:-
What! flown so lightly? By yon upstart rose,
Summer is here with all her gaudy shows.
O Spirit of the Spring, good-by, good-by!




Who reads this measure flowing strong and deep,
It seems to him old Homer's voice he hears;
But soon grows up a sound that moves to tears,
Tears such as Homer cannot make us weep,
Whether a grieving god bids Death and Sleep
Bear slain Sarpedon home unto his peers,
Or gray-haired Priam, kneeling, full of tears,
Seeks Hector's corse torn by the chariot's sweep.
Lightly these sorrows move us, in compare
With that which moans along the Oxus' tide,
Where by his father's hand young Sohrab died,
Great father and great son met unaware
On Fate's dark field; in awe we leave them there,
Wrapped in the mists that from the river glide.


All books that for Love's sake are ever penned
Live creatures are, and from their being's date
Have their good genii, watchful of their fate,
To speed the heartward errand, and to lend
An affluent touch that doth all art transcend.
Sometimes it falls to readers' rich estate
That they behold these spirits consecrate,
As they upon their chosen cares attend.
Thus saw I these rare leaves, surnamed of Dawn,
Fresh smitten by a rosy eastern beam,
And, midmost in its flushing, something white
With lucent dewy wings enfolding drawn:
Young Eros of the Greek's supernal dream
To guard his own came down in native light!

God gave this mastery to my mind, --
The soul of music to unbind
From every wandering wave and wind,

Green sod and tree.
In earth and air, in rocks, in fire,
I read mute measures of desire;
On organ reeds or flashing lyre,
I set them free.

- St. Cecilia.

PRAYER So ever: the curse falls void, the prayer wins the heart of the world.

- Theano.
I once did dream Apollo bright

Was leader of the Muses nine,
Who followed him from pure delight,

The while he touched his lyre divine.
But now, alas! how changed the plan!

The Muses I indeed behold;
But Mercury marches in their van,
His lyre a purse of jingling gold.


Great Nature holds no fellowship with grief.
Think not the wind is sighing through the sheaí
For sorrow that the summer's race is run;
Think not the falling rain and shrouded sun,
Or the white scourge of frost laid on the ground,
Are tokens that her pleasures are discrowned
From their brave empires in the earth and sky.

Like one who in the doorway stands,
With smiling eyes and open hands,
This hostess, Nature, welcomes me.
With orient hospitality,
She bids me count all things my own,
From airy roof to basement stone;
Then clothes me in her rich attire,
And serves, herself, my mute desire:

O guest, in this my commonwealth
Live Joy, and Liberty, and Health:
These comrades I bestow on thee;
Be, therefore, hale, and glad, and free."

- The Refuge.

REVENGE, O Heaven, there is but one revenge full sweet, That thou shouldst slay him in my memory, Whose bitter words and ways abide with me; Then, for all surety that we shall not meet In the overworld, make thou my spirit's feet Move trackless through the blessed nebula!



Each year I mark one lone outstanding tree,
Clad in its robings of the summer past,
Dry, wan, and shivering in the wintry blast.
It will not pay the season's rightful fee,-
It will not set its frost-burnt leafage free;
But like some palsied miser all aghast,
Who hoards his sordid treasure to the last,
It sighs, it moans, it sings in eldritch glee.
A foolish tree, to dote on summers gone;
A faithless tree, that never feels how spring
Creeps up the world to make a leafy dawn,
And recompense for all despoilment bring!
Oh, let me not, heyday and youth withdrawn,
With failing hands to their vain semblance cling!

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