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inspiration for every writer's characteristics, and so I suppose I must say that Mrs. Dandridge is devoted to the nature studies of John Burroughs, and to the nature poems of Wordsworth. But she is also a close reader of Shakespeare, who belongs no more to the woods and fields and hills than to courts, taverns and the high seas. I prefer to think that Mrs. Dandridge is a poet in herself and apart from the influence of books.

J. E. B.

What the forests utter,

With incessant souri; What the caverns mutier,

Rumbling underground. What the crag reveals

Where man never trod: What the abyss conceals

Of the ways of God.


TO A, S, D.

What the eagle calls

To the wild glen:
What the waterfalls

Answer again.
What the snake hisses;

What the wolf yells;
What, to the nestling,

The owl's hooting tells.

We are akin, dear soul:

Akin as are the rainbow in the sky, The runnel on the knoll:

We are akin in spirit, you and I. Ah! how serene and bright!

You stand with shining feet,

And lustrous arch complete
Of rounded life upon the cloudy height:

You catch the light of heaven and repeat
All its transcendent splendor in your face,
And beautify a place
With radiance of a glory and a grace.
Thus is your life, O soul!

But I am like the stream That hurries down the knoll,

As changeful as a dream: As restless and as wild

As an impatient child: Yet thankful, dear, if in some tranquil space, I may reflect the radiance of your face.

What the hawk screameth

Over her nest:
What the heart dreameth

In mother's breast.
What the streams are gurgling

In a pleasant voice;
Why the lambs are racing;

Why the birds rejoice.
What thrushes sing to thee;
What church bells ring to thee:

Why the flowers fade;

Why the earthworm dies;
While the chrysalids

Change to butterflies.
What the message of the rose,

Or the violet;
Why each sweetest thing that grows

Is with tear-drops wet.


IF thou art a poet-son of God

Fix upon the heights thy steadfast glance; Listen with quick ear to catch His word;

Speak, as He shall give thee utterance.

Speak what earth unseals to thee,
And the sky reveals to thee;
What the hoarse wind shrieks;
And the dark tide speaks;
What the storm-clouds thunder

In their meeting crash;
What — the lurid wonder

Of the lightning flash.

What the mind guesses,

Day after day, Through dim recesses

Groping its way.
What the stars show

Each unto each;
What the moon answers

In silver speech.
What of joy reaches thee;
What thy pain teaches thee

That do thou teach.

Why the strong sun sets

And the planets rise; Why the rainbow spans

The wet summer skies;

Let thine inspiration,

Thy wisdom, be What all God's Creation

Calleth to thee.

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Come, dear Desire, and walk with me;
We'll gather sweets, and rob the bee;
Come, leave the dimness of your room,

We'll watch, how since the morning rain The spider sitteth at her loom,

To weave her silken nets again. I know a field where bluets blow

Like frost from fingers of the night, And in a sheltered coppice grow Arbutus trailers, blush and white.

-Desire. POETRY.

Dear brother, thou who grandly didst aspire

To holy beauty, yet didst meek obey
The voice from heaven that called thee " Come

up higher"; Thou who our listening hearts didst greatly

sway With magic of thy flute-toned, artful lay: When, like thy Master, thou wast “clean fore

spent," Laidst calmly down thy clear-voiced instrument. How grandly now thy spirit, with no clod

Of frail and feeble flesh to hold her back, Vill follow through eternity thy God

In his vast, glorious, and harmonious track!

Then let a song for soothing float
From out the hermit thrush's throat.
Upon a mountain side apart,

Where blows no breath of earthly care,
There let him cheer his gentle heart,
And drink him drunk with mountain air.

Ah! for lost joy, and scent of fading rose;
And tender memories at a sad life's close;
And pain of lonely hearts, forlorn, bereft,
When one is taken and the other left:
No more:— there is a silence in the years;
And the old Moon recalls her youth with tears.

- The Endvmion of Keats.



Alas! I have an ancient enemy,
Whose robes are tinsel, and her face a lie,
Men call her Pleasure, but I know her twin
Is Pain; their age, Remorse; their shadow, Sin.

- Joy.
We dart through the void:

We have cries, we have laughter:
The phantom that haunts us

Comes silently after.
This Ghost-lady follows,

Though none hear her tread;

By all the many signs of Love;

By all Love's truth, I know
Your spirit cleaves to mine - and yet -

I pray you tell me so.
We meet by day, we part by night;

We join our clinging hands;
And still, between us and delight

A spirit barrier stands.
Alas! these phantoms should not be,

That keep our souls apart;
My friend, my lover, and my love-
Let down the bars, dear heart.

-Let Down the Bars.

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and leave great causes alone, unless they have overwhelmed him of his nature and their own will. The witty secretary of the Papyrus Club is undedicated, however he should deny it, and liegeman to no theory, at heart. He sends his gallant and unbookish fancies on profane errands.

"Some to the wars, to seek their fortune there,

Some to discover islands, far away.' Mr. Roche is, first, a scrivener and chronicler, utterly impersonal, full of joy in deeds, a discerner between the expedient and the everlasting right, wholly fitted to throw into enduring song some of the simple heroisms of our American annals. We bid fair to have in him an admirable ballad-writer, choosing instinctively and from affection “that which lieth nearest,” and saying it with truth and zest. His Muse, like himself, is happy in her place and time; none too much at the mercy of sentiment; coming through sheer intelligence, to the conclusion of fools, and going her unvexed gypsy ways with an “All's well!” ever on her lips.

L. I. G.


AMES JEFFREY ROCHE was born May 31,

1847, in Queen's County, Ireland, a auspicious soil for a poet. Through his father, Edward Roche, Esq., an able mathematician and scholar, still living and occupying the office of Provincial Librarian in Prince Edward Island, he inherits the literary quality dominant in his temperament and his art. The family settled in Prince Edward Island in the same year. The boy was educated by his father, and later in St. Dunstan's College. Here, at the age of fifteen, foreshadowing his career, he turned journalist and proudly edited the college weekly“ unto the urn and ashes” of its infant end. His youth had a fair share of spirited adventure, an encountering of odd characters and scenes, a sharp observance of events, and a close, rapid, honest mental life. In 1866 he strolled alone into the open gates of Boston, fell into the clutches of commerce, and prospered there, yet with revertings thenceforward to literature, his early love and first unconscious choice, keeping up, in print, a running fire of the arch, absurd, unique humor which has since given his name its note. Already married, in 1883, he shifted into his natural posture and became assistant editor of the Boston Pilot, a position entirely to his mind, which he still fills. A man of activity, eminently social, interested in all public matters, sensitive and independent, he has done, without any premeditation, much energetic and brilliant work, of which a “History of the Filibusters in Spanish America," a novel, and a drama are yet in manuscript. In 1886 he published “Songs and Satires," a distinct success, and an earnest of healthful and unhurried growth.

Nothing injures Mr. Roche's fun so much as his seriousness. When a throat is able to give out a ringing bass song of sport or war, we cease to demand falsetto of it, however quaint and dexterous. It is, perhaps, an unhappy gift, this of divided skill, for it sometimes necessitates a pause, an adjustment, a choice. It is a grim truth that the humorous has no place on the top peaks of Parnassus: to be great, one must be grave. But Mr. Roche, of all men, can afford to let his lighter talent, exquisite as it is in kind, go by, so long as he can throw into his metrical narratives the same keenness and decisiveness of thought, the same life and grace of phrase, which have glorified his cap-and-bells. Something in the generous and sym; athetic air of to-day has colored his verses, ever and anon, with a light, humanitarian and revolutionary; but his protests, made as they are of beautiful philosophy, come from him with an odd grace only, and belie Timon's part with a look of Mercutio. A poet, as a poet merely, had best sing out his unregenerated music

The hands of the King are soft and fair;

They never knew labor's stain. The hands of the Robber redly wear

The bloody brand of Cain. But the hands of the Man are hard and scarred

With the scars of toil and pain.

The slaves of Pilate have washed his hands

As white as a king's may be. Barabbas with wrists unfettered stands,

For the world has made him free. But thy palms toil-worn by nails are torn,

O Christ, on Calvary!

In the slimy bed of a sluggish mere

Its root had humble birth,
And the slender stem that upward grew
Was course of fibre and dull of hue,

With nought of grace or worth.

The gelid fish that floated near

Saw only the vulgar stem. The clumsy turtle paddling by, The water snake with his lidless eye, -

It was only a weed to them.

But the butterfly and the honey-bee,

The sun and sky and air, They marked its heart of virgin gold In the satin leaves of spotless fold,

And its odor rich and rare.

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