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Where'er her twinking feet did pass,
Beneath them greener grew the grass;
The song-birds ruffled their small throats
To swell for her their blithest notes.
But when she went, the blushing day
Sank into silence chill and gray,
The dark its sable vans unfurled,
And sudden night possessed the world.
O fond desires that wake in vain!
She ne'er will come to us again;
And now, like vanished perfume sweet,
Her memory grows more vague and fleet.
Yet we rejoice that morn by morn
The sad old world seems less forlorn,
Since once so bright a vision came
To touch our lives with heavenly flame,
And show to our bewildered eyes
What beauty dwells in paradise.

A ROMAN QUEEN. IMPERIOUS on her ebon throne

She sits, a queen, in languid ease; Her lustrous locks are loosely blown

Back from her brow by some stray breeze Lost in that vast, bright hall of state, Where thronging suppliants fear and wait.

A dreamy fragrance, fine and rare,

Of sandal, nard and precious gum, With balmy sweetness fills the air,

And mingles with the incense from A quaint and costly azure urn, Where Indian spices ever burn.

A jeweled serpent, wrought in gold,

Coils round her white and naked arm; Her purple tunic, backward rolled,

Reveals the full and regal charm Of her fair neck, and ivory breast, Half veiled beneath her broidered vest.

Her eyelids droop upon her eyes,

And curtained by the silken lash, The smoldering fire that in them lies

Is scarcely seen, save when a flash, Like that which lights the polar snow, Gleams from the dusky depths below.

Her proud, cold lips are lightly wreathed

In smiles, as if with high disdain She scorns to show her hate is sheathed,

And that he sues not all in vain For favors of her haughty will, Or e'en love's rarer guerdon still.

He stands before her white and fierce;

His bosom with swift passion shakes;
His burning vision seeks to pierce

Her very soul; he pleads; he wakes
Within her heart a wild desire,
That flames and mounts like sudden fire.

A subtle glance, a whispered word,

A waving of her perfumed hand,
He feels his secret prayer is heard-

That she will know and understand;
The queen is hid, and for a space
A love-swayed woman holds her place.

He bows, he leans toward the throne;

Her breath is warm upon his cheek;
She murmurs, and in every tone

He hears the love she dares not speak;
What though the surging hundreds press?
No eye shall see her swift caress.

Let him beware; he toys with fate;

False as the glittering serpent is
On her white arm, her love to hate

Shall change eftsoons; then every kiss
She gives him with her fickle breath
Shall be surcharged with secret death.

It was but yesterday I saw his sheep,

The while he led them up the height to feed, And heard him merrily pipe upon his reed,

And mock the echoes from yon rocky steep; 'Twas yesterday I found him fast asleep,

His flock forgot and wantoning in the mead,

His pipe flung lightly by with idle heed, And shadows lying round him, cool and deep. But though I seek I shall not find him more,

In dewy valley or on grassy height; I listen for his piping-it is o'er,

From out mine ears gone is the music quite There on the hill the sheep feed as before,

But Pan, alas, has vanished from my sight!


Love, that thou lov'st me not, too well I know;

Yet shouldst thou look to-night on my dead face For the last time on earth, and there shouldst


The silent meaning of a heavy woe,
Wouldst thou not feel a pang that it were so ?

Would not regret within thy heart find place,
That thou didst stay the guerdon and the grace

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Thy lover so besought thee to bestow ?
Wouldst thou not feel a want unknown before ?

A something gone familiar grown so long ?
A vanished light - a ship gone from the shore -
A presence past from out the world's great

throng? O Love, wouldst thou not miss the voice of yore? The song-bird flown, wouldst thou not miss the

song ?

JOY IN SORROW. The wan November sun is westering;

The pale, proud year puts all her glory by;

Beneath her blue, bare feet her vestures lie,
And white and faint she stands a-shivering:
And yet the world's great heart is quickening
Beneath dead leaves and grass grown sere

and dry,
And through the silence of the somber sky
Throb swift pulsations of a forefelt spring.
So all our sorrow hath a core of bliss;

Some prophecy of pleasure tempers pain
In every heart, and through our bitterness

Strikes a fierce joy that not a pang is vain; Life hath no hidden good that life shall miss,

For with all loss is mixed some god-like gain.

ALLIE L. BONNEY was born in Peoria, Ill.,

where her father, Hon. C. C. Bonney, was a young lawyer just beginning practice, who shortly afterward removed to Chicago, where he has since resided. Miss Bonney is of Anglo-Norman origin, being descended from the noble De Bon family, who figured in the days of William the Conqueror. Afterward the spelling of the name became De Bonaye, and later assumed its present form. Miss Bonney attended the best schools of Chicago, and afterward graduated from the famous Chestnut Street Seminary for young ladies, then located in Philadelphia, but since removed to Ogontz. While purely, almost divinely feminine in every respect, she yet inherits from her legal ancestry a mental strength that is very decided, though not masculine.

She has published two prose works, “Wit and Wisdom of Bulwer” and “ Wisdom and Eloquence of Webster.” She is a proficient French scholar, and has made translations of many of Victor Hugo's shorter works. Her first writing for periodicals was a story, which was printed serially in a Chicago Masonic magazine; and since then she has written poems, sketches, and stories for a great number of periodicals. She has written the words of a number of songs that have been set to music by F. Nicholls Crouch, the composer of " Kathleen Mavourneen.” Eben H. Bailey, and W. H. Doane. She has written two operettas, one set to music by Mr. Bailey, and the other by Mr. Doane, and has dramatized the Rienzi" of Bulwer, an author who retains a very warm spot in her affections.

Miss Bonney has been in delicate health for many years. Several Chicago physicians having expressed the belief that she could not live another winter in Chicago, or indeed anywhere in the east, which opinion was endorsed by Boston medical authorities, she removed to California in 1887, and spent the winter in San Diego, and the subse. quent spring located in San Francisco, where the climate evidently agrees with her so well that she thinks she is reasonably certain of a further lease of life for a few years.

Miss Bonney's features are very fair and delicate, her hair is of a changing brown, bronze in shadow, and full of tints of unwashed gold where the sunlight seeks kinship in its meshes. She has what are known as “ Irish eyes," violet at times, and again darker, with very full, decided eyebrows.

Although Miss Bonney did not begin writing till the year 1882, and the most of her work has been done while in bed or on her lounge, she has accomplished a great deal, and has gained a recognition that is general and gratifying, among the letters of compliment and praise she has received being several from Lord Lytton, John G. Whittier. and others.

E M.

Ah, happy poet who may guess
The ever-changing loveliness,
The lightsome grace, the airy wiles
Wherewith coy nature masks her smiles,
And, stealing on her unaware,
Behold her when she is most fair!


ECHO. Ah! when the large, cool-breasted Night hath drawn

Her star-wrought mantle from the waking world, And on the hills, where gleam the feet of Dawn, The trailing banners of the mist are furled,

Then, O Narcissus, while the woodlands ring,
Dost thou not miss me by thy silver spring ?

--Echo's Lament.

She would not stir a single jetty lash,

To hear me praised; but when my life was blamed
Her parian cheeks were kindled like a flash,
And from her heart a sudden love upflamed.

-Quatrain. PRESENT. Though faded joys shall nevermore return,

Neither shall faded griefs, the first or last, And time's true heir is of the present born.

- The Present.

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The song floats


its music swells, Then dies away in echo sweet, While murmuring wind and singing wave

The happy cadence soft repeat;
And o'er the gold-touched billows fair

Then sailor voices take the strain,
And answer comes through gloaming mist,

In second stanza's sweet refrain.

Ilio caro, though apart,

Close your eyes in happy sleep; Bending from the land of dreams,

Angels fair love's vigils keep. Stars shine softly through the blue,

Faded is the sunset light, Yet o'er darkling waters wide

Heart to heart may say good-night.

AN OLDEN LEGEND. The Rabbi Judah and his brethren wise

Disputed in the temple what was Rest; And as in turn the learned fathers spoke

Each one the burthen of his heart confest. One said, "'t was to gain sufficient wealth,"

Another, that 'twas fame and worldly praise," The third sought Rest in power to rule the state," Another claimed, “'twas ease and length of

days." One Rabbi thought these baubles all in vain,

The brother found in Home the blissful rest, While Judah, tallest of the wise men, held

Keeping tradition of the elders best. Silent till then there sat within the court,

A fair-haired boy with lilies in his hand,
Too young, unlearned, the reverend fathers thought

The import of their talk to understand.
Nay, nay, my fathers, he alone finds Rest

Who loveth God with his whole soul and heart, And," the child added, reverently and low,

“ His brother, as of his own life a part: He greater is than wealth, or power, or fame,

Better than happy home, than honored age, Above tradition, to himself a law-"

Thus holy child instructed Rabbi Sage.


Heaven's fairest star
Trembled a moment in the gold-flecked blue;

Then, earthward dropped,
Was in an empty cradle lost to view,

Till angel came,
And, softly parting back the curtains, smiled,

While hosts proclaimed The birth of Bethlehem's King in new-born child.

AN EASTER CUSTOM. I Met her Easter morning

In the old Cathedral aisle, And, early at the service,

She gave me bow and smile.

The golden gleam of the Western sun,

In a flood of amber light,
Streamed softly in at the window, where
It lingered to say “Good-night."


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