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NEVIN, EDWIN H. Lyra Sacra Americana, by Charles Dexter Cleveland; and miscellaneous poems.
GREENWELL, DORA. Poems (selected), with a Biographical Introduction by William Dorling. The Canterbury Poets, edited by William Sharp. London: Walter Scott, 1889. 18mo, pp. 22 and 248.
KOOPMAN, HARRY LYMAN. Orestes, a Dramatic Sketch, and Other Poems. Buffalo: Moulton, Wenborne and Co., 1888. 16mo, pp. 192.
IBID. Woman's Will. A Love-Play in Five Acts, with Other Poems. Buffalo: Moulton, Wenborne and Co., 1888. Ihmo, pp. 6 and 63.
BARBE, W. T. W. Song of a Century. A Centennial Ode. Read at Morgantown, West Virginia, October 25. 1885. Parkersburg: Printed for Pri. vate Distribution.
IBID. Miscellaneous poems.
BROWNELL, HENRY Howard. Poems. New York: D. Appleton and Co. Philadelphia: Geo. S. Appleton, 1847. 12mo, pp. 208.
IBID. Ephemeron. A Poem. New York; D. Appleton and Co., 1855. 12mo, pp. 58.
Ibid. Lyrics of a Day: or Newspaper Poetry. By a volunteer in the U. S. service. New York: Carleton, 1864. c. 1863. 12mo, pp. 160.
Ibid. War-Lyrics and Other Poems. Boston: Ticknor and Fields, 1866. C. 1865. I 2mo, pp. 8
ARNOLD, MATTHEW. Poems. New and complete edition. London: Macmillan and Co. 12mo, pp. 7 and 369.
GUNDRY, ARTHUR W. Miscellaneous poems.
PEACOCK, THOMAS BROWER. Poems of the Plains and Songs of the Solitudes, together with “The Rhyme of the Border War." Third edition, revised. With biographical sketch of the author and critical remarks on his poems by Prof. Thomas Danleigh Suplee, A. M., Ph. D. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1889. 12mo, pp. 14 and 336.
McNAUGHTON, JOHN Hugh. • Bable Brook" Songs. Boston: Oliver Ditson and Co., 1564. 12mo, pp. 237.
Ibid. Onnalinda. A Romance. London: Kegan Paul, Trench and Co., 1885. c. 1884.
cómo, pp. 256.
Ibid. Onnalinda. A Romance. Illustrated. London: Kegan Paul, Trench and Co. New York; Onnalinda Publishing Co., 1888. Imperial 8vo, pp. 8 and 209.
Ivin. Miscellaneous poems and songs with music.
LEE-HAMILTON, EUGENE. Poems and Transcripts. Edinburgh and London: William Blackwood and Sons, 1878. Crown 8vo, pp. 9 and 171.
Ibid. The New Medusa, and Other Poems. London: Elliot Stock, 1882. Crown 8vo, pp. 120.
IBID. Apollo and Marsyas, and Other Poems. London: Elliot Stock, 1884. Crown 8vo, pp. 6 and 138.
Ibid. Imaginary Sonnets. London: Elliot Stock, 1888. 16mo, pp. 10 and 101.
DANDRIDGE, DANSKE. Joy, and Other Poems. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1888. 18mo, pp. 6 and 110.
ROCHE, JAMES JEFFREY. Songs and Satires. Boston: Ticknor and Co., 1887. 16mo, pp. 103.
Ibid. Miscellaneous poems.
THOMPSON, MAURICE. Songs of Fair Weather. Boston: James R. Osgood and Co., 1883. I 2mo, pp. 5 and 99.
THORPE, Rose HARTWICK. Ringing Ballads. Including, Curfew Must Not Ring To-night. Boston: D. Lothrop Co., n. d. c. 1887. 8vo, pp. 115. Illustrated.
GORMAN, GEORGE HINES. Miscellaneous poems.
HARPEL, Oscar H. Poets and Poetry of Printerdom, a collection of original, selected and fugitive lyrics, written by persons connected with printing. Cincinnati: Oscar H. Harpel, 1875. 8vo, pp. 397.
CARLETON, WILL Farm Legends. Illustrated. New York, n. d. C. 1875. Svo, pp. 187.
ALLEN, ELIZABETH AKERS. Poems. Boston: Ticknor and Fields, 1866. 32mo, pp. 6 and 251.
THE MAGAZINE OF POETRY.
MARY MAPES DODGE.
editor of St. Nicholas from the first number of that superb periodical.
Mrs. Dodge's prose writings have been much more voluminous than her verse, but the poetry she has written is among the best of its class. Much of it has been gathered in two volumes: “Rhymes and Jingles,” (1874) for children, and “Along the Way," (1879) for adult readers. She has scattered many other gems “along the way"- a way that no English-speaking boy or girl, of whatever age, can fail to travel with profit and delight.
A. G. B.
The snowflake that softly, all night, is whitening
tree-top and pathway; The avalanche suddenly rushing with darkness
and death to the hamlet.
"HE child-literature of a few years ago referred
mostly to the past-to that remote past in which the fairy and the griffin, the giant and the gnome held sway, and humanity seemed to be gauged by its relation to those fabulous characters of romantic fiction. Following the general movement of the times the writings for children are now largely contemporary in subject, matter and manner. Books for young people and juvenile periodical literature now present an immense range of studies in human life almost to the exclusion of the purely fanciful or fabulous. Boys and girls now study other boys and girls very like themselves, but in environments sometimes almost as strange as those in which Jack the Giant-Killer acted his cyclus of heroic dramas.
In this new literature of youth Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge has shared so liberally, has wrought so diligently, and has led so valiantly that she may justly be regarded as having impressed her own individuality on the child-letters of America to a degree not reached, perhaps, by any other female writer. Her position as the editor of a leading young people's monthly magazine would alone extend her influence far beyond that of the mere writer of children's books; while her writings in prose and verse place her in the front rank of the authors who have enriched English literature in a field that for centuries was almost barren. Mrs. Dodge was born in New York City, in 1838. Her father, Professor James J. Mapes, was private tutor in that city and known as a scientist and author, and we may believe that in childhood she breathed a literary atmosphere.
She was early married to William Dodge, a lawyer of high standing, and left a widow with two sons, one of whom, James Mapes Dodge, has become a successful inventor. She soon turned to literature. With such writers as Donald G, Mitchell and Harriet Beecher Stowe, Mrs. Dodge was one of the earliest editorial writers on the Hearth and Home, and for several years conducted the children's department of that magazine. She wove her fireside stories, told to her boys, into the tales which have made her famous, and has been the
The ray stealing in through the lattice to waken
the day-loving baby; The pitiless horror of light in the sun-smitten
reach of the desert.
The seed with its pregnant surprise of welcome
young leaflet and blossom; The despair of the wilderness tangle, and treach
erous thicket of forest.
The happy west wind as it startles some noon
laden flower from its dreaming; The hurricane crashing its way through the homes
and the life of the valley.
The play of the jetlets of fame when the children
laugh out on the hearth-stone; The town or the prairie consumed in a terrible,
The glide of a wave on the sands with its myriad
sparkle in breaking; The roar and the fury of ocean, a limitless mael
strom of ruin.
Copyright, 1889, by Charles WELLS MOULTON. All rights reserved.
The leaping of heart unto heart with bliss that
can never be spoken; The passion that maddens, and shows how God
may be thrust from His creatures.
For this do I tremble and start when the rose on
the vine taps my shoulder, For this when the storm beats me down my soul
groweth bolder and bolder.
ones, and holding a beautiful little girl on his lap. She looked wonderingly at the spectacle of death, and then inquiringly into the old man's face. You don't know what it is, do you, my dear?' said he, and added, “We don't either.' We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep
and still; The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so
pale and chill; The lids that will not lift again, though we may
call and call; The strange, white solitude of peace that settles
ONCE BEFORE. ONCE before, this self-same air Passed me, though I know not where. Strange! how very like it came! Touch and fragrance were the same; Sound of mingled voices, too, With a light laugh ringing through; Some one moving-here or thereSome one passing up the stair, Some one calling from without, Or a far-off childish shout;Simple, home-like, nothing more, Yet it all hath been before!
We know not what it means, dear, this desolate
heart-pain; This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it
again; We know not to what other sphere the loved who
leave us go, Nor why we 're left to wonder still, nor why we
do not know.
But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they
should come this dayShould come and ask us, "What is life?" not one
of us could say. Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be; Yet oh, how dear it is to us, this life we live and
No. Not to-day, nor yesterday,
Then might they say—these vanished ones—and
blessèd is the thought; "So death is sweet to us, beloved! though we
may show you naught; We may not to the quick reveal the mystery of
deathYe cannot tell us, if ye would, the mystery of
The child who enters life comes not with knowl
edge or intent, So those who enter death must go as little child.
Nothing is known. But I believe that God is
overhead; And as life is to the living, so death is to the
THE TWO MYSTERIES. "In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the deal child, a nephew of the poeto Near it, in a great chair, sat Walt IVhitman, surrounded by little
BY THE LAKE.
The tideless tide that silvers all its edge,
And stirs, yet rouses not, the sleepy sedge,While the glad, busy sky is wide awake, And coves along the shore its fleeting shadows take