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The world its battle still repeats,
Its hero conquers and retreats,
No more in conquests than defeats

Abides the crown the victor wins.

I COULD not choose but gaze

And then thank God!
So goddess-like her figure was, so sure

The poise of her imperial head,
So firm and white her shapely throat, so pure

The calm, harmonious curves that fed My eyes with rest and art's content secure: Ingrate were I to gaze

And not thank God.

The world its palling pageant shifts; Its actors change, its purpose drifts, Its lances droop, its banner lifts:

It ends not, but fore'er begins.

For beauty is His gift,

In flesh or stone:
Statue of Milo, that superbly glows,

The ideal woman sublimate, -
Or that supreme of Michael Angelo's,

The wondrous Night, who holds in state The pregnant secret of divine repose, The seeing soul uplift

Toward His own!

WITH A COPY OF SHAKESPEARE. This is the deep profound that imports man;

His shoals, his rapids, all are chartered here; There is no joy of voyage and no fear

That is not bodied in this mighty plan. He knew where the sweet springs of love began,

And whence the fires of hate and horror peer, What wakens merriment, and how appear

The raging passions that bewitch and ban. Herein behold how nobly souls may mount,

How basely fall; and see as well how sweet

The common rill of human life may run,
It is at once the ocean and the fount;

The compass of our triumph and defeat;
The heart of earth, the splendor of the sun.

So, stranger of to-day,

You serve me well: Your temperate eyes, lit by a tranquil joy,

Beneath brows shaded by a past Wherein life was not found a bauble toy,

Your tender mouth, whose full lips fast Hold yet the kisses of your baby boy,O stranger of a day,

You serve me well!

Aye, beauty is of God

And speaks His praise.
The marble glory of the sculptor fills

The inspiration of His deed;
The living woman from His grace distills

A grace whereon the soul doth feed; And each and all are but the tribute rills Unto the stream of God

Which flows always.

Yet will I dream, for dreams are sweet;

A respite from the depth of doubt

Within my visions seeks me out,
And weary moments fleet.
They fleet; I fly in revery

To joy within th' unreal past

Too dear to lose, too sweet to last, Enshrined in memory.

-“Le Désir."

What is there in the strife of earth,-

Ah, what in all we get, he asks,
That after all is better worth

Than just home-coming after tasks? 'Tis this for which the heavens rise,

The sun shines and the rains descend; For this the nations agonize

And laws are made and tyrants end. The busy medley of the world,

Where myriads work and idlers roam, In order ranged, in chaos whirled, Exists — to make a human home.


THE PAGEANT. The world its treasures freely opes For him that climbs and him that gropes; But he alone who scorns their hopes,

Lives on beyond the realm of graves.

The world all that it hath reveals,
But its great exit darkly seals;
Hero or coward,-each one feels

In night the solemn clew that saves.


full social and domestic life. Yet none of her work is hurried, or marred by over haste and a desire to see it in print. Many of her poems have, no doubt, been written at her summer retreat at Camp Elsinore, charmingly situated on the Upper St. Regis Lake, in the Adirondacks.

Mrs. Coates is still a young woman, with a beautiful, brilliant face and a charming manner. Those who know her best, if called upon to give the final touch in describing her, would be inclined to add, that of her many gifts, her most fortunate endowment is, perhaps, that of being a delightful conversationalist.

E. O. K.

DEATH. I am the key that parts the gates of Fame; I am the cloak that covers cowering Shame; I am the final goal of every race; I am the storm-tossed spirit's resting-place:

The messenger of sure and swift relief, Welcomed with wailings and reproachful grief; The friend of those that have no friend but me I break all chains, and set all captives free.

I am the cloud that, when Earth's day is done,

FLORENCE EARLE COATES. 'HE poetry of Florence Earle Coates is charac

terized by a genuineness, a sincerity, a grasp of the deeper meanings of life, which show that her utterances come from no mere graceful impulse to poetize her impressions of the world and of herself, but rest on the sober foundation of a real experience and a clear analysis of the passion and aspirations that move humanity. She takes her subject not to embellish it with charming conceits, but to draw from it thoughts of joy, of strength, of consolation. The critic, finding in her writings much to denote that they are the product of a mature and disciplined mind, might ask how it happens that so comparatively untried a writer has learned to discard the fluent versification which generally accompanies the passionate enthusiasm of youth, and mastered so firm and delicate a method, so fastidious a selfrestraint. The truth is that Mrs. Coates's first strong artistic bent found its expression in other arts than that of poetry. A Philadelphian by birth, and carefully educated both in this country and in Europe, at an early age she attained a high degree of excellence as a musician. In addition to technical skill, and delicacy and precision of style, she possessed an insight and power of interpretation of the great masters, denied to all but real artists. Besides being an exquisite musician, she was endowed with rare dramatic talent. The special needs and aspirations of the poet developed later. The writings of Matthew Arnold were a great inspiration to her. Later she was destined to know the master who had revealed so much to her, and to receive from him sympathy and encouragement. At their house in Germantown, which was his home during his visits to Philadelphia, Mr. and Mrs. Coates formed with him a friendship which lasted until his death. Mrs. Coates has acknowledged her debt to Mr. Arnold in many ways, and has perhaps in manner of treatment and in large utterance gained something from him.

Florence Earle Coates belongs to a well-known Philadelphia family; the founder, Ralph Earle, having come from England to America in 1634. Her father, George H. Earle, is an eminent lawyer, and her grandfather, Thomas Earle, was noted as a philanthropist and a worker for the public good. Her husband, Edward H. Coates, is a well-know and influential man, and is connected with a number of the charitable and other institutions of Philadelphia. He is chairman of the schools of the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, and is one of the most generous patrons of art and artists. What time Mrs. Coates is able to give to her literary pursuits, is snatched from the duties and obligations of an unusually

I am the brooding hush that follows strife,
The waking from a dream that Man calls — Lise!

REJECTED. The World denies her prophets with rash breath,

Makes rich her slaves, her flatterers adorns; To Wisdom's lips she presses drowsy death,

And on the brow Divine a crown of thorns. Yet blesséd, though neglected and despised —

Who for the World himself hath sacrificed, Who hears unmoved her witless mockery,

While to his spirit, slighted and misprised, Whisper the voices of Eternity!


I will be still; The terror drawing nigh Shall startle from my lips no coward cry; Nay, though the night my deadliest dread fulfil,

I will be still.

For oh! I know. Though suffering hours delay, Yet to Eternity they pass away, Carrying something onward as they flow,

Outlasting woe!

Night's eastern curtains were still closely drawn;

No roseate flush predicted pomps to be,

Or spoke of morning loveliness to me. But, for those happy birds, the night was gone! Darkling they sang, nor guessed what care con


Man's questioning spirit; heedless of decay They sang of joy and dew-embalmed blooms. My doubts grew still, doubts seemed so poor

while they, Sweet worshippers of light, from leafy glooms

Poured forth transporting prophecies of Day.

Didst thou rejoice because the day was fair,-

Because, in orient splendor newly dressed,
On flowering glebe and bloomless mountain-

crest The sun complacent smiled? Ah! didst thou dare The careless rapture of that bird to share

Which, soaring toward the dawn from dewy nest, Hailed it with song? From Ocean's treacherous

breast Didst borrow the repose mild-mirrored there? Thou foolish heart! Behold! the light is spent; Rude thunders shake the crags; songs timorous

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Yes, something won;
The harvest of our tears —
Something unfading, plucked from fading years;
Something to blossom on beyond the sun,

From Sorrow won.

The agony,

So hopeless now of balm,
Shall sleep at last, in light as pure and calm,
As that wherewith the stars look down on thee,


Full slow to part with her best gifts is Fate;

The choicest fruitage comes not with the spring,
But still for summer's mellowing touch must wait,
For storms and tears that seasoned excellence

bring: And Love doth fix his joyfulest estate In hearts that have been hushed 'neath Sorrow's

brooding wing. Youth sues to Fame: coldly she answers, “ Toil!"

He sighs for Nature's treasures: with reserve Responds the goddess, " Woo them from the soil."

Then fervently he cries, “ Thee will I serve, Thee only, blissful Love." With proud recoil The heavenly boy replies, “ To serve me well


Lo! with what moan and mutinous lament

Ocean his pent-up passions doth release!
O thou who seeketh sure and fixed content,
Search in thy soul: there find some source of



As when the imperial bird wide-circling soars

From his lone eyry, towered above the seas

That wash the wild and rugged Hebrides,
A force which he unconsciously adores
Bounds the majestic flight that heaven explores,
And droops his haughty wing,- as when the

Tempts to o'erleap their changeless boundaries
The waves that tumble, foaming, to those shores,
So thou, my soul! impatient of restriction,

With deathless hopes and longings all aglow,
Aspirest still, and still the stern prediction

Stays thee, as them, “ No further shalt thou go!"
But, ah! the eagle feels not thine affliction,
Nor can the broken waves thy disappointment


" RESPECT the Future, which belongs to me!

So speak thy yearning and imperious will,

Making the Present distant faiths fulfil, And raised from falling kingdoms — Germany.

No idle name, no doubtful dream to thee

That Future: actual, its clasp grown chill,

It led thee, and thy soul sublimed it still, – Heir of a more than earthly dynasty!

O didst thou think, untimely called to rest,

The preparation of a life o'erthrown-
To lose what thou so bravely didst resign?


I woke and heard the thrushes sing at dawn,

A strangely blissful burst of melody,

A chant of rare, exultant certainty,
Fragrant, as springtime breaths, of wood and lawn.

Forevermore the Fatherland shall own

Her nobler liberties thy dear bequest:
The future thy great spirit saw

was thine!

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