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And now, in verdurous calm, adored of birds,
Circled by flowers and by the tranquil herds

That love beneath my stateliness to browse,
I dream in peace through hours of sun and gloom,
And near unto the Saviour's worshiped tomb,

I wave my soft and sympathizing boughs!

BETRAYED.

I WORSHIPED her in such devout, strong wise,

That all the essence of my soul and brain, Dwelt in the vestal violet of her eyes,

Calm as the ghost-glance of some dead Elaine.

I knew that I alone this gem possessed,

Remembering years of supplication, ere I dared to touch the Mecca of her breast,

Or kiss the tawny Orient of her hair.

I trusted in the smile her pure face wore,

I murmured the sweet gospel of her words, And would have doubted of her love no more

Than summer would have doubted of its birds.

Until, as blind beautitude increased,

Truth's dismal skeleton with subtle art, Sitting beside me at soft passion's feast

Showed me that rank, black infamy, her heart.

Ah God! no hells have torment to compare

With the mad nameless pain I suffered then, That mental crucifixion of despair

Must be alike to Adam's anguish, when,

For the first time he saw in Eden's bloom

The luminous day he thought was ever bright, Sworn by slow changes to the twilight's gloom,

And die on the black voids of boundless night.

“PERSIA." A WORLD of radiant roses far and wide,

Clasps in its red embrace fair Ispahan; Which like a veiled and flower-wooed virgin bride,

Blushes behind her scandal-smelling fan.

Looped on the Zandrood's stream the city lies,

A marvel of marble, whose white minarets, One maze of arabesque, assault the skies,

Until the admiring sun, reluctant sets.

There, through yon open palace window, hear

The satrap's favorites chatting with their birds; Tuned to the low Kinoors, young voices clear,

Warble sweet Saadi in soft Persian words.

One dainty hou ri tips each lash with Khol,

While eunuchs comb her tresses' liberal jet, And with henné-stained fingers almées roll

· The fragrant, gold Latakieh cigarette.

Pale Schiraz buds adorn each silk divan,

Odors of benzoin scent the morning air; And tales from Hafiz or the Gulistan,

Are softly syllabled by poets there.

And as I watch these fair Badouros play

In drowsy grace, with amulets and curls, I see in fancy, pass this sunny way,

Some young Aladdin, scattering gold and pearls!

POSTHUMOUS REVENGE. He who had marred my life in cruel wise,

The one I loathed, my one malignant foe, Lay mute before me, never more to rise,

Pierced to his falsest heart by one quick blow.

With hate ineffable, with withering scorn,

I guarded there his carrion, dank and dead; And, till the misty advent of the morn,

Gazed in his dull, unanswering eyes of lead.

But, not content, with rage that nothing daunts

I hissed into his ear my joy of crime, With haughty insults, with infernal taunts,

And all that rabid hate can make sublime.

And then, O God! while I stood fearless there,

Alone in that deserted, sullied place, I heard, heard a murmur of despair,

A hot, swift something struck me on the face!

Pallid with anger I did quickly turn

To chastise and to crush my foe unknown; I felt the warm blood on my forehead burn;

But oh! avenging God! we were alone.

Then horror held me, while I nothing saw;

I sank unto my knees without control, For I had understood at last, in awe,

That what had struck me was his outraged soul!

ANANKÉ.

A TREE is blooming in some distant grove,
A mammoth oak whose branches pierce the

sky,
Peopled with birds, where agile squirrels rove,

Where owlets hoot, and where the eagles die.

A maid is seated in a dreary room,

Her drearier thoughts are far, ah! far away, While with a heart immersed in utter gloom

She weaves a cerement till the close of day.

Fair flowers are sleeping in the frozen ground

Until spring beckons them in ways unseen, To aid the glory of new Nature crowned,

And, star-like, light the meadow's dewy green. A block of marble in a quarry lies,

Inert, unfeeling, in its silent sleep,
While o'er it, roaring thro' the sombre skies,

The wintry winds their doleful vigils keep.

.

No bizarre brain as yet had ever wrought

This odd, wierd wonder into shape, and few

Could from the stores of Fancy bring to view
A whim to equal this, to me untaught!
Its radiant advent thrilled me with delight,
But, as I dreamed, I heard a sad voice say:

“I who am living in a spirit home
With the same thought that pleasures thee to-night
Charmed grim Tiberius through a festal day,
And made tumultuous laughter roar throuçk

Rome !"

GRAVES.

From that same tree my coffin will be wrought,
Kind hands will place that flower upon my

head;
The maiden's work will be the shroud I sought,

The marble block will hold me with the dead.

TOO LATE.

The sad night-wind, sighing o'er sea and strand,

Haunts the cold marble where Napoleon sleeps; O'er Charlemagne's bones, far in the northern

land, A vigil through the centuries it keeps: O'er Grecian kings its plaintive music sweeps,

Proud Philip's dust is by its dark wings fanned,
And near old Pharaoh's, deep in desert sand,
Where the grim Sphinx leers to the stars, it

creeps.
Yet weary it is of this chill, spectral gloom,

For moldering grandeur it can have no care.
Rich mausoleums in their granite doom,

It fain would leave to wander on elsewhere, To cool the violets upon Gautier's tomb,

And lull the long grass over Baudelaire.

(A SONG.)
Joy stood upon my threshold, mild and fair,
With lilies in her hair.
I bade her enter, as she turned to go.

She answered, “No."

Fortune once tarried at my porch,
And lit it with her torch.
I asked her fondly, “ Have you come to stay?"

She answered, “Nay.”

THE BAYADERE.

Fame, robed in spotless white, before me came,
I longed her kiss to claim.
I told her how her presence I revered-

She disappeared

Love came at last. How pure! how sweet!
With roses at her feet.
I begged her all her bounty to bestow-

She answered, "No."
Since then, Joy, Fortune, Love and Fame,
Have come my soul to claim.
I see them smiling everywhere-

But do not care.

Near strange, weird temples, where the Ganges*

tide
Bathes domed Delhi, I watch, by spice-trees

fanned,
Her agile form in some quaint saraband;
A marvel of passionate chastity and pride!
Nude to the lions, superb, and leopard-eyed,

With redolent roses in her jeweled hand!

Before some haughty Rajah, mute and grand, Her flexile torso bends, her white feet glide!

The dull kinoors throb one monotonous tune, And, mad with motion, as in a hasheesh trance, Her scintillant eyes in vague, ecstatic charm,

Burn like black stars below the Orient moon. While the sauve, dreamy languor of the dance Lulls the grim drowsy cobra on her arm!

ORIGINALITY.

THE IDEAL.

Once, as I pondered o'er strange books, and

sought From secrets of the past a knowledge new,

Within my mind enthralled there sudden grew The perfect germ of a stupendous thought!

Toil on, poor muser, to attain that goal

Where Art conceals its grandest, noblest prize;
Count every tear that dims your aching eyes,

MARTHA PEARSON SMITH.

M

ARTHA PEARSON SMITH is a native of

North Conway, N. H., daughter of John M. and Laura Emery Pearson. Her earlier years were spent in the beautiful region of the White Mountains. At the age of seven her parents removed to Boston, Mass., where they remained four years. At the age of ten the family removed to Covington, Ky. Mrs. Smith remained in Kentucky until the fall of 1857, when she went to Minnesota. In 1859 she was married to Edson R. Smith of Le Sueur, and has resided there ever since. They have three sons. Mr. Smith is a prominent banker and mill-owner, and has filled various responsible places of trust, among them that of state senator.

In personal appearance, Mrs. Smith is of medium height and weight, with brown hair and eyes (though the former is now threaded with silver), with a sweet, noble face.

Mrs. Smith has written much for publication, and many of her poems have been set to music. She is a warm champion of the cause of temperance, and has done much to advance the movement in her adopted state.

E. M. S.

JENNY AND I.
The sunbeams lay in golden drifts

Among the blooming heather,
When we strolled down the woodland path-

My love and I together.
It was a summer afternoon;

Oh! never skies were bluer!
Oh! never hearts more warmly beat!

Oh! never hearts were truer!

Count all the years that seem as days, and roll

The death-tides slowly on; count all your sighs; Search the wide, wondrous earth from pole to pole, Tear unbelief from out your martyred soul;

Succumb not, chase despondency, be wise; Work, toil, and struggle with the brush or pen, Revel in rhyme, strain intellect and ken;

Live on and hope despite man's sceptic leers; Praise the Ideal with your every breath,

Give it life, youth and glory, blood and tears, And to possess it pay its tribute-Death.

PASTEL.

AMONG the priceless gems and treasures rare,

Old Versailles shelters in its halls sublime, I can recall one faded image fair,

A girl's sad face, praised once in every clime. Poets have sung, in rich and happy rhyme,

Her violet eyes, the wonder of her hair; An art-bijou it was, but dimmed by time,

A dreamy pastel of La Valliere.

I, too, remember in my heart, a face
Whose charm I deemed would ever with me

dwell; But, as the days went by, its peerless grace Fled like those dreams that blooming dawns

dispel, Till of its beauty there was left no trace,

Time having blurred it like that pale pastel.

DEATH. Down, down into the solemn depths and dim, Onward through oozing vaults and windings

drear, To please the morbid fever of my whim,

I wandered, resolute, and without fear. Enormous Golgothas of mildewed bones,

With reeking skeletons, corrupt and bare, l'pon the Ossuary's humid stones

In awful symmetry, lay everywhere. And, in the slimy horror of the sight,

My heart grew warm, while trepidation fled; And the vague dawning of a strange delight Came o'er me there among the crowded dead.

- The Catacombs of Paris.

LONGFELLOW, Thou art gone to join the countless hosts of

shadows, But thy sweetness will triumphantly remain, Like the perfume of the violets on the meadow, Made refreshing by the ripple of a rain!

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

And when we reached the rustic bridge

That spanned the brooklet over, Where breezes from the meadow fields

Brought up the scent of clover, And robins sang the livelong day

Their love-songs, bright and cheery, Somehow, before I knew, my heart

Ran o'er with love's sweet query.

Her eyes were hid 'neath drooping lids,

Like violets 'neath the mosses, And while I spoke, her bonny cheek

Was redder than the roses;And sweet her voice that murmured when

I drew her to me, nearer: • What e'er betides--what e'er befalls

I'll only love thee dearer."

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Though years have flown I cannot think

That I am growing older,-
That 'neath the light of Jenny's eye

Each winter's snow grows colder,-
For we are walking hand in hand

As we have walked together Through all the ills and joys that came

With dark or sunny weather.

When we shall cross the shining stream

That glimmers just before us,
And, hand in hand, still journey on,

While heavenly skies smile o'er us,
There, roaming o'er bright sunny fields

'Mid breaths of fadeless clover, I know that we shall love to talk

Our beauteous day-dream over.

HOPE ON! HOPE EVER!

Why weep in woe! and seem to be

Of grief and sorrow fond,
Nor try to pierce the darkling clouds,

To catch a glimpse beyond?
But just above those sorrow clouds,

The golden sunbeams stay;
Then why not mount on wings of faith,

And bid them round thee play?

Oh, is it right to.fold thy hands

In mute and calm despair, To sit thee down in idleness,

And brood on naught but care?
Oh no! our mission is designed

A brother's lot to cheer;
His griefs to soothe, his wounds to bind,

While on our journey here.

Then grieve not, friend, when troubles come,

Nor fear to sorrow meet;
But look to God, and humbly bow

In resignation sweet.
Thine eye is not the only one

That's bathed in sorrow's tear;
Some other heart in grief is bowed,

Which thou might help to cheer.

Go, find that heart less blest than thine,

And pour within his ear
Sweet words of peace, and comfort too,

With sympathizing cheer.
Then shalt thou find a happiness

Around thy being thrown;
The peace diffused in others' hearts

Shall make more blest thine own.

The flowers along the pathways droop

As if with hidden grief,
The fields no longer wear the green,

Nor hold the smiling sheaf.
The woods have dropped their gala robes,

And donned the sober brown;
Where birds late sung, I hear the plaint
Of dead leaves dropping down.

-An Autumn Cloud.

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