The Magazine of Poetry and Literary Review

VI.

Hypocrisy will count not, nor loud vaunts. Ah me! the facts 't would just let fly,

What canst thou do? What hast thou done for God?" Suppose it had the power!

""*Not much, thou holy one; only by every road Of courtin' chaps, when on the sly,

That dirt may be kept from us; from every nook They turned it back an hour;

I thrust it forth-then I'm an accomplished cook! Of weddin's—holdin' tender yet,

Cleanliness, O, Saint! we're told in the good The bride's last virgin grace;

book, Of fun’rals, where it peeped to get

Is next to godliness—one must be clean to cook
A good look at The Face;

Food that will nourish body, mind and soul:
It knows the inside-out o' folks,

I labor Saint, that I may do the whole!"
An' Nature's every freak;

"And is this all to write within the book?"
I'd write a book, if I could coax

“Yea, holy one, pray write me down a cook!" That wise ol' clock to speak!

St. Peter vanished not, but with his holy key

He opened wide the book. “Thy virtue pleases me! VII.

Deeds and not words thou givest to the Lord;
Still straight as any gun it stan's

Enter his palace gates; with one accord
Ag'in the kitchen wall;

Shall mankind bless thee; thou savest more
An' slowly waves its solemn han's

From sin and faithlessness than many saints beOutlivin' of us all!

fore; I venerate some clocks I've seen,

Body and mind and soul! the very trinity of man! As e'en aʼmost sublime:

To make all clean is noble; there are few who can, They form revolvin' links between

Even amongst the best, do more; all goodness Etarnity an' time.

strives An' when you come to take the pains

To banish taint, impurity, untidiness and pride; To strike a dreamy streak,

But to make clean without, keep the soul free The figurative fact remains,

from stain, That all the clocks can speak.

Embue the mind with purity, a constant guard Will CARLETON.

mantain -Ladies' Home Journai, September, 1889.

'Gainst all polluting influences of body, mind and

soul! PASSPORT TO PARADISE.

Sin is a moral filthiness! thou'rt right, cleanse

well the whole; To Lucullus, the Patron Saint of Cooks, who was wise

Saint, preacher, missionary, sure art thou; enough to feed his Singers on Vightingales' Tongues.

Naught is too good for thee; the angels bow "I never expect any sense worth listening to from a man who

Before thy cleanly usefulness, and every man never dares talk nonsense."

Approaches nearer God; if clean, he can My blessed wife! (and may her kind increase) Behold His brightness; if, while on earth, Awoke ore night from a sweet dream of peace, Man gives not way to impious thoughts; if mirth Thinking some better way to bless mankind; Instead of sulkiness cheers his clean table; To give them healthful bodies, strength and mind; Saint, thou'st done much to humanize; thou’rt able To have them loving, patient, thoughtful, kind; To open wide the gates of Paradise ;—there look! To make men love their homes; firmer bind See mankind worshiping the cleanly cook!" The wife and husband; home to make so good “Nay, Saint; forgive, I cannot enter in, That nothing 's wanted but the daily food.

Save with my husband; e'en Paradise without Again she slept; then saw within her room

him
A clean, neat, cook-stove, and a fire in bloom, Would not be perfect; ope again thy book;
Near which Saint Peter stood, with book of gold. I will go back to earth, and there will cook
Exceeding neatness made Frou Percy bold,

Food fit for angels, better than erst the gods And to the Saint within the room she said:

On high Olympus feasted!” “Nay child, these “What writest thou?"' Saint Peter raised his head,

moods And with a look made of all sweet accord

Are needless; has he not freely shared with thee He said: “The names of those who best do serve ! All that thou art, and did? Why, then, he's free the Lord.

To enter Paradise! read in this book: Deeds, and not words, the Heavenly Master Safe is the man who's wife's the best of cooks.'' wants:

PROF. SAMUEL R. PERCY, M. D.

--COLERIDGE.

'Twas God who in the olden time

Fashioned a silver moon, “And this,” He said, “shall be the eye That, when the midnight of the sky

Has overwhelmed the noon, Shall search the earth for love or crime."

Broad wave on wave of scarlet, fleck'd with gold,

Outstretched beneath an opalescent sky,

Wherein pale tints with glowing colors vie; From their birthplace within the sea are rolled Sweet perfumes by the sea-breeze, strong and cold. There white sails gleam, and soft cloud

shadows lie, And isles are kissed by winds that wanton by, Or rocked by gales, in unchecked passion bold.

Locked in by swelling, fir-clad hills, it liesOne stretch of purpling, heaving gold; serene,

It laughs and dimples under sunset skies, Toward which the chaste Olympics, snow-girt,

lean,
And, bathing in that flood of glory, make
Fit setting for that burnished ocean lake.

ELLA HIGGINSON. - Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, Aug. 10,1889.

And all obedient to His word,

But with a pallid fear
Of what the dreadful night would bring,
When every fierce and hidden thing

Might suddenly appear,
The blanching moon looked forth and heard.

And what she saw we do not know,

Or whether 'twas the sight Of Abel lying stiff and cold, Half trodden in the trampled mould,

That filled her with affright, Until she feared her face to show,

And care is sowing my locks with white,

As I wend through the fevered mart.

I'm tired of the world, with its pride and pomp

And fame seems a worthless thing; I'd barter it all for one day's romp,

And a swing in the grapevine swing.

Swinging in the grapevine swing,
Laughing where the wild birds sing-

I would I were away

From the world to-day,
Swinging in the grapevine swing.

SAMUEL MINTURN PECK. --New Orleans Times-Democrat.

SUMMER NIGHT.

On all the outer world, a holy hush,
A soul-entrancing stillness, steeped in light
Of summer moon-rise, clear and purely bright;
After a day of toil and ceaseless rush,

From pallid morn to evening's fev red flush,
Softly descends the cooling breath of night;
In soothing cadence heard, though hid from sight,
The shallow river runs with rippling gush.

In outline clear against the star-lit sky
The high-roofed barn stands dark—the silent trees
Lifting their leafy, shadowy arms on high
Quiver, as dreaming of a swaying breeze;
Cool, dewy fragrance lingers faintly nigh,
A world at peace the lonely gazer sees.

HELEN FAIRBAIRN. — The Week, September 13, 1889.

UNCALENDARED. Only a year have thou and I been friends, If time be counted on our calendar; Away with that! What it begins, it ends; From all eternity, close souls we were, And shall be, so God grant! forevermore, For two were never faster bound before.

“With God, one day is as a thousand years:”
Oh, Love is mighty, God's most blessed name!
The more that man his Maker's image bears
The more must months and æons be the same.
Love knows not time. It is eternity,
And not a year, that I count out with thee!

CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES. - The Century, September, 1839.

POETRY.

PRIZE QUATRAINS.
FIRST PRIZE.

I.
She comes like the husht beauty of the night,

But sees too deep for laughter;
Her touch is a vibration and a light
From worlds before and after.

SECOND PRIZE.

2. Oh, we who know thee know we know thee not,

Thou Soul of Beauty, thou Essential Grace! Yet undeterr'd by baffled speech and thought, The heart stakes all upon thy hidden face.

THIRD PRIZE.

3. God placed a solid rock man's path across,

And bade him climb; but that it might not be Too rough, He wrapped it o'er with tender moss: The rock was Truth, the moss was Poetry.

SPECIAL MENTION.

4. 'Tis the celestial body, in which bideth

The risen Truth-the form most fair and fit, Which doth reveal the soul, and nothing hideth, And the pure spirit doth illumine it.

5. Paean of peace and ancient battle-song,

Love-lyric and pastoral voice thy varied art; Man and the universe to thee belong, Interpreter of Nature and the heart.

6. When Eden's gate was barred, one wingéd wind

Stole out, with the forbidden sweetness fraught; In Poetry it whispers to the mind

And is the fragrance and the flower of Thought.

7. Vision, to see in all created things The imprisoned soul thereof that stirs its wings And voice, that can interpret with a song The rhythmic passion of their flutterings.

8. I am the great Amen, the Flower of Life,

Wherewith when God created me he signed For blessedness, the conquest and the strife,

All rapture and all pain that men should find.

9.
The moon's spell on the wistful deep —
A young bird's call at hour of sleep-
A minor key within the music's strain-
The sound of wind amidst the Autumn rain.

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The Magazine of Poetry and Literary Review, Volume 1