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O'erwise is but a fool; o'erbold may prove A pitiful champion.

-Helena in Troas,


What was he, man or more, whose valorous brain
Endured anew the throes of Zeus, and wrought
Glad self-deliverance when this virgin thought
Leaped forth full-armed to ease creation's pain?
Waste is that womb of gods; thou dost remain
Orphaned, alone. So stood grave Pallas, fraught
With radiant power, and gazed her foes to

Calm sentinel of her Athenian fane!
August, serene, austere, thou marble dream
Of her, the holiest life of living Greece,
Terrible Maid! did thy creator bow
In a sublime abasement, when the beam
Of thy full beauty awed his hand to cease —
Transfigured by stern love — as I do now?


But one short week ago the trees were bare,
And winds were keen, and violets pinched with

Winter was with us; but the larches tost
Lightly their crimson buds, and here and there
Rooks cawed. To-day the Spring is in the air
And in the blood: sweet sun-gleams come

Fraud dreams on fraud, and finds what it suspects.

- lbid.

Thou swift majestic orb, orb of the sun,
Whose rising none can hasten, none delay,
Before whose eager face flee the pale stars
And melancholy clouds, and the wan moon
Withers in heaven! O terrible spirit of day,
Lord of all winds that heal men or destroy,
Of light and of the lightning; bringer of cool
Dew from the wandering wells of the great deep
To nourish the tender buds; pourer of hail
And floods of thunderous rain on harvest fields;
Fosterer with warmth, parcher with furious heat,
Hear me, for I ani thine!

Who may divide the evil from the good,
Or in the bud, or in the perfect flower?

- Ibid.
O luckless day, of many a luckless day
The last and direst! I have lived too long.


In sordid hopes and fears,
Of mortal lots the worst, the life of him
Who strives, and waits his day of strife supreme;
Who gathers wisdom for the mightier strife
Among his broken weapons; tames his soul
To learn its valor's rage, then with each power
Poised and keen shining like Athena's spear,
To assault the golden portals of success,
Finds but Death waiting there, with bitter waste
To snatch him from the needy world unknown.


Yet her lean dugs, Which nursed the whelps of greatness, ne'er run

dry Of milk that feeds ambition.

- The True Tragedy of Rienzi.

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WEARIED in spirit, jaded and opprest
With splendor of too huge sublimity,
By a clear streamlet I was fain to lie,
Under the shadowy spruces; lulled to rest
By the leaves' murmurous melodies, and possest
With still, reflected glimpses of gray sky.
Upon my soul there fell refreshfully
A dew of the woods, till, with a childish zest,
I filled my hands with loveliest Alpine flowers,
And flung them to the stream. Then forth

I went,
And met the crowned mountains face to face -
Strong to aspire with their exultant powers,
Able to worship in that holy place
In rapture of an infinite content.


And now I fling My life into the current of your love, To bear me where it will — content and proud If I have earned your grace in what I do.


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story of

The rosiest hopes Smile at us with the dreadful eyes of death.

--Ibid. PROSPERITY. Prosperity and peace, twin flowers of spring, Break from the wintry world, and warn old Time To turn for happier hours his tardy glass.

-Ibid. LIFE.

But cheapen not
The worth of our lived lives — the toils, the dangers,
The woes, despairs, defeats, that we have known,
And made so dear by sharing. That fair past,
Bought with our deedful days, is all our own,
The unpurchased future slave to no man's power.


To meet her look,
Sad as Demeter's with its weight of love,
Was to grow pure; the melody of her smile
Was silent blessing. I was never rich
In happy thoughts of life till I saw her.


A woman's love,
Being a thing of visions and surrenders,
Will live on relics, and maintain its bliss
By communing with ghosts. A man's must have
A visible handmaid, for its daily wants
And passionate exactions.


O woman, woman,
What should we be without thee; and what things
Thy wantonness makes of us! They are burrs

not anchors They cannot hold us long.


The man
Who gives the flout to sorrow is a god.

Joy is the golden honey of the wise,

The nectar of the strong. O fool forlorn,
From all the fullness that about thee lies
Suck joy, and be new-born!

- Waterfall.
Lithe as a cat, eager as the young year.

Small need for talk when breathing is delight.



Dr. Sumner Laughton, was born in Orono, Maine, January 15, 1836. One year later the family removed to Foxcroft, where, in due time, she entered the academy, and we hear of her at the early age of ten years engaged in the study of Latin, and two years later writing verses of rare merit, found worthy of publication. Of her life at this time she has said, “Mine was a silent dreamy childhood haunted by visions of impossible poems.” When fourteen years of age, living in Bangor, she was graduated from the High School there, afterward studying German and music under private teachers. Meanwhile the attention of the New York Journal of Commerce was drawn toward her work, this proving the first step in her advancement toward the position in literature since attained. She was but eighteen years of age when she sent forth to the world, through the Waterville Mail, under the signature" Inez,” her far-famed hymn, “Only Waiting,” the text of which was furnished by a friend's recital of the

very aged man at the alms-house, who, being asked what he was doing now, replied, "Only waiting!" This hymn being copied far and wide, inquiries for its authorship became urgent. One and another laid claim to it, the most persistent of whom was a certain Western woman, whose right for a time was almost unquestioned. In 1878, twenty-five years after its first appearance, full proofs of Mrs. Mace's authorship were accepted by Dr. James Martineau, when her claim was established beyond a cavil.

At nineteen years of age, she married Mr. Benjamin F. Mace, a well-known lawyer of Bangor, remaining in that city until 1885, when they removed to San José, Cal., where they now reside. After marriage came the years of motherhood, with all that sacred word is capable of holding of love and loss, of joy and sorrow. Four out of the eight children given them were removed by death. But when the latest-born had entered its second year, the old clear fountain of poetry, which had run mostly underground during twenty years, sprang up afresh, and

Israfil” was written, appearing with illustrations in Harper's Magazine, winning for her genius quick recognition, and advancing her toward the front rank of singers. Since then her poems have found place in most of our leading magazines and journals. In 1883 a collection of poems were published in a volume entitled “Legends, Lyrics, and Sonnets," soon followed by a second edition, enlarged and extended.

Of commanding presence, with a certain statuesque calm evident to all who approach her, she is, withal, so genial, so true in her instincts, so strong in her affections, so alive to all beauty and good

Flushes the trailing arbutus

Low under the forest leaves, A sign that the drowsy goddess

The breath of her Lord perceives. While He suffered, her pulse beat numbly,

While He slept, she was still with pain; But now He awakes — He has risen

Her beauty shall bloom again.

O hark! in the budding woodlands,

Now far, now near, is heard The first prelusive warble

Of rivulet and of bird. O listen! the Jubilate

From every bough is poured, And earth in the smile of the springtime Arises to greet her Lord!

Radiant goddess Aurora!

Open the chambers of dawn;
Let the Hours like a garland of graces

Encircle the chariot of morn.
Thou dost herald no longer Apollo,

The god of the sunbeam and lyre ; The pride of his empire is ended,

And pale is his armor of fire. From a loftier height than Olympus

Light flows, — from the Temple above, And the mists of old legends are scattered

In the dawn of the Kingdom of Love. Come forth from the cloudland of fable,

For day in full splendor make room, For a triumph that lost not its glory

As it paused in the sepulchre's gloom.

She comes! the bright goddess of morning,

In crimson and purple array
Far down on the hill-tops she losses

The first golden lilies of day
O'er the mountains her sandals are glowing,

O'er the valleys she speeds on the wing,
Till earth is all rosy and radiant
For the feet of the new-risen King.

Open the gates of the Temple;

Spread branches of balm and of bay;
Let not the spirits of Nature

Alone deck the Conqueror's way.
While Spring from her death-sleep arises,

And joyous His presence awaits,
While Morning's smile lights up the Heavens,

Open the Beautiful Gates!

ness, that one cannot in his estimate separate the woman from the poet. Seldom indeed does the inward harmony find its visible outward expression as in her. It kindles in the eye, writes itself upon the features, radiates from the smile, gives tone to movement and voice -- even to silence itself, which is often the highest wisdom.

In 1888, a volume of her latest work was published with the title “Under Pine and Palm," adding to her well-won reputation. Her pen is still active. While the snows of our North-land lie cold and heavy along the unsunned spaces, she is sitting on her veranda at Palm-tree Lodge, in the shade of the pepper-tree, capturing the song of the meadow lark, and painting word-pictures for us where

"Almonds are in bloom,
And snow-white fields alive with rich perfume."

C. D. H.

THE HELIOTROPE. SOMEWHERE 'tis told that in an Eastern land, Clasped in the dull palm of a mummy's hand A few light seeds were found: with wondering

And words of awe was lifted up the prize.

And much they marveled what could be so dear
Of herb or flower as to be treasured here,
What sacred vow had made the dying keep
So close this token for his last long sleep.
None ever knew, but in the fresh, warm earth
The cherished seeds sprang to a second birth,
And eloquent once more with love and hope
Burst into bloom the purple heliotrope.

Embalmed, perhaps, with sorrow's fiery tears,
Out of the silence of a thousand years
It answered back the passion of the past
With the pure breath of perfect peace at last.

O pulseless heart! as ages pass, sleep well!
The purple flower thy secret will not tell,
But only to our eager quest reply,
“Love, hidden in the grave, can never die."


Ostera! spirit of springtime,

Awake from thy slumbers deep!
Arise! and with hands that are glowing,

Put off the white garments of sleep!
Make thyself fair, O goddess!

In new and resplendent array,
For the footsteps of Him who has risen

Shall be heard in the dawn of day.

He is here! the long watches are over,

The stone from the grave rolled away;

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