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II. Death said, I gather, and pursued his way. Another stood by me, a shape in stone, Sword-hacked and iron-stained, with breasts of

clay, And metal veins that sometimes fiery shone: O Life, how naked and how hard when known!

III. Life said, As thou hast carved me, such am I. Then memory, like the nightjar on the pine, And sightless hope, a woodlark in night sky, Joined notes of Death and Life till night's decline: Of Death, of Life, those in wound notes are mine.

IV. But, to see the poor darling go limping for miles

To read books to sick people!-and just of an age When girls learn the meaning of ribands and

smiles ! Makes me feel like a squirrel that turns in a cage. The more I push thinking the more I revolve:

I never get farther:-and as to her face, It starts up when near on my puzzle I solve, And says, “This crush'd body seems such a sad case.'

V. Not that she's for complaining: she reads to earn

pence; And from those who can't pay, simple thanks are

enough. Does she leave lamentation for chaps without

sense ? Howsoever, she's made up of wonderful stuff. Ay, the soul in her body must be a stout cord:

She sings little hymns at the close of the day, Though she has but three fingers to lift to the Lord, And only one leg to kneel down with to pray.

VI. What I ask is, Why persecute such a poor dear, If there's Law above all ? Answer that if you

can ! Irreligious I'm not; But I look on this sphere

As a place where a man should just think like a




I. THERE she goes up the street with her book in her

hand, And her Good morning, Martin! Ay, lass, how

d'ye do? Very well, thank you, Martin!—I can't understand!

I might just as well never have cobbled a shoe! I can't understand it. She talks like a song;

Her voice takes your ear like the ring of a glass; She seems to give gladness while limping along, Yet sinner ne'er suffer'd like that little lass.

II. First, a fool of a boy ran her down with a cart. Then, her fool of a father-a blacksmith by

tradeWhy the deuce does he tell us it half broke his

heart ! His heart!- where's the leg of the poor little

maid ! Well, that's not enough; they must push her down.

stairs, To make her go crooked: but why count the list ? If it's right to suppose that our human affairs Are all ordered by heaven-there, bang goes my fist !

III. For if angels can look on such sights-never mind!

When your next to blaspheming, it's best to be

It isn't fair dealing! But, contrariwise,

Do bullets in battle the wicked select ? Why, then it's all chance-work! And yet, in her

eyes, She holds a fixed something by which I am checked.

Yonder riband of sunshine aslope on the wall,

If you eye it a minute 'll have the same look : So kind! and so merciful! God of us all!

It's the very same lesson we get from the Book. Then, is Life but a trial? Is that what is meant ? Some must toil, and some perish, for others

below; The injustice to each spreads a common content; Ay! I've lost it again, for it can't be quite so.

VIII. She's the victim of fools: that seems nearer the

mark. On earth there are engines and numerous fools. Why the Lord can permit them, we're still in the

dark; He does, and in some sort of way they're his



The parson declares that her woes weren't de

signed; But, then, with the parson it's all kingdom

come. Lose a leg, save a soul-a convenient text;

I call it Tea doctrine, not savoring of God. When poor little Molly wants ‘chastening,' why,


The Archangel Michael might taste of the rod.


It's a roundabout way, with respect let me add,

If Molly goes crippled that we may be taught: But, perhaps, it's the only way, though it's so bad; In that case we'll bow down our heads,-as we ought.

IX. But the worst of me is, that when I bow my head,

I perceive a thought wriggling away in the dust, And I follow its tracks, quite forgetful, instead,

Of humble acceptance: for, question I must ! Here's a creature made carefully-carefully made! Put together with craft, and then stamped on,

and why? The answer seems nowhere: it's discord that's

The sky's a blue dish!-an implacable sky!

Stop a moment. I seize an idea from the pit.

They tell us that discord, though discord, alone,
Can be harmony when the notes properly fit:
Am I judging all things from a single false

tone? Is the Universe one immense Organ, that rolls From devils to angels? I'm blind with the

sight. It pours such a splendor on heaps of poor souls!

I might try at kneeling with Molly to-night.

He grasps a blade, not always by the hilt.
Nathless she strikes at random, can be fell
With other than those votaries she deals,
The black or brilliant from her thunder-rift.
I say but that this love of Earth reveals
A soul beside our own to quicken, quell,
Irradiate, and through ruinous floods uplift.

'Tis true the wisdom that my mind exacts
Through contemplation from a heart unbent
By many tempests may be stained and rent:
The summer flies it mightily attracts.
Yet they seem choicer than your sons of facts,
Which scarce give breathing of the sty's content
For their diurnal carnal nourishment :
Which treat with Nature in official pacts.
The deader body Nature could proclaim.
Much life have neither. Let the heavens of wrath
Rattle, then both scud scattering to froth.
But during calms the flies of idle aim
Less put the spirit out, less baffle thirst
For light than swinish grunters, blest or curst.


EARTH'S SECRET. Not solitarily in fields we find Earth's secret open, though one page is there ; Her plainest, such as children spell, and share With bird and beast; raised letters for the blind. Not where the troubled passions toss the mind, In turbid cities, can the key be bare. It hangs for those who hither thither fare, Close interthreading nature with our kind. They, hearing History speak, of what men were, And have become, are wise. The gain is great In vision and solidity; it lives. Yet at a thought of life apart from her, Solidity and vision lose their state, For Earth, that gives the milk, the spirit gives.

Fear of silence made them strive
Loud in warrior-hymns that grew
Hoarse for slaughter yet unwrecked.

- The Nuptials of Attila. BEAUTY

And she, most fair,
Sweet as victory half-revealed.

- lbid. TWILIGHT. Mother of the dews, dark eye-lashed twilight,

Low-lidded twilight, o'er the valley's brim, Rounding on thy breast sings the dew-delighted

skylark Clear as though the dewdrops had their voice in him.

- Love In The Valley.

GOSSIP. Gossips count her faults; they scour a narrow

chamber Where there is no other window, read not heaven

or her. “ When she was tiny," one aged woman quavers,

Plucks at my heart and leads me hy the ear. Faults she had once as she learnt to run and

tumbled: Faults of feature some see, beauty not complete. Yet, good gossips, beauty that makes holy Earth and air, may have faults from head to feet.

- lbid.


I. Of me and of my theme think what thou wilt: The song of gladness one straight bolt can check. But I have never stood at Fortune's beck : Were she and her light crew to run atilt At my poor holding little would be spilt; Small were the praise for singing o'er that wreck. Who courts her doom to strife his bended neck;


The soft night-wind went laden to death,

With smell of the orange in flower;
The light leaves prattled to neighbor ears;
The bird of the passion sang over his tears;
The night named hour by hour.

- The Young Princess.

WATER. Water, first of singer's, o'er rocky mount and mead,

First of earthly singer's, the sun-loved rill, Sang of him, and flooded the ripples on the reed,

Seeking whom to waken and what ear to fill. Water, sweetest soother to kiss a wound and cool,

Sweetest and divinest, the sky-born brook, Chuckled, with a whimper, and made a mirror

pool Round the guest we welcomed, the strange hand shook.

- Phabus with Admetus.

FRANCE. Immortal Mother of a mortal host! Thou suffering of wounds that will not slay, Wounds that bring death but take not life away! Stand fast and hearken while thy victors boast: Hearken, and loathe that music evermore. Slip loose thy garments woven of pride and shame: The torture lurks in them, with them the blame Shall pass to leave thee purer than before. Cndo thy jewels, thinking whence they came, For what, and of the abominable name Of her who in imperial beauty wore.

-France, December. 1870.

The Mother of the many Laughters might
Call one poor shade of laughter in the light
Of her unwavering lamp to mark what things
The world puts faith in, careless of the truth:
What silly puppet-bodies danced on strings,
Attached by credence, we appear in sooth,

Demanding intercession, direct aid, When the whole tragic tale hangs on a broken blade!

-Ibid. STRENGTH. Lo, Strength is of the plain root-Virtues born: Strength shall ye gain by service, prove in scorn, Train by endurance, by devotion shape. Strength is not won by miracle or rape. It is the offspring of the modest years, The gift of sire to son, thro' those firm laws Which we name God's; which are the righteous

cause, The cause of man, and manhood's ministers,


HORATIO NELSON POWERS. OVERS of simple, genuine, and unmeretri

cious verse, associate the name of Horatio Nelson Powers with some of the best short poems that have appeared in American periodicals during the last two or three decades. Those who know the personality behind the name, recall a man of genial and dignified presence, of scholarly culture and kindly sympathies, whose friendship is at once a pleasure and an inspiration. A clergyman whose busy life has been largely devoted to the duties of his chosen calling, Dr. Powers has yet found time for the exercise of that literary talent and that wide range of intellectual activity that have given him name and influence far beyond the boundaries of his professional career. The latter may be briefly traced. Born in Ame. nia, Dutchess County, New York, in 1826, he was graduated at Union College in 1850, and at the General Theological Seminary of the Protestant Episcopal Church, in New York City, in 1855. He was ordained in Trinity Church, New York, by Bishop Horatio Potter, and immediately entered upon the work of the ministry, as assistant to the Rev. Dr. (afterward Bishop) Samuel Bowman, rector of St. James's Church, Lancaster, Pa. Two years later (in 1857) he accepted a call to a parish at Davenport, Iowa, where he remained eleven years.

In 1868 he became rector of St. John's Church, Chicago, continuing there until 1875, when he was called to Christ Church, Bridgeport, Conn. This charge he retained for ten years, removing in 1885 to Piermont-on-theHudson, where he still resides as rector. The scenery about Piermont is romantic and inspiring; and in a beautifully situated and pleasant parsonage built for him last year, and amidst harmonious surroundings, Dr. Powers, in the ripeness and maturity of his life, has a full measure of that peace and happiness which he merits and is so well fitted to enjoy. Some charming glimpses of the region where he lives, and of his life there, are given in a little poem entitled “My Walk to Church," published in Harper's Monthly last year, which readers will be glad to find reprinted in the present issue of this magazine. The poem is interesting also as showing in a marked degree what are perhaps Dr. Powers's most noticeable characteristics of a poet-a feeling for Nature, that is Wordsworthian in its depth and tenderness; a contemplative habit that sees the spiritual meaning of even the humblest things; and a cheerful. ness and youthfulness of heart that keeps him ever young and sensitive to all beautiful forms and thoughts. No one can read “ My Walk to Church," and others of his poems in the same sweet key, without feeling that the author in in. deed one of those to whom

Young flowers are in my path. I hear

Music of unrecorded tone.
The heart of Beauty beats so near,

Its pulses modulate my own.

The shadow on the meadow's breast

Is not more calm than my repose As, step by step, I am the guest

Of every living thing that grows.

Ah, something melts along the sky,

And something rises from the ground, And fills the inner ear and eye

Beyond the sense of sight and sound.

It is not that I strive to see

What Love in lovely shapes has wroughtIts gracious messages to me

Come, like the gentle dews, unsought.

“The meanest flower that blows can give

Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears." Dr. Powers's literary tastes developed in his youth, and led him early into literary work. His pen has seldom been idle. Besides poems, he has written innumerable essays, literary and ar crit. icisms, etc. Two volumes of his poems have been published—“Early and Late,” in 1876; and A Decade of Song," in 1885. “Through the Year,” a collection of his religious essays, appeared in 1875. Many of his poems have been widely copied, and have a place in the standard anthologies of English poetry. He has contributed to most of the leading periodicals of the country, and was for several years the American correspondent of L'Art, the great French art review. His interest in art has, indeed, been only secondary to his interest in literature, and has earned him the friendship of Philip Gilbert Hamerton, who dedicated to him his charming book entitled “The Unknown River,” and painted and presented to him two fine landscape pictures. Dr. Powers has been peculiarly fortunate in his friendships, and has enjoyed the companionship of Bryant, Bayard Taylor, and other distinguished literary men of his time. His home-life has also been fortunate. He married, in 1857, Clemence Emma, only daughter of the late Professor Francis Fauvel-Gouraud, of the University of France. Of the children born of this union, five are living -three sons and two daughters. The eldest son, Edward Fauvel, resides chiefly in London, and is active and successful in extensive British enterprises, which he has developed in Uruguay and the Argentine Republic.

Dr. Powers has filled many positions of responsibility in literary, educational, and public work. He was for a time President of Griswold Col. lege, at Davenport, Iowa; and Regent of the Chicago University, President of the Foundlings' Home at Chicago, and a member of the Sanitary Relief Board organized after the Chicago fire in 1871, an associate editor of the Chicago Alliance, and one of the founders of the Chicago Literary Club, President of the Bridgeport (Conn.) Scientific Society, etc. His degree of Doctor of Divinity was conferred by Union College in 1867.

F. F. B.

I merely walk with open heart

Which feels the secret in the sign; But, oh, how large and rich my part

In all that makes the feast divine!

Sometimes I hear the happy birds

That sang to Christ beyond the sea, And softly His consoling words

Blend with their joyous minstrelsy.

Sometimes in royal vesture glow

The lilies that He called so fair, Which never toil nor spin, yet show

The loving Father's tender care.

And then along the fragrant hills

A radiant presence seems to move, And earth grows fairer as it fills

The very air I breathe with love.

And now I see one perfect face,

And hastening to my church's door, Find Him within the holy place

Who, all my way, went on before.



BREATHING the summer-scented air

Along the bowery mountain way, Each Lord's-day morning I repair

To serve my church, a mile away.

THROUGH hazy noons, crisp night, and luscious

morning, A Spirit has been busy everywhere, The happy fields with gorgeous hues adorning,

Till color seemed to animate the air.

Below, the glorious river lies

A bright, broad-breasted, sylvan sea And round the sumptuous highlands rise,

Fair as the hills of Galilee.

It breathed upon the forests which, enchanted, Waved fiery plumes, and banner-pomp un.

rolled; And the mysterious mountain-depths it haunted

Till they were changed to palaces of gold.

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