Nor heeds the eternal doom that followeth, E. C. LEFROY. They gave him light in his ways, And night, and sleep in the night. With his lips he travaileth; In his heart is a blind desire, In his eyes foreknowledge of death; He weaves, and is clothed with derision; Sows, and he shall not reap; His life is a watch or a vision ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. And the high gods took in hand And dust of the laboring earth; In the houses of death and of birth; And wrought with weeping and laughter, And fashioned with loathing and love, With life before and after And death beneath and above, For a day and a night and a morrow, That his strength might endure for a span With travail and heavy sorrow, The holy spirit of man. From the winds of the north and the south They filled his body with life; A time for labor and thought, THE WELL OF ST. JOHN. "THERE is plenty of room for two in here, Within the steep tunnel of old gray stone; And the well is so dark, and the spring is so clear, It is quite unsafe to go down alone." "It is perfectly safe depend upon it, For a girl who can count the steps like me, And if ever I saw dear mother's bonnet, It is there on the hill by the old ash tree." "There is nobody but Rees Morgan's cow Watching the dusk on the milk-white sea. 'Tis the time and place for a life-long vow, Such as I owe you, and you owe me." "Oh, Willie, how can I, in this dark well? I shall drop the brown pitcher, if you let go: The long roof is murmuring like a sea-shell, And the shadows are shuddering to and fro." "Tis the sound of the ebb in Newton Bay, Quickens the spring as the tide grows less, Even as true love flows alway Counter the flood of the world's success." "There is no other way for love to flow; "Then fill the sweet cup of your hand, my love, "Oh what shall I say? My heart drops low; Is love to be measured hy handful so? And you know that I love you-without that.” They stooped in the gleam of the faint light over The print of themselves on the limpid gloom; And she lifted her full palm toward her lover, With her lips prepared for the words of doom. But the warm heart rose, and the cold hand fell, And the pledge of her faith sprang, sweet and clear. From a holier source than the old saint's well, RICHARD DODDRIDGE BLACKMORE. THE PLAGUES OF IRELAND. Он, Ireland, my country, the hour Of thy pride and thy splendor hath passed, And the chain that was spurned in thy moments of power Hangs heavy around thee at last. There are marks in the fate of each clime, There are times in the fortunes of men, But the changes of realms and the chances of time Shall never restore thee again. Thou art chained to the wheel of the foe By links which a world cannot sever, With thy tyrant through storm and through calm thou shalt go, And thy sentence is bondage forever. Thou art doomed for the thankless to toil, Thou art left for the proud to disdain, And the blood of thy sons and the wealth of thy soil Shall be lavished and lavished in vain. Thy riches with taunts shall be taken, Thy valor with coldness be paid, And of millions who see thee thus sunk and forsaken Not one shall stand forth in thine aid. In the nations thy place is left void, Thou art lost in the list of the free; Even realms by the plague and the earthquake destroyed May revive, but no hope is for thee. Bring back, bring back, the vanished years, Oh! bring me back one vanished face I lost in that thick mist of tears; Fill once again her vacant place. Once more, once more, oh! bring once more, Bring back, bring back, the olden time, Time creeps or flies, and all things change; And who hath done what once he planned, All-all that course is scattered o'er With cold, dead hopes that shrouded lie, Whose wailing ghosts for evermore Haunt our low steps, and moan and cry! With outstretched hands, in dark and gloom, The cold white moon gleams o'er the hill; The last faint whispering notes-the last! Tremble and cease, and all is still. PHILIP GARTH. THE FUTURE IS BETTER THAN THE PAST. NOT where long passed ages sleep, Seek we Eden's golden trees, THOMAS FURLONG. In the future folded deep, In the spirits' perfect air, In the passions tame and kind, Innocence from selfish care, The real Eden we shall find. It is coming, it shall come, To the patient and the striving, To the quiet heart at home, Thinking wise and faithful living. When all error is worked out, From the heart and from the life; When the sensuous is laid low, Through the Spirit's holy strife; When the soul to sin hath died, True and beautiful and sound; Then all earth is sanctified, Up springs paradise around. Voices from the opening skies. From this spirit land, afar, All disturbing force shall flee; Stir nor toil nor hope shall mar Its immortal unity. ELIZA THAYER CLAPP. FLOWERS. How bright and beauteous are the flowers, Those undertones of love, Which God has given to us below, From Eden bowers above. They bloom upon the hillside, And cheer the hearts of men. Their fragrance fills the evening air, Speaks to the hearts of ease. But summer blooms more rare, May teach us-ne'er despair. The springtime of our life would seem Exhaustless in their store; While summer flowers of life are filled GOING OUT AND COMING IN. GOING out to fame and triumph, Going out to love and light; Coming in to pain and sorrow, Coming in to gloom and night. Through the portals of the homestead, To the chill voice of the world- To the summer breeze unfurled. Through the gateway, down the footpath, Winning oft a noble name. Coming back all worn and weary, Weary with the world's cold breath; Coming in with sorrows dark; Coming in with mastless barque. Restless stream of pilgrims, striving Wreaths of fame and love to win, From the doorways of the homestead Going out and coming in! MRS. MOLLIE E. MOORE DAVIS. PRIZE QUOTATIONS. Cash prizes to the amount of Three Hundred Dollars will be awarded by the Publisher to the persons who will name the author of the greatest number of the Prize Quotations Rules for Competitors may be found on another page. 135. A creature not too bright nor good For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 136. Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, And play the prelude of our fate 137. How beautiful is gentleness, whose face Like April sunshine, or the summer rain, Swells everywhere the buds of generous thought? So easy, and so sweet it is; its grace Smoothes out so soon the tangled knots of pain. Can ye not learn it will ye not be taught? 138. With deep affection and recollection, I often think of those Shandon Bells, In the days of childhood, Fling round my cradle their magic spells. 139. The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas. 140. Stop, Mortal! Here thy brother lies, His books were rivers, woods, and skies, His teachers were the torn hearts' wail, The tyrant and the slave, The street, the factory, the jail, The palace-and the grave! 141. Star after star from heaven's high arch shall rush, 142. O, the good gods, How blind is pride! What eagles are we still 143. Pride-of all others the most dangerous fault- There is nothing lighter than vain praise. Yellow, yellow leaves, Yet O, yellow leaves, The impatient Wish, that never feels repose, |