They catch a burning thought from lips divine,
And mold it into shape for human ken;
In picture, song, sculptured stone to shine,
A holy thing blest unto sentient men.

WHAT HAVE I DONE?

I LAY my finger on Time's wrist to score

The forward-surging moments as they roll; Each pulse seems quicker than the one before, And lo! my days pile up against my soul As clouds pile up against the golden sun: Alas! what have I done? what have I done?

I never steep the rosy hours in sleep,

Or hide my soul as in a gloomy crypt; No idle hands into my bosom creep;

And yet, as water-drops from house-eaves drip, So, viewless, melt my days, and from me run: Alas! what have I done? what have I done?

I have not missed the fragrance of the flowers,
Or scorned the music of the flowing rills
Whose numerous liquid tongues sing to the hours;
Yet rise my days behind me like the hills,
Unstarred by light of mighty triumphs won:
Alas! what have I done? what have I done?
Be still, my soul; restrain thy lips from woe;
Cease thy lament! for life is but the flower;
The fruit comes after death: how canst thou know
The roundness of its form, its grace and power?
Death is Life's morning: when thy work's begun,
Then ask thyself, what yet is to be done?

SYMPATHY.

THE white-toothed sea gnaws at the grizzly rocks,
And moans along the shore like one in pain;
High on the glistening sands its hoary locks
In strands of foam fall o'er and o'er again.

The purple-footed eve across the wave

Comes like a maiden to her lover's tomb; Her hands are full of stars to deck the grave Of the dead day, deep-sepulchred in gloom. The moon is cold and white as some dead face; About the stars a gray mist seems to cling; The sea-gull circles low with weary grace; The wind grieves shoreward like a hunted thing.

But yester-eve, the sky and sea were bright:

In carth's one round the universe has changed; The moon and stars have parted from their light Because one friend to me has been estranged.

'Tis sympathy of heart to heart inclined, The cord that twixt two spirits may abide, O'er which thought flashes thought from mind to mind,

That robes the earth in beauty like a bride,—

Sweet sympathy, that soothes earth's saddest wail, Wakes deeper rapture when the linnet trills, Sings in the soul's dark like a nightingale,

Runs through life's web of care in magic thrills; Makes stars burn deeper through night's shadowy flow,

Imparts a richer bloom to flowers and fruits, And, failing, makes the bright sun smoulder low, And stars seem withered to their golden roots.

Love lights Earth down the ages to her goal,
And sympathy is love's most glorious part,—
O human sympathy, balm of the soul,

And precious ointment to the bruised heart!

UNREST.

I ENVY those sweet souls that walk serenely
On the still heights of being whence they span
The pleasant, fruitful valleys lying greenly;
In peace, that moonlight happiness of man,
Calm as the wise stars over-watching keenly,
They walk content to know the things they can.
They heed no rush of storm-clouds rolling under,
Nor lightning tongues, outleaping lips of thunder,
Nor pause astonished by a sunset wonder.
Below those heights,above the warm, green valleys,
I grapple with each storm that crashes by;
Each flying wind-cloud with my nature dallies,
And sways it like an oak tree towering high;
Nor heaven nor earth with my wild spirit tallies,
And nothing in them seems to satisfy.
From Microcosm to Macrocosm still turning,
I look beyond, beyond with mighty yearning,
A restless heart within my bosom burning.
All beauty seems to fade within my clasping;
All strength seems weakness after it is gained;
All spirit fineness, touched, seems gross and rasping,
All love, insipid, with self-loving stained;
Nothing seems grand but lies beyond my grasping,
Naught noble, but the blessèd unattained.
The large, warm tears beneath my lids come creep-
ing;

Child-like I weep, nor know for what I'm weeping,
Something, dear God, beyond my human keeping
Like a frail spider by a thread suspended,
My soul swings through infinitudes unguessed;
Strange innuendoes dimly comprehended
Disturb my being with sublime unrest;

O little bird with quivering throat distended,
One sweet, recurrent note contents thy breast!
Only man craves the shocks of change that sever,
And hears the earth beneath him moaning, never!
The heaven above him chanting its forever.

WHO COMFORTETH THE COMFORTER.
BEHOLD him! How his great heart glows
Into his eyes, and overflows

His eyelids with their fringes brown;
Just as the sun's heart over-slips
The lids of night, and freely drips

In lachrymals of glory down.

You touched his hand: how warm and strong, As if his great heart lay along

The ample palm! He spoke to you: His words were like the viewless fall Of God's dews scattered over all,

They were so fresh and pure and true.

He smiles or weeps with all who weep
Or smile; wherever shadows creep,

His face comes, as God's morning were
Upon it: but of all who drink
His sweet wise words, does any think
Who comforteth the comforter?

At night he wrestles with his pain
Alone, and looks out through a rain
Of tears to see if through the dim
Angels are breaking like the dawn,
With cool white hands to rest upon

His reeking forehead, soothing him.

Oh, he whose lips breathe constant grace, Who ever bears upon his face

The silent grand apocalypse Of God's sweet mercy, must receive Small part of what he gives, and grieve Uncomforted in Hope's eclipse.

Uncomforted? Nay, think not so!
White deeds, dropped thickly, drift like snow
And lift the soul where it may boast
Of saint-like nearness to Christ's feet,
And angel intimacies sweet:

He knows Christ best who helps men most.

Pure deeds are fruit of love divine,
And bear the soul their own sweet wine
To make its holiest pulses stir
With angel rapture: men forget
That great hearts suffer greatly; yet
God comforteth the comforter.

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.

IN

N attempting a biographical notice of William Dean Howells, the writer will meet his greatest difficulty in the finding and bringing out of some new and interesting points concerning this already well-known writer that have not been given to the public. Foremost among the literary men of the day, he has achieved a reputation both gratifying and enviable; nor has this greatness been "thrust upon him;" it has cost many a weary day's toil. Whatever laurels he has gleaned, have been fairly earned.

William Dean Howells was born at Martin's Ferry, Ohio, March 1, 1837, and at the early age of nine years we find our embryo poet at the compositor's case in his father's office at Hamilton, O., the family having moved there when William was three years old. In 1849 Mr. Howells pere sold his journal and moved the family to Dayton, O., purchasing the Transcript, a semi-weekly paper, and changing it into a daily. Young Howells frequently worked until eleven o'clock at night, then rose at four in the morning to deliver the papers to the subscribers. It was said at the time that he was the swiftest compositor in Dayton. In 1851 the Transcript failed and the family moved to Green county. The father accepted a position as Clerk of the House at Columbus, the capital, and the boy became a compositor on the Ohio State Journal, receiving four dollars a week, which was contributed to the general family fund. His first poem appeared in the State Journal, and the second in the Cleveland Herald, the editor of which, S. D. Harris, was very kind and encouraging to the lad struggling so manfully to make his way in the world. When Howells was fifteen the family moved to Ashtabula, the father purchasing the Sentinel. At nineteen he became the Columbus correspondent of the Cincinnati Gazette, and at twenty-two the news editor of the State Journal, on which he had formerly been compositor. Notwithstanding the difficulties under which he had labored, Howells managed to learn Latin, something of Greek, as well as some of the modern languages. His favorite was Spanish, in which he was very proficient, as also in German, translating many poems into English, the most notable among them being his translations of Heine's poems from the German. Meanwhile an original poem had been offered to the Atlantic Monthly, which to his surprise and delight was accepted. In one year five original poems were published in that magazine.

In 1861 Mr. Howells was appointed by President Lincoln, consul to Venice, and a year later was married in Paris to Eleanor G., sister of Larkin G. Mead, the sculptor. Three children were given to them who at an early age gave unmistakable

evidence of the refined and literary home in which they were reared. The eldest of these children, Winifred, a beautiful girl, died early last spring. This has been a sad blow to the parents. At the expiration of Mr. Howells' term at Venice, he returned to America, becoming assistant editor of the Atlantic Monthly, and six years later Editor-inChief. In 1886 he accepted a position on Harper's Magazine, delighting his readers each month with the bright, racy droppings from his pen, in the Editor's Study. In 1860 he published in connection with John James Piatt, a collection of poems under the title of "Poems of Two Friends." 1886 he published his collected poems. Much could be said of Mr. Howells as a prose writer, but it is as a poet that we speak of him to-day. Latterly he has paid little attention to metrical composition, which is to be regretted. Personally Mr. Howells is of a kindly sympathetic nature, prone to be very charitable with the shortcomings of young writers, and never fails to give a kind, encouraging word. N. L. M.

THE MULBERRIES.
I.

On the Rialto Bridge we stand;

The street ebbs under and makes no sound; But, with bargains shrieked on every hand, The noisy market rings around.

"Mulberries, fine Mulberries, here!"

In

A tuneful voice, and light, light measure; Though I hardly should count these mulberries dear,

If I paid three times the price for my pleasure.

Brown hands splashed with mulberry blood,

The basket wreathed with mulberry leaves Hiding the berries beneath them; - good! Let us take whatever the young rogue gives.

For you know, old freind, I haven't eaten
A mulberry since the ignorant joy

Of anything sweet in the mouth could sweeten
All this bitter world for a boy.

II.

O, I mind the tree in the meadow stood

By the road near the hill: when I clomb aloof On its branches, this side of the girdled wood, I could see the top of our cabin roof.

And, looking westward, could sweep the shores Of the river where we used to swim

Under the ghostly sycamores,

Haunting the waters smooth and dim;

And eastward athwart the pasture-lot

And over the milk-white buckwheat field I could see the stately elm, where I shot The first black squirrel I ever killed.

And southward over the bottom-land

I could see the mellow breadths of farm From the river-shores to the hills expand, Clasped in the curving river's arm.

In the fields we set our guileless snares
For rabbits and pigeons and wary quails,
Content with the vaguest feathers and hairs
From doubtful wings and vanished tails.

And in the blue summer afternoon

We used to sit in the mulberry-tree: The breaths of wind that remembered June Shook the leaves and glittering berries free;

And while we watched the wagons go
Across the river, along the road,
To the mill above, or the mill below,
With horses that stooped to the heavy load,

We told old stories and made new plans,

And felt our hearts gladden within us again, For we did not dream that this life of a man's Could ever be what we know as men.

We sat so still that the woodpeckers came And pillaged the berries overhead; From his log the chipmonk, waxen tame, Peered, and listened to what we said. III.

One of us long ago was carried

To his grave on the hill above the tree; One is a farmer there, and married;

One has wandered over the sea.

And, if you ask me, I hardly know Whether I'd be the dead or the clown,The clod above or the clay below,

Or this listless dust by fortune blown

To alien lands. For, however it is,
So little we keep with us in life:
At best we win only victories,

Not peace, not peace, O friend, in this strife.

But if I could turn from the long defeat

Of the little successes once more, and be A boy, with the whole wide world at my feet, Under the shade of the mulberry-tree,