There's scarce a wrinkle in her hand So delicate and fine. And when my chaperon is seen, They come from everywhere— 5 ΙΟ 15 20 25 ONE of the best-known contributors of verse to magazines to-day is Mr. Sherman. He was born at Peekskill, New York, and was graduated from Columbia, where he holds the position of professor of architecture. He is the author of two or three volumes of verse. ON A GREEK VASE DIVINELY shapen cup, thy lip Unto me seemeth thus to speak: "Behold in me the workmanship, The grace and cunning of a Greek! "Long ages since he mixed the clay, Whose sense of symmetry was such, The labor of a single day, Immortal grew beneath his touch. "For dreaming while his fingers went "Her loveliness to me he gave Who gave unto herself his heart, That love and beauty from the grave Might rise and live again in art." And hearing from thy lips this tale Of love and skill, of art and grace, Thou seem'st to me no more the frail Memento of an older race : But in thy form divinely wrought And figured o'er with fret and scroll, ON SOME BUTTERCUPS A LITTLE way below her chin, Caught in her bosom's snowy hem, Some buttercups are fastened in,Ah, how I envy them! 5 10 15 20 25 They do not miss their meadow place, Her hair, and mild blue eyes. There, in the downy meshes pinned, Such sweet illusions haunt their rest; As if, close to her heart, they heard And with desire were sudden stirred ΤΟ LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY 1861 MISS GUINEY was born at Boston. Most of her life has been spent in and near Boston, where she has been busily occupied in literary work. She is the author of several volumes of essays and poems. THE WILD RIDE I HEAR in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, 16 Let cowards and laggards fall back! but alert to the saddle, Straight, grim, and abreast, go the weatherworn, galloping legion, With a stirrup-cup each to the lily of women that loves him. The trail is through dolor and dread, over crags and morasses; There are shapes by the way, there are things that appal or entice us: 20 What odds? We are knights, and our souls are but bent on the riding. I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses, All night, from their stalls, the importunate tramping and neighing. We spur to a land of no name, outracing the stormwind; RICHARD HOVEY 1864-1900 5 FEW poets of the younger generation gave such promise as Hovey, and at the time of his death the outlook seemed brightest. He was born at Normal, Indiana, and died in New York city. He was a graduate of Dartmouth College, and later studied theology, but finally turned to literature. He saw life on many sides in New York, as journalist, actor, dramatist, and lecturer on English literature. His best-known volume of poems is Songs from Vagabondia. THE CALL OF THE BUGLES BUGLES! And the Great Nation thrills and leaps to arms! Without misgiving and without debate, ΙΟ Too calm, too strong for fury or alarms, The people blossoms armies and puts forth The splendid summer of its noiseless might; Mounts up in South and North, The thrill That tingled in our veins at Bunker Hill Pine and palmetto mix With the sequoia of the giant West 15 20 Their ready banners and the hosts of war, Near and far, Sudden as dawn, Innumerable as forests, hear the call The battle birds! For not alone the brave, the fortunate, Who first of all Have put their knapsacks on They are the valiant vanguard of the rest! For the word That bids them bid the nations know us sons of Fate. Bugles ! And in my heart a cry, 15 5 -Like a dim echo far and mournfully Blown back to answer them from yesterday! November hillsides and the falling leaves Whose congregation glories as it grieves, The long hills sloping to the wave, And the lone bugler standing by the grave! Taps! The lonely call over the lonely woodlands Like the flight of an eagle- They sound forever in my heart. 20 25 30 |