If any soul should ask me, Whence?' I can but say, - I could not see,

Nor hear nor feel, in any sense.
As the glory of the rising moon
Is duplicated in the lagoon,

Or gleams on the old tower and its spire,
Till the cross becomes a cross of fire,
So that strange Thought, serene and lone,
Rose on my dark soul, and it shone!

Shouldst ask me, if an Angel brought
This strange, this sweet and secret
Thought,

I could but say, I do not know!
It came as comes the guiding glow
From Heaven's high shrines; or as the

snow

On the dark hill-tops; or as bloom

The intimations of a God

In every violet of the tomb,
And every pansy of the sod.

ACROSS the Eastern sky has glowed
The flicker of a blood-red dawn;
Once more the clarion cock has crowed,
Once more the sword of Christ is
drawn.

A million burning roof-trees light
The world-wide path of Israel's flight.

Where is the Hebrew's fatherland?

The folk of Christ is sore bestead; The Son of Man is bruised and banned, Nor finds whereon to lay his head. His cup is gall, his meat is tears, His passion lasts a thousand years.

Each crime that wakes in man the beast,
Is visited upon his kind.

The lust of mobs, the greed of priest,
The tyranny of kings, combined

OFF ROUGH POINT.

WE sat at twilight nigh the sea;
The fog hung gray and weird:
Through the thick film uncannily
The broken moon appeared.

We heard the billows crack and plunge,
We saw nor waves nor ships.
Earth sucked the vapors like a sponge,
The salt spray wet our lips.

Closer the woof of white mist drew,
Before, behind, beside.

How could that phantom moon break through,

Above that shrouded tide?

The roaring waters filled the ear,
A white blank foiled the sight;
Close-gathering shadows near, more near,
Brought the blind, awful night.

O friends who passed unseen, unknown!
O dashing, troubled sea!
Still stand we on a rock alone,
Walled round by mystery.

ELIZABETH CAVAZZA.

[U. s. A.]

DERELICT.

SHE wanders up and down the main
Without a master, nowhere bound,
The currents turn her round and
round;

Her track is like a tangled skein;
And never helmsman by his chart
So strange a way as hers may steer
In any waters far or near,
To enter port or to depart.

The waters clamor at her sides,

The winds cry through her cordage torn,

The last sail hangs, to tatters worn; Upon the waves the vessel rides This way or that, as winds may shift, In ghastly dance when airs blow balm, Or held in a lethargic calm, Or fury-hunted, wild, adrift.

When south winds blow, does she recall

Spices and golden fruits in store? Or north winds-nets off Labrador And icebergs' iridescent wall?

Or east the isles of Indian seas?

MAURICE THOMPSON.

[U. s. A.]

A FLIGHT SHOT.

WE were twin brothers, tall and hale, Glad wanderers over hill and dale.

We stood within the twilight shade
Of pines that rimmed a Southern glade.

He said: "Let's settle, if we can, Which of us is the stronger man.

"We'll try a flight shot, high and good, Across the green glade toward the wood."

And so we bent in sheer delight
Our old yew bows with all our might.

Our long keen shafts, drawn to the head,
Were poised a moment ere they sped.

As we leaned back, a breath of air
Mingled the brown locks of our hair.

We loosed. As one our bow-cords rang,
As one away our arrows sprang.

Away they sprang; the wind of June
Thrilled to their softly-whistled tune.

We watched their flight, and saw them strike

Deep in the ground slantwise alike,

So far away that they might pass
For two thin straws of broom-sedge grass!

Then arm in arm we doubting went
To find whose shaft was farthest sent,

Each fearing in his loving heart
That brother's shaft had fallen short.

But who could tell by such a plan
Which of us was the stronger man?

There at the margin of the wood,
Side by side our arrows stood,

Their red cock-feathers wing and wing,
Their amber nocks still quivering,

Their points deep-planted where they fell An inch apart and parallel!

MAURICE THOMPSON.

We clasped each other's hands; said he "Twin champions of the world are we!"

THE BLUEBIRD.

WHEN ice is thawed and snow is gone, And racy sweetness floods the trees; When snow-birds from the hedge have flown,

And on the hive - porch swarm the
bees,-

Drifting adown the first warm wind
That thrills the earliest days of spring,
The bluebird seeks our maple groves,
And charms them into tasselling.

He sits among the delicate sprays,

With mists of splendor round him drawn,

And through the spring's prophetic veil
Sees summer's rich fulfilment dawn:
He sings, and his is nature's voice, —
A gush of melody sincere

From that great fount of harmony

THE CRY OF THE DREAMER.
I AM tired of planning and toiling
In the crowded hives of men ;
Heart-weary of building and spoiling,
And spoiling and building again.
And I long for the dear old river
Where I dreamed my youth away;
For a dreamer lives forever,
And a toiler dies in a day.

I am sick of the showy seeming
Of a life that is half a lie;
Of the faces lined with scheming
In the throng that hurries by.
From the sleepless thoughts' endeavor
I would go where the children play;
For a dreamer lives forever,

And a thinker dies in a day.

I can feel no pride, but pity

For the burdens the rich endure: There is nothing sweet in the city But the patient lives of the poor.

here.

Short is his song, but strangely sweet

To ears aweary of the low

Dull tramp of Winter's sullen feet,

Sandalled in ice and muffed in snow:
Short is his song, but through it runs
A hint of dithyrambs yet to be,
A sweet suggestiveness that has
The influence of prophecy.

From childhood I have nursed a faith
In bluebirds' songs and winds of spring:
They tell me, after frost and death

There comes a time of blossoming;
And after snow and cutting sleet,

The cold, stern mood of Nature yields To tender warmth, when bare pink feet Of children press her greening fields.

Sing strong and clear, O bluebird dear! While all the land with splendor fills, While maples gladden in the vales

And plum-trees blossom on the hills: Float down the wind on shining wings,

And do thy will by grove and stream, While through my life spring's freshness

runs

Like music through a poet's dream.

And the child-mind choked with weeds, The daughter's heart grown wilful

And the father's heart that bleeds!

No, no! from the street's rude bustle,
From trophies of mart and stage,
I would fly to the woods' low rustle
And the meadow's kindly page.
Let me dream as of old by the river,
And be loved for the dream alway!
For a dreamer lives forever,

And a toiler dies in a day.

THE CHERRY-STONE ARTIST.

HE gathered cherry-stones, and carved them quaintly

Into fine semblances of flies and flow

ers;

With subtle skill he even imaged faintly The forms of tiny maids and ivied towers.

His little blocks he loved to file and polish,

And ampler means he asked not, but

despised;

prized.

For such rude hands as dealt with wrongs and passions

And throbbing hearts he had a pitying smile;

Serene his way through surging years and fashions,

While Heaven gave him cherry-stones and file.

RICHARD REALF.

[U. s. A., 1834-1878.]

MY SLAIN.

THIS sweet child which hath climbed upon my knee,

This amber-haired, four-summered little maid,

With her unconscious beauty troubleth

me,

With her low prattle maketh me afraid. Ah, darling! when you cling and nestle so You hurt me, though you do not see

me cry,

Nor hear the weariness with which I sigh,

For the dear babe I killed so long ago. I tremble at the touch of your caress;

I am not worthy of your innocent faith; I who with whetted knives of worldliness Did put my own child-heartedness to death,

Beside whose grave I pace forevermore, Like desolation on a shipwrecked shore.

There is no little child within me now,

To sing back to the thrushes, to leap up When June winds kiss me, when an apple bough

Laughs into blossoms, or a buttercup Plays with the sunshine, or a violet Dances in the glad dew. Alas! alas! The meaning of the daisies in the grass I have forgotten; and if my cheeks are

wet

It is not with the blitheness of the child, But with the bitter sorrow of sad years. O moaning life, with life irreconciled; O backward-looking thought, O pain, O tears,

For us there is not any silver sound Of rhythmic wonders springing from the ground.

ish lore

Which makes men mummies, weighs out every grain

Of that which was miraculous before, And sneers the heart down with the scoffing brain!

Woe worth the peering, analytic days That dry the tender juices in the breast, And put the thunders of the Lord to