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Harriet Mcewen Kimball.

GOOD NEWS.

A bee flew in at my window,

And circled around my head; He came like a herald of summertime.

And what do you think he said?

"As sure as the roses shall blossom " — These are the words he said,—

"As sure as the gardens shall laugh in pride,

And the meadows blush clover-red;

"As sure as the golden robin

Shall build her a swinging nest, And the captured sunbeam lie fastlocked

In the marigold's burning breast;

"As sure as the water-lilies

Shall float like a fairy fleet; As sure as the torrent shall leap the rocks

With foamy, fantastic feet;

"As sure as the bobolink's carol

And the plaint of the whippoorwill Shall gladden the morning, and sadden the night, And the crickets pipe loud and shrill;

"So sure to the heart of the maiden Who hath loved and sorrowed long, Glad tidings shall bring the summer of Joy

With bursting of blossom and song!"

A seer as well as a herald!

For while I sat weeping to-day, The tenderest, cheeriest letter came

From Lionel far away.

Good news! O little bee-prophet,
Your words I will never forget!
It may be foolish,— that dear, old
sign,—

But Lionel's true to me yet!

TROUBLE TO LEND.

To-morrow has trouble to lend

To all who lack to-ilay; Go, borrow it, — borrow, griefless heart,

And thou with thy peace wilt pay!

To-morrow has trouble to lend,—
An endless, endless store;

But I have as much as heart can
hold,—
Why should I borrow more!

HELIOTROPE.

Sweetest, sweetest, Heliotrope!

In the sunset's dying splendor.

In the trance of twilight tender,

All my senses I surrender,
To the subtle spells that bind me:

The dim air swimmeth in my sight

With visions vague of soft delight; Shadowy hands with endless chain Of purple-clustered bloom enwind me; —

Garlands drenched in dreamy rain Of perfume passionate as sorrow And sad as Love's to-morrow! Bewildering music fills mine ears,— Faint laughter and commingling tears,—

Flowing like delicious pain

Through my drowsy brain. Bosomed in the blissful gloom,—

Meseems I sink on slumberous slope

Buried deep in purple bloom,
Sweetest, sweetest Heliotrope!
Undulates the earth beneath me;
Still the shadow-hands enwreath
me.

And clouds of faces half defined,
Lovely and fantastical,
Sweet, — O sweet! — and strange
withal,

Sweeping like a desert wind
Across my vision leave me blind!
Subtler grows the spell and stronger;

What enchantments weird possess me,—

Now uplift me, now oppress me?
Do I feast, or do I hunger?

Is it bliss, or is it anguish?
Is it Auster's treacherous breath
Kissing me with honeyed death,

While I sicken, droop, and languish?

Still I feel my blood's dull beat
In my head and hands and feet;
Struggling faintly with thy sweet-
ness,

Heliotrope! Heliotrope!

Give me back my strength's completeness. Must I pine and languish ever! Wilt thou loose my senses never! Wilt thou bloom and bloom for ever,

Oh, Lethean Heliotrope?

Ah, the night-wind, freshly blowing,
Sets the languid blood a-flowing!

I revive!—
I escape thy spells alive 1

Flower! I love and do not love thee!
Hold my breath, but bend above thee;

Crush thy buds, yet bid them ope;

Sweetest, sweetest Heliotrope!

DA Y-DREAMINO.

How better am I

Than a butterfly?
Here, as the noiseless hours go by,
Hour by hour,

I cling to my fancy's half-blown flower:

Over its sweetness I brood and brood, And scarcely stir, though sounds intrude

That would trouble and fret another
mood
Less divine
Than mine!

Who cares for the bees?

I will take my ease, Dream and dream as long as I

please; Hour by hour,

With love-wings fanning my sweet,

sweet flower! Gather your honey, and hoard your

gold,

Through spring and summer, and

hive through cold! I will cling to my flower till it is mould, Breathe one sigh And diet

TBS LAST APPEAL.

The room is swept and garnished for

thy sake; The table spread with Love's most

liberal cheer; The fire is blazing brightly on the

hearth;

Faith lingers yet to give thee wel-
come here.
When wilt thou come?

Daily I weave the airy web of hope;

Frail as the spider's, wrought with beads of dew,— That, like Penelope's, each night undone,

Each morn in patience I begin anew.

When wilt thou come?

Not yet! To-morrow Faith will take her flight, The fire die out, the banquet disappear;

Forever will these fingers drop the web,

And only desolation wait thee here. Oh, come today

Charles

A FAREWELL.

My fairest child, I have no song to give you, No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day: —

Be good, my dear, and let who will, be clever; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long; And so make life, death, and the vast forever One grand, sweet song.

THE THREE FISHERS.

Three fishers went sailing away to the West— Away to the West as the sun went down;

Each thought on the woman who

loved him the best, And the children stood watching

them out of the town; For men must work, and women must

weep;

And there s little to earn and many to keep,

Though the harbor-bar be moaning.

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower

And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night-rack came rolling up, ragged and brown. But men must work and women must weep,

Though storms be sudden and waters deep,

And the harbor-bar be moaning.

Kingsley.

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands

In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And the women are weeping and wringing their hands, For those who will never come back to the town; For men must work, and women must weep —

And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep — And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.

DOLCINO TO MARGARET.

The world goes up and the world goes down, And the sunshine follows the rain;

And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown

Can never come over again,

Sweet wife;
No, never come over again.

For woman is warm, though man be cold,

And the night will hallow the

day;

Till the heart which at eve was weary
and old
Can rise in the morning gay,
Sweet wife;
To its work in the morning gay.

SANDS OF DEE.

"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee!" The western wind was wild and dank with foam And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,

And o'er and o'er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid
the land
And never home came she.

"Oh is it weed, or fish, or floating
hair —
A tress of golden hair,
A drowned maiden's hair —

Above the nets at sea? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair,

Among the stakes on Dee."

They rowed her in across the rolling
foam —
The cruel, crawling foam,
The cruel, hungry foam —
To her grave beside the sea;
But still the boatmen hear her call
the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee.

William Knox.

OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?

Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fastflying cloud,

A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,

He passed from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow

shall fade, Be scattered around, and together be

laid;

As the young and the old, the low

and the high, Shall crumble to dust and together

shall lie.

The infant, a mother attended and loved,

The mother, that infant's affection

who proved, The father, that mother and infant

who blest, Each, all, are away to that dwelling

of rest.

The maid, on whose brow, on whose cheek, in whose eye,

Shone beauty and pleasure, — her triumphs are by;

And alike from the minds of the living erased

Are the memories of mortals who loved her and praised.

The head of the king, that the sceptre

hath borne; The brow of the priest, that the mitre

hath worn; The eye of the sage, and the heart of

the brave, — Are hidden and lost in the depths of

the grave.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow

and to reap; The herdsman, who climbed with his

goats up the steep; The beggar, who wandered in search

of his bread, — Have faded away like the grass that

we tread.

So the multitude goes, like the flower or weed,

That withers away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes, even those

we behold, To repeat every tale that has often

been told.

For we are the same that our fathers

have been; We see the same sights that our

fathers have seen: We drink the same stream, and we

feel the same sun. And run the same course that our

fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers did think;

From the death we are shrinking our fathers did shrink;

To the life we are clinging our fathers did cling,

But it speeds from us all like the bird on the wing.

They loved, — but the story we cannot unfold;

They scorned, — but the heart of the haughty is cold;

They grieved, — but no wail from their slumbers will come;

They joyed, — but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died, —ah! they died; — we, things that are now,

That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,

And make in their dwelling a transient abode,

Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure

and pain, Are mingled together in sunshine and

rain:

And the smile and the tear, and the

song and the dirge, Still follow each other like surge

upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye; 'tis the

draught of a breath From the blossom of health to the

paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier

and the shroud; Oh! why should the spirit of mortal

be proud?

Marie R. Lacoste.

SOMEBODY'S DABLINO.

Into a ward of the whitewashed walls,

Where the dead and dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,

Somebody's darling was borne one day —

Somebody's darling, so young, and so brave,

Wearing yet on his pale sweet face, Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,

The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.

Matted and damp are the curls of gold, [brow;

Kissing the snow of that fair young Pale are the lips of delicate mould —

Somebody's darling is dying now.

Back from his beautiful, blue-veined brow,

Brush all the wandering waves of gold.

Cross his hands on his bosom now, Somebody's darling is still and cold.

Kiss him once for somebody's sake,

Murmur a prayer soft and low; One bright curl from its fair mates take,

They were somebody's pride, you know:

Somebody's hand has rested there,— Was it a mother's soft and white?

And have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in those waves of light?

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