SUBMISSION.

Two lonesome souls, at set of sun, Sit where life's turbid waters run, And, looking west,

Say, as they see the sun go down Behind two graves beyond the town, .. What is, is best.'

About them hordes of children play Beneath the sun's departing ray,

Yet do not bear

To these two lonesome souls a tone
Of comfort, for they sit and moan:
Ours are not there."

They were, but now their noiseless feet,
Tread, in their play, some far retreat —
Yet one so pure

There is no need to call them in
Each night, through fears of hurt or sin
And keep secure.

For where they wander brightest eyes
Keep watch and ward, while love supplies
All wants, and yet,

If they be ours, in spite of fate,
These hearts, rememb'ring it is death
Cannot forget.

We are two lonesome souls, decreed
To lonesome lives, with hearts that bleed,
Though Woodmere's crest

Holds only underneath its sod

The casket, and the children's God

Knew what was best.

The vilest beggar could no more
Than he, who rich, must still implore
The willing hand to help him through
The thousand deeds he wills to do.
There are some evils, it is true,
I wish were bettered-so do you;
But is it not often, honest friend,
Our hopes but for some selfish end?
If you were rich, as you are poor,
Would you feel called to give or care,
Or would you serve your altered lot
As now, by keeping all you got?
Is not full half our hue and cry
The selfishness of you and I?
If all men on a level stood
Who then would gain the utmost good?
Why he who worked while others slept,
Lived frugal, saved and closely kept,
Until at last you must allow,
The world stood then as it does now.

Who does not serve? Why he who best
Has saved and served above the rest,
Finds with his gains as cares appall,
The wealthy serves the most of all.
Who does not serve? My serving friend,
Take heart and learn that labors lend
Great peace in this laborious lot-
To those who serve and murmur not.
For envy makes this life a hell
Beyond the power of tongue to tell,
And he who serves and envies, he
It is that sups with misery.

WHAT IS FOURTH OF JULY?
EXTRACT.

What is the fourth of July I wonder?
When the crackers pop and the cannons
thunder;

When fair-faced girls and rollicking boys
Unite in making such terrible noise;

And old and young, in their best clothes

dressed,

Go out to celebrate with such zest.

When grandma smiles as grandpa says:

..It was just the same in our youthful days. And there seems no change in the good old way.

Of holding in honor our natal day."

And yet to a young child looking down
On the crazy crowd and the noisy town,
A wee little wonder comes peeping in,
As to what folks mean by the deafening din.
And so I have read of the reason why
We all are so glad on the fourth of July;
And I speak of the time in the far-off past,
When out of the darkness, overcast,
Came creeping a spirit which made men free
With the touch she gave them of liberty.

ISAAC MCLELLAN.

BORN: PORTLAND, ME., MAY 21, 1806. SEVERAL volumes of poems have appeared from the pen of this writer. Three were published in Boston, entitled Fall of the Indian, The Year, and Mount Auburn. In 1886 he pub

ISAAC M'LELLAN.

lished a neat volume of some two hundred and seventy-two pages, entitled Poems of the Rod and Gun, which has been well and favorably received. Mr. McLellan is now a resident of Long Island at Greenport.

SEA-GULL.

Sea-bird, skimmer of the waves,
Whither doth thy journey tend?
Is it to some southern shore,

Where the meadow-rushes bend,
Where the orange-blossoms blow,
Where the aloe and the palm
Flourish, and magnolias glow,
Filling all the air with balm?
Rather is thy pilgrim wing
Fleeting to some northern bar,
Where the rocky reef juts out,
And the sand-beach stretches far?
There in hot and silvery sand
All thy pearly eggs to lay,
There to teach thy little brood
O'er the tumbling surf to play.
Hap'ly sailing o'er the brine,
Painted 'gainst a lurid sky,

On the gray horizon's verge

Thou dost even now descry Some lone bark with shatter'd mast, Bulwarks swept, and ragged sail, Fighting with the ocean-blast, Lost in shipwreck and in gale. Restless, roving, lonely bird,

Wanderer of the pathless seas, Now where tropic woods are stirr'd, Now where floating icebergs freeze; Seldom doth the solid shore See thy wings expand no more.

ON LONG ISLAND SOUND.

I wander daily by thy shore,

Thy rocky shore, Long Island Sound, And in my little boat explore

The secrets of thy depths profound. I trace the great brown rocks far down, O'er which the salt tides ebb and flow, Encrusted with their rugged shells,

703

Rocks where the ribbon'd seaweeds grow;

And there the glancing fish I view,
The weakfish and the dusky bass:
The bergalls and the blackfish schools,
And silvery porgees as they pass.
Fast-anchor'd in my swinging boat,
The welcome nibble to await,
I feel the sheepshead at the line,
The sea-bass tugging at the bait;
And as I gaze across the wave

I see the shining sturgeon leap,
Springing in air with sudden flash,

Then splashing, plunging to the deep;

I see the porpoise schools sweep by,
In sportive gambolings at their play,
Puffing and snorting as they rise,
Wheeling and tumbling on their way:
And never wearied in my gaze

As o'er the blue expanse it roams,
Viewing the endless billows roll,
White-crested with the yeasty foams.

THE SHOT AT THE START. The sun had tipt the horizon's edge, Launching in air a shaft of gold, Across the stream, athwart the sedge, And where the rippling currents roll'd: A boat was pushing from the shore, A fowler's heart beat high with glee, Yet ere the boatman touch'd an oar, To reach the wooded island near, An early flock, on rushing wing, Flew o'er the stream's pellucid face; When sudden report did ring,

And ceas'd a wild duck from the race. The artist hath depicted well Tha Starting Shot," and what befell.

ISAAC BASSETT CHOATE.

BORN: NAPLES, ME., JULY 12, 1833. AFTER graduating in 1862 at Bowdoin college, Isaac then studied law and was admitted to the bar three years later. Mr. Choate has written nearly a hundred poems which have received publication, and has also written considerable prose. He is now a resident of Boston, Mass.

THE DOOM OF ESCOUBLAC.

The angry winds come fierce and strong,-
Blow fresh from off the western sea,
And rave around the cliffs along
The coast of Brittany.

The white sea-foam is upward borne,
And wildly driven before the gale,
Like flying shreds of canvas torn

Off from a tattered sail.

The waves break round the rocks that stand
Like giant warders old and gray;
They chase each other up the sand,
Within the curving bay.

In clefts the cedars rooted fast,

Lean landward with a frightened look,
As if with terror of the blast

Their withering branches shook.
And on the shore the shining sands
Are piled in dunes or smoothed to plains,
As though unseen, unresting hands
Were turning countless grains.

Those shifting sands turn evermore
Only one way, like drifting snow,
The breezes blowing off that shore,
So soft and gently go.

Over moist meadow lands they pass —

Those creeping sands-with stealthly care, Where larks nest in the tufted grass, And flowers scent the air.

They fill the ditches in the field,

And thirsty drink the runnels dry, So draught the flag and iris yield, The lilies droop and die.

The meadow to a desert turns,

Above its cold, wet, springy earth The glittering sand in summer burns Like embers on the hearth.

Upon the slope the orchard trees

Show only branches bleaching white,
Beneath the sand the trunks of these
Are hidden from the sight.

And many a low straw-thatched abode
Of village folk and fisher crew,
That used to line a winding road,
Has vanished from the view.

Only the chapel spire now stands
Where stood the hamlet ages back,
Above the sifting, sliding sands

That cover Escoublac.

The neighbors still a tale repeat,

Told of a winter's evening wild,
When wandered through that village street,
A beggar and his child.

They asked for shelter from the storm-
The furious storm from off the bay-
From every cosy cabin warm

The two were turned away.

And when they stood in helpless plight,
Their prayer refused at every door,
The old man plucked three hairs so white,
And blew them toward the shore.

And ever since, instead of rains,

Instead of feathery flakes of snow,

Those blasts have brought sharp cutting

grains

Of sand when e'er they blow.

SELMA WARE PAINE.

BORN: BANGOR, MAINE.

MISS PAINE still resides in her native town with her father, Hon. Albert W. Paine. Miss Paine has written quite a few poems that have received publication, all of which have been well and favorably commented upon.

SINGING PRAISES.

They pictured heaven in by-gone days
With angel hosts that sang

For aye and aye the Maker's praise,
While all along the heavenly ways

The harps celestial rang.

But now a century more wise

Rejects the simple lore;

And yet perchance within it lies
A truth from wise and prudent eyes,
Concealed as once of yore.

What fragrant fields the angel feet
May tread, I do not know;

What words the angel lips repeat,
What seeds of kindness fair and sweet

The angel hands may sow.

But this I know, the heart that stays

On earth, and bears its part, And sings the while its Maker's praise On stormy and on sunny days

That is the heavenly heart.

I think when such a heart is freed
From cumbering clay, that where
The thought and love are word and deed,
Unconsciously, its grateful need
Will change to music there.

HORATIO NELSON POWERS.

BORN: AMENIA, N. Y., APRIL 30, 1828. GRADUATING at Union college in 1850, he afterward attended a theological seminary, and was ordained a deacon in New York Trinity church. He has since been rector of several prominent churches, and is now rector of Christ church, Piermont, N. Y. Dr. Powers has published Through the Year, Poems-Early and Late, and Ten Years of Song, which latter work appeared in 1887.

ONE YEAR.

A year of sweets- a little year

That vanished with our darling's breath:

So strange! doth not yet appear

What is the blessing hid in death.

One little year, yet oh! how long,

With such a love as made our light:

Each day was a delicious song,

Whose rapture lasted through the night.

There came with him the keener sense
Of what the perfect life may be;
And sad years had their recompense
In what he gave unknowingly.

The household voices caught his glee,
The tasks of home were changed to play:
The freshness of his infancy

On every pleasant prospect lay.

How restful the contented heart

Held his rare sweetness to its core, And turned from empty shows apartRich in his riches more and more.

O shining brow and golden hair

And eyes that looked beyond the blue! Dear face, that grew from fair to fair,

The same, yet always something new! A sweeter dream who ever dreamed

Than came with his soft lips to ours? Blent with his life, our being seemed Drowned in the glowing soul of flowers. All through the years his beauty shone; His path and ours appeared the same; And every good we called our own

Was linked with his beloved name.

O heart of God that pities all!

O love that gives and takes away! Confused and faint, on Thee we fall,

Yet know not how we ought to pray. Save this, that in our doubt and fear We wait as loving children should. We cannot see nor far nor near,

But trust that somehow all is good.

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

705

BORN: HENNIKER, N. H., OCT. 10, 1838. SHE received her early education in Concord, N. H., subsequently removing to Brooklyn, N. Y., where she has since resided. Her volumes of verse are Poems, and A Russian Journey. She has contributed largely to periodicals.

MOSCOW BELLS.

That distant chime! As soft it swells,
What memories o'er me steal!
Again I hear the Moscow bells

Across the moorland peal!

The bells that rock the Kremlin tower
Like a strong wind, to and fro,-
Silver-sweet in its topmost bower,

And the thunder's boom below.
They say that oft at Eastern dawn
When all the world is fair,
God's angels out of heaven are drawn

To list the music there.

And while the rose-clouds with the breeze
Drift onward,— like a dream,
High in the ether's pearly seas

Their radiant faces gleam.

O when some Merlin with his spells
A new delight would bring,
Say: I will hear the Moscow bells
Across the moorland ring!

The bells that rock the Kremlin tower
Like a strong wind, to and fro,-
Silver-sweet in its topmost bower,
And the thunder's boom below!

706

ANNA C. L. BOTTA.

BORN: BENNINGTON, VT., IN 1828. THIS lady was educated in Albany, N. Y., and began early to write for literary periodicals. Mrs. Botta's style is musical, elegant and finished. Among her best poems are Paul at Athens, Webster Books, and Wasted Fountains. She has published in periodicals numerous stories, essays and criticisms, and has edited various works. A new edition of her poems appeared in 1884.

THE DUMB CREATION.

Deal kindly with those speechless ones,
That throng our gladsome earth;
Say not the bounteous gift of life
Alone is nothing worth.

What though with mournful memories
They sigh not for the past?
What though their ever joyous Now
No future overcast?

No aspirations fill their breast

With longings undefined:

They live, they love, and they are blest,
For what they seek they find.

They see no mystery in the stars,
No wonder in the plain;
And Life's enigma wakes in them
No questions dark and vain.
To them earth is a final home,
A bright and blest abode;
Their lives unconsciously flow on
In harmony with God.

To this fair world our human hearts
Their hopes and longings bring,
And o'er its beauty and its bloom
Their own dark shadows fling.
Between the future and the past
In wild unrest we stand:
And ever as our feet advance,
Retreats the promised land.

And though Love, Fame, and Wealth and

Power,

Bind in their gilded bond,

We pine to grasp the unattained,
The something still beyond.

And, beating on their prison bars,
Our spirits ask more room,
And with unanswered questionings,
They pierce beyond the tomb.
Then say thou not, oh doubtful heart,
There is no life to come:

That in some tearless, cloudless land,
Thou shalt not find thy home.

JOHN HAY.

BORN: SALEM, IND., OCT. 8, 1838. JOHN HAY practiced law in Illinois in 1861, but immediately after went to Washington as assistant secretary to President Lincoln, remaining with him, both as a secretary and a trusted friend, almost constantly till the death of Mr. Lincoln. He then served the government in various capacities. In 1870 he became an edi torial writer on the New York Tribune, where he remained about five years. Pike County Ballads is his best book of verse. Col. Hay is supposed to be the author of Breadwinners.

JIM BLUDSO, OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE.
Wall, no! I can't tell where he lives,
Becase he don't live, you see;
Leastways, he's got out of the habit

Of livin' like you and me.

Whar have you been for the last three year
That you hav n't heard folks tell
How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks
The night of the Prairie Belle?
He were n't no saint,- them engineers
Is all pretty much alike,-
One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill
And another one here, in Pike;
A keerless man in his talk was Jim,
And an awkward hand in a row,
But he never funked, and he never lied,—
I reckon he never knew how.

All boats had their day on the Mississip
And her day came at last,-

The Movastar was a better boat,

But the Belle she would n't be passed.
And so she came tearin' along that night—
The oldest craft on the line-
With a nigger squat on the safety-valve,
And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine.
The fire bust out as she clared the bar,
And burnt a hole in the night,

And quick as a flash she turned, and made
For that willar-bank on the right.

There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled

out,

Over all the infernal roar,

..I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank
Till the last galoot's ashore."

Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat

Jim Bludso's voice was heard,
And they all had trust in his cussedness,
And knowed he would keep his word.
And, sure's you're born, they all got off
Afore the smokestacks fell,-

And Bludso's ghost went up alone
In the smoke of the Prairie Belle.