712

And, mirrored in thy mimic glass,

I've watched the artless grace Of many a dark-eyed village lass, As she did kiss thy face; And I have envied thee thy lot Oh! I remember well!

Thou wilt not, canst not, be forgot, Sweet spring down in the dell!

GONE TO THE SUMMERLAND. A bird is but a beauteous thought Outflowing from supernal love, A wing'd affection, bright and warm, That flies down from above; And reaching here its mural goal,

A world of sunshine and of storm, The thought of God becomes encased And fixed in lovely form.

Ah! yes; it dwells in flesh and blood
That we may hear its sugary song,
And learn by all its innocence
To hate the human wrong;
And guardian to this tiny thing

Is One the angels love to name -
He hung the planets in yon space
And set the suns aflame.

One day its brilliant plumage paled,
Its wings no more did flow and float,
An orchestra of opera songs
Died in its little throat.

The cage was empty, lone and still,

The nest was there, the nestling fled,

And all the mourning household said:

There's music in the olden song
That tells the tale of duty,
Of lances poised for glorious eyes
And crimson lips of beauty;
And romance for the belted knights
That feared the face of no man,
Who on the field of Crecy fell
With faces to the foeman.

We sing a song of modern days —
Of something far diviner,

The Ballad of the giant Press,
Creator and refiner!

We toast old Guttenburg and Faust,
In champagne, port and sherry,
And in the goblet see the smile

On Franklin's face grow merry.
Within its dungeon palace works,
As some gigantic beaver,
The very thing Archimedes

Would call the long-sought lever,
Obedient to the will of Thought
It moves its steel phalanges,
And nations bend to catch its breath
From Golden Gate to Ganges.

It orders war and forces peace,

And drowns the voice of faction,
And moves the men the world calls great
To automatic action!

It proves, when wills its Titan soul
To philosophic tinkers,

That on this planet there are kings —
And these the silent thinkers!

It calls from chaos into life

New nations as men need 'em,
And wraps around their infant forms
The sacred robes of freedom!
It flays the shrinking back of Crime,
The Tarquins who pollute us,
And tells the tyrants everywhere
That they have still a Brutus!

It woos the lightning from the sky
In all its moods and tenses,

And the monarch of the clouds stoops down

And plays amanuensis!

Since it controls the bolts of Jove,

Prepare for any antic

Build rapid transit to the moon!
And tunnel the Atlantic!

Room for the conqueror of the world!
The steel-clad Alexander!

Room for the Pen, the Sword of mind

Which sweeps from grand to grander! Room for the Teachers of their kind, Who scorn the Wrong's defiance, And proudly bear upon their crest The motto: Self-Reliance?"

MRS. MADELINE D. MORTON.

BORN: NEW ORLEANS, LA., SEPT. 2, 1849. As a girl this writer was very studious, and at an early age contributed to such publications as the Home Journal of New York, Celtic Magazine, Sunday Chronicle, New York Sunday Mercury, Redpath's Weekly and the St. Louis Magazine. In all the poems of Mrs. Morton every idea is expressed clear and sparkling as a diamond, and the pictures she

MRS. MADELINE D. MORTON. draws from nature stand out very distinct. Before the close of the war this estimable lady entered into a romantic marriage with Dr. J. C. Morton, a young surgeon in the union army, and they have lived together ever since in happiness and prosperity in the city of New York. Mrs. Morton is a handsome lady of high literary attainments, a fascinating conversationalist, and has a host of ardent friends and admirers. Her prose writings are welcomed by the best literary publications, generally, however, appearing over a nom de plume or anonymously. Mrs. Morton intends soon to prepare for permanent publication a collection of her beautiful poems.

NATURE'S SONG.

The streamlet whispers on its winding way: "I scatter life and health as on I glide, And fringe my banks with flow'rets gay, Whil e verdure blooms on every side.

I murmur to the earth all bleak and bare
My happy, rippling, gladsome tune,-
Refresh and cool the dusky, burning air
Of summer's scorching heat in misty June."
The little bird with outspread fluttering
wings

And merry heart he gaily skims along;
Listen, for this is the song he sings:

..I cheer the mourner with my song,

I teach the drooping ones their ills to bear; I tell the sinful from their ways to turn,To leave their earthly dross and careThey will need them not in funeral urn." The painted flower all joyous cries:

"How sweet the breath of my perfume-
My blended hues will gladden weary eyes,
And from the sorrowing lift their gloom.
Then come the humming bird and bee
To sip their fill from out my cup;
The butterfly from harm will flee-
Within my bloom safe covered up."
The shining star set twinkling high
In the evening's crown a gem of light,
This lesson writes upon the sky:

"He created us and all things right,-
He formed the worlds a countless host-
And hurled them swinging into space;
At Heaven's gate we have our post
As beacons bright for human race."
And man in pride must not forget
To join this chorus raised on earth,
By bird, and stream, and flow'ret

And star of bright celestial birth. Honored was He in this creation's past, Being the soul, and tongue and heart, "Til woman came! the last but not the least Of the Creator's will- the perfect part!

With soft clear eyes and loving smile,
Whose accents linger still with me,
And many weary hours beguile.

I can but think how bleak and drear
My life would be without his love,
Which fills my soul with echoes sweet,
A faint resound from choirs above.

I feel a love as strong and deep,

As full and vast as ocean's tides,
Where every pulse but for him beats,
And all my bosom's faith abides.
I've listened to his 'witching words,
I've listened and I have believed;
Into my dreams a voice has come
And told me I am not deceived.
But, oh! I feel that if, perchance,

Should come the hour, with his love fled, The world for me had nothing left,

For all my cherished hopes were dead. But no! I've felt his dear heart's beat, His strong arms firmly 'round me press'd, And when his eye's fond glance I meet My doubting soul finds quiet rest. In this sweet faith I'll firmly trust, Should glad joys shine or sorrows loom, And pray we be unparted when Another life dawns through the tomb.

BIRDS. EXTRACT.

Birds, sweet birds, of lightsome wing,
How ye sport and spring!
Skimming over bank and brook,
Mossy marge and grassy nook,

Where you sit and sing.

THE REVEL OF THE WINTER WINDS. Hark! how the storm is raging without! In the distance it clamoring swells! All check and resistance it sternly defies, Its voice the fierce contest foretells! The trees shake bare branches in quivering dread

As they bow their tall forms to the blast, Or measure the earth with their fallen length And with swift-drifting snows are o'ercast. Up from the depths of the darkness it comes With a wail and a sobbing shout. Whispering, shrieking and sighing by turnsThe wild spirits of air have come out! With a gusty bound, a rush and a whirl, It tears through the firs o'er the way, With the moanings that only sore anguish might know

Hoarse mutterings like giants in the fray. It piles up the snow in great, ghostly drifts; The moon hides her face in despair:

Not one starry beam through the wild-rifted clouds

Falls athwart the night's keen, cutting air! Now away in the distance it shuddering dies Like the sound of a lost soul's woe;

Then it gathers new impulse and violent strength

On its errand to blast and o'erthrow. What way will it take on its long journey hence

To wander o'er lands distant far, With its lion-like roar, or its soft sleepy snore, Or clangor of storm-gods at war? [wild, O'er mountain, and vale and dense forest It hisses and sputters along,

Sweeping the heights with impetuous force, Or again sings a lullaby song.

Although with the hoarsest of voices it speaks Where the long roll beats on the drear shore, The wind blasts and waves croon a solemn re

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PATRICK S. CASSIDY.

BORN: IRELAND, OCT. 31, 1850.

MR. CASSIDY came to New York in 1868, and became connected with the Associated Press, remaining with that Association for about ten years. He successively edited the New York Sunday Democrat, Illustrated Times and the Celtic Magazine, of which latter periodical he was part owner. Independent of his editorial work, Mr. Cassidy has written both prose and verse for various leading American literary journals. When but six

PATRICK S. CASSIDY. teen years of age he began to court the muse, and his first productions were published in the Londonderry Journal and the Dublin Irish Chronicle. At the age of eighteen he wrote Glenough or the Victims of Vengeance, a serial story of Irish life, which appeared in the Boston Pilot, and was subsequently published in book-form and dramatized. 1881 he has been regularly connected with the Sunday Mercury. Mr. Cassidy has written melodious song verse, but usually his poems have a heroic ring and metal, and show strength, individuality and boldness, which features are characteristic of the man himself. Mr. Cassidy still remains unmarried.

A LONGING.

How throbs the city's iron heart! What noise its beating tells,

Since

As through the surging thoroughfares
The roar of commerce swells!
This ceaseless noise, these grinding throbs,
They strike the very core,

As through its thousand arteries
Trade's feverish life-streams pour.
How longs the heart for quiet's balm!
How weary grows the ear!
At all this tumult-war for gain
That fills the atmosphere,

And speaks of man's ambitious mind;
'Tis death or in the van,

For each has entered in the lists
To head his fellow man.

How sick the soul will sometimes grow

At all this endless strife,

Where Mammon is the worshiped god,
And gold is more than life;

Where in the flint treadmill of trade
Men fall before their years,
And in the contest o'er the will

Is centered all the tears!

Dear mellow sounds of rural life,

How soft your memory floats

In on me here and soothes my soul

Like weird Æolian notes!

How like the wind-harp's view less chords,

The chords of memory be!

They thrill but to a spirit's song,

From all earth's discord free.

In hour like this how sweetly rise

Dear scenes of peaceful days.

And thoughts of men - the truly great

Who walked in simple ways;

Who shunned the roar of selfish strife

And sought the songs of birds;

Who listened in the breathing groves
For wisdom's whispered words!
Oh, solitude - divine retreat!
What bliss you round us cast,
Where we can chose for company
The great ones of the past;

Far from the jabbering rabble crowd,
As Moses - Christ - retired

To groves for wisdom, prayer and thought,
By spirit tongues inspired.

Oh, Druid sage, I'll take your hand

And wander where you lead,
By singing streams, o'er plain and hill,
And vale and flowery mead,

And in the groves - God's temples they -
I'll cast me at thy feet,

And soothe my wearied soul in thine
And nature's converse sweet.

716

I'll trust the man with a whole-souled laugh

And count him among my friends, And the social class I'll clink and quaff With him till the evening ends.

For the full free laugh,

As our wine we quaff,

Is a good heart's jubilant prayer.
To the heart I'll say

That can laugh that way,

There is something good in there!

O, the generous laugh, unreserved and whole,

Is the music of the heart

"Tis the anthem grand of a good big soul,
And of heavenly choirs a part.
I'll grasp the hand of the man or maid,
Who with laughter fills my ears;
"Tis the only sound that can never fade
In the valley of vanished years.

O, the thrilling shout

As the laugh rings out

From a stout heart firm and true,

"Tis the robust sound
The wide world round

As it thrills you through and through!

A pitiful pipe is the hollow laugh,

Or the simper or snicker so cold; They tell of a friendship as light as chaff, And a heart of the selfish mold. Deceit and cunning are written thereon With stratagems, treasons and spoils," That man's greatest triumph in life is won By getting men in his toils.

A traitor to truth,

To all love and ruth,

Is he of the simper and sneer,
And we'll trust him not

With our comfort's lot,
Nor invite him to share our cheer!
Then ha ha! ha! let us laugh our fill
'Tis good for the heart and health;
The generous laugh is the fountain rill
Of the river of life's best wealth!
Sympathy, loyalty, friendship and love,
And a hand for the man oppressed,-
Such motto as this gives a credit above
When we drop to our last long rest.
Then let us laugh

Till our spirits quaff

Of the nectar distilled by mirth;

'Tis the token of men

Vouchsafed to them when

The Creator launched forth the earth!

WOMAN'S HAND.

Peering 'mid the flower pots

Upon the window sill,

In and out and round about,

Ranging round at will,

Gleaming white and small and swift

And timid as a mouse;

A woman's hand among the plants-
The mistress of the house!

No flashing jewels deck that hand,
And yet it is not bare:

A golden circlet shows thereon
Which only wives may wear-
The honored crown of womanhood
No true man will assail,

That giveth more protection far
Than baron's coat of mail.

A hand that pets the flowers must be
A hand of tender touch,

A hand to cool the fevered brow
And throw away a crutch.
A hand to cheer the husband on
And beautify the home-

Ah, did all the husbands have such wives
How much less would they roam!

A hand to lead with silken thread,
More strong because unseen,
And she, so modest in her love,

Yet all the more his queen

A queen that reigns within his heart
With despot power unfelt,
Because her hand keeps fresh the shrine
Where courtship's love hath knelt.
But see! there passeth forth a face,
A vision fresh and fair,

A look of brightness and of cheer
That daily conquers care;
And though the flush of exercise
Upon her red cheek glows,
"Tis the staining of the lily

With the crimson of the rose.
Such women are the links that bind
Men to the pure and good,
Bright rainbow arches lighting up
From earthly things and rude.
Around her breathes an atmosphere
Fresh born of heaven's own skies;
She walks the earth to purify —
An angel in disguise!

If man hath love within his heart
And goodness in his soul,
Her influence will lead him on
To life's most perfect goal,
Though delicate that hand may be
It shields from roughest storms,
It routs the legions of despair
And evil fates transforms.

Nor nature's forge has ever shaped
Another force so strong

As it in lifting up the good

And crushing out the wrong.

Talk not of marshaled armies vast,

Nor of magician's wand,

The greatest power that earth can know Is woman's little hand!