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I a child again am kneeling

In the splendor of thy light.
O ye tinkling, foam-white fountains,
Bathe me in your silver spray!

On yon heights of sunset mountains,
O ye elfin harpists! play;
Bid me enter at the portal,-

Life is dreary, filled with pain,
For the youth that seemed immortal
Thrills no more the pulse and brain.

Araluen! child of laughter,

Would that life were young to me; Filled with dreams of some hereafter, Bright, and beautiful, and free! Evermore with thee to ponder, By the river's ceaseless flow; Evermore with thee to wander, Where the tangled roses grow. While the cricket in the thicket, By the swiftly-flowing stream, Guards for aye the golden wicket To the fairy land of dream!

DRIFTING.

O fairest maid of rarest days,

Pomona's child with golden tresses!

I loiter in thy sylvan ways,

My heart is warm with thy caresses.

And o'er again, as in a dream,

I voice the words the spell is wreathing,

As in the reeds beside the stream

Pandean pipes are lowly breathing.

I think of one whose starry eyes,

And laughter through the woodland ring

ing,

And shy caresses, and tender sighs,
Attuned the poet's heart is singing.

And like Ausonian king of old,

I listen to the wood-nymph's pleading, While this poor form of human mold Plods sadly after fancy's leading.

O river rippling to the sea,

Thy silver waters, softly stealing In shadowed beauty o'er the lea, Awake the slumbrous chords of feeling.

And on thy waves of rosy light,

Seen in my boyhood's happy vision, I'm drifting from the shores of night, To isles of rest in realms Elysian.

DROPPED DEAD. Stranger he was to the pitiless throng, Viewing his corpse as they bore him along, Heedless for aye of their laughter and song

Dropped dead!

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But raging hurricanes, in tumult hurled,
And blasting winds and tempests are her boast.
With thundering whir of ebon wings, from coast
To coast they fly, by might resistless whirled,
Then in their central calm betimes are furled,
And rest content, for lo: a new-born host
Of stronger life and fresher bloom arise.
Even thus have all the greatest eras wrought
Those changes that have made our earth so

wise.

Weak doubting heart receive the lesson taught: Beyond each storm of grief a blessing lies, Becalmed within the center of God's thought.

THE ISLAND SPRING.

Far from shore, where salt seas only
Hurl white storms of angry foam,
Stands an Island, bleak and lonely,
Banished from earth's sylvan home.

Not a blade of floweret tender

Nestles to its rocky breast

Through the warmth of summer splendor,
Into wakening life caressed.

But as pure as from the mountain
Where the sweetest waters start,
Lo: a sparkling crystal fountain
Gushes from its barren heart;

Fresh and clear, though all surrounded
By the briny waters wide,

Never once its laugh confounded

By the hostile, dashing tide;

Singing always with a spirit

Envying not the high-born spring;

Satisfied to just inherit

Dreams of wayside blossoming.

Canst thou recognize the presage,

O my heart, with better trust? Canst thou read a heavenly message On this tablet of the dust?

God will bid a fount of gladness

Spring from out thy rock-bound soul, Free from every tone of sadness,

Though wild seas around thee roll. Thou shalt sing the same glad measures Caroled in earth's fairest bowers, Though bereft of life's green pleasures And a world of dewy flowers.

COBWEBS. Meshes touched with the morning-mist, Sheer enough for the ghosts of fairies; Gossamer forms that the vapor kissed To the verge of a dream as light as the air is; Discs of pearl from the fences that swing; Glittering patches of veiling drawn over

Meadow-grasses where night-damps cling;
Silvery drapings that frost the clover;
Thin transparencies seeking to screen
Deep, dark hollows, and clefts unsightly,
Where diamonds, thrilling with liquid sheen,
Tremble in nets that hold them lightly.
Lone and deserted each shining abode -
Splendor has driven the tenants away:
Gifts of such beauty seem illy bestowed
On ugly black spiders that live by prey.
Yet, after all, what is man himself
But just such an ogre, who loves to subsist
On his unwary brother, on plunder and pelf,
In this web of a world that hangs in the mist?

SUBMISSION.

Not on seas of wild commotion,
When the crazy tempest raves,
And the savage voice of Ocean
Challenges his clamoring caves-

Not on such the mirrored glory

Of the great protecting sky;
Not a billow tells the story
In reflective sympathy.
Even when, in broken spirit,

Waves but sigh along the shore
Still their motion must inherit
Shattered, shifting lights- no more.

But, when every sound is muffled,
And repose, as calm as death,
Rests upon a sea unruffled

By a faint, disturbing breath,

Then the image of its glory

Answers all the watching sky; Humbled waves repeat the story In adoring ecstacy.

AN APOLOGY.

Please send us some Thanksgiving verses," The editor writes in July,

While Sol's very hottest of curses

The mercury's passions defy.

I wipe the warm dews from my forehead,
And tear, like a poet, my hair,
And vow that, at least, it is horrid
To sit in this thrice-heated glare

And write up the pudding and turkey
And hearty cold-weathery things-
Bah! mental dyspepsia makes murky
My brain unprovided with wings.

To the foot of Parnassus I wander

To borrow the famed winged steed, Full conscious that Mother Goose's gander Is more apropos of my need.

"Come, Pegasus, come," I go calling — No whinnies send welcome reply; Instead comes an impish voice bawling:

The help that you'll get's in your eye.
"Peg's put out to pasture- no lying-
He told me to say, if you came,
"Twas rather too warm to be flying
Through regions no cooler than flame."
..I will walk to the top of the mountain,"
I cry, in the heat of despair:
"One draught from the Castalian fountain
Will make fancy light as the air."

I reach, with much toiling, the summit,
And make for the spring that's near by,
When the wretched imp jeers: You don't

come it,

The well of the Muses is dry.

"

"They, skylarking Nine, with Apollo,
Are off to their summer resort,
Nice, breezy Olympus, where follow
No mortals, whatever their sort."
Indignant, abashed and scarce seeing,
I grope down the mountain again,
My only consoling thought being
The gods are as idle as men.

MISSING.

Late at night I saw the Shepherd
Toiling slow along the hill,
Though the flock below were gathered
In the fold so warm and still.

On His face I saw the anguish,
In His locks the drops of night,
As He searched the misty valleys,
As He climbed the frosty hight.
Just one tender lamb was missing
When He called them all by name;
While the others heard and followed,
This one only never came.

Oft his voice rang thro' the darkness
Of that long, long night of pain;
Oft He vainly paused to listen
For an answering tone again.

Far away the truant, sleeping
By the chasm of Despair,

Lay, unconscious of its danger,
Shivering in the mountain-air.

But at last the Shepherd found it-
Found it ere in sleep it died—
Took it in His loving bosom,
And His soul was satisfied.

Then I saw the Eastern spaces
Part before a shining throng,
And the golden dome of morning
Seemed to shatter into song.

ལ

MRS. EMMELINE B. WELLS.

BORN: PETERSHAM, MASS., FEB. 29, 1828. THIS lady has been connected with the editorial staff of the Woman's Exponent since 1875, and has been the sole editor and publisher since 1877. She has written verses from her

MRS. EMMELINE BLANCHE WELLS. childhood, and will at some future time publish them in book-form. Mrs. Wells has attended conventions of women in Washington and other places; presented memorials to congress: called upon presidents and senators and members of the House in the interests of Utah, in which state she resides at Salt Lake City.

AT EVENING.

How softly fall the evening shadows pale,

Golden and purple sunsets blend and fade; Night robes earth quietly with mantling veil, And peace and rest the gentle hour pervade.

Great nature soothing with her potent power, Breathes to the world-worn heart her sympathy;

And 'mid the tranquil of such spell-bound hour,

The mem'ries of the past steal tenderly. Athwart the scene the moon with golden trail As erst with pitying glance and mellowed light,

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Sweeps thro' the empty space with steady sail,

And floods with beauty the enchanted night. It is the hour for sweet and tender thought And whisperings of the life that is to be,And Faith and Trust with holy impulse fraught,

Speak to the soul in nature's poetry. Unconscious of ourselves we sink to sleep And bright-robed beings round our couches

stray,

In sacred stillness holy vigils keep,

And night assumes the sceptre of her sway.

THE DEAR OLD GARDEN.

My dear old garden still I cail it mine;

And mine it is, for in its grateful shade Of ev'ry tree, and shrub and flow ring vine, My children and my children's children

play'd.

'Round these my aching heart instinctive

clings,

And they to me are sweet and tender things. Under those trees I've sauntered to and fro, In search of hidden gems of precious thought,

Perchance some wayward fancies all aglow Have been in chains of measur'd rhythm caught,

For rustling leaves, and sighing boughs have stirred

The depths of love, no living voice hath heard.

And here young lovers, plighted vows have given,

And scaled them with the first fond lingering kiss

That hallows love, and makes earth seem a heav'n,

A sweet enchanted dream of rapt'rous bliss When two pure hearts, in confidence and truth,

Unite their joys and hopes in early youth. These trees and shrubs, and ev'ry bush and vine,

We've watched from tiniest seed and stem; Why then should I not always call them mine?

For in my heart of hearts I treasure them. No matter how neglected now they be They were a part of my home life to me. Yes, I remember sitting there so well, With baby in my arms and children 'round; And a sweet peace hung o'er me like a spell, While the white blossoms fluttered to the

ground;

For the young apple trees were just in bloom And we were breathing in their sweet per

fume.

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O, how the childish voices loud and clear, Rang out in laughter and in merry song; No wonder that to me the place is dear, To which so many memories belong; O, would those days but come to me again "Twould ease my heart of all this racking pain.

O, little ones, 'mong the long tangled grass, Where buttercups and clover nestled down; Or like a shadow flitting as you pass,

To gather hollyhocks in silken gown, Or pull the morning glories from the vine Which gaily 'round the fav'rite tree entwine.

MEMORY OF THE SEA. In the midnight hour, a memory Swept like music o'er my soul As I stood in silent reverie,

Where the surging billows roll; Minor music, sad and sorrowing, Full of trembling, full of tears, Ever like the ocean's murmuring, Bringing back the tide of years. Telling of the long forgotten

In the cycles of the past,

Of the nations crushed and broken
In the world's great holocaust.

As I listened so entrancing

Was the music of the sea;
That I fancied mermaids dancing
To the midnight minstrelsy;
And a thousand harp-strings quivering,
Sobbing in the midnight sea:

And my broken heart-strings shivering
As sad memories came to me.
Had I caught the inspiration

Of the music deep and strong
That had moved my soul's wild passion,
Was it but a syren's song?

O, such music, weird and mournful,
As the night-wind swept along,
And the shattered notes so painful,
Making discord in the song.

How far off the dreamy vision
That these memories brought to me,
As I strained my ear to listen

To the murmuring in the sea.
Far down where the sea weeds whisper
To the corals and the shells;
But they keep the secret ever,
Roar or echo never tells.
But the human heart's emotion,
Answers to the sad refrain,
And the ceaseless moan of ocean,
Brings a grandeur fraught with pain.
While the wild waves in commotion,
Sweeping out unto the shore;
Bounding billows, restless ocean,
Echoing for evermore.

And the ever constant beating
'Gainst the rocks that hemm'd the sea,
Where the winds in fury meeting,
Dashed them backward ruthlessly.
So our human hopes are driven,
Recklessly tossed to and fro,
And our strongest ties are riven-
Rent asunder by a blow.
Ever heaves the restless ocean,
With its hidden mystery,
Sleeping in its surging bosom,
Until time shall cease to be.