Can one weigh the baby's wiles,

Witching ways and cunning smiles?
Weigh the voice to us so sweet,
Or the warmth of rosy feet?
Weigh her dimples-Cupid's nest,"
Where our kisses find sweet rest?
Weigh the blessings that each day
Wrap her 'round in soft array ?

Can you weigh each hope and prayer,
Centered on her everywhere?

Or the love that's woven fast

'Round her while our lives shall last? Can you weigh the fair young soul, Op'ning like a spotless scroll?

Only God's unerring gaze,

Sees how much our darling weighs.

MARGARET.

When you passed me yesterday,
Deigning not to look that way,
Did you know that I was near,
And with all your coldness, fear
Just to meet my earnest gaze,
Lest some thought of other days
Should defy you to forget
What we have been, Margaret?

Did your memory like a dream,
Bring before you then a gleam
Of a farm-house white and small,
Where the brightest sunbeams fall;
Where the woodbine clambers up,
Holding many a dainty cup
Filled with incense sweeter yet,
Than all others, Margaret?

Did you see the roses white,
And the red ones, where one night
'Neath the solemn light of stars,
Shadows held us in their bars,
And the soft wind floating by,
Heard us vowing-you and I,
That our love's sun should not set,
While life lasted, Margaret?

Are your hot-house flowers as sweet
As the ones that kissed your feet?
Do your prisoned birds e'er sing
Like the wild ones on the wing?
Will your wealth and station pay
For the true heart cast away?
Does no wild remorse, regret,
Prey upon you, Margaret?
Turn your head away in scorn,
Rich in gold-in heart forlorn;
Mingle with the heartless, gay;
Laugh and jest and ne'er betray
Through your mask of calm, cold pride,
How your aching heart is tried;
Yet through all life's tangled net,
You shall love me, Margaret.

IDA MAY DAVIS.

BORN: LA FAYETTE, IND., 1858.

MRS. DAVIS has written for many leading magazines and newspapers, among which might be mentioned the Chicago Inter Ocean,

IDA MAY DAVIS. Chicago Current and Indianapolis Journal. She is of medium hight, with brown hair and hazel eyes, and now resides in Terre Haute, Indiana.

EVENING SONG.

Farewell, sweet day,

Thy thoughts and mine in perfect tune; And rhyme have blent this day of June, And ere the rapture of thy spell Dissolves, I turn to thee and say,

Sweet day, farewell.

Farewell, sweet day,

For I would rather part from thee With every chord in harmony

Than meet thee in the cold, gray light Of morrow's morn. Thus, glad I say, Sweet day, goodnight.

A MEMORY.

The rose's heart is red, so red;

The thrush's song is sweet, so sweet; The river lies, a flame of blue,

The morn is golden and complete.

I hear her voice amid the reeds,
Alike no other melody;

My name, across the echoing wold.

On wings of wind is borne to me. I reach out ah! my rose-red dream! Gray shreds of gauze in ochre light Spread slow along the water's trail, Into the olive veii of night.

It must have been the friendly breeze, With magic touch upon my brain. With voice soft soughing thro' the trees, That brought me thee, O love, again.

THE ROSE.

I, the rose, am glad to-day,

Slumbering in the summer heat.

I heard my lady, joyous say,

..I'll wear this rose of fragrance sweet,

When I, my guests invited meet."
Ah, kindest fate, that I should grace
Such beauty as my Lady's face;

And she will place me, soft caressed,
With lingering touch upon her breast.

Strange fingers plucked me yester night,
Mid swiftly falling drops, dew-bright.

They said an uninvited guest,
Greeting my Lady, bade her rest.
She lay in fair and fleecy white,

With smiling lips. Thro' pale moonlight,

They measured steps, with sound supprest,

And laid me softly on her breast,
And kissed her cheek so ivory white.
I, the rose, am sad to-night.

A HARMONY.

The dawn's unfolding wings the breeze fret, Kissing the gentian's slumbrous eyelids swift;

Her silk-fringed lashes with the dewdrops wet, Quivering 'neath the sun's bright glance, uplift.

The bee, hid in the trumpet-blossom's spire, Reels to the chimes within its nodding cells. The trembling hollyhock's red chalices of fire Rock with the unseen ringer of their bells. O'er purple clematis the butterfly

Hovers to taste the sweetness from its lips: And all the opal tints of sun and sky

Are drank in rainbow colors that he sips. The reeds that grow down by the crystal spring,

Meeting the morning breezes from the sea, Their matutinal lays are offering

In notes that might awake sad Niobe. The ripples from the brook, where bluedragons Upon its bosom clear reflected float, Are like the soft-voiced ring-dove's carillons, Or silvery laughter from a young girl's

throat.

And every swaying stem keeps time complete,
To fill its part in nature's melody
Of rhythmic cadence to the low wind's beat-
Song without words-a voiceless symphony.

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63

MRS. FRANCES L. MACE.

BORN: ORONO, ME., JAN. 15, 1836.

THE poems of this lady have appeared in the Century, Atlantic, Lippincott's, Harper's and the leading magazines of America. In 1884 appeared a volume of over two hundred pages from her pen, entitled Legends, Lyrics and Sonnets; and in 1888, Under Pine and Palm, a magnificient volume of her collected poems.

MRS. FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE. She was married in 1855 to Benjamin H. Mace, a prominent lawyer and scholar. Mrs. Mace lives at San Jose, under the smiling skies of California. At the age of eighteen she wrote her celebrated hymn, Only Waiting, which was copied through the length and breadth of the land. Mrs. Mace is a handsome, stately woman, with a truly artistic temperament, and has four children now living.

ONLY WAITING. Only waiting till the shadows

Are a little longer grown,

Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown; Till the night of earth is faded

From this heart once full of day, Till the dawn of Heaven is breaking Through the twilight soft and gray. Only waiting till the reapers

Have the last sheaf gathered home, For the summer-time hath faded

And the autumn winds are come. Quickly, reapers, gather quickly The last ripe hours of my heart For the bloom of life is withered, And I hasten to depart. Only waiting till the angels

Open wide the mystic gate, At whose feet I long have lingered, Weary, poor, and desolate. Even now I hear their footsteps And their voices far away: If they call me I am waiting,Only waiting to obey. Only waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown, Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown; Then from out the folded darkness Holy, deathless stars shall rise, By whose light my soul will gladly Wing her passage to the skies.

VIOLETS.

I know a spot where woods are green,
And all the dim, delicious June
A brook flows fast the boughs between
And trills an eager, joyous tune.
In clear unbroken melody

The brook sings and the birds reply:
...The violets-the violets!"
Upon the water's velvet edge

The purple blossoms breathe delight, Close nestled to the grassy sedge

As sweet as dawn, as dark as night.

O brook and branches, far away,
My heart keeps time with you to-day!
...The violets- the violets!"

I sometimes dream that when at last
My life is done with fading things,
Again will blossom forth the past
To which my memory fondest clings.
That some fair star has kept for me,
Fresh blooming still by brook and tree,
...The violets- the violets!"

EBB AND FLOW. My river! Thou art like the poet's soul, Where tides of song perpetual ebb and flow. Like thine the current of his life runs low At times, his visions suffer loss and dole, And sunken griefs break through the water's shoal.

Then while despair is tossing to and fro His stranded hope, a breath begins to blow From the great sea! With rising swell and roll The waves of inspiration lift and float

His being into broad and full expanse. Now rocks his fancy like an airy boat

On wreathed billows; his impassioned glance Little of cloud or reef or wreck will note,

On the high tide of song in blissful trance.

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LOTUS-EATING.

These perfect days were never meant

For toil of hand or brain,

But for such measureless content

As heeds no loss nor gain;

Close held to Nature's flowery breast
In deep midsummer rest.
Within this woodland shade I feel
The life of wind and tree;
Soft odors, tremulous boughs reveal
Unuttered ecstasy;

The wild bird's drowsy warble seems
My own voice heard in dreams!
And yonder azure mountain brow
Against the opal sky,
The river's cool, melodious flow,
The pine tree's pensive sigh,
Each utters forth my inmost mood
Of blissful solitude.

That ever-daring deeds were done,
Or flery flags unfurled,
Is like a tale of glory won

In some primeval world,
Where under skies of angry hue
Not yet the lotus grew!

O world, to-day in vain you hold
The glittering branch of palm;
The lotus hath a flower of gold,

A fruit of heavenly balm,
And underneath the greenwood tree
Are flower and fruit for me.

THE RAINBOW.

Bridge of enchantment! for a moment hung Between the tears of earth and smiles of

heaven,

Surely the sheen of jasper, sapphire, gold,
Flashes and burns along thy colors seven,
And to the lifted heart, the beaming eye,.
Reveals the splendor of the upper sky.
Whether as Northmen dream, the hero's soul
Enters its rest across thy brilliant height;
Or, as the more melodious Greek hath told,
Iris descends with message of delight;
Or in the silence beautiful is heard
The still, small whisper of the Hebrew Word;
Welcome forever to a stormy world,

Dear in each sign and symbol of the past
As of the future; for our Hope shall climb
Thy lustrous arch to realms unseen and vast;
Peace shall come down to us, and in thy light
God's finger still the golden Promise write!

THE ANGELUS.

Ring soft across the dying day,

Angelus!

Across the amber-tinted bay,

The meadow flushed with sunset ray, Ring out and float and melt away,

Angelus.

The day of toil seems long ago,

Angelus!

While through the deepening vesper glow,
Far up where holy lilies blow,

Thy beckoning bell-notes rise and flow,
Angelus.

Through dazzling curtains of the west,
Angelus,

We see a shrine in roses dressed,
And lifted high, in vision blest,
Our every heart-throb is confessed,
Angelus!

Oh, has an angel touched the bell,

Angelus?

For now upon its parting swell
All sorrow seems to sing Farewell;
There falls a peace no words can tell,
Angelus!

ECHO LAKE.

In sunset beauty lies the lake,

A limpid, lustrous splendor! The mists which wrapped the mountain break, And Storm Cliff's rugged outlines take

An aspect warm and tender.

Now listen! for a spirit dwells
High in these mountain nooks and dells.
Echo!
Echo!

Hail to thee! Hail to thee!

Sad Echo, mocked of all her kind,
Here haunts the fleeting summer,
And sends her voice upon the wind,
Still hoping long-lost love to find
In every transient comer.
Not where 'mid silver beeches shines
The lake's pellucid fountain,
But high o'er tangled shrubs and vines
She dwells amid the spectral pines,
The spectre of the mountain.
Float nearer still and drop the oar,
Here where the lilies glisten;

O Echo, we return no more;
For us beyond the island shore
True love doth long and listen.
Thou grievest not, nor dost rejoice,
O wandering, solitary Voice!
Echo!
Farewell!

Echo! Farewell!

TEARS OF ISIS.

When Isis, by true mother love oppressed,
Held wounded Horus to her goddess breast,
Each tear that touched the sympathetic earth
To some rich, aromatic herb gave birth.
Such healing sprang from her celestial pain,
Mortals no longer seek relief in vain, [years,
For oft as spring awakes the slumbering
In wood and meadow blossom Isis' tears.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

BORN: CAMBRIDGE, MASS., AUG. 29, 1809. THIS great scholar is equally noted as a poet, novelist, essayist, and physician. He is considered one of the most witty, originai and brilliant writers of the present day. Educated partly at Phillips academy, he graduated at Harvard when twenty years of age. Young Oliver then spent a vear in studying law: but

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

the subject of this sketch very soon abandoned the law in order to enter upon the study of medicine, which course he pursued in Europe, chiefly in Paris.

In 1836 Mr. Holmes returned to America, took the degree of M. D., and two years later he became professor of anatomy and physiology in Dartmouth college, which position he held until the time of his marriage, in 1840, when he removed to Boston, and there won much success as a practicing physician. In 1847 he was appointed to the chair of anatomy and physiology in Harvard - the seat of the medical department of this university being in Boston-a post which he has filled with honor until 1882.

While Dr. Holmes has won distinction not only as a professional man and a writer on subjects related to his profession, he is best known to the public by his purely literary productions.

During the year 1830, while studying law, he contributed a number of witty poems to a col

6.5

lege periodical. Dr. Holmes was one of the founders of the Atlantic Monthly magazine, to which he contributed from time to time; and in the pages of this periodical first appeared The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table. His lyrics, such as Old Ironsides, Union and Liberty, Welcome to the Nations, and others, are not only spirited, but also the most beautiful in our language; and his humorous poems, including The One-Hoss Shay, Lending an Old Punch-Bowl, My Aunt, The Boys, and many others, are characterized by a vivacious and sparkling wit which makes their drollery irresistible. His prose works are greatly admired, the best of which are The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, The Professor at the Breakfast Table, The Poet of the Breakfast Table, and the novels Elsie Venner, and the Guardian Angel.

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Dr. Holmes," says John G. Whittier, "has been likened to Thomas Hood; but there is little in common between them, save the power of combining fancy and sentiment with grotesque drollery and humor. Hood, under all his whims and oddities, conceals the vehement intensity of a reformer. The iron of the world's wrongs has entered into his soul. There is an undertone of sorrow in his lyrics. His sarcasm, directed against oppression and bigotry, at times betrays the earnestness of one whose own withers have been wrung. Holmes writes simply for the amusement of himself and his readers. He deals only with the vanities, the foibles, and the minor faults of mankind, goodnaturedly and almost sympathizingly suggesting excuses for folly, which he tosses about on the horns of his ridicule. Long may he live to make broader the face of our care-ridden generation, and to realize for himself the truth of the wise man's declaration, that A merry heart is a continual feast!''

THE LAST LEAF.

I saw him once before
As he passed by the door;
And again

The pavement-stones resound
As he totters o'er the ground
With his cane.

They say, that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of Time
Cut him down,

Not a better man was found
By the crier on his round
Through the town.

But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets,

Sad and wan;

And he shakes his feeble head,