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A sapphire, in whose heart the tender rays

Of summer skies have met;

A ruby, glowing with the ardent blaze

Of suns that never set:

These priceless jewels shone, one happy day,

On my bewildered sight:

"We bring from earth, sea, sky," they seemed to say, "Love's richness and delight."

"For me?" I trembling cried. "Thou need'st not dread,"

Sang heavenly voices sweet;

And unseen hands placed on my lowly head
This crown, for angels meet.

DECORATION.

"Manibus date lilia plenis."

'Mid the flower-wreathed tombs I stand, Bearing lilies in my hand.

Comrades! in what soldier-grave
Sleeps the bravest of the brave?

Is it he who sank to rest
With his colors round his breast?
Friendship makes his tomb a shrine,
Garlands veil it; ask not mine.

One low grave, yon trees beneath, Bears no roses, wears no wreath; Yet no heart more high and warm Ever dared the battle-storm.

Never gleamed a prouder eye
In the front of victory;
Never foot had firmer tread
On the field where hope lay dead,

Than are hid within this tomb, Where the untended grasses bloom; And no stone, with feigned distress, Mocks the sacred loneliness.

Youth and beauty, dauntless will, Dreams that life could ne'er fulfil, Here lie buried,--here in peace Wrongs and woes have found release.

Turning from my comrades' eyes,
Kneeling where a woman lies,
I strew lilies on the grave

Of the bravest of the brave.

THE REED IMMORTAL.1

Reed of the stagnant waters!
Far in the Eastern lands
Rearing thy peaceful daughters
In sight of the storied sands;
Armies and fleets defying

Have swept by that quiet spot, But thine is the life undying, Theirs is the tale forgot.

The legions of Alexander

Are scattered and gone and fled; And the Queen, who ruled commander Over Antony, is dead;

The marching armies of Cyrus
Have vanished from earth again;

And only the frail papyrus

Still reigns o'er the sons of men.

Papyrus! O reed immortal!
Survivor of all renown!
Thon heed'st not the solemn portal
Where heroes and kings go down.
The monarchs of generations

Have died into dust away:

O reed that outlivest nations,

Be our symbol of strength to-day!

Robert Collyer.

Born at Keighley, Yorkshire, England, in 1823, Collyer left school at seven to learn his father's trade-that of a blacksmith. He worked at the anvil till 1850, when he emigrated to America. He followed the blacksmith's trade at Shoemakertown, Pa., till 1859, when he went to Chicago. He had been a Wesleyan and local preacher in England, and continued to preach in the United States some nine years, when he was silenced for heresy. But his talents were too conspicuous to be repressed. He became pastor of a Unitarian Church in Chicago, and soon rose to be one of the most popular preachers in the country. In 1879 he was invited to take charge of a church in New York, and removed to that city. He is the author of "Nature and Life," "A Man in Earnest," and other esteemed prose works. His poem, "Saxon Grit," shows his literary versatility. It was read at the New England dinner, December 22d, 1879, and in introducing it, after a brief speech, he said: As I found my thought going off in a sort of swing, and taking the shape of an old ballad, I concluded to drop into poetry, though it comes more expensive,' as Mr. Wegg says."

1 Pliny tells us that the Egyptians regarded the papyrus as a symbol of immortality.

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To ampler spaces for heart and hand-
And here was a chance for the Saxon grit.

Steadily steering, eagerly peering,

Trusting in God your fathers came, Pilgrims and strangers, frouting all dangers, Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts aflame. Bound by the letter, but free from the fetter, And hiding their freedom in Holy Writ, They gave Deuteronomy hints in economy, And made a new Moses of Saxon grit.

They whittled and waded through forest and fen,
Fearless as ever of what might befall;
Pouring out life for the nurture of men;

In faith that by manhood the world wins all. Inventing baked beans and no end of machines; Great with the rifle and great with the axeSending their notions over the oceans,

To fill empty stomachs and straighten bent backs.

Swift to take chances that end in the dollar,

Yet open of hand when the dollar is made, Maintaining the meetin', exalting the scholar, But a little too anxious about a good trade; This is young Jonathan, son of old John, Positive, peaceable, firm in the right, Saxon men all of us, may we be one,

Steady for freedom, and strong in her might.

Then, slow and sure, as the oaks have grown From the acorns that fell on that autumn day, So this new manhood in city and town,

To a nobler stature will grow alway; Winning by inches, holding by clinches,

Slow to contention, and slower to quit, Now and then failing, never once quailing, Let us thank God for the Saxon grit.

George William Curtis.

AMERICAN.

Born in Providence, R. I., February 24th, 1824, Curtis received his early education at Mr. Weld's school, Jamaica Plain, Mass. In 1842 he joined the Brook Farm Association, in West Roxbury, where he passed a year and a half. In 1846 he went to Europe, passing four years in study and travel, and extending his tour to Egypt and Syria. On his return home he published "Nile Notes of a Howadji." He was connected with Putnam's Monthly, for which he wrote largely and well; but having taken a pecuniary interest in the publication, he sank his private fortune in saving the creditors from loss. He became a public lecturer in 1853, and was high

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And unless you let me know,

I'll swear you are no sailor,

Blue jacket or no

Brass buttons or no, sailor,
Anchor and crown or no !—

Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton—”

"Speak low, woman, speak low!"

"And why should I speak low, sailor,
About my own boy John?
If I was loud as I am proud,
I'd sing him over the town!
Why should I speak low, sailor?”

"That good ship went down!"

"How's my boy-my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor?-
I was never aboard her!

Be she afloat or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound
Her owners can afford her!
I say, how's my John?"-

"Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her!"

"How's my boy-my boy?
What care I for the men, sailor?
I'm not their mother-
How's my boy-my boy?
Tell me of him and no other!
How's my boy-my boy?"

AMERICA.

Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us! Oh ye
Who north or south, on east or western land,
Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth,
Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God
For God; oh ye who in eternal youth
Speak with a living and creative flood
This universal English, and do stand

Its breathing book; live worthy of that grand
Heroic utterance--parted, yet a whole,
Far, yet unsevered,--children brave and free
Of the great mother-tongue, and ye shall be
Lords of an empire wide as Shakspeare's soul,
Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme,

And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as Spenser's dream.

Adeline D. T. Whitney.

AMERICAN..

Adeline Dutton Train was born in Boston in 1824, and married in 1843 to Seth D. Whitney. Her residence (1880) was Milton, Mass. She is known chiefly for her spirited novels, the last of which, "Odd or Even," appeared in 1880. Of poetry she has published "Footsteps on the Seas" (1857) and "Pansies." Her novels, pure, bright, and healthy in sentiment and action, are much prized both by young and old.

BEHIND THE MASK.

It was an old, distorted face,-
An uncouth visage, rough and wild;
Yet from behind, with laughing grace,
Peeped the fresh beauty of a child.

And so contrasting, fair and bright,
It made me of my fancy ask
If half earth's wrinkled grimness might
Be but the baby in the mask.

Behind gray hairs and furrowed brow And withered look that life puts on, Each, as he wears it, comes to know How the child hides, and is not gone.

For, while the inexorable years

To saddened features fit their mould, Beneath the work of time and tears Waits something that will not grow old!

And pain and petulance and care,

And wasted hope and sinful stain Shape the strange guise the soul doth wear, Till her young life look forth again.

The beauty of his boyhood's smile,

What human faith could find it now In yonder man of grief and guile,

A very Cain, with branded brow?

Yet, overlaid and hidden, still

It lingers, of his life a part; As the scathed pine upon the hill

Holds the young fibres at its heart.

And, haply, round the Eternal Throne,

Heaven's pitying angels shall not ask For that last look the world hath known,— But for the face behind the mask!

Charles Godfrey Leland.

AMERICAN.

Leland was born in Philadelphia in 1824, and graduated at Princeton College in 1845. After passing three years in Europe, he returned home and studied law, but soon gave it up for literature. He translated many of Heine's pieces from the German, and wrote the Hans Breitman ballads, which had an extraordinary success. In 1869 he revisited Europe, and passed several years in travel, residing most of the time in England.

MINE OWN.

And oh the longing, burning eyes!

And oh the gleaming hair

Which waves around me night and day,

O'er chamber, hall, and stair!

And oh the step, half dreamt, half heard!
And oh the laughter low!
And memories of merriment

Which faded long ago.

Oh, art thou Sylph,- -or truly Self,— Or either, at thy choice?

Oh, speak in breeze or beating heart, But let me hear thy voice!

"Oh, some do call me Laughter, love; And some do call me Sin :"

"And they might call thee what they will, So I thy love may win."

"And some do call me Wantonness,

And some do call me Play:"

"Oh, they might call thee what they would If thou wert mine alway!"

"And some do call me Sorrow, love,

And some do call me Tears,

And some there be who name me Hope, And some that name me Fears.

"And some do call me Gentle Heart, And some Forgetfulness :""And if thou com'st as one or all, Thou comest but to bless!"

"And some do call me Life, sweetheart,
And some do call me Death;
And he to whom the two are one,
Has won my heart and faith."

She twined her white arms round his neck:The tears fell down like rain:

"And if I live, or if I die,

We'll never part again."

Francis Turner Palgrave.

Palgrave, born 1824, was educated at Oxford. He has published "Idyls and Songs" (1854); "The Passionate Pilgrim, or Eros and Anteros" (1858), which appeared under the nom de plume of Henry T. Thurston; "Essays on Art" (1866); “Hymns" (1867); "Lyrical Poems" (1871). He has also edited "The Golden Treasury of the best Songs and Lyrical Poems in the English Language;" a tasteful and judicious collection.

FAITH AND SIGHT:

IN THE LATTER DAYS.
"I præ: sequar."

Thou say'st, "Take up thy cross,

O Man, and follow me:" The night is black, the feet are slack, Yet we would follow thee.

But, O dear Lord, we cry,

That we thy face could see!

Thy blessed face one moment's spaceThen might we follow thee!

Dim tracts of time divide

Those golden days from me;

Thy voice comes strange o'er years of change; How can I follow thee?

Comes faint and far thy voice
From vales of Galilee;
Thy vision fades in ancient shades;
How should we follow thee?

Unchanging law binds all,

And Nature all we see: Thou art a star, far off, too far, Too far to follow thee!

-Ah, sense-bound heart and blind!
Is naught but what we see?
Can time undo what once was true?
Can we not follow thee?

Is what we trace of law

The whole of God's decree ?

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