cle narrows

To one misery?

Loud wind, strong wind, stay thou in the mountains!

Fresh wind, free wind, trouble not the sea!

Or lay thy deathly hand upon my heart's warm fountains,

That I hear not thee!

TOO LATE.

Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,
In the old likeness that I knew,

I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do: Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Oh! to call back the days that are not!
My eyes were blinded, your words were few;
Do you know the truth now up in heaven,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?

Philip, my King!

When those beautiful lips are suing,
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing,
Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there
Sittest all glorified!-Rule kindly,
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair,

For we that love, ah! we love so blindly,
Philip, my King.

I gaze from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow,
Philip, my King;

Ay, there lies the spirit, all sleeping now,
That may rise like a giant, and make men bow
As to one God-throned amidst his peers.

My Saul, than thy brethren higher and fairer,
Let me behold thee in coming years!
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer,
Philip, my King!

A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day,
Philip, my King,

Thou too must tread, as we tread, a way
Thorny, and bitter, and cold, and gray:
Rebels within thee, and foes without

Will snatch at thy crown. But go on, glorions, Martyr, yet monarch! till angels shout,

As thou sittest at the feet of God victorious, "Philip, the King!"

Walter Mitchell.

AMERICAN.

Mitchell was born at Nantucket, Mass., January 22d, 1826. He was graduated at Harvard College in the class of 1846; entered the ministry of the Protestant Episcopal Church in 1858; was settled at Stamford, Conn., in the same year; and in 1880 was Rector of Trinity Church, Rutland, Vt. He is the author of "Bryan Maurice," a novel, published by Lippincott & Co., Philadelphia; also of a poem delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard, in 1875. His "Tacking Ship" is remarkable for the nautical accuracy of the description. It is as true to life as any part of the "Shipwreck" of Falconer, while it surpasses that once famous poem in graphic power and freedom of style.

TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE.

I.

The weather leech of the top-sail shivers,

The bowlines strain and the lee-shrouds slacken, The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, And the waves with the coming squall- cloud blacken.

II.

Open one point on the weather bow

Is the light-house tall on Fire Island head; There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow, And the pilot watches the heaving lead.

III.

I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye
To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze,
Till the muttered order of "FULL AND BY!"
Is suddenly changed to "FULL FOR STAYS!"

IV.

The ship bends lower before the breeze,

As her broadside fair to the blast she lays; And she swifter springs to the rising seas,

As the pilot calls, "STAND BY FOR STAYS!"

v.

It is silence all, as each in his place,
With the gathered coils in his hardened hands,
By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace,
Waiting the watchword impatient stands.

VI.

And the light on Fire Island head draws near,
As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout
From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear,

With the welcome call of "READY! ABOUT!"

VII.

No time to spare! it is touch and go, [DOWN!" And the captain growls, "DOWN HELM! HARD As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw, While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's frown.

VIII.

High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray,
As we meet the shock of the plunging sea;
And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay,
As I answer, "AY, AY, SIR! H-A-A-R-D A-LEE!"

IX.

With the swerving leap of a startled steed
The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind,
The dangerous shoals on the lee recede,
And the headland white we have left behind.

X.

The top-sails flutter, the jibs collapse,

And belly and tug at the groaning cleats; The spanker slats, and the main-sail flaps,

And thunders the order, "TACKS AND SHEETS!"

XI.

'Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew, Hisses the rain of the rushing squall;

The sails are aback from clew to clew,
And now is the moment for "MAIN-SAIL, HAUL!”

XII.

And the heavy yards like a baby's toy

By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung; She holds her way, and I look with joy

For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung.

XIII.

"LET GO AND HAUL!" 'Tis the last command, And the head-sails fill to the blast once more; Astern and to leeward lies the land,

With its breakers white on the shingly shore.

XIV.

What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall?
I steady the helm for the open sea;
The first mate clamors, "BELAY THERE, ALL!"
And the captain's breath once more comes free.

XV.

And so off shore let the good ship fly;
Little care I how the gusts may blow,
In my fo'castle bunk in a jacket dry,-
Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below.

William Haines Lytle.

AMERICAN.

Lytle (1826-1863) was a native of Cincinnati, O. After a scholastic education, he studied law in the office of his uncle, E. S. Haines. On the breaking out of the Mexican War he caught the military spirit, and served as captain with distinction. In 1861 he became colonel of the 10th Ohio Volunteers, and took part in the battle of Rich Mountain. He led a brigade at Carnifax Ferry, where he was wounded. He next commanded the 17th Brigade under Mitchell, and was again wounded at Perryville, where he was made prisoner. In 1863 he was appointed Brigadier-general of Volunteers, and served under Rosecrans, until killed at Chickamauga, Sept., 1863.

And for thee, star-eyed Egyptian,

Glorious sorceress of the Nile,
Light my path through Stygian darkness
With the splendor of thy smile.
Give to Cæsar thrones and kingdoms,
Let his brow the laurel twine;

I can scorn all meaner triumphs,
Triumphing in love like thine.

I am dying, Egypt, dying!
Hark! the insulting foeman's cry;
They are coming-quick, my falchion!
Let me front them ere I die.
Ah! no more amid the battle

Shall my soul exulting swell;
Isis and Osiris guard thee-
Cleopatra! Rome! farewell!

ANTONY TO CLEOPATRA.

"I am dying, Egypt, dying!"-SHAKSPEARE.

I am dying, Egypt, dying!

Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast; And the dark, Plutonian shadows

Gather on the evening blast. Let thine arm, O Queen, support me, Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear; Listen to the great heart-secrets,

Thou, and thou alone, must hear.

Though my scarred and veteran legions
Bear their eagles high no more,
Though my wrecked and scattered galleys
Strew dark Actium's fatal shore;
Though no glittering guards surround me,
Prompt to do their master's will,-

I must perish like a Roman,

Die the great Triumvir still.

Let not Cæsar's servile minions

Mock the lion thus laid low;

'Twas no foeman's hand that felled him, 'Twas his own that struck the blow:His who, pillowed on thy bosom,

Turned aside from glory's rayHis who, drunk with thy caresses, Madly threw a world away.

Should the base plebeian rabble,
Dare assail my fame at Rome,
Where the noble spouse, Octavia,

Weeps within her widowed home,—
Seek her; say the gods bear witness,-
Altars, augurs, circling wings,-
That her blood, with mine commingled,

Yet shall mount the throne of kings.

Lucy Larcom.

AMERICAN.

Miss Larcom, who made a name by her simple ballad of "Hannah binding Shoes," was born at Beverly Farms, Mass., in 1826. She has edited various publications, has done some good work for the magazines, is the author of a volume of poems, and the compiler of "Breathings of the Better Life." At one time she was a factory operative at Lowell.

HANNAH BINDING SHOES.

Poor lone Hannah,

Sitting at the window binding shoes. Faded, wrinkled,

Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse. Bright-eyed beauty once was she, When the bloom was on the tree;

Spring and winter, Hannah's at the window binding shoes.

Not a neighbor

Passing nod or answer will refuse
To her whisper,

"Is there from the fishers any news?"
Oh, her heart's adrift with one
On an endless voyage gone!
Night and morning,
Hannah's at the window binding shoes.

Fair young Hannah,

Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly woos; Hale and clever,

For a willing heart and hand he sues.

May-day skies are all aglow,

And the waves are laughing so!

For her wedding

Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.

May is passing;

Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon coos.
Hannah shudders,

For the mild south-wester mischief brews.
Round the rocks of Marblehead,
Outward bound, a schooner sped;
Silent, lonesome,

Hannah's at the window binding shoes.

'Tis November;

Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews. From Newfoundland

Not a sail returning will she lose,

Whispering hoarsely: "Fishermen,
Have you, have you heard of Ben?"
Old with watching,

Hannah's at the window binding shoes.

Twenty winters

Bleach and tear the ragged shore she views. Twenty seasons!

Never one has brought her any news.

Still her dim eyes silently

Chase the white sails o'er the sea:
Hopeless, faithful,

Hannah's at the window binding shoes.

Robert Barry Coffin.

AMERICAN.

Coffin was born at Hudson, New York, in 1826. His great-grandfather was one of the original thirteen proprietors of the island of Nantucket. Robert received a good classical education; and, after some experience as a clerk and a bookseller, formed a literary connection with Morris & Willis of the Home Journal (1858). In 1862 he accepted a position in the N. Y. Custom-house. Several volumes in prose from his pen, and one in poetry (1872), have appeared under the name of Barry Gray.

SHIPS AT SEA.

I have ships that went to sea,

More than fifty years ago; None have yet come home to me,

But are sailing to and fro. I have seen them in my sleep, Plunging through the shoreless deep,

With tattered sails and battered hulls, While around them screamed the gulls, Flying low, flying low.

I have wondered why they stayed From me, sailing round the world; And I've said, "I'm half afraid

That their sails will ne'er be furled.” Great the treasures that they hold, Silks, and plumes, and bars of gold; While the spices that they bear Fill with fragrance all the air, As they sail, as they sail.

Ah! each sailor in the port

Knows that I have ships at sea, Of the winds and waves the sport, And the sailors pity me.

Oft they come and with me walk,
Cheering me with hopeful talk,
Till I put my fears aside,
Aud, contented, watch the tide

Rise and fall, rise and fall.

I have waited on the piers,

Gazing for them down the bay, Days and nights for many years,

Till I turned heart-sick away. But the pilots, when they land, Stop and take me by the hand, Saying, "You will live to see Your proud vessels come from sea, One and all, one and all."

So I never quite despair,

Nor let hope or courage fail; And some day, when skies are fair,

Up the bay my ships will sail. I shall buy then all I need,Prints to look at, books to read, Horses, wines, and works of art,Everything except a heart

That is lost, that is lost.

Once when I was pure and young,
Richer, too, than I am now,
Ere a cloud was o'er me flung,

Or a wrinkle creased my brow,
There was one whose heart was mine;
But she's something now divine,
And though come my ships from sea,
They can bring no heart to me

Ever more, ever more.

Horatio Nelson Powers.

AMERICAN.

Of English and German descent, the Rev. Dr. Powers was born in Amenia, N. Y., April 30th, 1826. He was graduated at Union College in 1850, and was ordained in Trinity Church in 1855. He was Rector of the Episcopal Church in Davenport, Iowa, several years; of St. John's Church, Chicago, in 1868; but in 1875 became Rector of Christ Church, Bridgeport, Conn. His books are: Through the Year," a collection of discourses (1875); "Poems, Early and Late" (Chicago, 1876). He was an intimate friend of Bryant and Bayard Tayfor; and has been a contributor to the leading periodicals of America, as well as to L'Art, the French art review. His poetry has the charm of an enthusiasm genuine and spontaneous, and we feel in it the throbs of an emotion always

true and pure.

FROM "MEMORIAL DAY."

Out of thine azure depths, O sun benign,
Shower thy golden kisses on the May!
Drink, fertile fields, kind Nature's mystic wine,
Till every herb throb with a life divine;---

Let not a single dew-drop go astray.
Brood, moistened airs, with warm and fragrant wing,
On all the vales; and haste, with glowing feet,
Ye soft-lipped Hours, to make the landscape sweet
Till earth shall burst to flowers-a perfect Spring!
O vernal season! give your richest blooms-
Rare radiance woven in celestial looms,
The subtlest meanings of each tint and tone
That Beauty keeps about her peerless throne:
Our hearts ache with unsyllabled applause.

We are unworthy, but for those who lie In graves made holy by their life-blood shed,— The hero-youth who took our perilled cause, And thought it sweet and beautiful to die, That Freedom's fields by us be harvested,— We crave the choicest emblems to impart,The sense of that which blossoms in the heart!

Yet here I am holding the dead, faded thing, As the sun drops out of the August sky, And dew-drunken blossoms their odors fling On the twilight air-do you ask me why?

The years are gathered in this little tomb,(Strange that a grave in my hand I should hold! Springs that showered their kisses of bloom,

And summers that revelled in fruits of gold. No breath of the meadows nor orange bough Sheds to my spirit an odor so rare:

You see not-how can you?-what I see nowThat marvellous face-Are the angels so fair?

She gave me this bud and a single leaf,—
Geranium-it has crumbled away;-

What a glory touched life then, but how grief
Drives to tasks that sprinkle the head with gray!
Half doubting I number the seasons since flown:
Like a star she just trembled on womanhood's eve :
To what in the garden of God has she grown?
Naught more fair than she was can my fancy con-
ceive.

For the roses of morning, and music, and light, The motions of birds, and the freshness of June, The glimmer of lilies, and childhood's delight,

In her exquisite nature were blended in tune. Its sweetness yet lingers like perfume that clings To the air when the splendor of blossoms has fled, More tender than touch of invisible wings, The spell of her presence around me seems shed.

And now while this faded bud in my palm Grows dim in the darkness, and still is dear, All over my sorrow is sprinkled a balm

From the depth of a heavenly atmosphere. A hand long vanished I seem to hold; The years their glory of dreams restore: I see a face that can never grow old, And life looks large on the other shore.

Mortimer Collins.

Born at Plymouth, England, 1827, Collins died (1876) in his forty-ninth year, the victim of excessive literary labor. He was the author of fourteen moderately successful novels; and, in poetry, of "Idyls and Rhymes" (1855), "Summer Songs" (1860), "Inn of Strange Meetings" (1871), "The British Birds" (1872). He was a fre quent contributor to Punch and other prosperous periodicals. "I wholly agree," he writes, "in the great say ing, Laborare est orare: I add, Laborare est vivere." Again