And leave the husks. Thou'rt very beautiful,
Yet other women have some beauty, too-
But none those eyes that say-"Within me is
Some dread, sweet mystery. Wilt thou not seek
And find it out?" And at the summons, men
Plunge in and tread thy spirit's labyrinth

With tenuous clue-nor even reach the heart
Of it-of thee-save one-Tristram. What found
He there? For he has never since come back.
Something there is unseized, unseizable
Men die to win. My husband didst thou take,
And my young brother died for love of thee,
When with my lord he went unto thy court
And came too near the passion of you twain;-
Died of that nearness, scorched by the great fire
That could not give him warmth. That tender slip
Of youth transplanted, withered at thy sun,
And yet, and yet, in spite of all my wrong,
Facing thee thus, as I stand here, I do
Not hate.

A CHRISTMAS HYMN

By JOHN PAUL BOCOCK

['Book Treasures of Mæcenas,' 1904. By permission of Mrs. John Paul Bocock.]

Sweet as she sat in the twilight dim

Echoed the strains of her Christmas hymn,
Swelling soft through the cozy gloom
And the wreathed grace of the firelit room,
Swelling and falling; and still it rang
To the tune of the song that the angels sang:

"Now, O Lord, for Thy tender grace,

For the deathless love in Thy pitying face,

For the pangs Thou hast borne that we might not bear, For the blessed sense of Thy constant care

For Thy dear sake be our sins forgot;

Change our hearts, Thou who changest not!

"Help us, Lord, in the dark and cold,

To feed Thy lambs. From the sheltering fold
Some have wandered and lost their way,
Some have found that the wolves betray,
Some its shelter have never known-
And yet, and yet they are all Thine own!

"Now, in the glow of the Christmas-tide,

For the sake of that tree on which Thou hast died,
May there be never a Christmas tree

But is blessed with the love we would learn from Thee
For the poor, and the weak, and the lost-for them,
As for us, rose the Star over Bethlehem.”

IN THE LIBRARY

By JOHN PAUL BOCOCK

['Book Treasures of Mæcenas,' 1904. By permission of Mrs. John Paul Bocock.]

Here in immemorial peace

Sorrow finds a swift surcease,

And Care knits her "ravelled sleeve"
With the dreams that poets weave.

Here the vines that Virgil trained
Hang with clusters purple-veined;
Here the ilex starts to view
Murmuring songs that Horace knew;

And that famed Bandusian font,
Crystal-clear, as was its wont,
Bubbles over with the glee
Of a lilt to Lalagé.

Here, from its Arcadian wood,
Pan, half seen, half understood,
Pipes his wild, bewitching strain
Till the Dryads dance again.

Charlemagne comes hunting here,
Roland, too, and Oliver;-
Hark! the music of that horn
"On Fontarabia's echoes borne."

Old-world phantoms, dearer far
Than the new world's creatures are-
Let the glittering riot pass,

Hic manet felicitas.

THE HEART OF FIRE

By WALTER KEMPER BOCOCK

['The Antiphon to the Stars,' 1907. By permission of Mrs. R. B. Willis.]

Spoke the Volcano:

"The curse is upon me!
Once I was glorious,
Bathed in the sunlight;
Storms were below me;
Peaceful my summit.
Thousands ascended,
Craving the vision
Which I could show them.
Millions admired me,

On their horizon.

"Now the foundations Tremble below me.

Earth is unsettled;

Hell's fiends are raging
Penned in my bosom.

Heaven is hidden by

Terrible darkness.

There is no firmament;
Day is abolished.
Midnight is starless,

Save when the tempest
Bursts from Inferno,

Showering the world with
Firebrands and lava,

All of my verdure
-Flowers and forests---

Burning to blackness;

Leaving me hideous,

Desolate, barren!"

Slept the volcano

Ages and ages.

Sunshine was bathing
All of his landscapes.

Higher his summit;
Precious the metals

Mined from his bosom;
Green were the forests,

Fair were the flowers,

Healthgiving waters

Flowed from his fountains.

Said the Great Spirit:

"Heaven surrounds thee! Hell that o'erwhelmed thee Was of thy making.”

IMPERATOR ORBIS

By WALTER KEMPER BOCOCK

["The Antiphon to the Stars,' 1907. By permission of Mrs. R. B. Willis.]

I, it is I, who divide the world to my faithfullest vassals;
I who devour the cannibals, shedding the blood of the bloody;
Carving the continents up into slices to give to the nations:
Sorting the islands out to my police of the navies ;

Swaying the sceptre of olive for them that peaceably hear me;
Emperor over all empires, servant of every republic.

Throneless and crownless I sit in an office upstairs or a cellar.
I have no parliament house, no hall for my sessions of congress,
Domeless my Capitol, save for yonder blue vault of the

heavens;

Nevertheless the Czars, the Kaisers, the Kings,and the Sultans, Presidents, ministers, generals, admirals, governors, speakers, Keep their ears to the ground, and trembling do as I bid them.

I was begotten of Order, but nursed at the bosom of Freedom!
Ever I seek to keep the peace with both of my parents.
Little care I for the forms of constitutions and charters;
Was it not I that these my swaddling garments were made for?

Skilful am I to cut them up when I have outgrown them, Making my vesture over to suit my work and my season. I am the world's perpetual court of high arbitration; Most of my cases are settled without the aid of another. I am election day, the polling place, and the ballot.

I am the stock exchange, the lecture room, and the pulpit.
I am the stage and the players, the orchestra, also the people.
All of these things am I; my name is Public Opinion.

GOD BLESS YOU, DEAR

By WILLIAM PAGE CARTER

['Echoes from the Glen in Divers Keys,' 1904.]

If I should say to-night, "God bless you, dear,"
And stretch my hand to touch your sun-burst hair,
And say, and say, "Good night!" Oh, would you hear?
And if I said, "Sweetheart!" Oh, would you care?
From out God's holy realms, Oh! would you hear,
If I should say to-night, "God bless you, dear?"

If I should say to-night, "I'm tired, dear,”
And stretch my hand to lay it in your own,

And say, and say, "Sweet rest!" Oh, would you hear?
And if I said "I'm tired," would its tone

Go

up behind the stars, and would you hear,
If I should say to-night, "God bless you, dear?"

If I should say to-night, "The years are drear,"
And send my tears to fill the ocean's home,

And say, and say, “Oh, life!” then would you hear?

And if I said "Sweet death!" Oh, would you come
And lead me to the Master's feet and hear

Me say to-night, to-night, "God bless you, dear?”