You say, but with no touch of scorn,

Sweet-hearted, you, whose light-blue eyes Are tender over drowning flies,You tell me donbt is, Devil-born.

I know not: one indeed I knew

In many a subtile question versed, Who touched a jarring lyre at first, But ever strove to make it true:

Perplexed in faith, but pure in deeds,

At last he beat his music out.

There lives more faith in honest doubt, Believe me, than in half the creeds.

That which we dare invoke to bless;
Our dearest faith, our ghastliest doubt;
He, They, One, All; within, without;
The power in darkness whom we guess;
I found Him not in world or sun,
Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye;
Nor through the questions men may try,
The petty cobwebs we have spun:

If e'er, when faith had fallen asleep,

I heard a voice, "Believe no more," And heard an ever-breaking shore That tumbled in the Godless deep;

My love involves the love before;

My love is vaster passion now;

Though mixed with God and Nature thou,

I seem to love thee more and more.

Far off thou art, but ever nigh;
I have thee still, and I rejoice:
I prosper, circled with thy voice;
I shall not lose thee, though I die.

TEARS, IDLE TEARS.

FROM "THE PRINCESS."

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean;
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying cars, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by helpless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret,
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

FROM "THE GOLDEN YEAR."

We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move;
The Sun flies forward to his brother Sun;
The dark Earth follows wheeled in her ellipse;
And human things returning on themselves
Move onward, leading up the golden year.

Ah, though the times when some new thought can bud

Are but as poets' seasons when they flower,
Yet seas that daily gain upon the shore
Have ebb and flow conditioning their march,
And slow and sure comes up the golden year,-

When wealth no more shall rest in mounded heaps,
But smit with freer light shall slowly melt

In many streams to fatten lower lands,
And light shall spread, and man be liker man,
Through all the seasous of the golden year.

Shall eagles not be eagles? wreus be wrens?
If all the world were falcons, what of that?
The wonder of the eagle were the less,
But he not less the eagle. Happy days
Roll onward, leading up the golden year!

Fly, happy, happy sails, and bear the PressFly, happy with the mission of the Cross; Knit land to land, and, blowing havenward, With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of toll, Enrich the markets of the golden year.

But we grow old. Ah, when shall all men's good
Be each man's rule, and universal peace
Lie like a shaft of light across the land,
And like a lane of beams athwart the sea,
Through all the circle of the golden year?

James Handasyd Perkins.

AMERICAN.

Perkins (1810-1849), a native of Boston, was bred to mercantile pursuits, but not finding them congenial, went to Cincinnati and studied law. This he forsook for literature, edited various publications, and contributed to reviews and magazines. He finally accepted the office of minister-at-large in Cincinnati, and gave a practical direction to the charities of the city. He was the first President of the Cincinnati Historical Society (1844). Of a highly sensitive temperament, he was thrown into a state of nervous agitation by the supposed loss of his children, and, while thus depressed, leaped from a ferryboat into the river, and was drowned.

ON LAKE MICHIGAN.

Sink to my heart, bright evening skies!
Ye waves that round me roll,
With all your golden, crimson dyes;
Sink deep into my soul!

And ye, soft-footed stars,-that come
So silently at even,

To make this world awhile your home,
And bring us nearer heaven,—
Speak to my spirit's listening ear,

With your calm tones of beauty, And to my darkened mind make clear My errors and my duty.

Sink to my heart, sweet evening skies!
Ye darkening waves that roll
Around me,-ye departing dyes,—
Sink to my inmost soul!

Teach to my heart of hearts the truth,

Unknown, though known so well, That in each feeling, act, and thought God works by miracle. And ye, soft-footed stars, that come

So quietly at even,

Teach me to use this world, my home, So as to make it heaven!

THE UPRIGHT SOUL.

Late to our town there came a maid, A noble woman, true and pure, Who in the little while she stayed Wrought works that shall endure.

It was not anything she said

It was not anything she did:

It was the movement of her head,The lifting of her lid;

Her little motions when she spoke,The presence of an upright soul,The living light that from her broke,— It was the perfect whole!

We saw it in her floating hair, We saw it in her laughing eye; For every look and feature there Wrought works that cannot die.

For she to many spirits gave

A reverence for the true, the pure, The perfect, that has power to save, And make the doubting sure.

She passed-she went to other lands, She knew not of the work she did; The wondrous product of her hands From her is ever hid.

Forever, did I say? Oh, no!

The time must come when she will look

Upon her pilgrimage below;

And find it in God's book,

That, as she trod her path aright, Power from her very garments stole;

For such is the mysterious might God grants the upright soul.

A deed, a word, our careless rest,
A simple thought, a common feeling,
If He be present in the breast,
Has from Him powers of healing.

Go, maiden, with thy golden tresses,

Thine azure eye and changing cheek, Go, and forget the one who blesses

Thy presence through the week;

Forget him he will not forget,

But strive to live and testify Thy goodness, when Earth's sun has set, And Time itself rolled by.

Theodore Parker.

AMERICAN.

689

Known rather as a preacher than a poct, Parker (18101860) gave evidence of rich poetic sensibility not only in his discourses but in some few poems that he left. He was a native of Lexington, Mass., passed a year at Harvard College, and entered the Cambridge Divinity School in 1834. He was a great linguist, an ardent reformer, and one of the most eloquent of the advocates of a simple theism in religion. His large collection of books-over 13,000 volumes-was given by him to the Boston Public Library.

THREE SONNETS.

I. THE WAY, THE TRUTH, THE LIFE.

O Thou great Friend to all the sons of men,
Who once appear'dst in humblest guise below,
Sin to rebuke, to break the captive's chain,
To call thy brethren forth from want and woe!—
Thee would I sing. Thy truth is still the light
Which guides the nations groping on their way,
Stumbling and falling in disastrous night,

Yet hoping ever for the perfect day.

Yes, thou art still the life; thou art the way
The holiest know,-light, life, and way of heaven;
And they who dearest hope and deepest pray
Toil by the truth, life, way, that thou hast given;
And in thy name aspiring mortals trust
To uplift their bleeding brothers from the dust.

II. THE SAVIOUR'S GOSPEL.

O Brother, who for us didst meekly wear
The crown of thorns about thy radiant brow,—

What gospel from the Father didst thou bear,
Our hearts to cheer, making us happy now?
""Tis this alone," the immortal Saviour cries:
"To fill thy heart with ever-active love,-
Love for the wicked as in sin he lies,
Love for thy brother here, thy God above,—
And thus to find thy earthly, heavenly prize.
Fear nothing ill; 'twill vanish in its day:
Live for the good, taking the ill thou must;
Toil with thy might; with manly labor pray;
Living and loving, learn thy God to trust,
And he will shed upon thy soul the blessings of the
just."

III. THE HIGHER GOOD.

Father, I will not ask for wealth or fame,
Though once they would have joyed my carnal

sense:

I shudder not to bear a hated name,
Wanting all wealth, myself my sole defence.
But give me, Lord, eyes to behold the truth;
A seeing sense that knows the eternal right;
A heart with pity filled, and gentlest ruth;
A manly faith that makes all darkness light:
Give me the power to labor for mankind;
Make me the mouth of such as cannot speak;
Eyes let me be to groping men, and blind;
A conscience to the base; and to the weak
Let me be hands and feet; and to the foolish, mind;
And lead still farther on such as thy kingdom seek.

HYMN.

In darker days and nights of storm, Men knew thee but to fear thy form; And in the reddest lightning saw Thine arm avenge insulted law.

In brighter days we read thy love In flowers beneath, in stars above; And in the track of every storm Behold thy beauty's rainbow form.

And in the reddest lightning's path
We see no vestiges of wrath,
But always wisdom,-perfect love,
From flowers beneath to stars above.

See, from on high sweet influence rains
On palace, cottage, mountains, plains ;
No hour of wrath shall mortal fear,
For thon, the God of Love, art here.

Willis Gaylord Clark.

AMERICAN.

Clark (1810-1841) was regarded as quite a poetical celebrity in his day. He was twin brother of Lewis Gaylord Clark, editor for nearly thirty years of the Knickerbocker Magazine, and who died in 1873—a delightful companion and amiable man, whose specialty was a quick, discriminating humor, rising often into wit. They were born at Otisco, N. Y. Willis settled in Philadelphia, where he edited the Gazette, and wrote poems, a complete edition of which was published in New York in 1847. He also contributed a series of literary miscellanies, under the title of " Ollapodiana," to his brother's magazine. These were collected into a volume, and published in 1844.

"THEY THAT SEEK ME EARLY SHALL FIND ME."

Come, while the blossoms of thy years are brightest, Thou youthful wanderer in a flowery maze; Come, while the restless heart is bounding lightest, And joy's pure sunbeam trembles in thy ways; Come, while sweet thoughts, like summer buds unfolding,

Waken rich feelings in the careless breast; While yet thy hand, the ephemeral wreath is holding, Come and secure interminable rest.

Soon will the freshness of thy days be over,
And thy free buoyancy of soul be flown;
Pleasure will fold her wing-and friend and lover
Will to the embraces of the worm have gone!
Those who now love thee will have passed forever-
Their looks of kindness will be lost to thee;
Thou wilt need balm to heal thy spirit's fever,
As thy sick heart broods over years to be!

Come, while the morning of thy life is glowing,
Ere the dim phantoms thou art chasing die;
Ere the gay spell, which earth is round thee throwing,
Fades like the crimson from a sunset sky.
Life is but shadows-save a promise given

That lights the future with a fadeless ray; Come, touch the sceptre-win a hope in HeavenAnd turn thy spirit from this world away.

Then will the shadows of this brief existence
Seem airy nothings to thine ardent soul-
And, shadowed brightly in the forward distance,
Will, of thy patient race, appear the goal;
Home of the weary, where in glad reposing,
The spirit lingers in unclouded bliss,
While o'er his dust the curtained grave is closing:-
Who would not early choose a lot like this?

691

James Aldrich.

AMERICAN.

Aldrich (1810-1856) was a native of Suffolk County, N. Y. He engaged early in mercantile pursuits, but left them for literature, and was employed as a writer for various periodicals. Gentle, amiable, and refined, he was much esteemed socially, as well as for his delicate wit and keen sense of humor.

In the United States alone the sale of the first two series reached five hundred thousand copies. Suddenly the wind shifted, and Tupper was as unjustly depreciated as he had been praised. He became the butt of the newspapers, English and American. He made two visits to the United States. W. C. Bryant, the poet, stood his firm friend to the last. We give one of the best of the passages we find in "Proverbial Philosophy."

A DEATH-BED.

Her suffering ended with the day,
Yet lived she at its close,

And breathed the long, long night away,
In statue-like repose.

But when the sun in all his state
Illumed the eastern skies,

She passed through Glory's morning-gate,
And walked in Paradise.

TO ONE FAR AWAY. Swifter far than swallow's flight Homeward o'er the twilight lea, Swifter than the morning light, Flashing o'er the pathless sea,— Dearest in the lonely night,

Memory flies away to thee!

Stronger far than is desire,

Firm as truth itself can be, Deeper than earth's central fire,

Boundless as the circling sea,— Yet as mute as broken lyre

Is my love, dear wife, for thee!

Sweeter far than miser's gain,

Or than note of fame can be Unto one who long in vain

Treads the path of chivalry, Are my dreams, in which again

My foud arms encircle thee!

Martin Farquhar Tupper.

Tupper was born in London in 1810, and had a collegiate education at Oxford. He tried the law, but gave it up for literature. He wrote "Proverbial Philosophy," which first appeared in 1838; but supplements to it appeared in 1842 and 1867. Its success was remarkable.

CARPE DIEM.

Oh, bright presence of To-day, let me wrestle with thee, gracious angel!

I will not let thee go except thou bless me; bless me, then, To-day!

Oh, sweet garden of To-day, let me gather of thee, precious Eden;

I have stolen bitter knowledge, give me fruits of life To-day.

Oh, true temple of To-day, let me worship in thee, glorious Zion;

I find none other place nor time than where I am

To-day.

Oh, living rescue of To-day, let me run into thee, ark of refuge;

I see none other hope nor chance, but standeth in To-day.

Oh, rich banquet of To-day, let me feast upon thee, saving manna!

I have none other food nor store but daily bread To-day.

Robert Miller.

A native of Glasgow, Scotland, and educated for the legal profession, Miller (1810-1834) contributed verses to the periodicals, but did not live to collect them into a volume. He did not reach the age of twenty-five.

WHERE ARE THEY? The loved of early days,

Where are they?—where? Not on the shining braes,

The mountains bare;Not where the regal streams Their foam-bells castWhere childhood's time of dreams And sunshine passed:

Some in the mart, and some

In stately halls,
With the ancestral gloom

Of ancient walls;