Making a twilight soft and green Within the columned, vaulted scene.

Sweet forest-odors have their birth

From the clothed boughs and teeming earth;
Where pine-cones dropped, leaves piled and dead,
Long tufts of grass, and stars of fern,
With many a wild flower's fairy urn,
A thick, elastic carpet spread :
Here, with its mossy pall, the trunk,
Resolving into soil, is sunk;

There, wrenched but lately from its throne
By some fierce whirlwind circling past,
Its huge roots massed with earth and stone,
One of the woodland kings is cast.

Above, the forest-tops are bright
With the broad blaze of sunny light;
But now a fitful air-gust parts

The screening branches, and a glow
Of dazzling, startling radiance darts
Down the dark stems, and breaks below:
The mingled shadows off are rolled,
The sylvan floor is bathed in gold;
Low sprouts and herbs, before unseen,
Display their shades of brown and green :
Tints brighten o'er the velvet moss,
Gleams twinkle on the laurel's gloss;
The robin, brooding in her nest,
Chirps as the quick ray strikes her breast;
And, as my shadow prints the ground,
I see the rabbit upward bound,
With pointed ears an instant look,
Then scamper to the darkest nook,

Where, with crouched limb and staring eye, He watches while I saunter by.

A narrow vista, carpeted

With rich green grass, invites my tread:
Here showers the light in golden dots,
There sleeps the shade in ebon spots,
So blended that the very air
Seems net-work as I enter there.
The partridge, whose deep-rolling drum
Afar has sounded on my ear,
Ceasing his beatings as I come,

Whirs to the sheltering branches near;
The little milk-snake glides away,
The brindled marmot dives from day;
And now, between the boughs, a space
Of the blue, laughing sky I trace:
On each side shrinks the bowery shade;
Before me spreads an emerald glade;

The sunshine steeps its grass and moss,
That couch my footsteps as I cross;
Merrily hums the tawny bee,
The glittering humming-bird I see;
Floats the bright butterfly along,
The insect choir is loud in song;
A spot of light and life, it seems,-
A fairy haunt for fancy's dreams!

Here stretched, the pleasant turf I press,
In luxury of idleness:

Sun-streaks, and glancing wings, and sky,
Spotted with cloud-shapes, charm my eye;
While murmuring grass, and waving trees—
Their leaf-harps sounding to the breeze-
And water-tones that tinkle near,
Blend their sweet music to my ear;
And by the changing shades alone
The passage of the hours is known.

THE BLUEBIRD'S SONG.

Hark, that sweet carol! With delight
We leave the stifling room;
The little bluebird meets our sight,-
Spring, glorious Spring, has come!
The south-wind's balm is in the air,
The melting snow-wreaths everywhere
Are leaping off in showers;
And Nature, in her brightening looks,
Tells that her flowers, and leaves, and brooks,
And birds, will soon be ours.

MUSIC.

Music, how strange her power! her varied strains
Thrill with a magic spell the human heart.
She wakens memory-brightens hope-the pains,
The joys of being at her bidding start.
Now to her trumpet-call the spirit leaps;
Now to her brooding, tender tones it weeps.
Sweet music! is she portion of that breath
With which the worlds were born-on which they
wheel?

One of lost Eden's tones, eluding death,

To make man what is best within him feel!
Keep open his else sealed-up depths of heart,
And wake to active life the better part

Of his mixed nature, being thus the tie

That links us to our God, and draws us toward the

sky!

703

John Osborne Sargent.

AMERICAN.

Born in Gloucester, Mass., in 1811, Sargent, while yet a child, removed to Boston with his family. At eight years of age he entered the Public Latin School, and was graduated at Harvard College in 1830. He studied law, was admitted to the Bar, and practised his profession in New York and Washington. In the time of the Whig party, he was well known as a political writer and speaker. After 1854 he passed several years in Europe. Returning home, he fixed his winter residence in New York, passing his summers on his farm in Lenox, Mass. While in London, in 1870, he published "The Last Knight, A Romance-Garland, from the German of Anastasius Grün " (the poetical pseudonyme of Count Anton Alexander von Auersperg, born 1806). An American edition appeared in Boston in 1871.

From its shaft he tore the banner, and twined it

round his breast,

And hot with the lust of death on the serried lances pressed;

His red eyes from their sockets like flaming torches glare,

And in frout, in place of the banner, wave the locks of his snow-white hair.

The spears of six knights together-in his hand he seizes all

And thereon thrusts his bosom-there's a breach in the lances' wall.

With vengeance fired, the Switzers storm the battle's perilous ridge,

And the corpse of Henry Wohlleb to their vengeance is the bridge.

DEATH OF HENRY WOHLLEB.

FROM "THE LAST KNIGHT."

On the field in front of Frastenz, drawn up in bat

tle array,

Stretched spear on spear in a crescent, the German army lay;

Behind a wall of bucklers stood bosoms steeled with pride,

And a stiff wood of lances that all assaults defied.

Oh why, ye men of Switzerland, from your Alpine summits sally,

And armed with clubs and axes descend into the valley?

"The wood just grown at Frasteuz with our axes we would fell,

To build homesteads from its branches where Liberty may dwell."

The Swiss on the German lances rush with impetuous shock;

It is spear on spear in all quarters--they are dashed like waves from a rock.

His teeth then gnashed the Switzer, and the mocking German cried,

William James Linton.

Poet and artist, Linton was born in England in 1812. A vigorous writer both of prose and verse, he had also won high reputation as a draughtsman and an engraver on wood. Early in life he gave his best efforts to the cause of Liberalism in England. In 1865 he published "Claribel, and other Poems" (London: Simpkin, Marshall & Co.), a volume of 266 pages, tastefully embellished with his own original designs and engravings. He is also the author of a "History of Wood-engraving," a "Life of Thomas Paine," and various writings on art. In 1878 he edited and published in London a volume of the "Poetry of America." His wife, Eliza Lynn Linton (born 1822), is a successful novelist and miscellaneous writer. His poetry reveals the true artist, as well as the earnest, sincere thinker. He has resided many years in the United States, and his address (1880) was New Haven, Conn.

FROM "DEFINITIONS."

DEFEAT.

One of the stairs to heaven. Halt not to count What you have trampled on. Look up, and mount!

VICE.

Like a song of resurrection, then sounded from the ranks:

"Illustrious shade, Von Winkelried! to thee I render thanks: [low me!"

Thou beckonest, I obey thee! Up, Swiss, and folThus the voice of Henry Wohlleb from the ranks rang loud and free.

PLEASURE.

A flower on the highway-side. Enjoy its grace; But turn not from thy road, nor slacken pace!

LOVE.

Pure worship of the Beautiful-the TrueUnder whatever form it comes to you.

PATRIOTISM.

Not the mere holding a great flag unfurled,— But making it the goodliest in the world.

CONSISTENCY.

Last night I wore a cloak; this morning not. Last night was cold; this morning it was hot.

DISINTERESTEDNESS.

Selling for glory? lending to the Lord?

I will not ask even Conscience for reward.

PRIDE.

Due reverence toward thyself. Doth God come

there?

Make thou the house well worthy His repair.

HUMILITY.

Self, seen in a puddle: lift thee toward the sky, And proudly thank God for eternity.

REAL AND TRUE.

Only the Beautiful is real!

All things of which our life is full,
All mysteries that life inwreathe,
Birth, life, and death,

All that we dread or darkly feel,-
All are but shadows, and the Beautiful
Alone is real.

Nothing but Love is true!

Earth's many lies, whirled upon Time's swift wheel,

Shift and repeat their state,

Birth, life, and death,

And all that they bequeath

Of hope or memory, thus do alternate
Continually;

Love doth anneal,

Doth beauteously imbue,

The wine-cups of the archetypal Fate.

Love, Trith, and Beauty,—all are one!
If life may expiate

The wilderings of its dimness, death be known
But as the mighty ever-living gate

Into the Beautiful

All things flow on

Into one Heart, into one Melody,

Eternally.

LABOR IN VAIN.

Oh not in vain! Even poor rotting weeds
Nourish the roots of fruitfullest fair trees:
So from thy fortune-loathéd hope proceeds
The experience that shall base high victories.
The tree of the good and evil knowledge needs
A rooting-place in thoughtful agonies.
Failures of lofty essays are the seeds

Out of whose dryness, when cold night dissolves
Into the dawning Spring, fertilities

Of healthiest promise leap rejoicingly.
Therefore hold on thy way, all undismayed

At the bent brows of Fate, untiringly!

Knowing this--past all the woe our earth involves Sooner or later Truth must be obeyed.

POETS.

True Poet!-Back, thou Dreamer! Lay thy dreams
In ladies' laps;-and silly girls delight
With thy inane apostrophes to Night,
Moonshine, and Wave, and Cloud! Thy fancy teems;
Not genius. Else some high heroic themes
Should from thy brain proceed, as wisdom's might
From head of Zeus. For now great Wrong and Right
Affront each other, and War's trumpet screams,
Giddying the earth with dissonance. Oh, where
Is He voiced godlike, unto those who dare
To give more daring with the earnest shout
Of a true battle-hymn? We fight without
The music which should cheer us in our fight,-
While "poets" learn to pipe like whiffling streams.

A PRAYER FOR TRUTH.

O God! the Giver of all which men call good
Or ill, the Origin and Soul of Power!

I pray to thee as all must in their hour
Of need, for solace, medicine, or food,
Whether aloud or secretly-understood
No less by Thee. I pray: but not for fame,
Nor love's best happiness, nor place, nor wealth.
I ask Thee only for that spiritual health
Which is perception of the True-the same

As in Thy Nature: so to know, and aim
Tow'rd Thee my thought, my word, my whole of life.
Then matters little whether care, or strife,

Hot sun, or cloud, o'erpass this earthly day:
Night cometh, and my star climbeth Thy heaven-

way.

William Henry Burleigh.

AMERICAN.

Burleigh (1812-1871) was a native of Woodstock, Conn. He went to the district school, and manifested, even in early youth, his taste for poetry and love of nature. He espoused with great zeal the antislavery cause and the temperance reform. He was connected with several newspapers as editor, and, while residing at Albany, N. Y., received an appointment as Harbor-master of New York. He fixed his residence at Brooklyn, where he died. He was an eloquent writer and speaker, and produced, during his busy career, various poems, rich in elevated thought and devout feeling. His wife, Mrs. Celia Burleigh, published a collection of his poems with a memoir. Of his life and character it might be said, as Antony says of Brutus :

"His life was gentle, and the elements

So mixed in him that Nature might stand up
And say to all the world, This was a man.'

And trust His love whose sure supplies Meet all thy needs as they arise.

Lo! the broad fields, with harvests white,
Thy hands to strenuous toil invite;
And he who labors and believes,
Shall reap reward of ample sheaves.

Up! for the time is short; and soon The morning sun will climb to noon. Up! ere the herds, with trampling feet Outrunning thine, shall spoil the wheat.

While the day lingers, do thy best!
Full soon the night will bring its rest;
And, duty done, that rest shall be
Full of beatitudes to thee.

705

THE HARVEST-CALL.

Abide not in the land of dreams,
O man, however fair it seems,
Where drowsy airs thy powers repress
In languors of sweet idleness.

Nor linger in the misty past, Entranced in visions vague and vast; But with clear eye the present scan, And hear the call of God and man.

That call, though many-voiced, is one,
With mighty meanings in each tone;
Through sob and laughter, shriek and prayer,
Its summons meet thee everywhere.

Think not in sleep to fold thy hands, Forgetful of thy Lord's commands; From duty's claims no life is free,— Behold, to-day hath need of thee.

Look up the wide extended plain
Is billowy with its ripened grain,
And on the summer winds are rolled
Its waves of emerald and gold.

Thrust in thy sickle, nor delay
The work that calls for thee to-day;
To-morrow, if it come,
will bear

Its own demands of toil and care.

The present hour allots thy task:
For present strength and patience ask,

SONNET: RAIN.

Dashing in big drops on the narrow pane,
And making mournful music for the mind,
While plays his interlude the wizard Wind,
I hear the ringing of the frequent rain:
How doth its dreamy tone the spirit lull,
Bringing a sweet forgetfulness of pain,
While busy thought calls up the past again,
And lingers 'mid the pure and beautiful
Visions of early childhood! Sunny faces
Meet us with looks of love, and in the moans
Of the faint wind we hear familiar tones,
And tread again in old familiar places!
Such is thy power, oh Rain! the heart to bless,
Wiling the soul away from its own wretchedness.

SOLITUDE.

The ceaseless hum of men, the dusty streets,
Crowded with multitudinous life; the din
Of toil and traffic, and the woe and sin,
The dweller in the populous city meets:
These have I left to seek the cool retreats
Of the untrodden forest, where, in bowers
Builded by Nature's hand, inlaid with flowers,
And roofed with ivy, on the mossy seats
Reclining, I can while away the hours
In sweetest converse with old books, or give
My thoughts to God; or fancies fugitive
Indulge, while over me their radiant showers
Of rarest blossoms the old trees shake down,
And thanks to Him my meditations crown!

Harriet Beecher Stowe.

AMERICAN.

Harriet Elizabeth Beecher, who in 1836 was married to Professor Calvin E. Stowe, was the daughter of Lyman Beecher, an eminent clergyman, and was born in Litchfield, Conn., in 1812. In 1852 she published her celebrated antislavery novel of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," which had an unparalleled sale both in America and England, and was translated into the principal languages of Europe. It was succeeded by several novels superior to it from her pen, but by no one that equalled it in fame. Her poems, few in number, show the same literary ability manifest in her prose.

To feel all evil sink away,

All sorrow and all care!

Sweet souls around us, watch us still,
Press nearer to our side;
Into our thoughts, into our prayers,
With gentle helping glide.

Let death between us be as naught, A dried and vanished stream; Your joy be the reality,

Our suffering life the dream.

THE OTHER WORLD.

It lies around us like a cloud, The world we do not see; Yet the sweet closing of an eye May bring us there to be.

Its gentle breezes fan our cheek
Amid our worldly cares;
Its gentle voices whisper love,

And mingle with our prayers.

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat,
Sweet helping hands are stirred,
And palpitates the veil between,
With breathings almost heard.

The silence, awful, sweet, and calm, They have no power to break; For mortal words are not for them To utter or partake.

So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide,
So near to press they seem,
They lull us gently to our rest,
They melt into our dream.

And, in the hush of rest they bring, 'Tis easy now to see,

How lovely and how sweet a pass The hour of death may be;

To close the eye and close the ear, Wrapped in a trance of bliss, And, gently drawn in loving arms, To swoon from that to this:

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep, Scarce asking where we are,

Charles Dickens.

Dickens (1812-1870), the foremost English novelist of his time, and a man of rare and varied powers, did not often venture upon verse; but one of his little poems, with the aid of Henry Russell's music, has won its way to the popular heart. He was a delightful companion, genial, witty, and generous; a ready, attractive speaker, an amusing actor, and a superior reader. A native of Portsmouth, he began his literary career as a reporter, and was on the staff of the Morning Chronicle, till he put forth his witty "Sketches of Life and Character, by Boz," leading to the "Pickwick Papers" and his inimitable series of novels, of which it is not here our place to speak. He made two visits to the United States; one in 1841, the other in 1867. He died suddenly in the midst of his literary labors, leaving his last novel uncompleted.

THE IVY GREEN.

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy Green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.

The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To pleasure his dainty whim;

And the mouldering dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a staunch old heart has he;
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings
To his friend the huge Oak-tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth around
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.