Through wrong and ill she loves him still,

As women do, as women will.

Giving little and taking much,
Fickle and false-there are many such,
Selfish and cruel-you know the rest-
He broke the heart that loved him best.

INDIAN SUMMER.

JUST such a day in autumn,
Hazy and soft and sweet,
With Indian Summer walking
Abroad with her sandaled feet,
Her dusky locks disheveled,

Her dun robes trailing about, Just such a dreamy, golden day, The light of a life went out.

Afar on a southern hillside,

Where the sycamore branches wave, Where the sweet magnolias blossom, They hollowed and shaped a grave. Oh, beautiful, perished darling!

Oh, tenderest heart and true! If only its narrow chamber Folded and sheltered two!

Year after year the grasses
Curtain that lowly bed;
Summers garland their roses
Over the precious head;

Softly the sentinel cypress

Weaves with the mournful yew; Would that their whispering branches Shielded and shadowed two!

Again the Indian Summer
Goeth abroad as of old,
Bearing her gorgeous banners,
Crimson and flame and gold.
But alas for her royal beauty!

She is girded around about
With the weeds of an awful sorrow,
For the light of a life gone out.

LOVE.

For, as a light shines brightest amidst shadows, So Love, the fairest blossom of our lives, Though prone to languish in the open meadows, Hedged in and hindered, thrives.

-Prefigured.

MR

CAROLINE W. D. RICH.

RS. CAROLINE WEBSTER D. RICH is a native of Byron, Oxford Co., Maine. Her father, John Stockbridge, was a lineal descendant of John Stockbridge, who in 1627 came from Kent, England, to Boston. Her mother, Anna Leavitt Stockbridge, was a lineal descendant of John Leavitt, who in 1628 came from England to Dorchester. Both grandfathers went to Maine while it was still a province of Massachusetts. Caroline Webster was the seventh of nine children. She early showed a taste for writing, and at the age of thirteen wrote a poem, which without her knowledge was sent to a journal in Worcester, Mass. With surprise she saw it in print. Other verses were the result of this encouragement. Her home was in the midst of scenery diversified by fields, forests, ponds, brooks, meadows and mountains. Perhaps familiarity with so varied and picturesque scenery, in part accounts for her delicate appreciation of nature, whose "various moods ” she loves. After a year spent at the Ladies' Seminary, Gorham, Maine, of which Hon. E. P. Weston was then principal, she entered the High School of Cambridge, Mass., from which she was graduated. She afterward entered the Female Seminary, in Charlestown, Mass., then in charge of Miss Martha Whiting, graduating in the classical course of this institution in 1850. Mrs. Rich has written several books, both in prose and verse. A poem, "A Summer Idyl," illustrated by her own brush, was printed as a souvenir for friends. Another poem of considerable length was written for the Centennial of Turner, Me., and is embodied in the "History of Turner," and also appeared in pamphlet form. Several poems, written for especial occasions, but not in print, belong to her best work, to which also may be added, legends, ballads, translations. For some fifteen years, she did little in the department of poetry, for she had not reached her own standard, and her extreme reticence about her work was unfavorable to development. During this period however she wrote some stories for the young, which have been widely copied; but her pseudonym being unknown, save to her immediate friends, it is impossible to trace these productions. Seven years ago she resumed her poetic pen, and evidently with gain of strength and purity of expression. From the above date she has used her own name, which is already familiar in the publications of the day. Her style is versatile and her range of subjects wide. Pieces of hers have occasionally been set to music. Her "society poems" are always felicitous.

Mrs. Rich has never been a woman of leisure. Her home has received her first care, and her social nature has made that home pleasant to a large circle. Her church relations are with the Congregationalists, but her sympathies have not been so confined, and her many friendships with the good and true have been fortunate. F. J. B.

ECHO.

I STOOD beside a mountain lake
And sought an echo to awake;

I breathed a song of hope and love,
When, like a spirit, from above

The echo caught my words and tone,
Mingling my music with its own,
Sending, more sweetly, tenderly,
My own words back again to me.
So would I seek my words to make
True like the echo from the lake;
So would I only that repeat

Which makes the heart more pure and sweet.

GOLDEN-ROD.

O GOLDEN-ROD, golden-rod, nestling in green,
A joy to all eyes is thy beautiful sheen!

O, who could the sunshine's bright treasures unfold
And leave on thy petals such luminous gold!
I bow down my head with my ear to the sod,
And listen for answer, O fair golden-rod!
A whisper,— so gentle it may be the whir
Of a butterfly's wing, or the rootlets' faint stir-
In musical cadences softly replies,

"An angel came down with his wonderful dyes,
And painted, and painted until as you see,
Our faces are golden as golden can be."

HAPPENINGS.

As I carelessly walked by the sea one day,
I passed by a boatman who quietly lay
Upon the warm sand with his rod by his side,
A boat anchored near on the rippling tide.
Why did he lie there, so idle, and wait?
Were there no fishes to catch with his bait?
Ah me!

Why did the boatman wait!

A maiden swung lightly her hammock near by Her ringlets were golden, her eyes like the sky;

A song like an echo of love filled the air,
As pure as the morning, as trustful as prayer.
Adown by the sea rocked the boat to and fro,
The waves were alight with the sun's afterglow.
Ah me!

Why sang the maiden so low!

17

At eve I returned from my walk by the cliff-
Two lovers I saw as they entered the skiff;
The stars were now glinting and dimpling above;
The pines were still sighing their vespers of love;
The moonbeams were thrusting their darts through
the tree

Where the hammock was swinging-now idle and free.

Ah me!

Two lovers were gliding on over the sea!

SEPTEMBER.

THE grapes are rich with rare, sweet wine,
As they droop o'er the rough stone-wall;
The frost-kissed leaves of maples shine,

The cat-bird sounds his drowsy call,
The cardinal plumes in the marshes toss,
Where the sedge springs tall from the tufted moss.

The swallows glide on graceful wing

O'er fields of corn and pumpkin-vine; Blithely the blue-bird anthems ring,

And soft the note of whispering pine. The alders that girdle the gleaming lake With their sombre shadows, sweet pictures make.

From the reaper there comes a snatch of song
As he bends to his task with willing hand,
Till the setting sun throws shadows long
And the lake seems girt by a purple band;
The crickets chirp in the mellowing light,
And wood-crowned hills and clouds are bright.

The spike of the sun-crowned golden-rod,
The fluffy bloom of wild woodbine,
The pigeon-berry with graceful nod,

The tinkling bell of sweet-breathed kine, Like pictures in a summer-morning dream, Blend softly into autumn's brighter gleam.

SHADOWS.

UPON the river's bank I lie

Beneath the cloud-flecked, azure sky,

As from the childhood home and dear fireside
She turned away-a happy, wedded bride.
Her lover-husband by her proudly went,
With joy he marked her look of sweet content.

The busy, trustful days sped swiftly on
Till fifty years rolled by-it seemed not long.

The rosy light had changed to golden day,
As bride and groom pursued their peaceful way.

Fifty rare jewels, set with smiles and tears!
Priceless the memories of these garnered years!
Ah, could a wish recall your youth again,
Which were the golden nuptials-now or then?

MIDNIGHT.

THE changeless stars still burn and glow on high,
And ceaseless roll, while endless years go by;
Their interblending rays make music sweet
As on they speed the sun's warm breath to meet;
Their melody no earth-born ear has heard,
Their language none translates by mundane word.
Beneath their light the lotus blossoms wait
With sleepless eyes at morn's immortal gate.
From land of Buddha to the Hesperides,
From frozen North to Southern sapphire seas,
The heavens are studded with their silvery light
Speeding through countless eons to our sight.
O, midnight glory! Out of midnight calm
Shed o'er my wakeful soul thy restful balm!

NOW OR THEN?

A ROSY Sunset flooded vale and height,
The day was glorified with love's own light,

O, Sea, deep Sea! what means your song,
Why swell your wailing billows?
Your chill refrain the whole night long
Comes floating through the willows.

-The Sea.