269

E'

EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE.

DMUND WILLIAM GOSSE, the only son of the late Philip Henry Gosse, the naturalist, was born in London on the 21st of September, 1849. For some years he acted as Assistant Librarian in the British Museum, but in 1875 he became translator to the Board of Trade, a post which he still holds. His principal poetical works are "Madrigals, Songs and Sonnets," written in conjunction with John Arthur Blaikie, 1870; "On Viol and Flute," 1873; "King Erik,' a tragedy, 1876; "The Unknown Lover," a drama, 1878; "New Poems," 1879; "The Masque of Painters," 1885, and “Firdausi in Exile, and other Poems," 1886. He has written three monographs, "Gray" ("English Men of Letters" series); "Raleigh" ("English Worthies"), and "Congreve" ("Great Writers'). He also edited the best edition of Gray's works. He was married in 1875. In 1885 he succeeded Mr. Leslie Stephen as Clark Lecturer in English Literature in Trinity College, Cambridge, being at the same time made an honorary M. A. of that University. F. A. H. E.

PROEM.

If thou disdain the sacred Muse,
Beware lest Nature, past recall,
Indignant at that crime, refuse

Thee entrance to her audience-hall;
Beware lest sea, and sky, and all
That bears reflection of her face
Be blotted with a hueless pall
Of unillumined commonplace.

The moving heavens, in rhythmic time, Roll, if thou watch them or refrain; The waves upon the shore in rhyme Beat, heedless of thy loss or gain; Not they, but thou, hast lived in vain, If thou art deaf and blind and dumb,

Parched in the heart of morning rain, And in the flaming altar numb.

Ah! desolute hour when that shall be,
When dew and sunlight, rain and wind,
Shall seem but trivial things to thee,
Unloved, unheeded, undivined;
Nay, rather let that morning find
Thy molten soul exhaled and gone,
Than in a living death resigned
So darkly still to labor on.

THE BALLAD OF DEAD CITIES.

Where are the cities of the plain

And where the shrines of rapt Bethel? And Calah built of Tubal-Cain?

And Shinar whence King Amraphel Came out in arms, and fought, and fell? Decoyed into the pits of slime

By Siddim, and sent sheer to hell; Where are the cities of old time?

Where now is Karnak, that great fane,
With granite built, a miracle?
And Luxor smooth without a stain,
Whose graven scripture still we spell?
The jackal and the owl may tell,
Dark snakes around their ruins climb,
They fade like echo in a shell;
Where are the cities of old time?

And where is white Shushan again, Where Vashti's beauty bore the bell, And all the Jewish oil and grain

Were brought to Mithridath to sell, Where Nehemiah would not dwell, Because another town sublime

Decoyed him with her oracle? Where are the cities of old time?

ENVOI.

Prince, with a dolorous, ceaseless knell

Above their wasted toil and crime

The waters of oblivion swell:

Where are the cities of old time?

THE RETURN OF THE SWALLOWS. "OUT in the meadows the young grass springs, Shivering with sap," said the larks,“ and we Shoot into air with our strong young wings, Spirally up over level and lea; Come, O swallows, and fly with us, Now that horizons are luminous! Evening and morning the world of light, Spreading and kindling, is infinite"!

Far away, by the sea in the south,

The hills of olive and the slopes of fern Whiten and glow in the sun's long drouth, Under the heavens that beam and burn; And all the swallows were gathered there, Flitting about in the fragrant air,

And heard no sound from the larks, but flew, Flashing under the blinding blue.

273

I do not hunger for a well-stored mind,
I only wish to live my life, and find
My heart in unison with all mankind.

My life is like the single dewy star

That trembles on the horizon's primrose-bar,— A microcosm where all things living are.

And if, among the noiseless grasses, Death Should come behind and take away my breath, I should not rise as one who sorroweth;

For I should pass, but all the world would be
Full of desire, and young delight, and glee,
And why should men be sad through loss of me?

The light is flying; in the silver-blue

The young moon shines from her bright window through,

The mowers are all gone, and I go, too.

THE BATH.

WITH rosy palms against her bosom pressed
To stay the shudder that she dreads of old,
Lysidice glides down, till, silver-cold,
The water girdles half her glowing breast;
A yellow butterfly on flowery quest

Rifles the roses that her tresses hold:

A breeze came wandering through the fold on fold

Of draperies curtaining her shrine of rest.
Soft beauty, like her kindred petals strewed
Along the crystal coolness, there she lies.
What vision gratifies those gentle eyes?

She dreams she stands where yesterday she stood
Where, while the whole arena shrieks for blood,
Hot in the sand a gladiator dies.

EUTHANASIA.

WHEN age comes by and lays his frosty hands
So lightly on mine eyes, that, scarce aware
Of what an endless weight of gloom they bear,
I pause, unstirred, and wait for his commands;
When time has bound these limbs of mine with
bands,

And hushed mine ears, and silvered all my hair, May sorrow come not, nor a vain despair Trouble my soul that meekly girded stands.

As silent rivers into silent lakes,

Through hush of reeds that not a murmur breaks,
Wind, mindful of the poppies whence they came,

So may my life, and calmly burn away,
As ceases in a lamp at break of day

The fragrant remnant of memorial flame.

SAM

SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.

AMUEL MINTURN PECK was born in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. He received the rudiments of his education n one of the old field schools of the South, subsequently attending a public school in Illinois, and finally was graduated from the University of Alabama. Three years later he obtained the degree of Doctor of Medicine from Bellevue Hospital Medical College. He has never practiced his profession, preferring rather to give the world the music that "Physics pain," the lightening, brightening influence of his melodious measures. The parents of Mr. Peck were of Northern birth, his fathor being a native of New York, his mother of Connecticut. His father came of Welsh ancestry, his mother was of English descent. Her maiden name was Lucy Randall. The State of Alabama greatly honored his father, E. Wolsey Peck, who was at one time Chief Justice of the State and a lawyer of splendid abilities. He died in 1888, at the advanced age of 89 years. Since the death of his mother, in 1889, Mr. Peck has lived alone in the family mansion near Tuscaloosa. He never, strange to say, made his bow to the muses until he had attained his twentyfourth year, that is to say, he went through life unconscious of the gift of song until that time. He is what may be termed a successful poet. His first poem, published in the New York Evening Post, was a success; so with “Century Songs and Lyrics," and all the fascinating verse which appeared over his name. Of his poem "Mignon," a serenade, Henry W. Grady said: "Nothing more exquisite has ever been written." Joel Chandler Harris, an excellent critic in poetical matters, said of the writer recently: "Peck does not need the services of a musician; his songs set themselves to music." His first volume, Cap and Bells," pleased instantly and has gone into the third edition. Another volume of songs is now in press and will add to the poet's fast-growing fame. It may be said of him that he has sung his way into the hearts of the people. He sings for the sake of song and for the love of it, and his verse is as near perfect as art can make it. F. L. S.

A KNOT OF BLUE.

(FOR THE BOYS OF VALE).

SHE hath no gems of luster bright

To sparkle in her hair;

No need hath she of borrowed light To make her beauty fair.