And I earnestly hope, when my sails are unfurled,
To embark on eternity's sea,

When I take a last look at this beautiful world,
That those blue eyes 'll be peeping at me.

THE ICE KING.

FROM out the sunless, snow-bound north
The cruel Ice King issued forth,
And, speeding south, with chilling force
He swept the flowers from his course.
He locked the river in a vise,
And set his teeth of flinty ice
Deep in the bosom of the lake;

And where the long sedge-grasses quake,
He placed his heavy ice-clogged feet
And trailed a snowy winding sheet.

The luscious autumn fruit he nipped,
The singing brook he fiercely gripped
And held it in a clutch so chill
Its laughing voice was frozen still.

He climbed the mountain, gray and tall,
And frowned upon the water-fall;
One bubbling cry, one final leap,

And, wrapped in dreamless, deathlike sleep,
The waters stand a glassy tower,

To show the Ice King's wondrous power.

WHEN Night stalks in!

A veil of somber, ragged lace

Is thrown across the fair moon's face;
The demons of the upper air
Are howling, shrieking everywhere;
They raise one universal shout
As Heaven's lamps are blotted out,
And haggard Night, amidst the din,
Is swiftly, surely ushered in.

When Night stalks in!

The sooty clouds drop slowly down,
And fogs of dingy yellow crown
The chimney tops. The feeble glare
Of lamps illume the outer air;
Anon, the sweeping rain and sleet
Invade the darkened, slush-paved street,
And revelry, and death, and sin
With gruesome night are ushered in.

When Night stalks in!

The river, lashed by icy rain,
With sullen moan betrays its pain,
And, rushing past the bridge's piers,
It foams and frets in useless tears.
Along the wet, deserted street,

Where traffic's pulse was wont to beat,
Dense blackness holds, and o'er the town
Night's sable garments settle down.

A LITTLE SPRIG OF GOLDEN-ROD.

THE meadow fields were brown and bare,
A hint of frost was in the air,

The autumn sun shone round and red,
And fleecy clouds were overhead,
When peeping from the way-side sod,
I found this sprig of golden-rod.

It sent no perfume, rich and rare,
To permeate the noontide air,
But, springing from the mossy mold,
It gleamed a gem of purest gold,
And meekly in the breeze did nod,
This little sprig of golden-rod.

So, Birdie dear, I give to you
This little flower of golden hue.
Tho' you a humble station fill,
Oh, may you do the holy will

Of him who's recognized as God,
E'en by this sprig of golden-rod!

FLINT AND STEEL.

THOUGH the steel be the finest that ever was wrought,

And be polished a silver-bright,

Yet no glittering spark will be struck in the dark, To scatter the gloom of night,

Unless the steel, with resounding peal,

The opposing flint doth smite.

Though a man have the strength of a Hercules,

And an arm like a weaver's beam,

Yet no hammer will swing and no anvil will ring,
No fire in the forge will gleam,

If he drop his hand at Sloth's command,
And idly sit and dream.

Should a mind have a scope that is infinite,
And be keen as a tempered blade,
Yet its quota to truth will be meager forsooth,
No conquest will ever be made,

If against the hosts that ignorance boasts
Its forces be not arrayed.

285

CHARLES WARREN STODDARD.

CH

HARLES WARREN STODDARD was born in Rochester, N. Y., August 7th, 1843, and received his education in New York City and California, to which State he removed with his father when but twelve years of age. In 1864 he made a voyage to the Hawaiian Islands, where he has since passed much time, and, as traveling correspondent for the San Francisco Chronicle, visited many of the islands of the South Seas, Europe, Asia, Africa and the Pacific slope from Alaska to Mexico. Mr. Stoddard began very early to cultivate, during his travels and by a keen sense of observation, the poetic spirit, which has since borne such beautiful fruits in his prose as well as poetry, and has proved himself a worthy master of the art of going everywhere and seeing everything, retaining at the same time the rare faculty of clothing his descriptions of life and travel in such language that the most commonplace incident becomes a veritable poem, while one is impelled to turn again and again to his finer efforts, finding at each reading some new beauty of thought and expression. Mr. Stoddard for a short time stood before the footlights as an actor. Has contributed to many magazines and has also frequently appeared upon the lecture plat

orm.

In 1885-86 he was professor of English literature in Nôtre Dame College, in Indiana, and at present occupies the position of lecturer upon English literature in the Catholic University in Washington, D. C. Among other books which bear his name as author are “Poems,” “South Sea Idyls," "Mashallah, a Flight into Egypt," "The Lepers of Molokai,” and a sweet and reverent book to tell why and how he became a Catholic; and if proof were needed to emphasize the fact of his fine spirit and spiritual perception, it is surely found in "A Troubled Heart." "South Sea Idyls" has been a classic ever since its first appearance, and the reader is at once carried away to the charm of far distant lands, while the poem "Premonition" is described by a well-known writer as a perfect lyric. H. S.

ARABESQUE.

EYES whose every glance is such I feel it like a velvet touch;

Eyes that all my comfort slay,
Yet grieve me when they turn away;

Eyes that flicker without fire;
That look and burn without desire;

That seem to darken while they beam, And dart a shadow with each gleam;

Eyes that smolder while they sleep, And glow like planets when they peep From an unfathomable deep;

Eyes that wound for pleasure's sake, That languish when they triumph take, And slumber most when most awake;

Eyes that blur and blind my sight;
That see my pain, that know my plight.
O, thrill me, kill me with delight,
Ye dark moons in a silver night!

SAIL HO!

I HEARD a rustle in my garden patch,
I saw a shadow bow beneath my thatch,
One morning while the dawn was breaking fast;
And, coming near, a nervous hand was passed
Across my face, and some one bade me wake,
And "hasten to the cliff, for Heaven's sake:
A sail was shining in the eastern sea!"
"A sail!" I gasped; "the Saints compassion me.
Go you and fire the signal-pyre!" I said.
The shadow turned, and in a moment fled;
And soon I followed pale, and scant of breath,
For on that chance was staked my life or death.
I skirted the long shore of the lagoon,
Shining and moist, shaped like a crescent moon,
And scaled the rocky battlements that rise,
Like a great wall, against the eastern skies;
The morning air blew down a fragrant whiff,
Combing the wind-burnt grasses on the cliff.
The cactus' thousand thorny palms were spread
Against a sun-cloud hanging, hot and red,
In the horizon; and a little way

Off, in the bright, blue depths of dawning day,
A fair and flickering atom, star-like, pale,
I saw a sole and solitary sail.

Then, down I knelt and prayed. The biting fire
Curled the green balsams of my signal-pyre,
And sent a bold, black shaft into the air,
That towered above the shadows and grew fair,
Like to a palm in stature, full of grace,
Waving its sable plumes before the face
Of all the world; and, as it would appear,
Commanding that the voyager should draw near.

I shut away the sight, in deep suspense,
Half drugged with the rich odors of the dense
And multiplying fumes that hung about,
And half afraid to struggle with my doubt.
The sun arose, and all the world was gay;
The sweet winds spirited the mists away,

With this I turned. A few faint gleams

Of amber sunshine seemed to place

A golden ladder out of space;

I followed to its radiant base,
And lo! a tabernacle set
Beneath a mossy minaret,
A sanctuary decked with grace.

It was a simple woodland shrine, With walls of bark and rails of vine, A thousand bees with drowsy drone, Their luscious harvest now complete, Suddenly sounded a retreat,

And left me with their treasure sweet.

When the last belted bee had flown,
Each golden-girdled pillager
His song of triumph did prefer,
Leaving me in the wood alone.
I gathered the delicious spoil;

My heart was full; the bounteous hoard
With deft and cautious hand was stored
In the scented hollow of my gourd.

Onward I tracked the hidden vales,
Whose secret dell no keeper hath,
And whither leads no broader path
Than the bird wings, or wild goat trails;
And whereunto no stranger goes
But scents this secret of the air;
The green asylum of the rose
Is sheltered in the shadow there.

Upon the marge of the savanna
A soft gale shook the wild banana;
Its yellow nuggets in a shower
Heaped at the entrance of a bower
Seemed offerings of heavenly manna.
And scarce did I this harvest reap,
With a few guavas freshly cut,

With pungent limes,—how quickly pressed!—
When lo! a spinning cocoanut
Out of its quaint and airy nest

With sudden impulse seemed to leap.

On mossy pillows that might steep
A wakeful brow in dreams of peace,
My spirit found its sure release;
The waving mantle of the bough
Spread a thin shadow on my brow,
And poppy leaves prolonged my sleep.

Such is a life of faith; to ask
For meat, and lo! a limping kid
Caught in the jungle, but half hid;

For drink, and lo! the gilded flask

Of the plump orange, which I rid Of its rich nectar, unforbid.

Thus in my hunger was I stayed
With fruits, and thus my feet were led
In the strange paths where, unafraid,
I journeyed and was comforted!

THE COCOA TREE.

287

CAST on the water by a careless hand,
Day after day the winds persuaded me;
Onward I drifted till a coral tree
Stayed me among its branches, where the sand
Gathered about me, and I slowly grew,
Fed by the constant sun and the inconstant dew.
The sea-birds build their nest against my root,
And eye my slender body's horny case;
Widowed within this solitary place,
Into the thankless sea I cast my fruit;
Joyless I thrive, for no man may partake
Of all the store I bear and harvest for his sake.

No more I heed the kisses of the morn;
The harsh winds rob me of the life they gave;
I watch my tattered shadow in the wave
And hourly droop and nod my crest forlorn,
While all my fibers stiffen and grow numb,
Beck'ning the tardy ships, the ships that never

come.

ALBATROSS.

TIME can not age thy sinews, nor the gale Batter the network of thy feathered mail, Lone sentry of the deep!

Among the crashing caverns of the storm, With wing unfettered, lo! thy frigid form Is whirled in dreamless sleep!

Where shall thy wing find rest for all its might? Where shall thy lidless eye, that scours the night, Grow blank in utter death?

When shall thy thousand years have stripped thee bare,

Invulnerable spirit of the air,

And sealed thy giant-breath?

Not till thy bosom hugs the icy wave,

Not till thy palsied limbs sink in that grave,
Caught by the shrieking blast,

And hurled upon the sea with broad wings locked,
On an eternity of waters rocked,

Defiant to the last!