LIFE'S Linkman lifts his fitful yellow light;
How like dry bones the hand that takes the fee;
His cavern voice says, "Home," and silently
We wheel into the mysteries of the night.

MASTERY.

WHO Coins high aspirations into facts,
And in their plastic gold sets clear his mark,
Shall, ere his noon-beams die into the dark,
Fulfil himself and sway his fellows' acts.

W. WILSEY MARTIN.

66 SHADOWS AND IDEALS."

RARE painter of the myriad things on earth!
Thou Doric sweetness, or soft-warbled love
Have seldom in thy songs enraptured birth;

Or soothing whispers straying from above-
What fire-mind-convolving fulgors glow!

Thine eyes peered deep in Mystery and Wonder, And, tinged with Shiraz-fragrance, man's own woe Resounded in thy numbers like quick thunder!

Those songs and dæmon-chants, those marvelstrains,

Enrobed with orient tissue and jewelry rareWith lavish nature's beauteous scenes and airSeemed, as I read, some magian's master-trains Of mystic meaning-so beholders see

What far from commonplace shines splend'rously! LOUIS MICHAEL EILSHEMIUS.

THE LULLABY.

I HEARD a song-a song that thrilled my heart,
Though I have heard fair Patti, and the rest
Of all the world's great singers. On the breast:
Of a young mother in a gypsy's cart
There lay a black-eyed baby; without art,

Untrained, as is the wild bird's song at best,

Was that sweet voice that crooned the child to

rest,

And soothed my pain, cooling my heart's hot.

smart.

No sound of earth nor of heaven above,
Nor melody, nor human voice, nor bird,
Nor instrument that mortal ever heard,
Was like that mother's voice, attuned by love.
The angels tarried in their flight to hear
The simple song, for certes, heaven was near.
HENRY COYLE.

A VIRGINIA SUNSET.

As when a King dies in his palace grand,
And round him thronging Ministers of State
Solemn and awe-struck in mute reverence wait
Death's royal pleasure service to command;
So at the Day, God's couch magnificent
The mountains lift their hoary summits high
To catch the last gleam of his fading eye;
And clouds on ministries of love intent
Wait round his pillow, fond and tenderly,
Wrap him in robes of purple, crimson, gold-
Rich, rare embroideries wondrous to behold-
While nature pauses, hushed and still, to see
Amid the flaming glories of the West
Her King sink slowly to his royal rest.

CORNELIA J. M. JORDON.

THE LAST SERENADE.

UPON the eyelids of the night
The stars like tears are clinging;
The moon emerges into sight,
Then like a lover's languid head
Whence life hath almost fled,
Swoons back into the gloom.
And I am singing

Below the window of thy room,

Here on the ground amid the dews,
Crushing the roses where I kneel;

Their perfume fires through all my sense transfuse
A maddening pain. I feel
Life-love-like visions fade-

Hear my last serenade!

SINGLE POEMS.

WRITTEN FOR THE MAGAZINE OF POETRY.

THE MAGAZINE OF POETRY.

THESE Volumes I shall con when I am old,
And showing to my friends say, this is he
Who wrote so lovingly about the sea;
This she who hath of woman truest told;
And this the man of moods most manifold;
She the sad soul of joyous minstrelsy;
She the boon friend of every flower and tree;
And this the bard to the mad body souled.

Aye, this will be an album filled with friends,

Ne'er seen, mayhap, and yet beloved no less. Their thoughts and faces here, how we shall guess And give to each the voice that fancy lends! Ah, this will make in age what sweet amends For youth's and time's and distance's duress! GEORGE W. WEBSTER.

LOVE SOMEWHAT LESS?

WITHHOLD my love a little from thee, dear?
Why bid me thus? Why bid me hold apart
From giving thee my undivided heart
That hath been yearning for thee many a year?
Love less, because thou hast a restless fear

That death will envious grow, and aim a dart To take thee from me, and with cruel art Drive us asunder that are now so near?

Though this be true, I cannot love thee less. So long my soul hath sought for one like thee, Through wasted days, and years of loneliness, And now, that I have found thee, set me free To love thee as I will with all my heart, Nor say, 'twere best we stand somewhat apart. HU MAXWELL.

IF I MUST GO.

If I must go,

MUST leave this glad, green, glorious earth
And never know

The purest joys that here have birth,
Can I above

The dear desires of this poor heart,
The need of love,

Rise at thy call, obedient, and depart
Unsatisfied?

Yet, God! forgive,

If I within thy pearly gate
Should eager strive

To find at last my soul's true mate,
Or trembling turn

To clasp with longing arms the one
For whom I yearn-

Could I, by heavenly bliss beguiled, alone
Be satisfied?

ALICE S. DELETOMBE..

THE VOICE OF THE WIND.

I.

THE Sweet-voiced wind of Spring awoke
The violet from her winter dream,
And something in its music set
The dandelion's gold agleam.

II.

The Summer wind went, laughing low,
Across the land, across the sea,
Touched here the flowers and there the sails.
And turned Life's fairest page for me.

III.

The Autumn wind in triumph sang

Of purple grapes and royal wine, But killed the flowers and wrecked the ship, And broke the Summer's heart and mine.

IV.

Hark now the lonesome Winter wind,
How over weary wastes of snow

It moans and wails and shrieks aloud
Some unintelligible woe.

LOUISE VICKROY BOYD..

QUATRAINS.

LAKE LEMAN.

I.

WHY are its waters blue beyond all blue?
Because the nymphes and naiads of the lake,
When Alp-sprites woo with gifts, will only take
Deep gentian blooms as proof their vows are true..

II.

From heights the Spirits bear in middle-night,

Fresh blossoms gather'd wheresoe'er they blow, And color-mysteries, to the depths below. The blue is born when heights and depths unite.

SMALL THINGS AND GREAT.

DEEM nought so small, it cannot sway thy fate; A gnat may wreck a Dynasty or State;

Nor think, as acting on the humblest lot, That aught beneath the sun can be too great.

WAITING.

As shuts the wild wood-sorrel when the light
Dies down, so shuts my heart behind a gate
Of gloom when thou art gone. Thy dawn I wait,
As her closed leaves the passing of the night.

LOVE'S COMPELLING.

ONE Snowflake kiss I'd give and take away, Thy "No" I dare not heed, for sweet Love's sake.

A thousand tongues hast thou to bid me take; And but one little one to say me nay.

GOING HOME.

LIFE'S Linkman lifts his fitful yellow light;
How like dry bones the hand that takes the fee;
His cavern voice says, "Home," and silently
We wheel into the mysteries of the night.

MASTERY.

WHO Coins high aspirations into facts,
And in their plastic gold sets clear his mark,
Shall, ere his noon-beams die into the dark,
Fulfil himself and sway his fellows' acts.

W. WILSEY MARTIN.

"SHADOWS AND IDEALS."

RARE painter of the myriad things on earth!
Thou Doric sweetness, or soft-warbled love
Have seldom in thy songs enraptured birth;

Or soothing whispers straying from above-
What fire-mind-convolving fulgors glow!

Thine eyes peered deep in Mystery and Wonder, And, tinged with Shiraz-fragrance, man's own woe Resounded in thy numbers like quick thunder!

Those songs and dæmon-chants, those marvelstrains,

Enrobed with orient tissue and jewelry rareWith lavish nature's beauteous scenes and airSeemed, as I read, some magian's master-trains Of mystic meaning-so beholders see What far from commonplace shines splend'rously! LOUIS MICHAEL EILSHEMIUS.

THE LULLABY.

451

I HEARD a song-a song that thrilled my heart,
Though I have heard fair Patti, and the rest
Of all the world's great singers. On the breast:
Of a young mother in a gypsy's cart
There lay a black-eyed baby; without art,

Untrained, as is the wild bird's song at best,

Was that sweet voice that crooned the child to

rest,

And soothed my pain, cooling my heart's hot.

smart.

No sound of earth nor of heaven above,
Nor melody, nor human voice, nor bird,
Nor instrument that mortal ever heard,
Was like that mother's voice, attuned by love.
The angels tarried in their flight to hear
The simple song, for certes, heaven was near.
HENRY COYLE.

A VIRGINIA SUNSET.

As when a King dies in his palace grand,
And round him thronging Ministers of State
Solemn and awe-struck in mute reverence wait
Death's royal pleasure service to command;
So at the Day, God's couch magnificent
The mountains lift their hoary summits high
To catch the last gleam of his fading eye;
And clouds on ministries of love intent
Wait round his pillow, fond and tenderly,
Wrap him in robes of purple, crimson, gold—
Rich, rare embroideries wondrous to behold-
While nature pauses, hushed and still, to see
Amid the flaming glories of the West
Her King sink slowly to his royal rest.

Cornelia J. M. JORDON.

THE LAST SERENADE.

UPON the eyelids of the night
The stars like tears are clinging;
The moon emerges into sight,
Then like a lover's languid head
Whence life hath almost fled,
Swoons back into the gloom.
And I am singing

Below the window of thy room,

Here on the ground amid the dews,
Crushing the roses where I kneel;

Their perfume fires through all my sense transfuse
A maddening pain. I feel
Life-love-like visions fade-

Hear my last serenade!