FROM ATALANTA IN CALYDON." BEFORE the beginning of years There came to the making of man Time, with a gift of tears; Grief, with a glass that ran; Pleasure, with pain for leaven; Summer, with flowers that fell; Remembrance fallen from heaven, And madness risen from hell; Strength without hands to smite; Love that endures for a breath; Night, the shadow of light, And life, the shadow of death. And the high gods took in hand And dust of the laboring earth; In the houses of death and of birth; And wrought with weeping and laughter, And fashioned with loathing and love, With life before and after And death beneath and above, For a day and a night and a morrow, That his strength might endure for a span With travail and heavy sorrow, The holy spirit of man. From the winds of the north and the south A time for labor and thought, THE WELL OF ST. JOHN. "THERE is plenty of room for two in here, Within the steep tunnel of old gray stone; And the well is so dark, and the spring is so clear, It is quite unsafe to go down alone." "It is perfectly safe depend upon it, For a girl who can count the steps like me, And if ever I saw dear mother's bonnet, It is there on the hill by the old ash tree." "There is nobody but Rees Morgan's cow Watching the dusk on the milk-white sea. 'Tis the time and place for a life-long vow, Such as I owe you, and you owe me." "Oh, Willie, how can I, in this dark well? "'Tis the sound of the ebb in Newton Bay, Quickens the spring as the tide grows less, Even as true love flows alway Counter the flood of the world's success." "There is no other way for love to flow; "Then fill the sweet cup of your hand, my love, 'Oh what shall I say? My heart drops low; Is love to be measured hy handful so? And you know that I love you-without that." They stooped in the gleam of the faint light over The print of themselves on the limpid gloom; And she lifted her full palm toward her lover, With her lips prepared for the words of doom. But the warm heart rose, and the cold hand fell, And the pledge of her faith sprang, sweet and clear. From a holier source than the old saint's well, From the never-ebbing tide of love—a tear. RICHARD DODDRIDGE BLACKMORE, THE PLAGUES OF IRELAND. OH, Ireland, my country, the hour Of thy pride and thy splendor hath passed, And the chain that was spurned in thy moments of power Hangs heavy around thee at last. There are marks in the fate of each clime, There are times in the fortunes of men, But the changes of realms and the chances of time Shall never restore thee again. Thou art chained to the wheel of the foe By links which a world cannot sever, With thy tyrant through storm and through calm thou shalt go, And thy sentence is bondage forever. Thou art doomed for the thankless to toil, Thou art left for the proud to disdain, And the blood of thy sons and the wealth of thy soil Shall be lavished and lavished in vain. Thy riches with taunts shall be taken, And of millions who see thee thus sunk and forsaken Not one shall stand forth in thine aid. In the nations thy place is left void, Thou art lost in the list of the free; Even realms by the plague and the earthquake destroyed May revive, but no hope is for thee. THOMAS FURLONG. CHANGE. On! wild birds sing to me a strain, While here I lie upon the grass, And the old trees their shadows fling; And clouds across the blue sky pass, Oh! wild birds sing, oh! wild birds sing. Bring back, bring back, the vanished years, I lost in that thick mist of tears; Once more, once more, oh! bring once more, Bring back, bring back, the olden time, Time creeps or flies, and all things change; And who hath done what once he planned, All-all that course is scattered o'er With cold, dead hopes that shrouded lie, Whose wailing ghosts for evermore Haunt our low steps, and moan and cry! With outstretched hands, in dark and gloom, The cold white moon gleams o'er the hill; The last faint whispering notes-the last! Tremble and cease, and all is still. PHILIP GARI H. THE FUTURE IS BETTER THAN THE PAST. NOT where long passed ages sleep, Seek we Eden's golden trees, In the future folded deep, Are its mystic harmonies. All before us lies the way, Give the past unto the wind; All before us is the day, Night and darkness are behind. Eden with its angels bold, Love and flowers and coolest sea, Is not ancient story told, But a glowing prophecy. In the spirits' perfect air, In the passions tame and kind, Innocence from selfish care, The real Eden we shall find. It is coming, it shall come, To the patient and the striving, To the quiet heart at home, Thinking wise and faithful living. When all error is worked out, From the heart and from the life; When the sensuous is laid low, Through the Spirit's holy strife; When the soul to sin hath died, True and beautiful and sound; Then all earth is sanctified, Up springs paradise around. Voices from the opening skies. From this spirit land, afar, All disturbing force shall flee; Stir nor toil nor hope shall mar Its immortal unity. ELIZA THAYER CLAPP. FLOWERS. How bright and beauteous are the flowers, Those undertones of love, Which God has given to us below, From Eden bowers above. They bloom upon the hillside, And cheer the hearts of men. Speaks to the hearts of ease. The springtime of our life would seem Exhaustless in their store; While summer flowers of life are filled The "sear and yellow leaf" of age The flowers of hope and love and faith, A glorious diadem. These flowers we find forever, Beyond the "shining shore," Within the Amaranthine bowers, They bloom to pale no more. MRS. ELIZABETH MAY BADGER. GOING OUT AND COMING IN. GOING out to fame and triumph, Going out to love and light; Coming in to pain and sorrow, Coming in to gloom and night. Through the portals of the homestead, To the summer breeze unfurled. Winning oft a noble name. Coming back all worn and weary, Weary with the world's cold breath; Coming in with sorrows dark; Coming in with mastless barque. Restless stream of pilgrims, striving Wreaths of fame and love to win, From the doorways of the homestead Going out and coming in! MRS. MOLLIE E. MOORE DAVIS. PRIZE QUOTATIONS. Cash prizes to the amount of Three Hundred Dollars will be awarded by the Publisher to the persons who will name the author of the greatest number of the Prize Quotations Rules for Competitors may be found on another page. 135. A creature not too bright nor good For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 136. Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings Of that mysterious instrument, the soul, And play the prelude of our fate 137. How beautiful is gentleness, whose face Like April sunshine, or the summer rain, Swells everywhere the buds of generous thought? So easy, and so sweet it is; its grace Smoothes out so soon the tangled knots of pain. Can ye not learn it will ye not be taught? 138. With deep affection and recollection, I often think of those Shandon Bells, Fling round my cradle their magic spells. 139. The mind, that ocean where each kind 140. Stop, Mortal! Here thy brother lies, His books were rivers, woods, and skies, His teachers were the torn hearts' wail, The street, the factory, the jail, The palace-and the grave! Star after star from heaven's high arch shall rush, Careless of the voice of the morning. 153. When the humid shadows hover over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy tears, What a bliss to press the pillow of a cottage-chamber bed, And lie listening to the patter of the soft rain overhead. 154. We come! we come! and ye feel our might, 155. Far in a wild, unknown to public view, Beside each fearful soul there walks The dim, gaunt phantom of uncertainty, 157. We knew and did not know, We saw and did not see, The nets that long ago Fate wove for you and me; The birds that sob and moan, I praise thee for the power to love the Right, 159. How calm and quiet a delight Is it, alone, To read, and meditate, and write By none offended, and offending none. To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease, And, pleasing a man's self, none other to dis. please. 160. My mind to me a kingdom is, Such present joys therein I find, That it excels all other bliss That earth affords or grows by kind; Though much I want which most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave. 161. Happy the man, of mortals happiest he Whose quiet mind from vain desires is free; Whom neither hopes deceive nor fears torment, But lives at peace, within himself content; In thought and act accountable to none But to himself and to the gods alone. 162. I kiss not where I wish to kill; I feign not love where most I hate; I break no sleep to win my will; I wait not at the mighty's gate. I scorn no poor, I fear no rich; I feel no want, nor have too much. 163. I lead my life indifferently; I mean nothing but honesty; And though folks judge full diversely, I am as I am, and so will I die. 164. A little garden grateful to the eye, 165. Let a coach be called, And let the man who calleth be the caller; And in his calling let him nothing call, But coach! coach! coach! O for a coach, ye gods! 166. 'T is over-the lights are all dying, Of conquests, as homewards she drivesAnd some are gone home to their slumbers, And some are gone home to their wives. |