The capes that fade away,

Like shades at shut of day,

Into the waste of Night!

Into the utter Night!

This, of quite another character, appeared in The Evening Post several years ago. It conjures up a picture of rare beauty, and is delicately limned:

THE MOUNTAIN IN THE WEST.

Last eve the sunset winds upheaved
A mountain in the west,

All seamed with gloomy gulfs, from base
Up to its golden crest;

Cloud piled on cloud that mountain rose-
A storm whose wrath was spent--

Its routed legions gathered up,

In common ruin blent;

And all about its dark base rolled
A sea of gorgeous dyes,

And on its summit blazed a fire

Too bright for mortal eyes;

And grandly down its southern slope
A purpling river flowed

Into the sea of gorgeous dyes

Which at its foot abode.

And we, who marked the scene sublime,
Beheld a shining band

Press upward to the mountain top,
As to a Promised Land;

Their faces kindling with the light

That played about its crest

And two, more glorious, led the way,
In spotless garments dressed;
Some wearied on the way, and these
The stronger lifted up,

And held unto their parching lips
Love's overflowing cup-

And thus refreshed, they buoyantly
Pressed forward in the van,

And leaped and danced for gladness, where
The purpling river ran.

Thus joyously the band pressed on
Until the least had won

And stood transfigured on the mount-
The children of the sun;

But soon their brightness waxed too great
For mortal eyes to bear,

And Night, in mercy, dropped her veil
To hide the vision fair;

But we, who saw that light sublime,
Hallowing yestereven,

Joyed in the thought that we had sped

A little nearer Heaven.

77

Mr. Cobb was of the original staff of the New York World, and later was employed upon the Philadelphia Daily Day. He is now taking life a little easier than active journalism permits enjoying a half respite, richly earned by long years of hard and unceasing toil.

JAMES G. CLARK.

HERE are some waifs which we are always glad to see, however often we chance upon them,— some which, through their sweet suggestiveness, never fail to awaken purer reflections, to turn our thought for a little time away from every-day themes, and to lead us up, out of self and selfish things, into a new atmosphere. Of this class is the following, ever worthy the space so frequently accorded it by newspapers :

ART THOU LIVING YET.

Is there no grand, immortal sphere
Beyond the realm of broken ties,
To fill the wants that mock us here,

And dry the tears from weeping eyes;

Where winter melts in endless spring,

And June stands near with deathless flowers;

Where we may hear the dear ones sing

Who loved us in this world of ours?

I ask, and lo! my cheeks are wet

With tears for one I can not see;

Oh, mother, art thou living yet,

And dost thou still remember me?

I feel thy kisses o'er me thrill,

Thou unseen angel of my life;

I hear thy hymns around me thrill
An undertone to care and strife;

Thy tender eyes upon me shine,
As from a being glorified,
Till I am thine and thou art mine,

And I forget that thou hast died.
I almost lose each vain regret

In visions of a life to be; But, mother, art thou living yet,

And dost thou still remember me?

The springtimes bloom, the summers fade, The winters blow along my way;

But over every light and shade

Thy memory lives by night and day; It soothes to sleep my wildest pain,

Like some sweet song that can not die, And, like the murmur of the main,

Grows deeper when the storm is nigh.

I know the brightest stars that set

Return to bless the yearning sea; But, mother, art thou living yet,

And dost thou still remember me?

I sometimes think thy soul comes back
From o'er the dark and silent stream,
Where last we watched thy shining track

To those green hills of which we dream; Thy loving arms around me twine,

My cheeks bloom younger in thy breath, Till thou art mine and I am thine,

Without a thought of pain or death; And yet, at times, my eyes are wet With tears for her I can not see

Oh! mother, art thou living yet,

And dost thou still remember me