self;

Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust

year

I wish they were a whole Atlantic broad."

"Have patience," I replied, "ourselves are full

Of social wrong; and maybe wildest dreams

Are but the needful preludes of the truth: For me, the genial day, the happy crowd, The sport half-science, fill me with a faith, This fine old world of ours is but a child Yet in the go-cart. Patience! Give it time

To learn its limbs: there is a hand that guides."

To follow a shout rose again, and made The long line of the approaching rookery swerve

From the elms, and shook the branches of the deer

From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, and rang

Beyond the bourn of sunset; O, a shout More joyful than the city-roar that hails Premier or king! Why should not these great Sirs

Give up their parks some dozen times a year

To let the people breathe? So thrice they cried,

I likewise, and in groups they stream'd

STRONG Son of God, immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove;
Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
Thou madest Life in man and brute;

Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot Is on the skull which thou hast made.

Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:

Thou madest man, he knows not why; He thinks he was not made to die; And thou hast made him : thou art just. Thou seemest human and divine,

The highest, holiest manhood, thou: Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

Our little systems have their day;

They have their day and cease to be: They are but broken lights of thee, And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

We have but faith: we cannot know;
For knowledge is of things we see;
And yet we trust it comes from thee,
A beam in darkness: let it grow.
Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But more of reverence in us dwell;
That mind and soul, according well,
May make one music as before,

But vaster. We are fools and slight;
We mock thee when we do not fear:
But help thy foolish ones to bear;
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.
Forgive what seem'd my sin in me ;
What seem'd my worth since I began;
For merit lives from man to man,
And not from man, O Lord, to thee.

Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair.
I trust he lives in thee, and there
I find him worthier to be loved.

Forgive these wild and wandering cries,
Confusions of a wasted youth;
Forgive them where they fail in truth,
And in thy wisdom make me wise.

IN MEMORIAM.

A. H. H.

OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII.

I.

I HELD it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones,
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things.
But who shall so forecast the years

And find in loss a gain to match?
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch
The far-off interest of tears?

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd,
Let darkness keep her raven gloss :
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss,
To dance with death, to beat the ground,
Than that the victor Hours should scorn

The long result of love, and boast, "Behold the man that loved and lost, But all he was is overworn."

II.

OLD Yew, which graspest at the stones That name the under-lying dead, Thy fibres net the dreamless head, Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.

The seasons bring the flower again, And bring the firstling to the flock; And in the dusk of thee, the clock Beats out the little lives of men.

O not for thee the glow, the bloom,

Who changest not in any gale, Nor branding summer suns avail To touch thy thousand years of gloom :

And gazing on thee, sullen tree,

Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, I seem to fail from out my blood And grow incorporate into thee.

III.

O SORROW, cruel fellowship,

O Priestess in the vaults of Death, O sweet and bitter in a breath, What whispers from thy lying lip?

From out waste places comes a cry, A web is wov'n across the sky; And murmurs from the dying sun:

66 And all the phantom

My own less bitter, rather more : Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break.

ཝཱ ཙྩ ༤,

FORTUNE, by W. M. Hunt

This picture from a Copley Print, copyright, 1898, by Curtis & Cameron

A B

BOOK absolutely new in its field, which, it is believed, will prove definitive as a present-day survey of perhaps the greatest movement in American Art, in which many American painters have achieved positive distinction. Beginning with the earliest work that may properly be called Mural Decoration, the author covers the whole ground of her subject, considering not only the celebrated decorations in great public buildings. but also the great decorations of the Chicago World's Fair, and many of the decorations in private houses that have heretofore not been generally known to the public.

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