Hayne Literary Circle in Augusta last winter, challenged special admiration, and his forthcoming article in Lippincott's on "The Methods of Work of Paul H. Hayne" is awaited with eager and general interest, as it will be a true and home description by this gifted son of the literary methods and poetic moods of his eminent father.

Personally Mr. Hayne is a very attractive man, and the magnetism which made the father a charming conversationalist and companion grows daily in the son, and adds much to a genial nature and social spirit. His memory for poetry is remarkable, and he can recall and recite nearly all of his poems at will. He is slender in shape, nervous in manner, and has very dark hair and eyes. He is unmarried, and is poetic enough in appearance to remind one of Edgar Allan Poe; but his deep, sparkling eyes are those of his own family, and his cheerful temperament will keep him and his verse from the gaunt and gloomy environment of Poe and his "Raven." T. R. G.

РОЕМ,

FOR THE UNVEILING OF THE BUST OF SIDNEY LANIER, AT MACON, GA., OCTOBER 17, 1890. UNVEIL the noble brow, the deep-souled eyes, Wherein melodious unities

Of Music and of Poetry were born,

For undeterred by care's half sluggish thorn— Barbed oft with suffering-he bravely brought To Song's full bloom his Lyric buds of thought.

Here love and homage shall alike proclaim
The undying whiteness of our poet's fame;
Wed to the marble, yet exempt from the cold
As winter clouds blessed by the sun's warm gold.

And now I hear

Far off yet clear

Two voices that are one

For drawing close to Music's feet 'Tis thus her Lyric sister sweet

Sings of their cherished son!

Strong-winged and free each mood of me
Thrilled through his heart and brain,—
His soul was lit by lights that flit

Across the waving grain!

The marshes drear he made a prayer

With words whose wondrous flight

Bore thoughts that reach, through rhythmic

speech,

To sunlands out of sight!

He let no seed from Doubt's dark weed

Fall in the holy shrine

Where song was bred, by music led
To beckoning heights divine!
And seldom mute his silver flute
Invoked with matchless art
Each wave of sound by Silence bound
Within her vestal heart!

Death's arctic fear-"a cordial rare "
To his enraptured dream,-
Came from the blue his spirit knew
Of love and faith supreme!
His "Sunrise" song, with rapture strong,
Rose like a lark in light

Who feels the sway of sovereign Day
Reign o'er the mists of night!

He loved the flow of winds that blow
To "odor-currents" set,-
The gem-like hue of fleeting dew,
Frail rose and violet,—

The soul in trees whose litanies
His reverent spirit heard;
The corn-blades rife with vernal life,
The rune of bee or bird!

Strong-winged and free each mood of me

Thrilled through his heart and brain,— His soul was lit by lights that flit

Across the waving grain. The marshes drear he made a prayer With words, whose wondrous flight Bore thoughts that reach, through rhythmic speech,

To sunlands out of sight!

A BAND OF BLUEBIRDS. (IN AUTUMN.)

Он, happy band of bluebirds,

Brave prophets of the Spring, Amid the tall and tufted cane

How blithesomely you sing! What message haunts your music 'Mid Autumn's dusky reign? You tell us nature stores her seeds To give them back in grain.

Your throats are gleeful fountains
Through which a song-tide flows,-
Your voices greet me in the woods
On every wind that blows!

I dream that Heaven invites you
To bid the Earth "good-bye;"
For in your wings you seem to hold
A portion of the sky!