And what is this strange new joy that makes Then she carefully peeped in a sparrow's nest, That ever were hatched-not made She too, like the birds might sing! That she could not sing her own little Cain And the bearded man whose mother has gone As he slept on her peaceful breast; HUSKS. HE wed my sister yesterday! Ah, me! The while he gives to her love's golden grain He feeds me husks; but I so love the twain That I can smile and starve! It shall not be That ever he shall hear my heart complain! But when I greeted them, he kissed me thrice, And it did seem, from out the husks he gave I might have gleaned one grain I so much crave; And so I should, but my poor lips were ice, And love itself lost in a living grave! COMING AND GOING. WINDS, to-day, from yonder lilacs, blowing through my open door, Bore their fragrance to a baby who had never breathed before. But the dear old man who knew them, just as fresh and purple then, Seventy years ago, as now, will never, never breathe again! One was going up to heaven as the other came to earth; And the mortals and immortals each made record | of a birth; As two souls upon the boundary which divides that world from this, Met and parted, in the melting of a first and last fond kiss! With a weary wail of welcome saw the little child the day! With a song of praise triumphant passed the patriarch away! All the same-the cradled cherub or the pulseless, coffined clod Life and death alike are angels and the messengers of God. CASSIE AND I. I. OVER the mountain road, Ride I right royally! From my steed's bounding hoof A soft little emerald tinge On the old brown trees is seen, A promise the springtime gives Of a glorious garb of green, And the west wind murmurs low The lesson on every tree, Is the little joy of now And the glory that is to be! II. Cassie, how slow you walk! Gallop there, steadily- Know, that your horny hoof Before me, the blue of the lake Lifts up to the sky's azure line, As the waves of my love strive to blend With a love that is better than mine; And a whispering spirit says: "The lesson of lake and sky, Is the union imperfect of now And the perfect of by and by!" THE EASTER MOON. THE Easter full-moon rises, Lo! Unlike the virgin queen! Dost thou, thus clad in crimson come, No! Paschal moon, thy rosy flood Of light, that falls to-night on me, Is but the shadow of the blood Poured out on Calvary! MY PRAYER. GRANT me, O God! the glory of gray hairs! May fade the stains of more ambitious years, My lifelong, fondest friend shall sing, or say The grand old songs, in which we both delight, Until I sleep and sleeping pass away, Nor shall she know, though gazing on my face, When Death usurps his sister-Slumber's place. "LOVE IS SWEETER THAN REST." LIFE brings no burden to be borne so great, Heaven has no rest so sweet to offer me That I would seek repose, if it must be Without thy love, and from thee separate. For "love is sweeter than rest," and that estate Is mine in thee. The fruit of every tree May turn to ashes in my mouth: the sea HONOR. As to the stroke of the Woodman -Josephine. IT MAY RILEY SMITH. 'T is said to be the gift of genius which can take a commonplace subject and invest it with the full charm of novelty and fresh beauty. Thus a hackneyed love-story under the touch of Shakespeare or St. Pierre or Alfred Tennyson becomes a classic; and thus we now and then find among our singers one whose words, flowing spontaneously forth, present to us, as though we had never known them before, the old and common topics of home and motherhood, sorrow for sin, longings for a better life, and the doubts and fears and hopes familiar to every earnest soul. Among the most successful and sweet-voiced of the poets of our day in this direction is the author of "His Name Shall Be Written on Their Foreheads," "Sometime," "If," and other equally well-known verses. Wherever the English language is spoken and read, there these poems have a foothold, for they appeal to the universal and everlasting humanities" within us. In contemplating the true and tender feeling which never fails to animate Mrs. May Riley Smith's work, and that indescribable charm of genius which pervades it, the literary merit which attaches to most of her lines is often lost sight of. Very many of them are polished to a high degree. Her images and phrases are original and striking, and the exquisite refinement of the artist is apparent throughout the whole. It is a source of regret to all who know and admire her work, that Mrs. Smith should have chosen to glean so continuously from so narrow a field. The essays she has made outside of this have been eminently successful, as in " 'The Weary Model" and "The Perfect Niche," and as she has not yet reached the zenith of her powers, it is to be hoped that she will venture still further in paths which she has hitherto seemed not to care to tread. We gain a clue to the lack of variety and of extent in Mrs. Smith's writings, when we remember the saying that "out of the depths of anguish are born the vast majority of literary works." Though no doubt into her life as into all human existences has entered that "intrusive guest," "The sullen foe Of every sweet enjoyment here below," yet surely she has had more than most mortals know, of delight. It is largely in imagination that she has borne the woes of life, and from that source that she has obtained that sympathy with grief which runs throughout her poems. Happily married in early life, enjoying every advantage of travel and of society, and with an almost ideal son, now developing into early manhood, she lives a life of great content in a beautiful home on 74th street, in New York City, surrounded by hosts of friends. She has held for years, and until a few months ago, the responsible post of corresponding secretary of Sorosis, discharging her nervous and often irksome duties always with quiet patience and marked efficiency. There is no member of that large and distinguished organization more beloved and honored than she. She is also a prized member of other women's clubs, always a most acceptable speaker, with quick common sense to guide her vote, and a refreshing sense of humor, which tones into harmony the story ethical and didactic bent of her mind, with the practical and She wise. Mrs. Smith's personality is marked. is a sweet-faced blonde, dignified, refined, keenly interested in others, full of an eager delight in the success of her friends far greater than in her own, and womanly in the highest sense of that muchabused word. Men and women alike respect and love her, and there is probably not a literary woman in the land who is not proud and joyful in her success. K. U. C. IF WE KNEW If we knew the baby fingers Pressed against the window-pane Would be cold and stiff to-morrowNever trouble us again; Would the bright eyes of our darling Catch the frown upon our brow? Vex us then as they do now? Strewn along our backward track! Strange we never prize the music Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown; Strange that we should slight the violets Till the lovely flowers are gone; Strange that summer skies and sunshine Never seem one-half so fair As when Winter's snowy pinions Shake their white down in the air! Lips from which the seal of silence Never blossomed in such beauty As adorns the mouth to-day; And sweet words that freight our memory With their beautiful perfume, Come to us in sweeter accents Through the portals of the tomb. |