Slike strani
[graphic][merged small]


ONE ELIZABETH LUSK was born at Cox

family of six girls. Her mother, dreaming over her first child, used to wish there might be a writer in the family, and, as if in response to the unspoken desire, Ione began scribbling verses at an early age. She is a person of warm sympathies, ready tact, possessing much of that charity which in the Book of books is writ “Love." In 1872 her parents removed to Catskill village, N. Y., and shortly after, Ione was married to G. Howard Jones, a young lawyer of that place, where, with their two children, aged nine and eleven, they now reside.

Mrs. Jones is one of the best of companions, possessing a keen and ready wit and a quiet sense of humor, appreciating all that is interesting in human life. From childhood she has indicated the possession of many gifts, and now uses pen, brush, and piano or violin (and housewifely broom,) with readiness. Her first verses were published in 1884, and though she has written chiefly in a lighter vein, some of her unpublished poems show deeper channels of thought which speak of wider scope for her future work.

E. F. B.

They are sweetly sleeping,
Daffodil and Buttercup
Still are silence keeping.
Sing, then, low, softly blow,
Whisper sweetly, softly-so.
There now. So now.
Listen to the clatter!
Pink Arbutus stirs in bed
And wonders what's the matter.
All the icy fleets set free,
Down the streams are rushing ;
Toward the everlasting sea
Wildly, madly pushing.
Blow, then, blow! Let them go!
Winter's reign is o'er, we know.
Up hill, down dale,
Over moor and mountain;
Shout and sing “Awake! 'Tis spring!”
Burst forth, O laughing fountain!
Bend, tall elms, your graceful heads!
Swing low, O weeping willows!
Stretch, little blades of grass; for March
Has come to air your pillows.
Arouse, O, Pine! Awaken Larch!
And greet spring's trumpeter-brave March.

[blocks in formation]


Brown leaves are prest against the pavements

wet, O'er which, with cumbrous tread The coal man, with his load on shoulder set,

Goes to and from the shed.

Ah, doleful noises, mist and falling leaves,

I turn me from the pane: Her passing scepter sobbing Fall bereaves,

And Winter wails again.

Blaze thou! and warm my saddened heart, O fire,

Light up this shadowy room; With books, and friends, and logs piled high and

higher, Let old King Winter come.



[ocr errors][merged small]

A KINDLY look, a word of commendation,

A sympathetic pressure of the hand;

A smile to those who journey o'er the land Aweary of life's toil and degredation, While struggling on 'gainst trials and temptation, Give thou, O brother. For the Father planned That we should love all men. Heed His com

mand, And pour into these sad hearts consolation. Grim poverty thou sufferest not; ah! then

Have mercy on the poor, for deep their woe. Let gentle pity plead for fallen men,

For reclaimed sinners shall be white as snow. And may God's blessings rest upon thee, when

And where thy ministering footsteps go.


a suburb of Dublin, on the 13th of June, 1865. His birthplace, the residence of his father's uncle, was a quaint, castellated house, in a park full of beautiful forest trees, and containing within its limits a lake and an island. Here the future poet's childhood was spent in part, and it was an ideal home for a dreamy imaginative child. It was an intellectual centre in its day.

Mr. Yeats' father is an artist, who having been at the Bar for some years and with great distinction, gave up the profession, where he was safe to gain honor and wealth, for Art, in the following of which he has no doubt been happier, for he is a born artist. Springing from a very ancient and distinguished family he married the daughter of a race of English settlers in Ireland, -people who have brought with their English blood certain honorable qualities of seriousness, of determina. tion, of mercantile probity and mercantile success, to add on to the Celtic qualities gained by intermarriage with the fascinating Irish. Of this marriage there are two daughters and a son, besides the poet, who is the eldest born.

Mr. Yeats was at school in London and Dublin. He did not enter a university, ard curiously enough, his first bias was for scientific pursuits,-it must have been for those things which appeal to the faculty of wonder. However, he soon turned to poetry, pure and simple, and though his performance as an art student promised great things, he has rather neglected art for poetry. He dreamed away his later boyhood a good deal, which perhaps was wise, for he is of delicate physique. His first poetry published was in the Dublin University Review, and excited wide-spread interest. In the present year he has published a volume of poems, which has at once given him a position; it has been received as the work of a new poet promising great things by all the important London reviews. At present he is editing some of the Camelot Classics; his “Irish Fairy and Folk Lore" has appeared, and it is to my mind, the best edited of the whole series. He is engaged also on literary work for many magazines and newspapers. His is a subtle genius, rejoicing in the strange and the exotic, but withal, having such a virile quality behind it, such a faculty of delight in the deeds of heroes, that he will be saved from the pitfalls of those who seek the marvellous. In looks Mr. Yeats is as picturesque as one could desire,—hair, beard, and beautiful eyes of a southern darkness, with a face of a fine oval, and a clear, dusky color. Nature has written the poet upon his face. And his poetry is enhanced in beauty if read to you by his own voice, which has a thousand qualities of richness, of softness, and of flexibility. K. T.


No door so thick, no bolt so strong,
No tower so high, no wall so long,

But that Death enters in at last. Then watch with care; repent thy sin, Lest unaware he enters in

When time for penitence is past.


When I'am a man-
Sings the sweet voice of boyhood-
When I'am a man. 0, when! O, when!
From the grave future
Rings manhood's clear echo-
If I were young again, then. O, Then!


[blocks in formation]

My love hath many a ruthless mood,

Ill words for all things soft and fair; I hold him dearer than the good

My fingers feel his amber hair.

No tender wisdom foods the eyes

That watch me with their suppliant light; I hold him dearer than the wise,

And for him make me wise and bright.

“ A storm of birds in the Asian trees

Like tulips in the air a-winging,
And the gentle waves of the summer seas

That raise their heads and wander singing,
Bysage's weariness are slain,
And the long grey grasses, whose tenderest

touches Stroked the young winds as they rolled on the

plain, The osprey of sorrow goes after and clutches, And they cease with a sigh of “Unjust! unjust!' And A weariness soon is my speed,' says the

mouse, And the kingfisher turns to a ball of dust,

And the roof falls in of his tunnelled house.

• But never the years in the isle's soft places

Will scatter in ruin the least of our days, Or the softness of youth be gone from our faces

Or love's first tenderness die in our gaze.

KANVA, THE INDIAN, ON GOD. I PASSED along the water's edge below the humid

trees, My spirit rocked in evening's hush, the rushes

round my knees, My spirit rocked in sleep and sighs; and saw the

moorfowl pace All dripping on a grassy slope, and saw them cease

to chase Each other round in circles; and I heard the eldest

speak: “Who holds the world between His bill and makes

us strong or weak Is an undying moorfowl, and He lives beyond the

sky, The rains are from His dripping wing, the moon

beams from His eye.” I passed a little further on and heard a lotus

talk:Who made the world and ruleth it, He hangeth

on a stalk,

“Old grows the hare as she plays in the sun, And gazes around her with eyes of bright

ness; Ere half the swift things that she dreamt on

were done, She limps along in an aged whiteness. And even the sun, the day's castle's warder,

That scares with his bustle the delicate night, I

[blocks in formation]

Long thou for nothing, neither sad nor gay;
Long thou for nothing, neither night nor day;
Not even “I long to see thy longing over,"
To the ever-longing and mournful spirit say.

The ghosts went by me with their lips apart
From death's late languor as these lines I read
On Brahma's gateway, “They within have fed
The soul upon the ashes of the heart."

This heard I where, amid the apple trees,
Wild indolence and music have no date,
“I laughed upon the lips of Sophocles,
I go as soft as folly; I am Fate."

“ Around, the twitter of the lips of dust
A tossing laugh between their red abides;
With patient beauty yonder Attic bust
In the deep alcove's dimness smiles and hides."

VII. The heart of noon folds silence and folds sleep, For noon and midnight from each other borrow, And Joy, in growing deeper and more deep, Walks in the vesture of her sister Sorrow.


Down by the salley gardens my love and I did

meet; She passed the salley gardens with little snow.

white feet. She bid me take love easy as the leaves grow on

the tree; But I, being young and foolish, with her would

not agree.

In a field by the river my love and I did stand. And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow

white hand. She bid me take life easy as the grass grows on

the weirs; But I was young and foolish, and now am full of


And once a sudden laughter sprang
From all their lips, and once they sang
Together, while the dark woods rang,
And rose from all their distant parts,
From bees among their honey marts,
A rumor of delighted hearts.

- The Wanderings of Oisin.

LIFE. Placid as a homeward bee, Glad, simple-nay, he sought not mystery, Nor, gazing forth where life's sad sickles reap, Searched the unsearchable-why good men weep; Why those who do good often be not good, Why they who will the highest sometimes brood, Clogged in a marsh where the slow marsh clay

clings, Abolished by a mire of little things, Untuned by their own striving.

-Ilow Ferenc: Renyi Kept Silent.

A grey professor passing cried,
“How few the mind's intemperance rule!
What shallow thoughts about deep things!
The world grows old and plays the fool."

- A Legend


I. The child who chases lizards in the grass, The sage who deep in central nature delves, The preacher watching for the ill hour to passAll these are souls who fly from their dread selves.

II. Two spirit-things a man hath for his friendsSorrow, that gives for guerdon liberty, And joy, the touching of whose finger lends To lightest of all light things sanctity.

« PrejšnjaNaprej »