We cannot tell, but even now, When mortals are asleep, Across her visage, fixed and pale, She hasteneth to draw a veil, And only dares to peep, But fears to bare her marble brow. And only when the month has rolled Her glory, and her face unfold. The stars that are her children dear, And though to watch the ways of men To cast his eye of gold, And clouds enfold him even then. Perchance One brooding o'er the land Of purpose willed it so, And hath not been extreme to mark The crooked ways that in the dark His stumbling children go; And even Cain shall have his brand. And if the moon her secret keep By sudden stroke unkind, Perchance at lifting of the lid Of the resurrection day Sweet Abel, with his brother's hand Fast locked in his, shall meekly stand, And for that other pray, Behold, he knew not what he did!" And for the brightness of that Blood The brothers two, in fields afar The slayer and the slain, And emulate each other's good. NINA F. LAYARD. -Harper's Magazine, September, 1889. THE POET. HE's not alone an artist weak and white O'er-bending scented paper, toying there With languid fancies fashioned deft and fair, Mere sops to time between the day and night. He is a poor torn soul who sees aright How far he fails of living out of the rare The heart-beat of the universal will He hears, and, spite of blindness and disproof, Can sense amidst the jar a singing fine. Grief-smitten that his lyre should lack the skill To speak it plain, he plays in paths aloof, And knows the trend is starward, life divine. RICHARD E. BURTON. -The Century, September, 1889. THE GRAPEVINE SWING. WHEN I was a boy on the old plantation, Down by the deep bayou The fairest spot of all creation, Under the arching blue When the wind came over the cotton and corn, With brown feet bare, and a hat-brim torn, Swinging in the grapevine swing, Laughing where the wild birds sing I dream and sigh For the days gone by, Swinging in the grapevine swing. Out-o'er the water-lilies bonnie and bright, I shouted and laughed with a heart as light I was just as near heaven as I wanted to be, Swinging in the grapevine swing, Laughing where the wild birds sing Oh, to be a boy, With a heart full of joy, Swinging in the grapevine swing. I'm weary at morn, I'm weary at night, I'm fretted and sore of heart; And care is sowing my locks with white, As I wend through the fevered mart. I'm tired of the world, with its pride and pomp And fame seems a worthless thing; I'd barter it all for one day's romp, Swinging in the grapevine swing, From the world to-day, SAMUEL MINTURN PECK. -New Orleans Times-Democrat. SUMMER NIGHT. ON all the outer world, a holy hush, A soul-entrancing stillness, steeped in light From pallid morn to evening's fevered flush, In outline clear against the star-lit sky The high-roofed barn stands dark-the silent trees HELEN FAIRBAIRN. -The Week, September 13, 1889. UNCALENDARED. ONLY a year have thou and I been friends, "With God, one day is as a thousand years:" - The Century, September, 1889. POETRY. PRIZE QUATRAINS. FIRST PRIZE. I. She comes like the husht beauty of the night, Her touch is a vibration and a light 2. Oh, we who know thee know we know thee not, Thou Soul of Beauty, thou Essential Grace! Yet undeterr'd by baffled speech and thought, The heart stakes all upon thy hidden face. THIRD PRIZE. 3. God placed a solid rock man's path across, And bade him climb; but that it might not be Too rough, He wrapped it o'er with tender moss: The rock was Truth, the moss was Poetry. SPECIAL MENTION. 4. 'Tis the celestial body, in which bideth The risen Truth-the form most fair and fit, Which doth reveal the soul, and nothing hideth, And the pure spirit doth illumine it. 5. Paean of peace and ancient battle-song, Love-lyric and pastoral voice thy varied art; Man and the universe to thee belong, Interpreter of Nature and the heart. 6. When Eden's gate was barred, one winged wind Stole out, with the forbidden sweetness fraught; In Poetry it whispers to the mind And is the fragrance and the flower of Thought. 7. Vision, to see in all created things The imprisoned soul thereof that stirs its wings I am the great Amen, the Flower of Life, 9. The moon's spell on the wistful deep- The Fount invisible whose overflow, Murmurs divinely in the souls of men We name thee not the Angel of the Tomb: 35. Her face and form I oft would try to trace But the shy maid loves Freedom more than bars; Her home is in the boundless spirit-space She flies away and soars among the stars. 36. Faint memories of that olden, perfect speech 37. All arts in one; speech of the living skies; Outburst of wakened soul and worshipper; Flame of ignited minds, and Beauty's guise; Heaven's own revealer and interpreter! 38. The symphony of the responsive shell,— The voiced beauty of his soul who hears, And to the lesser soul and duller ears Only the hollow murmur of a shell. Thou hear'st the pang that speaks not o'er its breath: Man's sister-confessor art thou-no more: Few see thy face full-fronted: seen it saith "Where Gods conversed stood beside the door." 40. Once Echo showed to me her gentle face, 41. One spot of green, water'd by hidden streams, 42. It is the speech that angels know, By poets overheard, The deepest thought by feeling's glow To music softly stirred. PRIZE AWARD. For the best Quatrain (subject: Poetry) received by the editor on or before June 1, 1889, one hundred dollars. First prize, $50; second prize, $30; third prize, $20. First prize won by Charles E. Markham, San José, Cal. Second prize won by Miss Katherine Lee Bates, Wellesley, Mass. Third prize won by Bert Ingliss (Miss Kate Goode) Boydton, Va. Judges: Clinton Scollard, Charles Goodrich Whiting, Henry Abbey, J. Macdonald Oxley, and Nettie Leila Michel. Number of poems sent in competition 466; representing every state and territory in the United States, every province and territory in the Dominion of Canada. Poems also received from England, Ireland, Scotland, Germany and France. George Houghton. 18. Croasdale E. Harris. 19. Francis Howard Williams. 20. Anne Reeve Aldrich. 21. Rev. M. R. Knight. 22. Mary F. Butts. 23. Louise Phillips. 24. St. James Cummings. 25. Mary E. Mannix. 26. Charles E. Markham. 27. Alice Williams Brotherton. 28. Clara J. Benedict. 29. Caroline S. Spencer. 30. Bertha H. Burnham. 31. Mary E. Blanchard. 32. Helen W. North. 33. Anna L. Muzzey. 34. Aubrey DeVere. 35. C. H. Crandall. 36. Mamie S. Paden. 37. A. P. Miller. 38. Elizabeth A. Hill. 39. Aubrey DeVere. 40. Louise V. Boyd. 41. Florence Earle Coates. 42. Alice Williams Brotherton. NOTES. HAYNE. The death of Paul Hamilton Hayne, one of the noblest poets that the South has produced, lends peculiar interest to" Face to Face," a lofty strain of final triumph. Mr. Hayne early devoted himself to literature, and his name is associated with nearly all the best American magazines, especially the Southern ones, several of which, though short lived, rose to eminence under his editorship. When the war deprived him of his fortune he still continued true to his standard. His picturesque little home near Augusta, furnished with what ancestral goods he managed to save in the destruction of Charleston, was the scene of his labors for twenty years. Having experienced all the phases of prosperity and adversity, his lingering decline with consumption made him a calm and fearless student of the coming change. The result is beautifully shown in this poem, which, though written two years before, by a strange coincidence was published in Harper's Magazine, just before the writer was permitted to verify its truth. IBID. "Love's Autumn" is from Scribner's Magazine for October, 1880. Vol. 20, page 874. SANGSTER. "Are the Children at Home?" was written in 1867, while the author was sitting on her pleasant veranda at Norfolk, Va., overlooking the Elizabeth River. Its blending of pathos, tenderness, and simplicity, are rarely equalled. fashioned itself into verse, and Leaf by Leaf' was written almost without volition as it seemed on my part. It was published in Gleason's Pictorial, and from thence copied widely into various papers, meanwhile being set to musc for a Boston publication, the composer claiming the words as his own. This experience has been several times repeated, and twice even, in one magazine of late years. Meanwhile it makes its appearance in the form of sheet music adapted for the piano, becoming very popular and having large sales, this composer also claiming the authorship of the poem. In 1865, on being introduced to Mr. Oliver Ditson as the writer of this song, he immediately desired proof, which, when furnished, he set before the different publishers, and through his efforts credit has been given me in all subsequent editions. I had not thought that the simple 'note of cheer,' sent to me that morning in the rose-garden, would make its way into other hearts or homes. A fine transcription of the song has been made by Wehli, adapted for the piano." YEATS. "An Old Song Re-sung" is an attempt to reconstruct an old song from three lines imperfectly remembered by an old peasant woman in the village of Ballysodare, Sligo, who often sings them to herself. HAY. While on the Tribune staff Mr. Hay amused himself, one night, while waiting for a proof, by jotting down some rhymes running i his head, and read them afterwards to two o three of his associates. They liked them and urged him to publish them. He refused for some time, but their praise persuaded him, and one morning "Little Breeches" appeared in the paper over the initials J. H. They were read more than anything printed in that issue of the Tribune; they were copied from Maine to California, and generally commended. The lesson of practical Christianity they enforced was ardently approved, and in a few weeks everybody knew that J. H. stood for John Hay, who had been Lincoln's private secretary, had seen much diplomatic service abroad, and is a particularly pleasant fellow. "Little Breeches" caused society and public to seek him; but he was too wise to allow himself to be hurt by what he called a rhyming accident. He wrote "Jim Bludso" and several other dialect pieces, though he refused to beat out his material very thin. He was conscious of possessing something besides capacity for those rhythmic skits. After he had published "Castilian Days," which he considered serious work, he was often mortified to find that "Little Breeches" had the preference. |