MARY MORGAN.

M

NIGHT WIND. The night-wind is a minstrel, who for centuries

has sung, And darkness is the temple where his mighty harp

is hung: 'T is strung with rays of starlight, and I love to

hear him sweep Those mystic chords, till Nature chants an anthem in her sleep.

-I Love to Hear the Wind Blow.

ISS MORGAN is a native of Scotland, but re

moved, with her family, in very early life to Canada, so that her whole literary work belongs to the New World. Most of her life has been spent in Milton Cottage on the banks of the St. Lawrence a few miles below Montreal. She has therefore been long known in the educated society of that city as one who can always be relied upon to take an active interest in every scheme for the promo. tion of a higher culture; and Milton Cottage is a favorite resort for people of literary sympathies, especially in the long afternoons of summer, when its garden is brilliantly attractive. It is but twelve or thirteen years ago since Miss Morgan began to publish any of her literary work. Since then her name has become familiar to the readers of various periodicals in the United States as well as in Canada. Her best work is in the lyrical vein; and the moods of the soul, for which she seems to find expression by preference in her lyrics, are not the more boisterous passions by which the average human heart is most commonly stormed, but rather those delicate, calm emotions that are naturally awakened by the rarer reflections of a cultured mind. About a year ago Miss Morgan col. lected a few of her most appreciated productions in a dainty little volume published at Montreal under the title of “Poems and Translations." An edition of this collection for the United States is now being brought out with the more attractive title of “Woodnotes in the Gloaming." Much of her work has been done over the signature of Gowan Lea.

J. C. M.

DESPAIR.
I've sometimes prayed that we might meet

Upon this earth no more;
But ere it reached the mercy-seat

My saddened soul would pour
Another and a wilder prayer,

In bitterness and pain, Beseeching still, with deep despair, To meet thee once again.

- The Remembered Name.

FRIENDSHIP.
Yet, like the Resurrection-flower,

Which, rescued from the Egyptian's tomb, When moistened by a gentle shower,

In wondrous beauty still will bloom, We sometimes find a heart t prize, Which, changeless still through grief and

years, Will, like that buried flower, arise, And brighten in the midst of tears.

- The Withered Bud.

WOMAN.
To one it was nothing, only a waltz;

To the other it meant no wrong;
Men may be cruel — who are not false
And women remember too long.

-A Memory. JEALOUSY. I have marked the crowns of pleasure

By your silly vot'ries worn, And have grafted at my leisure

Upon every rose a thorn. 'Human hearts must sweep between us, . Bearing off their passion-scars. Love's bright heritage from Venus Brings the curse of strife from Mars!

-Love and Jealousy. CHILDHOOD. The earth was green, the sky was fair, And life to them was then and there; Their future in “to-morrow" lay, Their past was lost in “yesterday."

-Two Streams.

TO THE NEW YEAR.

Hark! is 't thy step, New Year? With sure but stealthy pace thou aye dost come; And in thy train are gladdening gifts for some;

O haste thee, glad New Year!

Too swift thy step, New Year! The past had gathered friends from many lands, And thou dost come to part their clasped hands:

Alas, so soon, New Year!

“O haste!” " Delay!" New Year;Two prayers together rising up to heaven: The answer trust; for is it not God-given?

Meet bravely the New Year!

Bid welcome the New Year! O clear-voiced Truth, lead in the coming morn; And gentle Charity, our lives adorn:

Hope lives in the New Year!

(For Music.) Be strong, O soul! The morning breaketh fair; All blue the sky-no cloudlet anywhere; Yet think,—thy path is infinite and there

Thou walkest all alone: O soul, be strong! Be strong, O soul! It is the full noon-day; But thorns and briars have sprung up on thy way; Take heed unto thy steps, that so thou may

Not faint nor fall: do thou beware, O soul! Be strong, O soul! The night comes on apace,

he crescent moon hath hid her pensive face, Nor canst thou on the darkening heavens trace

One lonely star: now, now be strong, O soul! Be calm, O soul! Dream not the night can last: If memory hath linked thee to the past, So, to the future, Hope hath bound thee fast:

Be thou as calm as strong, O anxious soul!

Alone with the sea —
I seem to hear

In her moan my soul's own lay,
Like the cry of a child
That has lost its home
And asks but to know the way!

Sea Weeds.
FAITH
Can faith not live on faith and wait ?

- Questionings.
DOUBTS.
Thou blessing Doubt, I welcome thee;
Sure symbol of activity:
We needs must question e'er we see.

- Ibid. GEORGE ELIOT. Thyself, a shining light thou knew'st the shade;

But, from the silence of the soul's recess,

The lamp of thy great genius shone afar: The weary worker in his loneliness

Descried the ray, and dreamed it could not fade To him thou art as an immortal star!

George Eliot.

TIME.
Go up unto the hill-top. I will show

Myself to thee when busy day is done,

And twilight shadows gather thick below;
For only to the great Infinite One

Am I made visible in noon's pure glow:
Man seëth me but in the setting sun.

- Time. IDEALS.

FRIENDSHIP.
One questions eagerly, “Can friendship die?"

Another, as with warning, answers low:
“The fickle winds of fortune ever blow,

Full often severing the olden tie.
Mark how the soul of aspiration high

Outstrips the lesser soul of progress slow;
And say if time be not a ruthless foe

Whom only rarest friendship can defy.
Unconsciously, perchance, may feeling wane;

The turning-point will oft elude the mind,

Which some day wonders how the coldness grew. Behold yon rainbow through the glistening rain!

Canst thou the limit of one color find?
Yet does the violet shade into the blue."

The highest work a higher thought can raise.

- ldcals. CARLYLE. O mighty heart! like to the changing sea

To fury lashed, and back with sudden awe

Subsiding (as if Eolus set free
The tempests, and, relenting, called them home)

To thee -as once upon the Mount- -a law
Of Truth was given from yon celestial dome.

- On the Death of Carlyle.

CHARITY.

Thou asketh not to know the creed,
The rank, or name is naught to thee,
Where'er the human heart cries “help!"
Thy kingdom is, o Charity!

RIGHTEOUSNESS.

TRUTH.

When our too slothful minds shall feel the sun
Of righteousness shine on them and grow warm
With right's enthusiasm, then shall we
Reflect that righteousness, and make the shade--
The darkest hours of life - shine beautiful
With chastened light – a moonlight of the mind!
Thou moonlight of the mind! In thy still air
The busy, garish day doth vanish quite;

Celestial melodies entrance the soul,
| And thrill it with a joy not of the earth

Truth is one, and is forever true.

- Poem. HOPE, Wonder not at deed, Wonder more at thought, Wonder at the hope that feeds itself.

Ibid.

a

WILLIAM H. BUSHNELL.

A rapture that doth hint of height on height A vast“ beyond "- an infinite foreground, Warmed by the rays of an undying sun.

- Meditations from “ Dream-Grotto."

HIS veteran author was born in the city of

June 4, 1823, of good old stock, New England and Knickerbocker; was educated at the University of the City of New York; followed for a time the profession of his father, the law, and after much journalistic experience as editor and contributor, finally settled in Washington where he now resides.

In person Mr. Bushnell is of medium height, blue-eyed, of scholarly sedateness, and unaffected affability. In the suavity of the man and his freedom from ostentation, and in his perfect repose you have the evidence of that high result of manhood, a gentleman.

It is proper to add that the poet has for a wife one of the most brilliant conversationalists in the Capital, and whose nom de plume, “Helen Luqueer," is well known to the literary world. Their charming home and united literary life is a reminder of ihe Howitts and the Brownings. J. W. O.

Red grows the sky with wealth of light suffused-
Deep-orange red, and threatening, though still;
O'er-hanging clouds look solid as the hills,
And the low line of hills resembles clouds;
Night speedily her heavy mantle draws
O'er sea and land!

-Ibid.
REST.

HOME.

Life conscious is, and there's no rest at all.
No rest at all — or only perfect rest —
That grand repose where rest and work are one!
The rest, that is, when o'er earth's canopy
The northern lights keep at their ceaseless play;
The rest that is, when hid from human eye
The acorn prophesies the coming spring;
The rest that is, when wearied hands lie still
While thought communeth with the One Supreme!
All, all is still. The day is hid in night;
But soon the night will hide within the day;
And noiseless glides the chariot of morn.
All, all is still. This hour be consecrate.
My spirit, onward! self-controlled — self-poised!
Till this unceasing, everlasting change,
Become to thee - as to the Eternal — rest!

- Ibid. WONDER

WHERE the rustic porch was hidden by roses, red

and white, And honeysuckle laden with wealth of blossoms

bright, And the brier gave its sweetness at the dewy even

ing hour, And the violet its perfume to the kissing of the

shower; Where bird and insect singing from the cherry

laden tree, Were answered from the clover fields by humming

of the bee: Where dozing in the shadow the faithful watch-dog

laid, And flashing through the scented grass the tiny

kittens played; And where life's chain unbroken by loved ones

forced to roam, Shone bright, undim'd by sorrows in the heart's

remembered home.

O Reason, Wonder, Doubt

Great warriors three!

A trinity
No true soul lives without.

-- Hymn. LIFE.

Enchantress, Disenchantress, both - in one!

Surrounding us to-day with dazzling light,

To-morrow hiding every ray of sun Till we are sunk in the abyss of night.

The oracles are dumb: what'er Life be, Man walks by faith alone; he cannot see.

- Sonnet.

MARGUERITE. Hair as silk of corn sun-kissed, Rippling in a golden mist; Skin as calla lily white, Tinted by rose-blushes bright; Lips as if from heaven above Thou had stolen dew of love; Cheeks as angel's fair and sweet,