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There's a rustle of soft, slow footsteps,

The toss of a purple plume,

And the glimmer of golden arrows

Athwart the hazy gloom.

"Tis the smoke of the happy wigwams
That reddens our wintry sky,
The scent of unfading forests
That is dreamily floating by.

O shadow-sister of summer!

Astray from the world of dreams, Thou wraith of the bloom departed,

Thou echo of spring-tide streams, Thou moonlight and starlight vision Of a day that will come no more, Would that our love might win thee To dwell on this stormy shore!

But the roaming Indian goddess

Stays not for our tender sighs—

She has heard the call of her hunters
Beyond the sunset skies!

By her beaming arrows stricken,

The last leaves fluttering fall,

With a sigh and smile she has vanishedAnd darkness is over all.

ONLY WAITING.

Only waiting till the shadows
Are a little longer grown,
Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown;

Till the night of earth is faded

From this heart once full of day, Till the dawn of Heaven is breaking Through the twilight soft and gray.

Only waiting till the reapers

Have the last sheaf gathered home, For the summer-time hath faded,

And the autumn winds are come. Quickly, reapers! gather quickly,

The last ripe hours of my heart, For the bloom of life is withered, And I hasten to depart.

Only waiting till the angels

Open wide the mystic gate,

At whose feet I long have lingered, Weary, poor, and desolate.

Even now I hear their footsteps And their voices far awayIf they call me, I am waiting, Only waiting to obey.

Only waiting till the shadows
Are a little longer grown-
Only waiting till the glimmer
Of the day's last beam is flown.
When from out the folded darkness
Holy, deathless stars shall rise,
By whose light my soul will gladly
Wing her passage to the skies.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

AMERICAN.

Aldrich was born in Portsmouth, N. H., 1836. After trying mercantile pursuits in a New York countingroom, he gave his attention to literature; was connected with the Home Journal, and other periodicals, and became a frequent contributor to the leading magazines. He began to publish poems in 1854. His "Baby Bell" (1858) showed that he had not mistaken his vocation. Removing to Boston, he published a series of tales which attracted much attention, and were translated into French. They appeared originally in the Atlantic Monthly. Mr. Aldrich has made two visits to Europe with his wife, and given evidence that they were not unprofitable in literary respects. His poetical vein is rich, delicate, and tender; and the cultivated circle he addresses is always enlarging. He published in 1880 "The Stillwater Tragedy," a novel, in which, in spite of its name, wit and humor prevail.

PISCATAQUA RIVER.

Thou singest by the gleaming isles,
By woods and fields of corn
Thou singest, and the heaven smiles
Upon my birthday morn.

But I, within a city, I,

So full of vague unrest, Would almost give my life to lie An hour upon thy breast;

To let the wherry listless go, And, wrapped in dreamy joy, Dip and surge idly to and fro, Like the red harbor-buoy.

To sit in happy indolence,

To rest upon the oars,

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William Winter.

AMERICAN.

A native of Gloucester, Mass., Winter was born July 15th, 1836. He published a volume of poems before he was twenty-one. For several years he has been connected with the New York Tribune as dramatic critic. An edition of his poems was republished in London in 1877. In the spring of 1879 he read a poem called "The Pledge and the Deed" before the Society of the Army of the Potomac at Albany, which was received with great enthusiasm. Of his "Orgia" he writes: "It is thoroughly sincere-honestly expressive of my feelings about life at the time it was written, but wild as a white squall. All sorts of names have been signed to it in the newspapers; all sorts of misprints have been perpetrated on its text." A new and complete edition of Winter's poems in one volume was to appear in 1881.

THE BALLAD OF CONSTANCE.

With diamond dew the grass was wet,
Twas in the spring and gentlest weather,

And all the birds of morning met,

And carolled in her heart together.

The wind blew softly o'er the land,
And softly kissed the joyous ocean;
He walked beside her on the sand,
And gave and won a heart's devotion.

The thistle-down was in the breeze,
With birds of passage homeward flying;
His fortune called him o'er the seas,

And on the shore he left her sighing.

She saw his bark glide down the bay,
Through tears and fears she could not banish;
She saw his white sails melt away;

She saw them fade; she saw them vanish.

And "Go," she said, "for winds are fair,

And love and blessing round you hover; When you sail backward through the air, Then I will trust the word of lover."

Still ebbed, still flowed the tide of years,
Now chilled with snows, now bright with roses,

And many smiles were turned to tears,

And sombre morns to radiant closes.

And many ships came gliding by,

With many a golden promise freighted;

But nevermore from sea or sky

Came love to bless her heart that waited.

Yet on, by tender patience led,

Her sacred footsteps walked, unbidden, Wherever sorrow bows its head,

Or want and care and shame are hidden.

And they who saw her snow-white hair,
And dark, sad eyes, so deep with feeling,
Breathed all at once the chancel air,
And seemed to hear the organ pealing.

Till once, at shut of autumn day,

In marble chill she paused and harkened, With startled gaze, where far away

The waste of sky and ocean darkened.

There, for a moment, faint and wan,

High up in air, and landward striving, Stern-fore, a spectral bark came on,

Across the purple sunset driving.

Then something out of night she knew,
Some whisper heard, from heaven descended,
And peacefully as falls the dew

Her long and lonely vigil ended.

The violet and the bramble rose

Make glad the grass that dreams above her: And freed from time and all its woes, She trusts again the word of lover.

ORGIA.

THE SONG OF A RUINED MAN.

Who cares for nothing alone is free,-
Sit down, good fellow, and drink with me.

With a careless heart and a merry eye,

He will laugh at the world as the world goes by.

He laughs at power and wealth and fame; He laughs at virtue, he laughs at shame;

He laughs at hope, and he laughs at fear, And at memory's dead leaves, crisp and sere:

He laughs at the future, cold and dim,Nor earth nor heaven is dear to him.

Oh, that is the comrade fit for me: He cares for nothing, his soul is free;

Free as the soul of the fragrant wine: Sit down, good fellow, my heart is thine.

For I heed not custom, creed, nor law;

I care for nothing that ever I saw.

In every city my cups I quaff,

And over my liquor I riot and laugh.

I laugh like the cruel and turbulent wave;

I laugh at the church, and I laugh at the grave.

I laugh at joy, and well I know
That I merrily, merrily laugh at woe.

I terribly laugh, with an oath and a sneer, When I think that the hour of death is near.

For I know that Death is a guest divine,
Who shall drink my blood as I drink this wine.

And He cares for nothing! a king is He! Come on, old fellow, and drink with me!

With you I will drink to the solemn Past, Though the cup that I drain should be my last.

I will drink to the phantoms of love and truth; To ruined manhood and wasted youth.

I will drink to the woman who wrought my woe, In the diamond morning of Long Ago;

To a heavenly face, in sweet repose;

To the lily's snow and the blood of the rose;

To the splendor, caught from orient skies, That thrilled in the dark of her hazel eyes

Her large eyes, wild with the fire of the southAnd the dewy wine of her warm, red mouth.

I will drink to the thought of a better time; To innocence, gone like a death-bell chime.

I will drink to the shadow of coming doom; To the phantoms that wait in my lonely tomb.

I will drink to my soul in its terrible mood, Dimly and solemnly understood.

And, last of all, to the Monarch of Sin,

Who has conquered that fortress and reigns within.

My sight is fading,-it dies away,I cannot tell-is it night or day.

My heart is burnt and blackened with pain, And a horrible darkness crushes my brain.

I cannot see you. The end is nigh;

But we'll laugh together before I die.

Through awful chasms I plunge and fall! Your hand, good fellow! I die,-that's all.

THE GOLDEN SILENCE. What though I sing no other song? What though I speak no other word?Is silence shame? Is patience wrong?At least, one song of mine was heard:

One echo from the mountain air,

One ocean murmur, glad and freeOne sign that nothing grand or fair In all this world was lost to me.

I will not wake the sleeping lyre;
I will not strain the chords of thought:
The sweetest fruit of all desire

Comes its own way, and comes unsought.

Though all the bards of earth were dead,
And all their music passed away,
What Nature wishes should be said
She'll find the rightful voice to say!

Her heart is in the shimmering leaf, The drifting cloud, the lonely sky, And all we know of bliss or grief

She speaks in forms that cannot die.

The mountain-peaks that shine afar,
The silent star, the pathless sea,
Are living signs of all we are,
And types of all we hope to be.

William Schwenck Gilbert.

Gilbert, born in London, 1836, won celebrity by his participation in the burlesque musical drama of "Pinafore" (1878), the libretto of which was his own concep tion. The success of the piece at the principal theatres of the United States was something quite unexampled. It was followed by "The Pirates of Penzance" (1879) another profitable hit. He published in 1877 a volume of humorous poetry. Before that he had produced "Original Plays," republished in New York; amerg

them "The Wicked World, an Original Fairy Comedy," and "Pygmalion and Galatea, an Original Mythological Comedy." He produces his comic effects by a grotesque extravagance, or by humorous nonsense, unmarred by

coarseness.

TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE.

Roll on, thou ball, roll on!
Through pathless realms of space
Roll on!

What though I'm in a sorry case?
What though I cannot meet my bills?
What though I suffer toothache's ills?
What though I swallow countless pills?
Never you mind!
Roll on!

Roll on, thou ball, roll on! Through seas of inky air

Roll on!

It's true I've got no shirts to wear;
It's true my butcher's bill is due;

It's true my prospects all look very blue;

But don't let that unsettle you!

Never you mind!

Roll on!

It rolls on.

The maiden, fascinated by this spell,
Sees everything as she would have it be:
Her squalid cot becomes a princely home;
Its stunted shrubs are groves of stately elms;
The weedy brook that trickles past her door
Is a broad river fringed with drooping trees;
And of all marvels the most marvellous,
The coarse unholy man who rules her love
Is a bright being-pure as we are pure;
Wise in his folly-blameless in his sin;
The incarnation of a perfect soul;
A great and ever-glorious demi-god.

William Dean Howells.

AMERICAN.

Born in Martinsville, Belmont County, O., in 1837, the son of a printer, Howells learned the business, and became editorially connected with several Ohio newspapers. In 1860 he published, in conjunction with Mr. J. J. Piatt, a volume entitled "Poems of Two Friends." In 1861 he was Consul at Venice, where he resided till 1865. He published "Venetian Life" (1866); "Italian Journeys" (1867); "No Love Lost: a Poem " (1868); "Suburban Sketches" (1871); "Their Wedding Journey" (1872); "The Undiscovered Country" (1880). In 1870 he became editor of the Atlantic Monthly. He has gained a wide reputation for the grace and purity of his prose style; and has shown, in some of his shorter poems, high lyrical capacities and an artist-like care.

MORTAL LOVE.

FROM "THE WICKED WORLD."

Selene, a Fairy Queen, is the supposed speaker.
With all their misery, with all their sin,
With all the elements of wretchedness
That teem on that unholy world of theirs,
They have one great and ever-glorious gift,
That compensates for all they have to bear-
The gift of Love! Not as we use the word,
To signify mere tranquil brotherhood;

But in some sense that is unknown to us,
Their love bears like relation to our own
That the fierce beauty of the noonday sun
Bears to the calm of a soft summer's eve.
It nerves the wearied mortals with hot life,
And bathes his soul in hazy happiness.
The richest man is poor who hath it not,
And he who hath it laughs at poverty.
It hath no conqueror. When Death himself
Has worked his very worst, this love of theirs
Lives still upon the loved one's memory.
It is a strange enchantment, which invests
The most unlovely things with loveliness.

THANKSGIVING.

Lord, for the erring thought
Not into evil wrought:
Lord, for the wicked will
Betrayed and baffled still:
For the heart from itself kept,
Our thanksgiving accept.

For ignorant hopes that were
Broken to our blind prayer:
For pain, death, sorrow, sent
Unto our chastisement:
For all loss of seeming good,
Quicken our gratitude.

THE MYSTERIES.

Once on my mother's breast, a child, I crept, Holding my breath;

There, safe and sad, lay shuddering, and wept At the dark mystery of Death.

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