Answering the Storm-King's battle-song
With shivering threnodes, wild and long,

Like haunting voices from the sea.
Tempest and darkness!-furious and high
The bannered winds go clamoring by!

The lightnings flash, the thunder-bursts roar!
The wild rain beats at the panelled door!
And I sit here, thinking how still and bright
The morn will wake from the stormy night,

Radiant, gladsome, and free!

And it minds me so of the Dream called Life,
Tempest-tossed often, and full of strife;
Wounded with loss, and hurt with dismay;
Crowded with toil, and worn with delay;
Body and soul would fain be at rest,
Glad to relinquish Life's sorrowful quest

For Lethe, and dreamless sleep.

But after the night and tempest are past,
Life will be joyous and sweet at the last;
Sunshine and flowers will crowd with perfume
The storm-drenched pathways of sorrow and gloom;
Over the hills shines the brightness of day,
Tempest and darkness have all passed away!
Why should we sorrow and weep?

AMID THE CORN.

I STOOD, last eve, 'mid the whispering corn,
While the soft wind-voices rose and fell;
And the starlight hush of the night new-born
Enwrapped my heart with its witching spell.
And the toilsome day, and its gairish light,
Like a troubled thought went softly by,
And left me alone with the tender night,
The whispering corn and the wind's soft sigh.

And I knelt in the dusk of the tasseled grain,
With never a thought of passing time;

With only the sound of an old refrain
Filling my heart with its broken rhyme;
With only a dream that was born of a dream

And died with the death of the fair, sweet thing, And left but the glint of a golden gleam

Like the vanishing flash of an angel's wing.

And the whispering corn-tops softly swayed
Back and forth in voluptuous ease;
And a hundred viewless fingers played
Sweet madrigals upon the breeze.

And I knelt me there, in the tasseled grain,
With never a thought of passing time;

With only the sound of an old refrain Filling my heart with its broken rhyme.

THE

MAUDE ANDREWS OHL.

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HE brilliant young woman who signs her writings Maude Andrews, was born December 29, 1862, at the home of her great-grandfather, Joshua Morgan, in Taliaferro county, Georgia, but she was so small when she left there that she has no associations with it, and her most loving and sacred memories cluster about the old home in Washington, Ga., where she spent her early days. There, in the grand old home of her grandfather, Judge Andrews, she passed her childhood. It was a lordly place, sweet with old orchards and terraced gardens, surrounded by a forest of giant trees. In those enchanted shades the future writer dreamed many of the beautiful thoughts that have since sung themselves into the minds and hearts of a loving public. Mrs. Ohl won her earliest reputation in a series of letters from New York to the Atlanta Constitution, they were marked by a wonderful degree of freshness and independence. She is one of the foremost newspaper women in the South, and a favorite poet. She comes of a family noted for its intellectual strength. Her grandfather, Judge Andrews, was one of the most distinguished jurists the state ever produced; Miss Fanny Andrews, her cousin, is a popular novelist, and Miss Eliza A. Bowen, the eminent astronomer, is also her cousin.

Maude Andrews has many gifts. As a critic she is outspoken and appreciative. She discusses art and the drama with ability, and her society sketches are equally characterized by novelty and vigorous treatment. She writes on all social matters, reforms, public charities, entertainments, with uniform excellence. She has a broad and liberal mind, a tender heart open to the woes and weaknesses of her sex, and a soul breathing aspiration.

Mrs. Ohl and her husband, the talented “J.K.O.,” are both members of the Atlanta Constitution staff, and contribute largely to the force and popularity of that paper. Unlike many literary women, she is a thorough and skilled housekeeper, and many distinguished people are entertained in her artistic little home. Personally she is very attractive, young, with a full, graceful figure, her face richly tinted, and lighted by eyes that speak from the soul. One lovely little girl, now in her second year, brightens their home life. Mrs. Ohl is a genius made constant to her gifts by a splendid, reverential earnestness.

WHY IS IT?

We spent the Summer by the sea, Together gaily swam and flirted;

M. R. C.

Her lissome limbs, from toe to knee,
Were freely left to kick unskirted.
But, if her buttoned body slipped,

A glimpse of snow-white shoulders showing,
She'd quickly pin the place that ripped,
While blushes on her face were glowing.

To-night I take her to the ball.

She cometh down-a dream elysian; As bare as Eve's before the fall

Her shoulders are, a lovely vision. Enchained, I gaze from head to foot. Beneath her soft skirts' silky laces There peeps a dainty little boot;

She draws it back-how red her face is.

THE WIND AND THE LILY.

THE Lily lifted her milk-white bloom,
And freighted the air with a soft perfume,
And a warm wind came from the sultry vale,
And he kissed her petals so pure and pale.

With a fearless heart she reared her head,

For she thought there was naught from the wind to dread

And she wrapped her round in her spotless pride, While she shed her fragrance on every side.

But the wind grew warmer and stronger still, And he kissed her cup with an ardent will, And her petals drooped in the burning air, While her beauty waned with a mute despair.

Then the wind passed by with a careless smile,
And he sought new buds in a little while,
And he gave no grace to the perfect flower

But he took from her beauty and pride and power.

I pondered the lesson in thoughtful fashion; The Lily was virtue; the Wind was passion.

TWO SELVES.

UNTO myself I have grown strangely great And wise and good.

Crowned with rare beauty, lo, I sit in state
Of womanhood,

The lofty queen; so wondrous fair am I
That angels come,

To peep out from their windows in the sky
And then grow dumb

With envy of my perfect loveliness;
While all the world

Lives but to do me homage and to bless
My days. Unfurled

Life's greatest honors wave, my eyes to greet.
How strange it seems,

All these high praises-ah, so strange and sweet
As if in dreams

I walked; yet unto one, these dreams I know
All seem as true

As truth itself, because you love me so.
Dear heart, to you

I am all that I am not, and would be.
Thy love hath made

Me stand before my true self tremblingly,
Shy and afraid.

I look up to my new self with this trust:
That I may climb

On thy love's ladder from my human dust,
And win in time

The stars you now see on my lowly brow.
Thy love alone

Hath power to lift me to that self which now
You deem my own.

A PORTRAIT.

SHE thinks so much of worldly show
That, should an angel call her to
Arise unto the skies,

A long white robe she'd quickly don,
And buy a harp to play upon;
Then pay a call to every friend,
And tell them all to watch her wend
Her way to Paradise.

THE LEGEND.

A LOVELY Woman in an eastern land
Once swayed a kingdom with her slender hand;
Her burdens heavy grew and weighed her down,-
Upon her brow there pressed a jeweled crown.

Too cumbrous for its tender resting-place, The golden weight adorned a weary face. She cried, "I have grown tired of my power; It seemeth more unbearable each hour.

"Let some one come that I may crown him King; Within his hand he must a guerdon bring

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That shall by far my boundless wealth exceed, So, having it, I'll feel no other need."

Her wish was known, and lo! from far and near,
There thronged around her mighty prince and peer,
They laid rich gifts down humbly at her feet:
She sighed, "Alas! I find them incomplete."

Morn after morn a suppliant went away,
Until there came unto her throne one day,
A man with empty hands, yet noble face

And form of matchless mold and peerless grace.

The queen looked up and asked, “What gift hast thou

To tender for the crown upon my brow?"
He gazed into her eyes, and naught replied,
She crowned him saying, "I am satisfied."

FATE AND LIFE.

To her, Fate gave a stone in place of bread, And yet she made no moan,

But took her gift and smiling brightly, said, "It is a noble stone."

Through weary days her skillful hands were turned
Unto the sculptor's art;

Within her fine eyes, glowingly there burned,
Hope's fire within her heart.

And lo! one morn the sunrise did disclose,
Commanding, gracious, grand,

A marble statue perfect in its pose,
Carved by her steadfast hand.

A DEDICATION.

HERE are my sonnets, take them, they are thine, Penned by the hand that moves at thy command; In every line my love doth intertwine,

A meaning thou canst fully understand. Each word is writ with red drops from my heart, That thy first touch didst quickly cause to flow. Cease thy regrets, I pray, 'tis better so; The gracious world gives praise unto my art, And should I not find solace in the thought, That fame is gained, whatever be the cost? It was my one desire; I did not know At what a price the jewel must be bought;

I did not dream how I, with sweet peace lost, Should be compelled to walk my way in woe.

M

ELISABETH CAVAZZA.

RS. CAVAZZA was born in Portland, Maine, where she now resides. Accustomed from childhood to speak both the English and Italian languages, enacting dramas with her dolls, intensely interested in Shakespeare's fairies, the demons of "Dante's Inferno" and stories of the Greek gods and heroes-her early years were not like those of a typical little daughter of New England. She received a thorough musical education, which included singing, the pianoforte, harmony and counterpoint. As she grew toward womanhood in an elegant, refined and intellectual home atmosphere, her comments upon literature were extremely apt and lively, and I, at that time editor of the Portland Daily Press, asked her to notice books for its columns. The idea pleased her, and for some years she wrote almost all the book reviews for the Press. A review of Mr. Edmund C. Stedman's "Victorian Poets" won from the eminent critic a flattering letter in regard to the young journalist. She had an unwillingness to be known to write, and, so well was the little mystery maintained, that one day after the publication of her parody upon Swinburne's "Atalanta in Calydon," there arrived at the Press office a letter enclosing a card of invitation to the Century Club of New York, which bore the endorsement of E. C. Stedman, Bayard Taylor, R. H. Stoddard and A. R. Macdonough, who naturally enough assumed the author of the parody to be a man. This parody was quoted by the London Saturday Review as the best sample of this kind of literature on this side of the Atlantic. A second pseudo-Greek drama " 'Algernon, the Foot-Stool Bearer," in which Swinburne and Browning were parodied, was rewarded by a charming letter from Mr. Browning. Just before Bayard Taylor sailed for Germany to assume the post of Minister at Berlin, he came to Portland on purpose to see the young girl and speak encouragingly to her concerning her literary future. Later she has been honored by the warm friendship of John G. Whittier. Prof. Longfellow thanked her in a most courteous letter for a long poem published in the Press on occasion of his seventy-fifth birthday; and when, in September, 1888, a statue of the poet was unveiled in his native city, Mrs. Cavazza was invited to write a poem, which was read upon the occasion. was married in February, 1885, to Signor Nino Cavazza, of Modena, Italy, a man of the noblest character and attainments. He was a son of Cavaliere Alessandro Cavazza, professor of sculpture in the Royal Academy of Modena. After the death of her husband, Mrs. Cavazza found it best

She