Making a twilight soft and green Within the columned, vaulted scene. Sweet forest-odors have their birth From the clothed boughs and teeming earth; Where pine-cones dropped, leaves piled and dead, Long tufts of grass, and stars of fern, There, wrenched but lately from its throne By some fierce whirlwind circling past, Above, the forest-tops are bright The screening branches, and a glow Where, with crouched limb and staring eye, He watches while I saunter by. A narrow vista, carpeted With rich green grass, invites my tread: Whirs to the sheltering branches near; The sunshine steeps its grass and moss, Here stretched, the pleasant turf I press, Sun-streaks, and glancing wings, and sky, THE BLUEBIRD'S SONG. Hark, that sweet carol! With delight MUSIC. Music, how strange her power! her varied strains wheel? One of lost Eden's tones, eluding death, To make man what is best within him feel! sky! John Osborne Sargent. AMERICAN. Born in Gloucester, Mass., in 1811, Sargent, while yet From its shaft he tore the banner, and twined it round his breast, And hot with the lust of death on the serried lances pressed; glare, And in front, in place of the banner, wave the locks of his snow-white hair. The spears of six knights together-in his hand he seizes all a child, removed to Boston with his family. At eight His red eyes from their sockets like flaming torches years of age he entered the Public Latin School, and was graduated at Harvard College in 1830. He studied law, was admitted to the Bar, and practised his profession in New York and Washington. In the time of the Whig party, he was well known as a political writer and speaker. After 1854 he passed several years in Europe. Returning home, he fixed his winter residence in New York, passing his summers on his farm in Lenox, Mass. While in London, in 1870, he published "The Last Knight, A Romance-Garland, from the German of Anastasius Grün " (the poetical pseudonyme of Count Anton Alexander von Auersperg, born 1806). An American edition appeared in Boston in 1871. And thereon thrusts his bosom-there's a breach in the lances' wall. With vengeance fired, the Switzers storm the battle's perilous ridge, And the corpse of Henry Wohlleb to their vengeance is the bridge. DEATH OF HENRY WOHLLEB. FROM "THE LAST KNIGHT." On the field in front of Frastenz, drawn up in battle array, Stretched spear on spear in a crescent, the German army lay; Behind a wall of bucklers stood bosoms steeled with pride, And a stiff wood of lances that all assaults defied. Oh why, ye men of Switzerland, from your Alpine summits sally, And armed with clubs and axes descend into the valley? "The wood just grown at Frastenz with our axes we would fell, To build homesteads from its branches where Liberty may dwell." The Swiss on the German lances rush with impetuous shock; It is spear on spear in all quarters--they are dashed like waves from a rock. His teeth then gnashed the Switzer, and the mocking German cried, "See how the snout of the greyhound is pierced by the hedgehog's hide!" Like a song of resurrection, then sounded from the "Illustrious shade, Von Winkelried! to thee I ren- William James Linton. Poet and artist, Linton was born in England in 1812. A vigorous writer both of prose and verse, he had also won high reputation as a draughtsman and an engraver on wood. Early in life he gave his best efforts to the cause of Liberalism in England. In 1865 he published "Claribel, and other Poems" (London: Simpkin, Marshall & Co.), a volume of 266 pages, tastefully embellished with his own original designs and engravings. He is also the author of a . History of Wood-engraving," a "Life of Thomas Paine," and various writings on art. In 1878 he edited and published in London a volume of the "Poetry of America." His wife, Eliza Lynn Linton (born 1822), is a successful novelist and miscellaneous writer. His poetry reveals the true artist, as well as the earnest, sincere thinker. He has resided many years in the United States, and his address (1880) was New Haven, Conn. FROM "DEFINITIONS." DEFEAT. One of the stairs to heaven. Halt not to count VICE. Blasphemy 'gainst thyself: a making foul PLEASURE. A flower on the highway-side. Enjoy its grace; LOVE. Pure worship of the Beautiful-the True- PATRIOTISM. Not the mere holding a great flag unfurled,But making it the goodliest in the world. CONSISTENCY. Last night I wore a cloak; this morning not. Last night was cold; this morning it was hot. DISINTERESTEDNESS. Selling for glory? lending to the Lord? I will not ask even Conscience for reward. PRIDE. Due reverence toward thyself. Doth God come there? Make thou the house well worthy His repair. HUMILITY. Self, seen in a puddle: lift thee toward the sky, And proudly thank God for eternity. REAL AND TRUE. Only the Beautiful is real! All things of which our life is full, All that we dread or darkly feel,- Nothing but Love is true! Earth's many lies, whirled upon Time's swift wheel, Shift and repeat their state,— Birth, life, and death, And all that they bequeath Of hope or memory, thus do alternate Continually; Love doth anneal, Doth beauteously imbue, The wine-cups of the archetypal Fate. Love, Truth, and Beauty,-all are one! If life may expiate The wilderings of its dimness, death be known But as the mighty ever-living gate Into the Beautiful All things flow on Into one Heart, into one Melody, Eternally. LABOR IN VAIN. Oh not in vain! Even poor rotting weeds Of healthiest promise leap rejoicingly. At the bent brows of Fate, untiringly! Knowing this--past all the woe our earth involves Sooner or later Truth must be obeyed. POETS. True Poet!-Back, thou Dreamer! Lay thy dreams A PRAYER FOR TRUTH. O God! the Giver of all which men call good I pray to thee as all must in their hour way. William Henry Burleigh. AMERICAN. Burleigh (1812-1871) was a native of Woodstock, Conn. He went to the district school, and manifested, even in early youth, his taste for poetry and love of nature. He espoused with great zeal the antislavery cause and the temperance reform. He was connected with several newspapers as editor, and, while residing at Albany, N. Y., received an appointment as Harbor-master of New York. He fixed his residence at Brooklyn, where he died. He was an eloquent writer and speaker, and produced, during his busy career, various poems, rich in elevated thought and devout feeling. His wife, Mrs. Celia Burleigh, published a collection of his poems with a memoir. Of his life and character it might be said, as Antony says of Brutus : "His life was gentle, and the elements So mixed in him that Nature might stand up And trust His love whose sure supplies Meet all thy needs as they arise. Lo! the broad fields, with harvests white, Up! for the time is short; and soon The morning sun will climb to noon. Up! ere the herds, with trampling feet Outrunning thine, shall spoil the wheat. While the day lingers, do thy best! THE HARVEST-CALL. Abide not in the land of dreams, Nor linger in the misty past, Entranced in visions vague and vast; But with clear eye the present scan, And hear the call of God and man. That call, though many-voiced, is one, Think not in sleep to fold thy hands, Forgetful of thy Lord's commands; From duty's claims no life is free,Behold, to-day hath need of thee. Look up! the wide extended plain Is billowy with its ripened grain, And on the summer winds are rolled Its waves of emerald and gold. Thrust in thy sickle, nor delay The present hour allots thy task: SONNET: RAIN. Dashing in big drops on the narrow pane, SOLITUDE. The ceaseless hum of men, the dusty streets, Harriet Beecher Stowe. AMERICAN. Harriet Elizabeth Beecher, who in 1836 was married to Professor Calvin E. Stowe, was the daughter of Lyman Beecher, an eminent clergyman, and was born in Litchfield, Conn., in 1812. In 1852 she published her celebrated antislavery novel of "Uncle Tom's Cabin," which had an unparalleled sale both in America and England, and was translated into the principal languages of Europe. It was succeeded by several novels superior to it from her pen, but by no one that equalled it in fame. Her poems, few in number, show the same literary ability manifest in her prose. THE OTHER WORLD. It lies around us like a cloud, The world we do not see; Yet the sweet closing of an eye May bring us there to be. Its gentle breezes fan our cheek And mingle with our prayers. Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, The silence, awful, sweet, and calm, They have no power to break; For mortal words are not for them To utter or partake. So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide, And, in the hush of rest they bring, "Tis easy now to see, How lovely and how sweet a pass The hour of death may be ;— To close the eye and close the ear, Wrapped in a trance of bliss, And, gently drawn in loving arms, To swoon from that to this: Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep, Scarce asking where we are, Charles Dickens. Dickens (1812-1870), the foremost English novelist of his time, and a man of rare and varied powers, did not often venture upon verse; but one of his little poems, with the aid of Henry Russell's music, has won its way to the popular heart. He was a delightful companion, genial, witty, and generous; a ready, attractive speaker, an amusing actor, and a superior reader. A native of Portsmouth, he began his literary career as a reporter, and was on the staff of the Morning Chronicle, till he put forth his witty "Sketches of Life and Character, by Boz," leading to the "Pickwick Papers" and his inimitable series of novels, of which it is not here our place to speak. He made two visits to the United States; one in 1841, the other in 1867. He died suddenly in the midst of his literary labors, leaving his last novel uncompleted. THE IVY GREEN. Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy Green, Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, And the mouldering dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, |