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I see not a step before me,
As I tread on another year;
But the past is still in God's keeping,
The future his mercy shall clear,
And what looks dark in the distance
May brighten as I draw near.

For perhaps the dreaded future

Has less bitter than I think;
The Lord may sweeten the waters
Before I stoop to drink,
Or, if Marah must be Marah,

He will stand beside its brink.

It may be he keeps waiting

Till the coming of my feet Some gift of such rare blessedness, Some joy so strangely sweet, That my lips shall only tremble With the thanks they cannot speak.

O restful, blissful ignorance!

'T is blessed not to know,
It holds me in those mighty arms
Which will not let me go,
And hushes my soul to rest

On the bosom which loves me so!

So I go on not knowing;

I would not if I might;

As tired of sin as any child
Was ever tired of play,
When evening's hush has folded in
The noises of the day;

When just for very weariness
The little one will creep
Into the arms that have no joy
Like holding him in sleep;

And looking upward to thy face,
So gentle, sweet, and strong,
In all its looks for those who love,
So pitiful of wrong,

I pray thee turn me not away,
For, sinful though I be,
Thou knowest everything I need,
And all my need of thee.

And yet the spirit in my heart

Says, Wherefore should I pray That thou shouldst seek me with thy love, Since thou dost seek alway;

And dost not even wait until I urge my steps to thee; But in the darkness of my life Art coming still to me?

I would rather walk in the dark with I pray not, then, because I would;

God,

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pray because I must; There is no meaning in my prayer But thankfulness and trust.

I would not have thee otherwise
Than what thou ever art:
Be still thyself, and then I know
We cannot live apart.

But still thy love will beckon me,
And still thy strength will come,
In many ways to bear me up

And bring me to my home.

And thou wilt hear the thought I mean, And not the words I say;

Wilt hear the thanks among the words
That only seem to pray;

As if thou wert not always good,
As if thy loving care
Could ever miss me in the midst
Of this thy temple fair.

For, if I ever doubted thee, How could I any more!

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And the great sky, the royal heaven | There came no murmur from the streams, Though nigh flowed Leither, Tweed, and Quair.

above,

Darkens with storms or melts in hues

of love;

While far remote,

Just where the sunlight smites the woods with fire,

Wakens the multitudinous sylvan

choir;

Their innocent love's desire

The days hold on their wonted pace,
And men to court and camp repair,
Their part to fill, of good or ill,

While women keep the House of Quair.

And one is clad in widow's weeds,
And one is maiden-like and fair,

Poured in a rill of song from each har-And day by day they seek the paths

monious throat.

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Shakespeare consoles My heart with true philosophies; a balm Of spiritual dews from humbler song or psalm

Fills me with tender calm, Or through hushed heavens of soul Milton's deep thunder rolls!

And more than all, o'er shattered wrecks of Fate,

The relics of a happier time and state, My nobler life

Shines on unquenched! O deathless love that lies

In the clear midnight of those passionate eyes!

Joy waneth! Fortune flies! What then? Thou still art here, soul of my soul, my Wife!

ISA CRAIG KNOX.

BALLAD OF THE BRIDES OF QUAIR.

A STILLNESS crept about the house,
At evenfall, in noontide glare;
Upon the silent hills looked forth
The many-windowed House of Quair.

The peacock on the terrace screamed;

Browsed on the lawn the timid hare; The great trees grew i' the avenue, Calm by the sheltered House of Quair.

The pool was still; around its brim The alders sickened all the air;

About the lonely fields of Quair.
To see the trout leap in the streams,

The maiden loves in pensive dreams
The summer clouds reflected there,

To hang o'er silver Tweed and Quair. Within, in pall-black velvet clad,

Sits stately in her oaken chair
A stately dame of ancient name--
The mother of the House of Quair.

Her daughter broiders by her side,
And listens to her frequent plaint,
With heavy drooping golden hair,

"Ill fare the brides that come to Quai

"For more than one hath lived in pine,

And more than one hath died of care, And more than one hath sorely sinned, Left lonely in the House of Quair. "Alas! and ere thy father died

I had not in his heart a share, And now-may God forfend her illThy brother brings his bride to Quair.” She came; they kissed her in the hall, They kissed her on the winding stair, They led her to the chamber high,

The fairest in the House of Quair.

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SPRING, with that nameless pathos in the At times a fragrant breeze comes floating

air

Which dwells with all things fair, Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain,

Is with us once again.

Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns
Its fragrant lamps, and turns
Into a royal court with green festoons
The banks of dark lagoons.

In the deep heart of every forest tree
The blood is all aglee,

And there's a look about the leafless
bowers

As if they dreamed of flowers.

Yet still on every side we trace the hand
Of Winter in the land,

Save where the maple reddens on the
lawn,

Flushed by the season's dawn;

Or where, like those strange semblances we find

That age to childhood bind,

The brown of autumn corn.

by,

And brings, you know not why,
A feeling as when eager crowds await
Before a palace gate

Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce
would start,

If from a beech's heart,

A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say,

"Behold me! I am May!"

WALTER F. MITCHELL.

[U. s. A.]

TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE.

THE weather-leech of the topsail shivers,
The bow-lines strain, and the lee-shrouds

slacken,

The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, And the waves with the coming squallcloud blacken.

The elm puts on, as if in Nature's scorn, Open one point on the weather-bow,
Is the lighthouse tall on Fire Island
Head?

As yet the turf is dark, although you There's a shade of doubt on the captain's

know

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brow,

And the pilot watches the heaving lead.

I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye
To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze,
Till the muttered order of "Full andby!"
Is suddenly changed for "Full for stays!

The ship bends lower before the breeze,
As her broadside fair to the blast she lays,
And she swifter springs to the rising seas,
As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays!"

It is silence all, as each in his place,
With the gathered coil in his hardened
hands,

By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace,
Waiting the watchword impatient stands.

And the light on Fire Island Head draws | What matters the reef, or the rain, or the

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squall?

I steady the helm for the open sea; The first mate clamors, "Belay there, all!"

And the captain's breath once more comes free.

And so off shore let the good ship fly; Little care I how the gusts may blow, my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry, Eight bells have struck, and my watch is

In

below.

HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.

[U. s. A.]

HEREAFTER.

LOVE, when all these years are silent, vanished quite and laid to rest, When you and I are sleeping, folded breathless breast to breast,

When no morrow is before us, and the long grass tosses o'er us, And our grave remains forgotten, or by alien footsteps pressed,

Still that love of ours will linger, that great love enrich the earth, Sunshine in the heavenly azure, breezes blowing joyous mirth;

Fragrance fanning off from flowers,

Sparkle of the spicy wood-fires round the happy autumn hearth.

melody of summer showers,

That's our love. But you and I, dear, -shall we linger with it yet, Mingled in one dewdrop, tangled in one sunbeam's golden net,

On the violet's purple bosom, I the sheen, but you the blossom, Stream on sunset winds and be the haze with which some hill is wet?

Or, beloved, if ascending, when we have endowed the world With the best bloom of our being, whither will our way be whirled, Through what vast and starry spaces, toward what awful holy places, With a white light on our faces, spirit over spirit furled?

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