Perchance he watches me in calm surprise,

Far from the turmoil of terrestrial days,— Perchance he looks my soul through, with the

gaze

Of supernatural and clairvoyant eyes!

LONELINESS.

EDGAR FAWCETT.

IN moods of transient mournfulness
With morbid meaning rife,
Sometimes we prate of solitude,—
The loneliness of life.

But could we follow silently
A single dying breath,

How quickly we would understand

The loneliness of death.

W. H. HAYNE.

EXAMPLE.

"The highest path is pointed out by the pure ideal of those who look up to us."

CARELESS I climbed that path, and just behind
My weaker brother came with halting tread,
And yet with confidence that where I led
He would be safe to follow; but I, blind,
Leading the blind, strayed from the way and fell,
And bore him with me in my swift descent.
"O Justice! sometimes kind, thou knowest well
The fault was mine,-mine be the punishment."

46

"Nay," spake her awful voice. Alone, alone, Without thine aid, he shall be called to stand Before my bar; but thou, who dragged'st him down,

Upon thy brow, shall wear a double brand,

And thy weak soul, trembling beneath my frown, Shall answer for his sins, and for thine own!" ANNIE D. HANKS.

FATE.

Two shall be born the whole wide world apart,

And speak in different tongues, and have no

thought

Each of the other's being, and no heed;

And these o'er unknown seas to unknown lands
Shall cross, escaping wreck, defying death,
And all unconsciously shape every act

And bend each wandering step to this one end—
That one day, out of darkness they shall meet
And read life's meaning in each other's eyes.

And two shall walk some narrow way of life

So nearly, side by side, that should one turn
Ever so little space to left or right,
They need must stand acknowledged face to face
And yet with wistful eyes that never meet.
With groping hands that never clasp, and lips
Calling in vain to ears that never hear,
They seek each other all their weary days,
And die unsatisfied—and this is Fate!

SUSAN MARR Spaulding.

PERPETUITY.

LAST night a mighty poet passed away: "Who now will sing our songs?" men cried

at noon

Faint hearts, fear not! Somewhere, though far

away,

At that same hour another bard was born.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

ILLUSIONS.

Go stand at night upon an ocean craft,
And watch the folds of its imperial train
Catching in fleecy foam a thousand glows-
A miracle of fire unquenched by sea.
There in bewildering turbulence of change
Whirls the whole firmament, till as you gaze,
All else unseen, it is as heaven itself
Had lost its poise, and each unanchored star
In phantom haste flees to the horizon lines.

What dupes we are of the deceiving eye!
How many a light men wonderingly acclaim
Is but the phosphor of the path Life makes
With its own motion, while above, forgot,
Sweep on serene the old unenvious stars!

ROBERT UNDERWOOD JOHNSON.

THE DAY IS DONE.

THE day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist : And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist :

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,

And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;

And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gush'd from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,
And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice;

And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be fill'd with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

THE RAINY DAY.

THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary ;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.