5. It linked all perplexèd meanings
Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence,
As if it were loth to cease.

6. I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That one lost chord divine,

Which came from the soul of the Organ,
And entered into mine.

7. It may be that Death's bright Angel
Will speak in that chord again;
It may be that only in heav'n
I shall hear that grand Amen.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

XCVI. THE AUTHOR OF "HOME, SWEET HOME."

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE.

1. As I sit at my window here in Washington, watching the course of great men, and the destiny of party, I meet often with strange contradictions in this eventful life. The most remarkable was that of John Howard Payne, author of "Home, Sweet Home." I knew him personally. He occupied the rooms under me for some time; and his conversation was so captivating that I often spent whole days in his apartments.

2. He was an applicant for office at the time-consul at Tunis from which he had been removed. What a sad thing it was to see the poet subjected to the humiliation of office-seeking!

In the evening we would walk along the street. Once in a while. we would see some family circle so happy, and forming so beautiful a group, that we would stop, and then pass silently on.

3. On such occasions he would give a history of his wanderings, his trials, and all the cares incident to his sensitive nature and poverty. "How often," said he once, "have I been in the heart of Paris, Berlin, or London, or some other city, and heard persons singing, or the hand-organ playing' Home, Sweet Home,' without a shilling to buy the next meal, or a place to lay my head.

4. "The world has literally sung my song until every heart is familiar with its melody. Yet I have been a wanderer from my boyhood. My country has turned me ruthlessly from office; and in old age I have to submit to humiliation for bread." Thus he would complain of his hapless lot. His only wish was to die in a foreign land, to be buried by strangers, and to sleep in obscurity.

5. I met him one day, looking unusually sad. "Have you got your consulate?" said I. "Yes, and leave in a week for Tunis: I shall never return." The last expression was not a political faith. Far from it. Poor Payne! his wish was realized — he died at Tunis.

6. Whether his remains have been brought to this country, I know not. They should be; and if none others would do it, let the homeless throughout the world give a penny for a monument to Payne. I knew him, and will give my penny for an inscription like the following:

66

7. HERE LIES J. HOWARD PAYNE, THE AUTHOR OF 'HOME, SWEET HOME," A WANDERER IN LIFE. HE WHOSE

SONGS WERE SUNG IN EVERY TONGUE, AND FOUND AN ECHO IN EVERY HEART, NEVER HAD A HOME: HE DIED IN A FOREIGN LAND."

Anonymous.

XCVII. SKIPPER BEN.

LUCY LARCOM (1826-1893) was born at Beverly, Massachusetts. When she was only a young girl she went to work in a cotton factory at Lowell. But even as a mill operative she found time to write verses for different periodicals. Afterward she taught school for a number of years. She was very fond of little children, and she became a successful educator. For a long time she was the editor of Our Young Folks, a magazine that had a large circulation. Through this magazine she reached thousands of young people. Among her published books are Ships in the Mist, and several volumes of poems. She was very fond of the sea, and from it she drew the inspiration for some of her best work. Her name is a household word in homes where there are little children.

1.

2.

SAILING away!

Losing the breath of the shores in May,
Dropping down from the beautiful bay,
Over the sea-slope vast and gray!

And the skipper's eyes with a mist are blind;
For a vision comes on the rising wind,

Of a gentle face that he leaves behind,

And a heart that throbs through the fog-bank dim,
Thinking of him.

Far into night,

He watches the gleam of the lessening light
Fixed on the dangerous island height,

That bars the harbor he loves from sight:
And he wishes, at dawn, he could tell the tale
Of how they had weathered the southwest gale,
To brighten the cheek that had grown so pale
With a wakeful night among specters grim,—
Terrors for him.

3.

4.

5.

Yo-heave-yo!

Here's the Bank where the fishermen go.
Over the schooner's sides they throw
Tackle and bait to the deeps below.
And Skipper Ben in the water sees,

When its ripples curl to the light land breeze,
Something that stirs like his apple trees,
And two soft eyes that beneath them swim,
Lifted to him.

Hear the wind roar,

And the rain through the slit sails tear and pour!
"Steady! we'll scud by the Cape Ann shore,
Then hark to the Beverly bells once more!"
And each man worked with the will of ten;
While up in the rigging, now and then,
The lightning glared in the face of Ben,
Turned to the black horizon's rim,
Scowling on him.

How they went down

Never was known in the still old town;

Nobody guessed how the fisherman brown,

With the look of despair that was half a frown,

Faced his fate in the furious night,

Faced the mad billows with hunger white,

Just within hail of the beacon-light

That shone on a woman sweet and trim,
Waiting for him.

Ring to the tide as it ebbs and swells!
His was the anguish a moment tells,-
The passionate sorrow death quickly knells.
But the wearing wash of a lifelong woe
Is left for the desolate heart to know,
Whose tides with the dull years come and go,
Till hope drifts dead to its stagnant brim,

Thinking of him.

LUCY LARCOM.

XCVIII. A GLIMPSE OF DRESDEN.

1. WE are in the "Florence of the Elbe," as the Saxons have christened Dresden. The railroad brought us in three hours from Leipsic over the eighty miles of plain that intervene.

2. Exclusive of its galleries of art, which are scarcely surpassed by any in Europe, Dresden charms the traveler by the beauty of its environs. It stands in a curve of the Elbe, in the midst of green meadows, gardens, and fine old woods, with the hills of Saxony sweeping round like an amphitheater.

3. I have just taken a last look at the Picture Gallery this morning, and left it with real regret. During the visit, Raphael's heavenly picture of the Madonna and Child had so grown into my love and admiration, that it was painful to think I should never see it again. There are many more which clung so strongly to my imagination, gratifying in the highest degree the love for the Beautiful, that I have left them with sadness, and the thought that I would now have only the memory.