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Something beautiful is vanished,

And we sigh for it in vain; We behold it everywhere,

On the earth, and in the air,
But it never comes again.

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

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THE BABY.

He heard the wind beat loud and free,

The gilded casement, sullenly
WHERE did you come from, baby dear?
W Out of the everywhere into here.

Falling away with mist and rain.

“But, oh, it's a weary thing Where did you get the eyes so blue?

To wear a crown and be a king Out of the sky, as I came through.

Oh, for one golden hour and sweet,

To serve the king with willing feet!” Where did you get that little tear?

But he would sleep and from his heart I found it in waiting when I got here.

The jeweled, silken girdle loose,

And give it room to turn and choose What makes your forehead so smooth and An easier measure for its beat.

high? A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

Into the gilded chamber crept

A breath of summer, blown with rain What makes your cheek like a warm, white And wild wet leaves against the pane. rose ?

The royal sleeper smiled and slept. I saw something better than any knows.

“ I thought that all things sweet were dead!"

They heard him say who came to wed Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss ?

The crown again to the king's head. Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

ANONYMOUS. Where did you get this pretty ear? God spoke, and it came out to hear.

KEYS. Where did you get those arms and hands?

ONG ago in old Granada, when the Moors Love made itself into hooks and bands.

were forced to flee,

Each man locked his home behind him, taking Feet, whence did you come, you darling

in his flight the key. things!

Hopefully they watched and waited for the From the same box as the cherub's wings.

time to come when they How did they all come just to be you ?

Should return from their long exile to those

homes so far away. God thought of me, and so I grew.

But the mansions in Granada they had left in But, how did you come to us, you dear?

all their prime God thought about you, and so I am here.

Vanished, as the years rolled onward, 'neath GEORGE MACDONALD.

the crumbling touch of Time.

Like the Moors, we all have dwellings where AT THE KING'S GATE.

we vainly long to be, BEGGAR sat at the king's gate

And through all life's changing phases ever fast And sang of summer in the rain

we hold the key. A song with sounds reverberate

Our fair country lies behind us; we are exiles, Of wood and hill and plain, That, rising, bore a tender weight

too, in truth,

For no more shall we behold her. Our GranOf sweetness, strong and passionate;

ada's name is Youth. A song with sigh of mountain pass, Ripple and rustle of deep grass,

We have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice The whispering of wind-smote sheaves,

when, now and then, Low lapping of long lily leaves,

Some old heartstring stirs within us, and we Red morns and purple-mooned eves.

feel our youth again. The king was weary of his part,

“We are young!" we cry triumphant, thrilled The king was tired of his crown;

with old-time joy and glee. He looked across the rainy land,

Then the dream fades slowly, softly, leaving Across the barren stretch of sand,

nothing but the key! Out to the breadth of rainy sea.

BESSIE CHANDLER.

A

eyes,

MAIDENHOOD.

Then why pause with indecision, 0 In whose orbs a shadow lies

When bright angels in thy vision Like the dusk in evening skies!

Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? Thou whose locks outshine the sun,

Seest thou shadows sailing by, Golden tresses, wreathed in one,

As the dove, with startled eye, As the braided streamlets run!

Sees the falcon's shadow fly?

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“Maiden, with the meek, brown eyes,

In whose orbs a shadow lies.” Standing, with reluctant feet

Hearest thou voices on the shore, Where the brook and river meet,

That our ears perceive no more, Womanhood and childhood fleet!

Deafened by the cataract's roar ? Gazing, with a timid glance,

O, thou child of many prayers ! On the brooklet's swift advance,

Life hath quicksands,-Life hath snares; On the river's broad expanse!

Care and age come unawares! Deep and still, that gliding stream

Like the swell of some sweet tune, Beautiful to thee must seem

Morning rises into noon, As the river of a dream,

May glides onward into June.

Childhood is the bough where slumbered And there they lived in happiness and pleasBirds and blossoms many-numbered ;

ure, Age, the bough with snows encumbered.

And grew in power and pride,

And did great deeds and laid up stores of Gather, then, each flower that grows,

treasure, When the young heart overflows,

And never any died.
To embalm that tent of snows.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

And many years rolled on and saw them striv-
ing

With unabated breath; THE CITY OF THE LIVING.

And other years still found and left them liv

ing, IN No record has to-day,

And gave no hope of death. So long ago expired its grief and glory,

Yet listen, hapless soul whom angels pity, There flourished far away,

Craving a boon like this ; In a broad realm, whose beauty passed all Mark how the dwellers of the wondrous city

Grew weary of their bliss. measure, A city far and wide,

One and another who had been concealing Wherein the dwellers lived in peace and

The pain of life's long thrall, pleasure,

Forsook their pleasant faces and came stealAnd never any died.

ing

Outside the city's wall.
Disease and pain and death, those stern ma-
rauders

Craving with wish that brooked no
That mar our world's fair face,'

denying, Never encroached upon the pleasant borders

So long had it been crossed,
Of this bright dwelling-place. The blessed possibility of dying

The treasure they had lost!
No fear of parting, and no dread of dying
Could ever enter there ;

Daily the current of rest-seeking mortals No mourning for the lost, no anguished cry

Swelled to a broader tide, ing,

'Till none were left within the city's portals, Made any face less fair.

And graves grew green outside. Without the city's walls Death reigned as ever, Would it be worth the having or the giving, And graves rose side by side ;

The boon of endless breath ? Within the people laughed at his endeavor, Ah, for the weariness that comes of living And never any died.

There is no cure but death!

more

Ours were, indeed, a case deserving pity

Were that sweet rest denied ;
And few, methinks, would care to find the
city
Where never any

died!
ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

O happiest of all earth's favored places !

Oh, bliss to dwell therein!
To live in the sweet light of loving faces

And fear no grave between.
To feel no death-damp growing cold and cold-
er,

Disputing Life's warm truth; To live on never lonelier nor older,

Radiant in deathless youth.
And hurrying from the world's remotest quar-
ters

A tide of pilgrims flowed
Across broad plains and over mighty waters

To find that blest abode.

BEYOND THE GATE. .

Twoddimpled hands the bars of iron grasp

Two blue and wondering eyes the space

looked through. This massive gate a boundary had been set,

Nor was she ever known to be but true.

M

Strange were the sights she saw across the THE WORLD GOES UP AND THE way

WORLD GOES DOWN. A little child had died some days beforeAnd as she watched, amid the silence hushed, SHE world goes up and the world goes Some carried flowers, some a casket bore.

down,

And the sunshine follows the rain; The little watcher at the garden gate

And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown Grew tearful, hers such thoughts and won- Can never come over again, derings were,

Sweet wife, can never come over again. Till said the nurse : “ Come here, dear child. Weep not.

For woman is warm, though man may be cold, We all must go. 'Tis God has sent for her.”

And the night will hallow the day;

Till the heart which at even was weary and “If He should send for me”_thus spoke the old, child

Can rise in the morning gay, “I'll have to tell the angel, 'Do not wait. Sweet wife, can rise in the morning gay. Though God has sent for me, I cannot come;

CHARLES KINGSLEY. I never go beyond the garden gate.'” KATHARINE MCDOWELL RICE.

SONG-" WHEN THE DIMPLED REST.

WATER SLIPPETH.

(From "Afternoon at a Parsonage.")
Y feet are wearied, and my hands are tired,
My soul oppressed-

CHEN the dimpled water slippeth, And I desire, what I have long desired

Full of laughter, on its way,
Rest-only rest.

And her wing the wagtail dippeth,

Running by the brink at play; 'Tis hard to toil, when toil is almost vain, When the poplar leaves a-tremble In barren ways;

Turn their edges to the light, 'Tis hard to sow, and never garner grain And the far-up clouds resemble In harvest days.

Veils of gauze most clear and white;

And the sunbeams fall and flutter The burden of my days is hard to bear,

Woodland moss and branches brown, But God knows best;

And the glossy finches chatter And I have prayed, but vain has been my

Up and down, up and down;
prayer,

Though the heart be not attending,
For rest-sweet rest.

Having music of her own, 'Tis hard to plant in spring and never reap

On the grass, through meadows wending, The Autumn yield;

It is sweet to walk alone. 'Tis hard to till, and when 'tis tilled to weep O'er fruitless field.

When the falling waters utter

Something mournful on their way,
And so I cry a weak and human cry,

And departing swallows flutter,
So heart oppressed ;

Taking leave of bank and brae;
And so I sigh a weak and human sigh,

When the chaffinch idly sitteth
For rest—for rest.

With her mate upon the sheaves,
My way has wound across the desert years,

And the wistful robin flitteth

Over beds of yellow leaves;
And cares infest

When the clouds like ghosts that ponder My path, and through the flowing of hot tears

Evil fate, float by and frown,
I pine for rest.

And the listless wind doth wander
And I am restless still; 'twill soon be o'er; Up and down, up and down;
For, down the West

Though the heart be not attending,
Life's sun is setting, and I see the shore

Having sorrows of her own,
Where I shall rest.

Through the fields and fallows wending,
ABRAM J. RYAN. It is sad to walk alone.
(Father Ryan.)

JEAN INGELOW.

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