dog and gun,

Sleep, Kentucky Babe!

garden,

It tumbled right in as I passed,

time is done,

Sleep, Kentucky Babe!

And Gretchen is holding it fast.

HATTIE WHITNEY

V

"A SONG THAT OLD WAS SUNG"

THE OLD SEXTON

NIGH to a grave that was newly made, Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade;

His work was done, and he paused to wait
The funeral train at the open gate.
A relic of bygone days was he,

And his locks were white as the foamy sea;

And these words came from his lips so thin: "I gather them in: I gather them in.

"I gather them in! for man and boy,
Year after year of grief and joy,
I've builded the houses that lie around,
In every nook of this burial ground;
Mother and daughter, father and son,
Come to my solitude, one by one:
But come they strangers or come they kin
I gather them in, I gather them in.

"Many are with me, but still I'm alone, I'm king of the dead-and I make my throne

On a monument slab of marble cold; And my sceptre of rule is the spade I hold:

Come they from cottage or come they from hall,

Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all !

Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfully spin

I gather them in, I gather them in.

"I gather them in, and their final rest

Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast!"

And the sexton ceased, for the funeral train

Wound mutely o'er that solemn plain !
And I said to my heart, when time is told,
A mightier voice than that sexton's old
Will sound o'er the last trump's dreadful
din-

"I gather them in, I gather them in.” PARK BENJAMIN 1

HE CAME TOO LATE

He came too late!-Neglect had tried
Her constancy too long;
Her love had yielded to her pride,
And the deep sense of wrong.

She scorned the offering of a heart
Which lingered on its way,
Till it could no delight impart,
Nor spread one cheering ray.

He came too late! At once he felt
That all his power was o'er:
Indifference in her calm smile dwelt-
She thought of him no more.
Anger and grief had passed away,
Her heart and thoughts were free;
She met him, and her words were gay-
No spell had Memory.

He came too late!-The subtle chords
Of love were all unbound,
Not by offence of spoken words,

But by the slights that wound.
She knew that life held nothing now
That could the past repay;
Yet she disdained his tardy vow,
And coldly turned away.

ELIZABETH BOGART

say.

And if you'll write a poem, there's no way But first to think it clearly; pin your mind Upon your thought; fasten it there, and bind

The thought into your heart: when your veins burn and flow

With love or hate, the thoughts to music go,
Melt into music, and pour fully out
In a rich flood; but to take thought about
The "music" of your words, 't is matter
quite

Beyond your conscious power! For rhymes, they're right

Or wrong according as they hear, not look When printed by a printer in a book!

And their "correctness" may be measured

best,

And indeed only, by a certain test:
That, namely, for rebellions,
Until they have succeeded, when they go
By quite another name. Forget not, too,
That every English poet known to
you,
That is to say all of them, rhymed just as
The spirit took them and their pleasure
was,

And, masters that they were, rhymed 'falsely," so

As now no poetaster dares to do!

PURPOSE

So then, at last, let me awake this sleep
And languor of yourself: it is too deep,
And 't is too long!

Oh, I would have you look With judgment on your life, and not to brook

The less in art, as not in truth; forgive Much in you now I can, never that you less

live!