WHY

WHY THUS LONGING?

HY thus longing, thus forever sighing,
For the far-off, unattained, and dim,
While the beautiful, all round thee lying,
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn?

Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching,

All thy restless yearnings it would still: Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching, Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill.

Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee

Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw If no silken cord of love hath bound thee To some little world through weal and woe;

If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten -
No fond voices answer to thine own;
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten
By daily sympathy and gentle tone.

Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses,
Not by works that give thee world-renown,
Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses

Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown.

Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely,
Every day a rich reward will give;

Thou wilt find by hearty striving only,
And truly loving, thou canst truly live.

Dost thou revel in the rosy morning,

When all nature hails the lord of light, And his smile, the mountain tops adorning, Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright?

Other hands may grasp the field and forest,
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine:

But with fervent love if thou adorest,

Thou art wealthier- all the world is thine.

Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest,
Sighing that they are not thine alone,
Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest,

And their beauty and thy wealth are gone.

Nature wears the color of the spirit;

Sweetly to her worshiper she sings;
All the glow, the grace she doth inherit,
Round her trusting child she fondly flings.

HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL.

O

LONGING

TROUBLED sea, that longest evermore

From out thy cold and sunless depths to rise

To the bright orb that draws thee toward the skies,

And beat'st thy breast against the unyielding shore,
In the vain struggle to unloose the bands

That bind thee down to earth; in thy despair,
With sullen roar now leaping high in air,
Now moaning, sobbing on the insatiate sands,-
Type of the soul art thou: she strives like thee,
By time and circumstance and law bound down;
She beats against the shores of the unknown,
Wrestles with unseen force, doubt, mystery,
And longs forever for the goal afar,

That shines and still retreats, like a receding star.

ANNE C. L. BOTTA.

S

AN ANTIQUE INTAGLIO

O INFINITELY small we scarce may trace
The magic touches of the graver's hand;

And yet so great that Time himself doth stand

With envious gaze, all powerless to efface.

Here lie the power and skill and wondrous grace

That might the stateliest palaces have planned; And one soul's lifelong toil perchance is spanned Within this little circle's narrow space.

Was he content, the artist? Did he burn

With ardent pride and sweet creative bliss

O'er thy perfected loveliness, nor yearn

For wider spheres and mightier work than this?

Or from thy beauty would he sadly turn,

And sigh, and gaze on the Acropolis?

SUSAN MARR SPALDING.

I'

CARCASSONNE

'M GROWING old; I'm sixty years:
I've labored all my life in vain;
In all that time of hopes and fears
I've failed my dearest wish to gain:

I see full well that here below

Bliss unalloyed there is for none.
My prayer will ne'er fulfillment know:
I never have seen Carcassonne,
I never have seen Carcassonne!

You see the city from the hill

It lies beyond the mountains blue; And yet to reach it one must still

Five long and weary leagues pursue; And, to return, as many more!

Ah! had the vintage plenteous grown! The grape withheld its yellow store. I shall not look on Carcassonne,

I shall not look on Carcassonne!

They tell me every day is there

Not more nor less than Sunday gay; In shining robes and garments fair The people walk upon their way; One gazes there on castle walls

As grand as those of Babylon,

A bishop and two generals!

I do not know fair Carcassonne,

I do not know fair Carcassonne!

The curé's right: he says that we

Are ever wayward, weak, and blind; He tells us in his homily

Ambition ruins all mankind:

Yet could I there two days have spent, While still the autumn sweetly shone,

Ah me! I might have died content

When I had looked on Carcassonne,
When I had looked on Carcassonne!

Thy pardon, father, I beseech,

In this my prayer if I offend:

One something sees beyond his reach
From childhood to his journey's end.
My wife, our little boy Aignan,

Have traveled even to Narbonne;
My grandchild has seen Perpignan:
And I have not seen Carcassonne,
And I have not seen Carcassonne!

So crooned one day, close by Limoux,
A peasant, double bent with age.
"Rise up, my friend," said I: "with you
I'll go upon this pilgrimage."

We left next morning his abode,

But (Heaven forgive him) half-way on

The old man died upon the road:

He never gazed on Carcassonne.

Each mortal has his Carcassonne !

Translation of John R. Thompson.

GUSTAVE NADAUD.

A RADICAL

E NEVER feared to pry the stable stone

HR

That loving lichens clad with silvery gray;
Torn ivies trembled as they slipped away,
Their empty arms now loose and listless blown.
Then turning, with that ardor all his own,

"Behold my better building!" he would say.
"I rear as well as raze: nor by decay
Nor foe nor fire can this be overthrown!"

What was it? Had he keener sight than we?
We saw the ruin, more we could not see;

His blocks were jasper air, a dream his plan.
We called him Stormer: ever he replied,
"Unbroken calm within my breast I hide."
Now God be judge betwixt us and this man!

HELEN GRAY CONE.

FROM DUNSTAN; OR THE POLITICIAN›

"How long, O Lord, how long?»

ow poor Tom Dunstan's cold,

Now

Our shop is duller:

Scarce a tale is told,

And our talk has lost its old

Red-republican color.

Though he was sickly and thin,
'Twas a sight to see his face,
While, sick of the country's sin,
With a bang of the fist, and chin

Thrust out, he argued the case!
He prophesied men should be free,
And the money-bags be bled!
"She's coming, she's coming!" said he:`
« Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead!"

All day we sat in the heat,
Like spiders spinning,
Stitching full fine and fleet,
While old Moses on his seat
Sat greasily grinning;

And here Tom said his say,

And prophesied Tyranny's death;

And the tallow burned all day,

And we stitched and stitched away

In the thick smoke of our breath.

Weary, weary were we,

Our hearts as heavy as lead;

But "Patience! she's coming!" said he:
"Courage, boys! wait and see!
Freedom's ahead!"

And at night, when we took here
The rest allowed to us,

The paper came, and the beer,
And Tom read, sharp and clear,
The news out loud to us:
And then, in his witty way,

He threw the jests about;·
The cutting things he'd say
Of the wealthy and the gay!

How he turned 'em inside out!