Of

sages

old and Norseman bands
That sailed o'er northern seas;
Enchanting tales of fairy lands
And strange philosophies.
I sang of Egypt's fairest queen,
With passion's fatal curse;
Of that pale, sad-faced Florentine,
As deathless as his verse.

Of time of the Arcadian Pan,

When dryads thronged the treesWhen Atalanta swiftly ran

With fleet Hippomenes.

Brave stories, too, did I relate

Of battle flags unfurled;

Of glorious days when Greece was great— When Rome was all the world!

Of noble deeds for noble creeds,

Of woman's sacrifice

The mother's stricken heart that bleeds

For souls in Paradise.

Anon I told a tale of shame,

And while in tears I slept,
Behold! a white-robed angel came
And read the words and wept !

And so I wrote my perfect song,
In such a wondrous key,

I heard the plaudits of the throng,
And fame awaited me,

Alas! the sullen morning broke,
And came the tempest's roar :
'Mid discord trembling I awoke,
And lo! my dream was o'er!

Yet often in the quiet night
My song returns to me;

I seize the pen, and fain would write
My long lost melody.

But dreaming o'er the words, ere long
Comes vague remembering,

And fades away the sweetest song

That man can ever sing!

OSCAR FAY ADAMS.

[Author of The Handbook of English Authors, The Handbook of American Authors, Through the Year with the Poets, etc., etc.]

BEATEN.

WHERE is the spirit of striving that once was so strong in my heart?

And where is the lofty devotion that attended my steps at the start?

I was so full of my purpose and never gave way to a doubt, Never looked forward to failure, whatever dark clouds were about,

Always believed in hard fighting, and never once trusted to luck,

Put my whole soul in my doing, and honest each blow that I struck.

What is the guerdon of labour, of honesty what the reward? Only a pittance at most, with simplicity conquered by fraud. Where is the joy of believing when faith is met by a sneer? Why should we look to the future expecting the skies to be clear?

Always the strongest are prospered: why may it not be so again

If there's a heaven hereafter reserved for the children of men?

Might has the best of us here, and may it not be so beyond? I who am vanquished in battle have little to do but despond.

Never for me will the prospect be brightened again by a hope;

I have grown old in the conflict, and care not with evil

to cope.

Beaten am I in the struggle, the doom of the conquered

is mine;

Darkness and clouds are about me, the morrow I may not divine.

Now I await the glad moment when I shall have done with it all,

When the long strife shall be ended, and I turn my face to the wall

MAURICE EGAN.

OF FLOWERS.

THERE were no roses till the first child died,
No violets, no balmy-breathed heartsease,
No heliotrope, nor buds so dear to bees,
The honey-hearted woodbine, no gold-eyed
And white-lashed daisy-flowers, nor, stretching wide,
Clover and cowslip-cups, like rival seas,
Meeting and parting, as the young spring breeze
Runs giddy races playing seek and hide :
For all flowers died when Eve left Paradise,
And all the world was flowerless awhile,
Until a little child was laid in earth;
Then from its grave grew violets for its eyes,

And from its lips rose-petals for its smile,

And so all flowers from that child's death took birth.

THE OLD VIOLIN.

THOUGH tuneless, stringless, it lies there in dust
Like some great thought on a forgotten page;
The soul of music cannot fade or rust-

The voice within it stronger grows with age;
Its strings and bow are only trifling things-

A master-touch! its sweet soul wakes and sings.

THEOCRITUS.

DAPHNIS is mute, and hidden nymphs complain,
And mourning mingles with their fountains' song;
Shepherds contend no more, as all day long
They watch their sheep on the wide, cyprus-plain;
The master-voice is silent, songs are vain;

Blithe Pan is dead, and tales of ancient wrong,
Done by the gods when gods and men were strong,
Chanted to reeded pipes, no prize can gain :
O sweetest singer of the olden days,

In dusty books your idylls rare seem dead;
The gods are gone, but poets never die;
Though men may turn their ears to newer lays,
Sicilian nightingales enrapturéd

Caught all your songs, and nightly thrill the sky.

MAURICE DE GUERIN.

THE old wine filled him, and he saw, with eyes
Anoint of Nature, fauns and dryads fair
Unseen by others; to him maidenhair
And waxen lilacs and those birds that rise
A-sudden from tall reeds at slight surprise

Brought charmed thoughts; and in earth everywhere
He, like sad Jaques, found unheard music rare

As that of Syrinx to old Grecians wise.

A pagan heart, a Christian soul had he,

He followed Christ, yet for dead Pan he sighed,
Till earth and heaven met within his breast:

As if Theocritus in Sicily

Had come upon the Figure crucified

And lost his gods in deep, Christ-given rest.

JAMES E. NESMITH.

MONADNOC.

I.

FROM field and fold aloof he stands,
A lonely peak in peopled lands,
Rock-ridged above his wooded bands:
Like a huge arrow-head in stone,
Or baffled stag at bay alone,-
Round him the pack-like hills lie prone.

The gentle hours, in gradual flight,
Weave round his huge impassive height
A warp of gloom, a woof of light:

All day the purple shadows dream
Along his slopes, or upward stream;
And shafts of golden sunlight gleam,—
Searching the dusk of humid dells,
To sleep among the sleeping wells,
And frowning rocks where Echo dwells.

Mild as the breath from isles of palm,
The breezes, blowing in the calm,

Breathe sweet with balsam, fern, and balm :

Huge cloud-cliffs fringe the blue profound,
And lift their large white faces round
The dim horizon's distant bound.

II.

If the dull task begins to tire,
When dawn's pure flood of rosy fire
Strikes up each beaming wall and spire,

Awake, and mount his rocky stair,—
Drink deep from wells of taintless air,-
And lighter grows the load of care: