Quivering under the anguished strain
When he was borne from battle, slain;
Rising and falling with her breath,
Warming, with life or chilled with death!

III.

She has she vanished who seems so near,
Drawn by this ancient cista here?—
Faded, as faded those sunset dyes
Into the infinite, awful skies?

Passed, as the wind passed over the grain
Headed to ripeness on the plain
Girdling Praeneste? Did she so
Perish, these centuried years ago,
Leaving this only trace, whose rust
Even may mock her scattered dust?
Can you believe this streak of red
Lives, while her subtle soul is dead?
Do the cicada's wings unfold
Essence her spirit could not hold?
Dare you avouch this bronze can be
Something immortal more than she?

IV.

Why do I ask? Somewhere, somewhere Shrouded in boundless depths of air Nearer than we conceive, or far Out of the reach of sun or star, Vital and sentient, mind, heart, will, Waits this Belle of Praeneste still, Conscious as when in the flesh below, Nearly three thousand years ago—

Waits and for what? Ah, God doth know!

PERSEPHONE.

LISTEN What a sudden rustle
Fills the air!

All the birds are in a bustle

Everywhere.

Such a ceaseless hum and twitter
Overhead,

Such a flash of wings that glitter,
Wide outspread!

Far away I hear a drumming-
Tap, tap, tap!

Can the woodpecker be coming
After sap?

Butterflies are hovering over
(Swarms on swarms)

Yonder meadow-patch of clover
Like snow storms.

Through the vibrant air a tingle
Buzzingly

Throbs, and o'er me sails a single
Bumble-bee;

Lissome swayings make the willows
One bright sheen,

Which the breeze puffs out in billows
Foaming green.

From the marshy brook that's smoking
In the fog,

I can catch the croon and croaking
Of a frog.

Dog-wood-stars the slopes are studding,
And I see

Blooms upon the purple-budding
Judas-tree.

Aspen-tassels thick are dropping
All about,

And the alder-leaves are cropping

Broader out;

Mouse-ear tufts the hawthorn sprinkle,
Edged with rose

The dark bed of periwinkle

Fresher grows.

Up and down are midges dancing
On t the grass;

How their gauzy wings are glancing
As they pass!

What does all this haste and hurry
Mean, I pray—

All this out-door flush and flurry
Seen to-day?

This presaging stir and humming,
Chirp and cheer,

Mean? it means that Spring is coming:
Spring is here!

THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY.

(A.D. 1622.)

"AND now," said the Governor, gazing abroad on the piled-up store

Of the sheaves that dotted the clearings and covered the meadows o'er,

""Tis meet that we render praises because of this yield of

grain;

'Tis meet that the Lord of the harvest be thanked for His sun and rain.

"And therefore I, William Bradford, (by the grace of God to-day,

And the franchise of this good people,) Governor of Plymouth, say,

Through virtue of vested power-ye shall gather with one accord,

And hold, in the month November, Thanksgiving_unto the Lord.

"He hath granted us peace and plenty, and the quiet we've sought so long;

He hath thwarted the wily savage, and kept him from wrack and wrong;

And unto our feast the Sachem shall be bidden that he may know

We worship his own Great Spirit who maketh the harvests grow.

"So shoulder your matchlocks, masters, there is hunting of all degrees;

And fishermen, take your tackle and scour for spoil the

seas;

And maidens and dames of Plymouth, your delicate crafts employ

To honour our First Thanksgiving, and make it a feast of Joy!

"We fail of the fruits and dainties-we fail of the old home cheer;

Ah these are the lightest losses, mayhap, that befall us

here;

But see, in our open clearings, how golden the melons lie;

Enrich them with sweets and spices, and give us the pumpkin-pie!"

So bravely the preparations went on for the autumn

feast;

The deer and the bear were slaughtered: wild game from the greatest to least

Was heaped in the colony cabins; brown home-brew served for wine,

And the plum and the grape of the forest for orange and peach and pine.

At length came the day appointed: the snow had begun

to fall,

But the clang from the meeting-house belfry rang merrily

over all,

And summoned the folk of Plymouth, who hastened with

glad accord

To listen to Elder Brewster as he fervently thanked the

Lord.

In his seat sate Governor Bradford: men, matrons, and maidens fair;

Miles Standish and all his soldiers, with corslet and sword, were there;

And sobbing and tears and gladness had each in its turn the sway,

For the grave of the sweet Rose Standish o'ershadowed Thanksgiving day;

And when Massasoit, the Sachem, sat down with his hundred braves,

And ate of the varied riches of gardens and woods and

waves,

And looked on the granaried harvest, with a blow on his brawny chest,

He muttered, "The Good Great Spirit loves His white children best!"

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

Born at Henniker, New Hampshire. Author of Poems (Boston, 1866); A Russian Journey (1872); Poems (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co., 1890). The poems quoted are by special permission.]

EASTER MORNING.

THE fasts are done; the Aves said;
The moon has filled her horn;
And in the solemn night I watch
Before the Easter morn.

So pure, so still the starry heaven,
So hushed the brooding air,

I could hear the sweep of an angel's wings
If one should earthward fare;-