The mist and chill of that drear autumn night, When we sat silent looking on the sea,

I often think has never passed away

From you

and me.

PHILLIPS STEWART.

[Born 1863.]

HOPE.

IN shadowy calm the boat
Sleeps by the dreaming oar;
The green hills are afloat

Beside the silver shore.

Youth hoists the white winged sail,
Love takes the longing oar-
The oft-told fairy tale

Beside the silver shore.

Soft lip to lip, and heart

To heart, and hand to hand,

And wistful eyes, depart

Unto another strand.

And lovely as a star

They tremble o'er the wave,

With eager wings afar,

Unto the joys they crave.

In a sweet trance they fare
Unto the wind and rain,
With wind-tossed waves of hair,
And ne'er return again.

And at the drifting side
Changed faces in the deep.
They see, and changing tide,
Like phantoms in a sleep.

BRITISH WAR SONG.

"WARS and rumours of wars "the clouds lower over t

sea,

And a man must now be a man, if ever a man can be: "Wars and rumours of wars "" -a cry from the flam

East,

For the vultures are gathered together, and the lic roar over the feast:

War! Shall we flinch! Shall we tremble! Shall shrink like cowards from the fray?

Better all Britons were dead than their glory pass away!

The clouds may be dark and lowering, the storm may loud and long,

But the hearts of our men are true, and the arms of men are strong.

From the thousand years of glory, from the grave heroes gone,

Comes a voice on the breath of the storm, and a powe to spur us on:

A man must now be a man, and every man be true, For the grave that covers our glory shall cover ead Briton too.

ESTRANGEMENT.

Do you remember how, one autumn night,
We sat upon the rocks and watched the sea
In dreamlike silence, while the moonlight fell
On you and me?

How, as we lingered musing, side by side,

A cold, white mist crept down and hid the sea And dimmed the moon, and how the air grew chill Round you and me?

The mist and chill of that drear autumn night, When we sat silent looking on the sea,

I often think has never passed away

From

you and me.

PHILLIPS STEWART.

[Born 1863.]

HOPE.

IN shadowy calm the boat

Sleeps by the dreaming oar;
The green hills are afloat

Beside the silver shore.

Youth hoists the white winged sail,
Love takes the longing oar-
The oft-told fairy tale

Beside the silver shore.

Soft lip to lip, and heart

To heart, and hand to hand,

And wistful eyes, depart

Unto another strand.

And lovely as a star

They tremble o'er the wave,

With eager wings afar,

Unto the joys they crave.

In a sweet trance they fare
Unto the wind and rain,
With wind-tossed waves of hair,
And ne'er return again.

And at the drifting side
Changed faces in the deep
They see, and changing tide,
Like phantoms in a sleep.

Slow hands furl the torn sail
Without one silver gleam,
And, sad and wan and pale,
They gaze into a dream.

ALONE.

THE fire flits on the walls
And glitters on the pane:

To Memory recalls

The happy past again.
I sit alone.

A tender dreamful light
O'ercasts the fading green;
Amid the leaves' sad flight
And Autumn's golden sheen,
I roam alone.

Alas, the wild winds sweep
O'er Winter's bosom white,

Like moans of restless sleep,
Or hollow sounds of night.
I sigh alone.

The hyacinth doth peep

And spring-time lilies bloom

O'er dearest ones asleep Within the dreamless tomb. I weep alone.

The distant church-bell sounds
O'er fragrant meadows broad
And silent sleepers' mounds;
All pass to worship God-
I walk alone.

Soft doth the music steal
Out o'er the flowering sod;
No grief these sleepers feel
For evermore. O God,
I am alone.

AT SEA.

UPON the shore stood friends,

Who gazed upon the barque and little crew
Till all had faded in the golden west,
And darkness settled on the lonely sea.
Then whispered they, with voices low and sad,
"Will they return to vine-clad Spain, their home,
Or perish in some far-off clime alone?"

Far o'er the sea the little vessel passed
Till all grew tired of the moaning waves,
And at the dismal creaking of the masts,
The hollow beating of the sails; they turned
Their longing eyes far o'er the restless sea,

And thought of home, and friends, and vine-clad Spain.
In dreams the tender voice of Philomel

Their souls did soothe, and wandered 'neath the moon With love-lit eyes, fair maids, whose silvery laugh Stole o'er the slumbering sense like music sweet.

BARRY STRATON.

THE ROBIN'S MADRIGAL.

SANG a robin on a morn,

Joying in the growing light;
To my soul the notes were born,

And my soul could read them right.

This is what the robin said

In the elm overhead-