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To-day in the sun-land where oranges bloom,
Blue-crested humming-birds are afloat in the sea
Of red blossoms, as warm as the heart of the rose; Or pink as the sea shell on its coralline bed, Where nymphs of the ocean oft seek sweet re
pose. The crooked old peach trees, so broken and bare
Of green leaves, are mantled in blushes as red As e'er dyed the soft check of the sweet and the
fairA fit emblem of love, when life's hopes all lie dead.
The wonderful calm stealing o'er the green earth,
The gold of the sunlight falling on the wet flowers, When the tempest has gone with its lightning and
hail, Is like meeting with thee in these fragrant pink
TO A MEADOW LARK.
SPRING to thy wings bright lark of the meadow!
The gates of the morning stand wide for the day. Fly with thy mates and leave me in shadow,
Thou art a song, but I am shrouded in clay.
SINGING IN THE RAIN.
Loving little brownie, darling,
Knows thy heart no pain That thou sittest all day singing
Singing in the rain ?
For a step in vain,
Singing in the rain.
And the air of song,
Bearing days along.
Where there is no pain;
Singing in the rain.
O World in tears, thy Christ lies in the tomb!
Like him entombed within His nariow bed. 'Risen!" an angel speaks." He's risen from the,
grave! He came to die, and live the world to save. Behold where lay your Lord, and do not fear."
O sing my happy Soul! O glad world hear!
The apple trees are laden with blossoms to-day,
White blossoms as pure as the snow that fell From Heaven, and clothed all the slumbering trees
In robes that would grace the fair angels as well. But come out to the orchard; I cannot describe
Its poetic glory, its sweetness of bloom; You must live in it, lo in it, all the day long; Bathe in its perfume—'twill dissolve all your
Thou hast hushed the deep notes of the songs of
the lakes, And the silvery trill of the brook in the grass. The wild hea the river's deep bosom is stilled By the chill and the frown on thy face as you pass.
-Farewell to Old Winter,
his form. If we had only one cup carved by Benvenuto Cellini, we should know that Cellini had genius. It is not quantity of production that makes a man a poet, and Mr. McCabe rarely as he writes, deserves that title.
J. B. B.
PICTURES IN THE SKY.
DEBARRED from fragrant wood and field,
These, in the darkling sea's unrest,
R: McCABE has written so little verse, some
thirty-five or forty short pieces in all, in half as many years, that one wonders why, having written at all, he has not written more. The fact is he has never seriously thought of making literature a pursuit, but on occasions, sometimes years apart, has simply given way to the impulse of some momentary influence of the Muses inspiration. He is not one of those who “lisped in numbers,” for at the mature age of thirty-seven he had written but one poem, which until that period he had not even put in print. Then, in 1868, a flourishing literary society of Milwaukee having on two different occasions offered prizes for the best poems on subjects of its own choosing, to be competed for anonymously, he contested successfully in both instances. Taking the event altogether it was one that awoke a lively commotion, and a very intense interest, amongst the literary people of that city, and is not yet forgotten.
A success like this would have stimulated most persons to earnest and sustained efforts; but the writer in question was wont to reason that while the great masters of poesy remain but partially read, and while here is an abundance of the best that man's intellect is capable of producing within the easy reach of all readers, it is irrational for minor bards to waste their energies for inferior results, not remembring that the great poets virtually write for poets, or those of rarest insight, while the less pretentious, in the nature of things, furnish the most extended and full enjoyment. Because their work is not in the form of riddles, are not Whittier, and Burns, and “Father Prout” as beneficient as Browning? The analogy will hold good all along the scale. Mr. McCabe may have become aware of the force of this view when he found that his little “Avich Machree,” written to pass away an interval of leisure in the counting room where he spends his days, made the circuit of the English speaking world with the rapidity of steam.
Andrew McCabe was born near the pretty little town of Virginia, in the southeast corner of County of Cavan, Ireland, in June 1831. He came with his family to Philadelphia at the age of ten, attended the public grammar school, thence passing to the Central High School. Went west in 1857, and settled in Milwaukee, Wis., where he continues to reside.
Mr. McCabe's poetry has, above all the quality of spontaneity. If the Greek and Latin classic forms had never existed, Mr. McCable would have written as he writes, so inartificial and natural is
Anon, the dark waves leave the skies:-
And now the everchanging dome
So, when Aeolus and the sun
Across a continent and sea, Through fifty years of memory, I hear the words avich machree.
I drink life's wine, and pain and sigh
The ponderous globes that swing on high,
Chained in attraction heavenly,
Canst tell us whence the sweet control
A wintry night:—the flaming peat
With knots of resinous fir combine
To make the bog-oak rafters shine,
A spinning wheel set near the hearth;
Drawing the spiral fibres forth To shape the downy-coated thread(God bless the hand laid on my head
A freckled five years I)—and she
Breathes low the words;-avich machree. “My darling son” on English tongue; “ Mon cher fils,” mellow as the sun
In vineyards of the broad Garonne;
Or deeper-toned “Ach lieber sonn!" On Weser's shores, are sweet and strong; But 'mong the slopes of Irish hills
The hearts deep wells appear to be
Invoked by other tongue than thee-
ON FINDING A ROBIN'S EGG ON THE
GROUND IN EARLY APRIL.
A moment's thought and rapture flies:-
In alternating rest and flight;
Now frolics mid the violets,
Of some sweet brook its sweeter might
Of unctuous whistling; or forgets The stormier hours, in tranquil mood, In some deep mass of solitude. Haste not, haste not, () crimson breast! We've yet no green to roof thy nest; Our northern spring's too timorous beams Still leave along the dells and streams Unconquered lances of the cold; Fails the soft maple to unfold The rich green veil we fain would ask Protective of thy love-bent task. The glistening rings on sapling's bark, The tenderest buds on ash and elm, Give distant pledge of shaded realm Where every trunk looms gray and stark; And here art thou, with cluck and call! Thrice welcome too, thou and thy tune; But what aërial admiral Hath signalled thee to sail so soon ?
An oval form of greenish blue
A robbin's egg reclines, alas!
How oft, when reasoning failed of truth,
One glance, and all of youthful joy Fills full my heart. Once more a boy