To-day in the sun-land where oranges bloom, There sings my old Robin his simple strain- Resplendent in plumage the gay paroquets, When summer is ready to wed the sweet spring, SINGING IN THE RAIN. LOVING little brownie, darling, Couldst thon know the pain of waiting For a step in vain, Thou wouldst not be gaily singingSinging in the rain. When the sky is full of sumbeams And the air of song, Happy moments fly so swiftly So the years will bear us quickly Where there is no need of singing- APPLE BLOSSOMS. THE apple trees are laden with blossoms to-day, But come out to the orchard; I cannot describe Blue-crested humming-birds are afloat in the sea Of red blossoms, as warm as the heart of the rose; The crooked old peach trees, so broken and bare A 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 bowers. TO A MEADOW LARK. SPRING to thy wings bright lark of the meadow! EASTER MORNING. O WORLD in tears, thy Christ lies in the tomb! 'Risen!" an angel speaks." He's risen from the, grave! He came to die, and live the world to save. O sing my happy Soul! O glad world hear! MR ANDREW MCCABE. 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 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, Swiftly and fair one seems to glide, These, in the darkling sea's unrest, Anon, the dark waves leave the skies:- And now the everchanging dome Where ends the lake a sunny beam Nor all unpeopled now the steep:- So, when Aeolus and the sun On vapory canvas stretched on high, AVICH MACHREE. ACROSS a continent and sea, Through fifty years of memory, I hear the words avich machree. A wintry night:-the flaming peat With knots of resinous fir combine To fill the air with fragrant heat, To make the bog-oak rafters shine, And this and love suffice for me; The love that breathes avich machree. Some soft white rolls of carded wool; A spinning wheel set near the hearth; A mother, seated on a stool, Drawing the spiral fibres forth To shape the downy-coated thread(God bless the hand laid on my headA 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. I. AN Oval form of greenish blue Or is it dew, or is it frost Oh haste and warm the woodland way- And here, unnested and forlorn- A robbin's egg reclines, alas! So true of mold, the tiny thing, II. One glance, and all of youthful joy Fills full my heart. Once more a boy I drink life's wine, and pain and sigh O ye who measure each and all The ponderous globes that swing on high, Chained in attraction heavenly, Nor miss one throb of mutual thrall, Canst tell us whence the sweet control A small-bird's egg sways o'er the soul? III. A moment's thought and rapture flies:- It skims the blue, and northern bound, Or mingles with the gladdening sound Haste not, haste not, O crimson breast! The rich green veil we fain would ask Hath signalled thee to sail so soon? IV. How oft, when reasoning failed of truth, They know all seasons and all times But breaks one other cherished spell. |