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THE SAINT AND THE SINNER.
HEART-worn and weary the woman sat
Her baby sleeping across her knee, And the work her fingers were toiling at
Seemed a pitiful task for such as she. Mending shoes for the little feet
That pattered over the cabin floor, While the bells of the Sabbath day rang sweet,
And the neighbors passed by the open door.
How glorious to feel the spirit's power
Unbroken by the near approach of death;
To breathe blest prophecies with failing breath, Soul-bound to beauty in that latest hour! How sweet to greet, in final kinship owned,
The master-spirit to thy dreams so dear;
At last from his immortal lips to hear, The dire for Imogen, and thee, intoned! How beautiful to live as thou didst live!
How beautiful to die as thou didst die,
In moonlight of the night, without a sigh, At rest in all the best that love could give!
FLORENCE EARLE COATES. -Lippincott's, April, 1893.
The children played, and the baby slept,
And the busy needle went and came, When lo, on the threshold stone there stept
A priestly figure, and named her name: “What shrift is this for the Sabbath day,
When bells are calling, and far and near The people gather to praise and pray.
Woman, why are you toiling here?”
Like one in a dream she answered low:
Where the beautiful bells ring out and call.
And tend the children and keep the place? I pray in silence, and try to think,
For God's love can listen, and give me grace.”
Thus, childlike, “I am going home!” he said,
And holy silence all the room did fill.
The nation's pulse, smit with a sudden chill, Beat feverish strokes that, like a midnight knell Wild pealing from the lofty-tower'd bell,
Sent through the homes of men a startling thrill. Well fill'd his part, the man of spotless fame,
The missioner from Jesus Christ to all, So earnest, tender, yet so nobly grand, With human heart set in a heavenly frame.
At morning-dawn he heard his Father's call And homeward pass'd into his Father's land.
THOMAS MACKELLAR. -Germantown, January 24, 1893.
The years passed on, and with fast and prayer
The good priest climbed to the gate of rest, And a tired woman stood waiting there,
Her work-worn hands to her bosom pressed: “Oh saint, thrice blessed, mount thou on high,
He heard the welcoming angels say. When meekly, gently, she passed him by, Who had mended shoes on the Sabbath day.
MADELINE BRIDGES. -Ladies' Home Journal, February, 1893.
APRIL's afield, April's in the air!
Almost you may see each hour Willows that at dawn were bare, Meadows that were brown,
On which the lengthening mellow day has burned,
How beautiful to live as thou didst live!
How beautiful to die as thou didst die,
In moonlight of the night, without a sigh, At rest in-all the best that love could give!
How excellent to bear into old age
The poet's ardor and the heart of youth,
To keep to the last sleep the vow of truth, And leave to lands that grieve a glowing page!
April's afield, April's in the air!
Fleeting over Earth's slow dust,
Soulless as Echo, she can never know
Their day is come—they must.
So to-day the wheel of fate
DAVID HENRY WRIGHT. - Philadelphia Press, January 29, 1893.
O! vast unmeasured bound-Eternity,
Who shall uplift the veil upon thy face?
Of everlasting Now; where interlace
The pulsing south-wind stirs and thrills
Crowns April's dear, delicious days.
Who shall explore that bourne, which endless ages
holds, Where cycle into cycle, pauseless runs ?
Eternity! Be such rash thoughts subdu'd. Thou are the robe the Almighty round Him folds, Thron'd in the glory of ten thousand suns, Tented, pavillion'd in infinitude.
JOHN W. KAYE. -For The Magazine of Poetry.
A MARCH SUNSET.
The robin chants when the thrush is dumb,
Snow smooths a bed for the clover, Life flames anew, and days to come
Are sweet as the days that are over.
Faint clouds that form a snowy ledge
And through the space that twilight fills,
Sailing athwart the sunken hills.
Of sunset splendor sends its flash
All suddenly together clash.
From out a waste of desert sky,
A wandering curlew's cry. - The Independent. ERNEST MCGAFFEY.
The tide that ebbs by the moon flows back,
Faith builds on the ruins of sorrow, The halcyon flutters in winter's track,
And night makes way for the morrow.
And ever a strain, of joys the sum,
Sings on in the heart of the lover-
FLORENCE EARLE COATES. -The New Peterson Magazine.
Dusk-devils! Messengers of woe
Weird, dapple-winged phantom-shades,
To taunt the soul with masquerades.
Star-spectres, whose strange presence brings
With fancy's forms of ghostly things.
CAPRICIOUS daughter of the Spring,