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And slyly he traileth along the ground,

And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men's graves.

Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,

And nations have scattered been;
But the stout old Ivy shall never fade,

From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant, and its lonely days,

Shall fatten upon the past;
For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping on, where Time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.


The child and the old man sat alone

In the quiet peaceful shade of the old green boughs, that had richly grown

In the deep, thick forest glade.
It was a soft and pleasant sound,

That rustling of the oak;
And the gentle breeze played lightly round,

As thus the fair boy spoke:

N the company of authors and poets from time to

time chronicled in these columns belongs the name of Fanny Purdy Palmer, a resident of Rhode Island, now in the prime of her powers. Those who have known Mrs. Palmer well, long ago learned to regard her as possessed of exceptional clearness of thought, acuteness and independence of judgement, and comprehensiveness of outlook. Her work upon the school committee of the city of Providence, her connection with various philanthropic movements, and her presidency of the Rhode Island Woman's Club, furnished abundant opportunity for the exercise and strengthening of these qualities. In them all, as in whatever of public or private effort she has undertaken, she has always shown that reserve force which is the sure sign of strong character. It would be far from true, however, to give the impression that Mrs. Palmer's intellectual development has depended upon the positions of trust which she has held. She has been a good thinker, and a good student, and her growth has been along those lines of thought which, under-running all forms of organized movement are the outcome, and expression of individual character and life. A diligent reader of some of the best scientific and metaphysical works she has mastered the art of using language accurately, and of seeing things in their universal relations. The tendency to wild exaggeration of statement, and to nurse one's pet ideas into fundamental panaceas for all ills, has found no friend in her. And yet by conviction and native instinct, the trend of her career has been progressive and sympathetic.

For many years she has been a writer of stories which have appeared in various weekly and monthly publications; stories which have dealt more or less, as would be expected from such an author, with the problems of life; but I think she has done no work which for literary quality, for moral purpose, and deep spiritual insight will stand higher than some of her poems. These are new evidence of the spherical character of her outlook upon life in all its deepest meanings. They fittingly supplement, perhaps some of us who believe in the superiority of the poetic faculty would like to say they fittingly crown an already worthy and increasingly helpful use of the pen.

F. A. H.

Dear father, what can honor be,

Of which I hear men rave?
Field, cell, and cloister, land and sea,

The tempest and the grave:-
It lives in all, 'tis sought in each,

'Tis never heard or seen: Now tell me, father, I beseech,

What can this honor mean?”

“It is a name,

-a name, my child, It lived in other days, When men were rude, their passions wild,

Their sport, thick battle-frays. When in armor bright, the warrior bold,

Knelt to his lady's eyes: Beneath the abbey-pavement old

That warrior's dust now lies.


“The iron hearts of that old day

Have mouldered in the grave; And chivalry has passed away,

With knights so true and brave, The honor which to them was life

Throbs in no bosom now; It only gilds the gambler's strife,

Or decks the worthless vow."

I do not know why even yet

You meet me with a sig It was your lips which said “Forget"

In those old days gone by.

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You did not know how deep your love,

Absence has proved how strong The heart by rivets such as these?

Metallic? Am I wrong?

I break your heart? We're even then!

You broke mine long ago, Ah, Charles Adair, I speak the truth!

But, really, I must go.

QUENCH not the fires which burn within the soul E'en though the world smiles chill upon their

But feed those lonely fires which flicker low
With all that's best out of thy fortune's dole.
Thine ease consume, content, and proud control,
And love, dear love which pleads in whispers

That recognition comes too late, too slow,
To feed the fires which burn within thy soul
Thine utmost to inspire. The flames may blind,

To ashes turn the toys thou'd fain adore.
But trust the light that shines. Fear not to mind
The weaving gleam which tempts thee from the

shore On stormy ventures. Quicken thy desires For ports beyond thy sights. Quench not the fires.

A few words more? No, no, not one!

Our hostess I must seek, And, oh, I'd most forgot! You'll get

My wedding cards next week.




The summers change us. 'Tis a long way back

Into last August's vanished glories, Klare. Dark Clotho has bright threads for memories,

Frail threads-False touch forbear!

On silver waters in a purple dusk,

The moonbeams splintered by the listed oar I learned of you, rose-crowned, bloom-flushed

First love's sweet lore.

YOUNG when the world was young, Antigone

Shared in the virtues of its primal power,

Beauty and strength and courage were her dower, Body to soul allied in symmetry. Clear eyed to view eternal verity,

Heroic still to bide the hapless hour

When fates implacable her hopes devour She paid with lofty calm the penalty


Of other's crimes. Self-centered woman soul

Whom lover's love could swerve not nor divert, Whom priestly threats could stay not from the goal

Of thy fixed purpose nor thy mind pervert,
Nor coward's paltry lust of life control,
The ages' homage is thy high desert!

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Oh, great grey waves that bellow to the shore

And leap against the cliffs with loud assault

Of gathered thunders from that mystic vault Whose limits ending still stretch on before! Oh, lion waves with mad heroic roar

Deaf' ning to meaner sounds 'gainst black basalt

Of frowning cliff! I count it as the fault Of partial comprehension to deplore That law which drives untempered to their bounds

Life's mighty forces love where love belongs,

Failures, successes, in the unerring rounds
Where Nemesis offsets ancestral wrongs

With penalties, wherein no power to save
Between the iron cliff and breaking wave.


was born in Philadelphia, Pa. Through her mother, Mary Hunt Morris, who became the wife of George Franklin Klingle, M. D., she is a member of the historic Morris family of Morrisania, and wife of Benjamin Proctor Holmes of New York City. She was educated in Philadelphia. Her father's ancestry is found in Upper Saxony. Hans George Klingle, her great-grandfather, came to this country in the ship “Restoration with his son, 9th October, 1747, and settled in Pennsylvania. At the breaking out of the Revolutionary War her grandfather George resided at Chestnut Hill. Dr. Klingle was a man of literary and scientific reputation. From early childhood Georgiana contributed to periodicals of the different cities. Her taste run in a groove not often entered by young authors, children's stories with a moral to leave an impression. She is an artist of merit, but writing is the passion of her life. She has written no long list of books, but the heartfelt poetry of “George Klingle” has touched many hearts. Her collection of poems entitled “Make Thy Way Mine" (New York, 1876) was made after repeated letters from interested strangers in different parts of the country. That collection was followed by “ In the Name of the King" (New York, 1888) and another volume is ready for publication. Being interested in philanthropic work, she founded Arthur's Home for Destitute Boys, at Summit, N. J., in memory of her son who died at the age of nine years, this child's unselfish savings being the germ of the institution. C. W. M.


JULY 20, 1864.

The day has dawned! The lucent mist
Floats into realms of amethyst.
The river tide in ripples coy
Breaks on the beach with sounds of joy.

How fair the view! The morning scene
Bounded by sun gilt hilltops green
Is gay with southern fruits and flowers
Whose sweetness loads the odorous hours.


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Nor knew within her manger-bed
The Christ was laid, till overhead
Light, flooding all the wondering skies,
Bore wings of angels, in surprise,
Bending from heaven's throne above
To herald Christ, the gift of love.

The song of souls redeemed, for Christ the

Jerusalem's bleeding wounds has bound,

A new Jerusalem, to be
Ransomed to immortality.


When Galilee's tempestuous sea
Trembled beneath the foot of Deity,
And breathlessly stood still

To do His will;
Or, when in pulsing beat

It heard the winds repeat
Love's message, grand and free,

Of immortality,
Redemption's song swept on from crest to crest

Of its fair waves, with promises of rest.

It will be remembered that Torrigiano, the celebrated Florentine sculptor, died, amid horrible tortures, at the hands of the Inquisitors, for the breaking of his exquisite statue of the Infant Christ.

When on Mount Olivet's brow
Christ, the uncrowned, would bow

In nature's temple to repeat,
Beneath the stars, His intercession, love-replete,

And man beheld
The mystery of sin, felled

At its root by pardon won,
Redemption's song about the Holy One

Awoke anew and still, With depths intensified, swept on from hill to hill.

Have I shattered thee, O Beautiful! thou Christ

child pale and pure, Not broken thee, O Little-one? I thought thou

wouldst endure Down to the coming ages, and stand in all thy

grace, In all thy power of loveliness in fame's most hon

ored place, Breathing upon the distant air Torrigiano's name, Breathing with thy pure lips--rekindling his fame

But all is lost!
Lost! Lost-he stands before a broken shrine;
He bends above thee, Little-one! Thine

Is the favored part,

Thy frozen, frozen heart Knows not the woe it is to throb, to beat so high

To throb-and die! Oh, I have shattered thee, thou Fair, but passion

nerved the blow; They thought to win thee, Beautiful, but I have laid

thee low! Did they think to buy thee with their bags—their

copper bags, in truth? Their thirty ducates ?—they have learned far other

wise, forsooth.

When, scourged and crucified,
Our sacrificed One died
Outside Jerusalem's gate,

And wept the fate
Of her fair streets, her temple rent in twain,

Her crimson stain
Of sin, redemption's song of triumph dared pro-

A world redeemed in Jesus' name.

Jerusalem so fair!
Imperious in her beauty; chosen to bear

Upon her breast the mark of God;
To hold her hands to heaven; shod

With the sandals of sweet peace; Consecrate; where man could turn to pray and


From sin
How different all her future might have been

Had she but known
Messiah by His love alone!

I did not mean to desecrate the Name that thou

didst bearHigh Heaven, knowing all things, knows that I

am guiltless thereI have stricken thee, O Beautiful, and jealous rage

hath sworn To drink the blood of vengeance for thy wondrous

beauty shorn: A little while and muffled feet will bear me from

this cellThe tortures of the after hours, who shall their be to

tell ? They may part my flesh among them! I have

wounded not the Christ! It was only thee, thou Little-one—thou the lost, th


To-day, across the waste of time,

Exultant voices chime Sweet alleluias of the Christ who died,

Yet death defied, One grand, tumultuous sea Of voices, sweeping through immensity;

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