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MARY C. F. HALL-WOOD.
The purple grapes droop over. Take me in!
I do not fear to trust myself to thee.
Imprisoned from myself, I wander free,
I would not lie to-night so near the bars,
If to thy realm fair entrance I may find, That through them I might view our mortal stars
Or hear the passing of our pilgrim wind. Not even wonld I wish some gentle friend
To lean against them with a loving face,
So would I sleep the night without a trace
Nor spread my couch within thy garden-beds,
Where fairy forms from out the blossoms glance, And catch the yellow moonlight on their heads
To shift it swiftly in the swaying dance.
Beneath the trees whose hollow shadows teem
Whose every leaf conceals a fabled dream,
ARY CAMILLA FOSTER was born in New
York, and at an early age she was married to Bradley Hall, a promising young lawyer. Migrating with him to California, they settled in San Rafael. He became a district attorney of Marin county, and was rapidly rising in his profession when he died, leaving her in easy circumstances, with an only son. Removing to Santa Barbara, which has since been her home, she subsequently was married to Dr. Edward Nelson Wood, a young man of rare intellect and a brilliant writer, who appreciated her poetic gifts and encouraged her to write for the press. Her first poem was published in a Santa Barbara journal in 1872. They established the Santa Barbara Index in the fall of 1872, but her husband's health was failing, and he died in 1874.
His long illness and unfortunate investments had dissipated her little fortune, and Mrs. Wood found herself face to face with the necessity of making a living for herself and son. Turning naturally to literature as the only congenial or possible means, she entered a newspaper office and made hersalf familiar with the practical details of the business. In 1883 she helped to establish the Daily Independent of Santa Barbara, which she has since edited with ability and success, writing poetry for her own amusement and the pleasure of her readers as the inspiration came. Her first volume, “Sea Leaves,” was published from her office in 1887. The book has received much attention from the press. Although never regularly placed upon the market, it has been a financial as well as a literary success. She has used the pen-name “Camilla K. Von K.,” but lately she has used her full name, Mrs. C. F. Hall-Wood.
A. LA G.
But take me to thy kingdom's very heart,
O solemn Sleep, with thee alone to dwell. In deepest grotto hide me, far apart
From tone or touch, and guard mine eyelids well. Yea, charm the weary senses deaf and blind,
And let me there lie face to face with thee.
But what thy lips did whisper unto me
CORONADO BEACH IN 1870.
A STRONG wind sweeps the ancient town,
Her leveled walls, her quivering palms, Her plaza, wide and bare and brown,
Across the land-locked harbor's calms, From merry seas that whitely shine Where Ocean's plunging ranks align.
Then call my footsteps in, O silent warden,
For even as I plead, night waxes late. Call thou my feet to rest within the garden
And lift the latches of the rustic gate. There grant me shelter till the blushing east
Proclaim another sun, whose golden gaze
Of life, to run in God's appointed ways,
psalms of praise.
And gaily beats against the breeze,
And veers, and turns, and tacks, and dips, Our little bark, with pretty ease,
By walls and wharf and anchored ships; Some mocking Ariel seems to hold Her back from yonder bar of gold.
But gaily still she turns and flies.
My love, the world is ours to-day: Above us rest the luminous skies
Beneath us bound the wavelets gayBeyond us in wide spaces free To meet us springs the joyful sea! At last we reach the strip of sand
Dividing bay from sea, and borne Through tinted shelving shallows, land.
Our boat awaiting the return, Swings idly on her anchor-chain, While we, across the barren plain,
Has the trampled slave arisen,
Liberal, forbearing, free, Out of hateful chains and prison
Freshly born to liberty?
Can he, with sweet freedom gifted,
Kise at once to pure delight, Into sudden sunshine lifted,
Out of night?
Cruel wounds that festered under
Iron links, can he forget ? Though the chain be torn asunder,
Memory feels its thraldom yet.
Years of black despair have taught him
Savage hates that cannot cease. Sudden sunshine has not brought him
Walk ankle deep in sandy drifts,
Where with rare crystals jeweled o'er,
Sole blossom of this sterile shore:
By savage billows flung to us;
And the pretty purple nautilus;
The storms that drove you rage no more; Lie quietly, while roll the seas
In surging dactyls to the shoreAs wandering souls that have been driven By earthly storms to coasts of heaven. And lingering here, with doubt and dream
Of life that might be, life that is; We, like these purple sailors, seem
Upon the golden breadth of peace Left stranded-ah! but heart by heart, No more to drift—no more to part.
In the smoke of my dear cigarito
Cloud castles rise gorgeous and tall, And Eros, divine muchachito,
With smiles hovers over it all. But dreaming, forgetting to cherish
The fire at my lips, as it dies, The dream and the rapture must perish,
And Eros descend from the skies.
O wicked and false muchachito,
Your rapture I yet may recall; But like my re-lit cigarito
A bitterness tinges it all!
COMORESKE Kas practically discarded the Auto
without reference to “The Children's Garland,” one of the most select and tasteful of poetic anthologies, which he edited for “The Golden Treasury Series," and the autobiography of Byran Walter Procter (Barry Cornwall), which was published under his editorship in 1877. Nor should we forget the felicitous and scholarly translation of that remarkable Cardiphonia of St. Bernard on “The Love of God,” which Mr. Patmore, along with a member of his family, has accomplished, and which was published in 1881. Mr. Patmore throughout his literary career has also done good work in reviews and journals, having contributed largely to the Edinburgh Review, North British Review, National Review, Saturday Review and to the Pall Mall Gazette, and St. James's Gazette while under his friend, Mr. Frederick Greenwood's editorship.
A. H. J.
THE ROSE OF THE WORLD.
Lo, when the Lord made north and south,
And sun and moon ordainéd, he,
In order of its dignity,
By sequence, and, all else decreed,
Than Sabbath such a work succeed.
middle names) șaw the light of Woodford, in Essex, on July 2, 1823. He is the son of the late P. G. Patmore, á successful literary man, who is still remembered as the author of “Literary Reminiscences," and also as the sometime editor of Colburn's New Monthly Magazine, to which he largely contributed Mr. Coventry Patmore was thus reared in the congenial atmosphere of literary life from the first. In 1844, that is, when he was only twenty one, he published his first volume of “Poems," a work which indicated the finest perception, and, to the eyes of the discerning, held out the promise which after years was so amply to fulfil. The opening piece, "The River," is especially finished and musical.
In 1846 he was appointed one of the assistant librarians of the British Museum; and was associated with the leaders of the pre-Raphaelite movement so far as to contribute several pieces to “The Germ." In 1853, his volume titled “Tamerton Church Tower, and other Poems,” was published, and, in the eyes of the more critical, advanced him to a still higher position in the roll of our poets; but during the next year his place was made secure by the publication of the first portion of the "Angel in the House” (The Betrothal). “The Espousals” came next, in 1856; and a revised edition of the two parts was issued in 1858; and a further revision followed in 1860. In the same year appeared “Faithful for Ever;" and in 1863 " The Angel in the House" was completed by the publication of the “ Victories of Love." An important recast of the whole work was made in 1868—the same year in which Mr. Patmore retired from the British Museum, after which he bought and occupied an estate of some 400 acres in Sussex, which he farmed and improved.
In 1868 he settled in Hastings, occupying one of the most delightful of old-fashioned mansions“not quite in the busy world, nor quite beyond it” -completely protected from all winds save the “sweet south,” where ilexes and myrtles bloom along the slope precisely as in Italy. Near by he has built a large Catholic Church. His interests in religious and philanthropic work go in harmony with his poetic labors. In 1877 appeared “The Unknown Eros, and Other Odes," as remarkable for elaborate finish as for fine conception; and in 1878 a collected edition of his works, elaborately revised once more, was given to the public. The list of Mr. Patmore's works would be incomplete
And still with favor singled out,
Marred less than man by mortal fall, Her disposition is devout,
Her countenance angelical. No faithless thought her instinct shrouds,
But fancy checkers settled sense, Like alteration of the clouds
On noonday's azure permanence.
Pure courtesy, composure, ease,
Declare affections nobly fixed, And impulse sprung from due degrees
Of sense and spirit sweetly mixed. Her modesty, her chiefest grace,
The cestus clasping Venus' side, Is potent to defect the face
Of him who would affront its pride.
Wrong dares not in her presence speak,
Nor spotted thought its taint disclose Under the protest of a cheek
Outbragging Nature's boast, the rose. In mind and manners how discreet!
How artless in her very art!
The concord of her lips and heart!
Till once, through lanes returning late,
Her laughing sisters lagged behind; And ere we reached her father's gate,
We paused with one presentient mind; And, in the dim and perfumed mist,
Their coming stayed; who blithe and free, And very women, loved to assist
A lover's opportunity.
Twice rose, twice died, my trembling word;
To faint and frail cathedral chimes Spake time in music, and we heard
The chafers rustling in the limes. Her dress, that touched me where I stood;
The warmth of her confided arm; Her bosom's gentle neighborhood;
Her pleasure in her power to charm;
I WALK, I trust, with open eyes;
I've traveled half my worldly course, And in the way behind me lies
Much vanity and some remorse. I've lived to feel how pride may part
Spirits, tho' matched like hand and glove; I've blushed for love's abode, the heart;
But have not disbelieved in love; Nor unto love, sole mortal thing
Of worth immortal, done the wrong To count it, with the rest that sing,
Unworthy of a serious song: And love is my reward; for now,
When most of deadening time complain, The myrtle blooms upon my brow,
Its odor quickens all my brain.
Her look, her love, her form, her touch!
The least seemed most by blissful turn,Blissful but that it pleased too much,
And taught the wayward soul to yearn. It was as if a harp with wires
Was traversed by the breath I drew; And oh, sweet meeting of desires!
She, answering, owned that she loved too.
“I saw him kiss your cheek!”'_" 'Tis true.”
“O Modesty!”—“'Twas strictly kept: He thought me asleep; at least, I knew
He thought I though he thought I slept."
No splendor 'neath the sky's proud dome
But serves for her familiar wear; The far-fetched diamond finds its home
Flashing and smouldering in her hair; For her the seas their pearls reveal;
Art and strange lands her pomp supply With purple, chrome, and cochineal,
Ochre, and lapis lazuli;