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The same soft, rose-red mouth; the eyes of forgetme-not blue,

And I learned of a battle fought that day whose bitterness no man knew!

At dawn, in the sweet, white clover, I laid them together there;

The same sun ray that shone on John, lay over the lad's bright hair;

The same smile sealed the lips of both,-which has grown so strangely wise!

And there lay on each heart the same fair face with blue forget-me-not eyes.

I know not if she be North; I know not if she be South;

She with the bluest of eyes, and that smiling rosered mouth;

Or to which brave heart she was true, or whose would have been the woe

Had that battle never been fought, or had one been left to know;

But watching beside those two, in the glory of Sun and Stars,

The boyish form and its stilled young grace, the man with his well won scars,

I was filled with a great content. Yes, I who loved them was glad

That they solved it together, just that way,-John and Stephen the lad!

VIRGINIA WOODWARD CLOUD.

-For The Magazine of Poetry.

GEORGE MacDONALD.

O NIGHTINGALE! that fills the air with song, The thrush and blackbird perched on bush or thorn

Spell-bound would listen to thy strains heav'n born;

So one who lisps in rhyme would hear thy voice
Now softly sweet, now rich and full in tone
Discourse in music that is all thine own;
Till all the soul within me should rejoice.

Thy songs that tell of God, and God's deep love Inspire the doubting, so that oft, through tears, Is seen, beyond the starry sky above

With joy the everlasting glorious spheres Where better things than fame or gold awaitThe Crown and Palm and Well Done-soon or late The Child at heart within the Pearly Gate. JOHN FULLERTON.

-For The Magazine of Poetry.

TWO HEARTS.

TO H. H.

ABOUT the shrine of Cupid lay,

Two hearts, poor little things,
They both were nestling by the way,
Beneath his drooping wings,
And as they lay in close commune,
'Tis strange a golden sun,
Came riding o'er so opportune
They melted into one.

N. J. CLODFElter.

THE BISHOP OF GRETNA GREEN. THE bishop was genial and burly,

Unsurpliced and guiltless of sleeves; His red locks were matted and curly,

Eyes twinkled from bushiest eaves.
A spy-glass well battered lay handy,
With hammer and nails littered up,
All flanked by a bottle of brandy,
With never a sign of a cup.

No matter what task was in order,
At herald of love's refugees
When dust-clouds arose on the border,

The bishop would tear from his knees
The apron, and forth from the smithy
In tattered canonicals strode,
Beginning a marriage-rite pithy

With bride and groom still on the road.

And yet, if the time was not pressing,
The bishop more leisurely wrought,

And gave, with episcopal blessing,
A last benediction that brought
A grin to each by-standing varlet,

Unchecked by the bishop's smug leer. The bride's face would mantle with scarlet, The bridegroom not seeming to hear.

And when the pursuers with clamor

Drew up at the vestry's front door, The bishop stood grasping his hammer With muscles to weild it like Thor, And a look that it mattered but little If the anvil he smote or a skull, Since the latter was always more brittle, And oftentimes fully as dull.

The lovers for further flight buckled,

Or else perchance fell on their knees. The bishop said nothing, but chuckled, And fondled his bottle and fees.

All possible troubles that try men

He drowned in a midnight debauch,— The high-priest of virtue and Hymen, Whose bellows-flame kindled the torch. WILBUR LARREMORE.

-The Green Bag, June, 1893.

AT HIS GATE.

WITHOUT I Stand, timid and trembling still
Before the portals of the King's domain,
Bewildered at its beanty, I remain
Silent and blinded by the light-until
Sweet music sending throngh my soul a thrill
Sweeps down its avenues in joyous strain
Like waves of Peace upon the shores of Pain
While breaks the Star of Hope through clouds
of Ill!

The darkness falls and crouching low I cry
From depths of penitence and misery
"Dear Lord! and may I come within Thy gate
The wind is bitter and the hour is late!"

I wait and weep beneath my weight of sin-
When answer comes:

Knock, I will let you in!',
ALICE S. DELETOMBE.

-For The Magazine of Poetry.

TRAVELERS.

WE shall lodge at the Sign o' the Grave, you say! Yet the road is a long one we trudge, my friend, So why should we greive at the break of the day? Let us drink, let us love, let us sing, let us play, We can keep our sighs for the journey's end.

We shall lodge at the Sign o' the Grave, you say!
Well, since we are nearing the journey's end,
Our hearts may be merry while yet they may;
Let us drink, let us love, let us sing, let us play,
For perchance it's a comfortless Inn, my friend.
PERCY ADDLESHAW.
London Academy.

ON SOME FORGOTTEN POEMS.

DEAD rhymes are here that no man comes to read;
Dead as the flowers that robed the maiden spring
To wed with summer, when the streams were freed,
And all the birds began to nest and sing.

If some one plucked the flowers and laid them by
Between the prim white pages that I hold,
The crushed and faded leaves would dim the eye,
And leave the yearning heart uncheered and cold.

But sweeter flowers of rhyme, amid the gloom
And silent dust of all the silent shelves,
You keep your glory and your primal bloom,
And live, if not for others, for yourselves.

And when I chance to open wide the page,
Behold, your beauty breaks upon the earth;
And all the splendor of a buried age

Is born again with glad immortal birth.

And, happy, I may hear the master-hand

Sweep down the lyre and wake each vibrant chord,

That swells with glory of a sweeter land,

Where life was hope, and love alone was lord.

So let the cover close, and page grow gray

Amid the dust where no eye comes to see; My heart alone the song shall hold and swayThe poet's dream shall wake a world for me. W. J. HENDErson.

-Harper's Weekly.

ON A PORTRAIT.

At seventeen she grew between

His gaze and some Old World romance: A face-seductive and serene

As all that old romance may mean-
With dark eyes waking from a trance.
At seventeen.

At twenty-one no song might run
More sweetly than his longing leapt
To her-whose loveliness begun
For him all song beneath the sun-
With eyes of brown whose laughter slept.
At twenty-one.

At thirty-two no dreams would do!

He loved this daughter of the South,
Whose eyes of blue his fancy drew,
What time the battles bugles blew
To dask him on the cannon's mouth.
At thirty-two.

MADISON CAWEIN. -Fetter's Southern Magazine, July, 1893.

A VISION OF BRAVE MEN.

I.

A VISION of brave men. From eldest time,
Of alien speech, of every race and clime!

Their deeds of valor flow and shine,
Like wind-blown torches in long line.

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To this one and that one, Do that and do this,
While your wishes fulfillment never shall miss,
May fill you with pleasure; but deeper the joy
Of doing a thing yourself, my boy-
Of doing a thing yourself.

Dreaming is pleasant, I know, my girl;
Dreaming is pleasant, I know.

To dream of that far-off, wonderful day
When you'll be a queen and hold full sway
Over hearts that are loyal and kind and just,
While your sweet "If you please" will mean "You
must!"

May fill you with joy; but you'll find pleasure's pearl
In doing for others yourself, my girl—

In doing for others yourself.

WILLIAM S. LORD. -The Independent, May 25, 1893.

NOTES.

DICKENS. The heroine of Dicken's novel of "The Old Curiosity Shop" is a beautiful and delicate creation, whose devotion to her grandfather, and childlike wisdom, sharpened to an unnatural extent, are beautiful, says a critic, in the extreme. The poetry of her death is still finer, and the very prose, if but divided into lines, will, as Mr. Horne pointed out in "The New Spirit of Age," form that kind of gracefully irregular blank verse which Southey and Shelley have used. The following is from the description of Little Nell's funeral, without the alteration of a word:

"When death strikes down the innocent and young,
From every fragile form, from which he lets

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WILSTACH. "Ocean Currents." As Longfellow in his "Seaweed" treats of the Atlantic agitated by equinoctial storm, so in the poem "Ocean Currents" an endeavor has been made to treat, in a similar metre of the Pacific warmed by the Southern current.

IBID. The Ballad of Rosalie. The incident whereon these verses are based may be found related in one of the earliest numbers of Blackwood's Magazine.

FREMONT. "The Wanderer" republished from Littel's Living Age, and ascribed by the New York Evening Post to General John C. Fremont.

MILLER. Elizabeth Henry Miller was born in Lexington, Va., December 2nd, 1859. Miss Miller can count among her ancestry some historic names: on her father's side, that of Jonathan Dickinson, founder and first President of Princeton College; while her mother, a daughter of Governor McDowell of Virginia, and niece of William C. Preston, the eloquent South Carolina Senator, had for grandfather the gallant Gen. William Campbell, who won the battle of King's Mountain in 1783; and for grandmother, Elizabeth Henry, a sister of Patrick Henry, of whom every schoolboy knows. Miss Henry was quite as remarkable in intellectual respects as her illustrious brother, whom she resembled in many of her traits. Thus Miss Miller, who was named after her, may be said to be entitled to her intellectual endowments by the law of heredity. The specimen of her poems published in this issue of the magazine was written by her before she had attained her twelfth year.

BUTTERWORTH. "The Banner that Welcomes the World," one of the most interesting features of the great naval and patriotic celebration at New York was the raising of the National flag at the Navesink Highlands. A flagstaff, 135 feet high, had been erected by the Lyceum League of America, which numbers 30,000 members; and on this was first hoisted the Paul Jones flag, "the original Stars and Strips made by the hands of patriotic women of Philadelphia during the days of the American Revolution." This was raised by Mrs. H. R. P. Stafford, a descendant of Paul Jones. It was then lowered and a beautiful flag, presented by the League, was raised by Mrs. Schuyler Hamilton, Honorary Regent of the New York State Daughters of the Revolution. Salutes were fired by the Miantonomoh, an oration was delivered by Mr. Amos P. Wilder, and "The Banner that Welcomes the World," written for the occasion by Mr. Hezekiah Butterworth, was read by Madame Alberti.

GREENWICH, CONNECTICUT, JUNE 30, 1893. TO EDITOR OF MAGAZINE OF POETRY: I send you with my regards, but oh, such sad regrets, a photograph of the plot and grave of my late gifted son, Francis Saltus Saltus, now resting in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. This entire plot of some eight hundred square feet, is entirely covered with flowers, the border in white, the body of plot in purple, and the grave (raised) in white. No adequate idea can be formed of its perfect beauty, without a personal view, but I assure you that the result is magnificent, regal and royal. It is but just that the grave of the poet should be covered with earthly flowers, who, when in life, gave utterance to so many "Flowers of Thought," that blossomed into perfect song.

Very sincerely yours, FRANCIS H. SALTUS. THOMAS. "A Vision of Brave Men" was read at the Fourth of July exercises at the Columbian Exposition.

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