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Beautiful eyes are those that show,
Like crystal panes where hearth-fires glow,
Beautiful thoughts that burn below.

Beautiful lips are those whose words
Leap from the heart like songs of birds,
Yet whose utterance prudence girds.

Beautiful hands are those that do
Work that is earnest and brave and true,
Moment by moment the long day through.

Beautiful feet are those that go
On kindly ministries to and fro-
Down lowliest way, if God wills it so.

Beautiful shoulders are those that bear
Ceaseless burdens of homely care
With patient grace and with daily prayer.

Beautiful lives are those that bless

Silent rivers and happiness,
Whose hidden fountains but few may guess.

Beautiful twilight, at set of sun,
Beautiful goal, with race well won,
Beautiful rest, with work well done.

Beautiful graves, where grasses creep,
Where brown leaves fall, where drifts lie deep
Over worn-out hands-Oh beautiful sleep!


THAT man is wisest who accepts his lot,

Yet mends it where he can-Glad if there grows Some lowly flower beside his lonely cot,

E'en while he plants and tends his Alpine rose.

Some good comes to us all. No poverty

But has some precious gift laid at its door. We scorn it, call it small; what fools are we, To spurn the less because it is not more!

There are some thirsty souls, all sick and faint
With longing for the cup that is denied; .

Would they but stoop and drink, without com


From the near stream, and so be satisfied.

There are some idle hands that reach afar
For wider mission, some great work of fame;
Would they but grapple in life's daily war,
Reward awaits them nobler than a name.

O thirsty souls! O hungry hearts, and hands,
Weary with idleness! take what you may
Of proffered good; accept life as it stands,
And make the most of its swift-fleeting day.


I HAVE my own ambition. It is not
To mount on eagle wings and soar away
Beyond the palings of the common lot,

Scorning the griefs and joys of every day;
I would be human-toiling, like the rest,
With tender human heart-beats in my breast.

Not on cold, lonely heights above the ken

Of common mortals would I build my fame, But in the kindly hearts of living men.

There, if permitted, would I write my name; Who builds above the clouds must dwell alone; I count good fellowship above a throne.

And so, beside my door I sit and sing

My simple strains-now sad, now light and gay;
Happy, if this or that but wake one string,

Whose low, sweet echoes give me back the lay.
And happier still, if girded by my song,
Some strained and tempted soul stands firm and

Humanity is much the same; if I

Can give my neighbor's pent-up thought a tongue, And can give voice to his unspoken cry

Of bitter pain, when my own heart is wrung,-
Then we two meet upon a common land,
And henceforth stand together, hand in hand.

I send my thought its kindred thought to greet,

Out to the far frontier, through crowded town.
Friendship is precious, sympathy is sweet;

So these be mine, I ask no laurel crown.
Such my ambition, which I here unfold;
So it be granted-mine is wealth untold.


There are some hungry hearts that well nigh break | PUSH back the curtains and fling wide the door; With the dull soreness of mere emptiness.

To fill the void and soothe the weary ache,

Shut not away the light nor the sweet air,
Let the checked sunbeams play upon the floor,
And on my head low bowed, and on my hair.

Let them but strive some other hearts to bless.

Would I could sing, in words of melody,

The hazy sweetness of this wondrous time! Low would I pitch my voice; the song should be A soft, low chant, set to a dreamy rhyme.

No loud, high notes for tender days like these! No trumpet tones, no swelling words of pride, Beneath these skies, so like dim summer seas, Where hazy ships of cloud at anchor ride

At peace are earth and sky, while softly fall The brown leaves at my feet. A holy palm Rests in a benediction over all.

O silent peace! O days of silent calm!

And passion, like the winds, lies hushed and still; A throng of gentle thoughts, sweet, calm and pure,

Knock at my door and lightly cross the sill. Would that their feet might stay, their reign endure !

But storms will come. The haze upon the hills Will yield to blinding gusts of sleet and snow; And, for this peace that all my being fills,

The tides of battle shall surge to and fro.

Life is a struggle: and 'tis better so.

Who treads its stormy steeps, its stony ways, And breasts its wintry blasts, must battling go. And yet-it hath its Indian summer days.


A woman's pity is a dangerous thing;—
Most when its softness is all mixed and blent
With woman's admiration. Such content
It hath of passion and of tenderness,
Which from its tearful dew luxuriant spring,
That she who feels needs double guardedness
O'er her heart's citadel; and all the more,
When in that heart lie mines of untold wealth
Unwrought by human hand. Its golden ore,
Unlocked, unguarded, yields to subtle stealth.


We call him strong who stands unmoved-
Calm as some tempest-beaten rock—
When some great trouble hurls its shock;
We say of him, His strength is proved:

But, when the spent storm folds its wings,
How bears he then Life's little things?

-Little Things.

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JOHN RUSKIN, M.A., LL.D., son of a London

wick Square, London, in February, 1819, and was educated privately, and at Christ Church, Oxford, where he gained the Newdigate Prize in 1839. He then devoted himself to painting, and worked under Copley Fielding and J. D. Harding. A pamphlet in defense of Turner and the modern English school of landscape painting was his first effort in the cause of modern art, and it was enlarged into a standard work, entitled "Modern Painters," the first volume of which appeared in 1843. The author's success as a writer on art was decided by the warm reception accorded to this volume, of which several editions have since been published. Mr. Ruskin's views, however, were combatted with bitter asperity by some of the art critics of the day, who resented with an affectation of contempt his free expression of dissent from the trammels of their school. In his second volume of "Modern Painters," written after a residence in Italy, and published in 1846, he took a much wider survey of the subject originally entered upon, including the works of the great Italian painters, and discussed at length the merits of their respective schools. This, his chief work, has been completed by the publication of three additional volumes, the last of which, published in 1860, contains illustrations by himself. Mr. Ruskin temporarily diverted his attention from the study of painting to that of architecture, and wrote "The Seven Lamps of Architecture," published in 1849, as a first result, followed by the first volume of "The Stones of Venice," in 1851, the second and third volumes of which appeared in 1853. The illustrations in the last-named productions, which excited some of the same professional hostility that his first publication evoked, displayed to much advantge his artistic powers. Mr. Ruskin has expounded his views both in lectures and in newspapers and reviews, having, as early as 1847, contributed articles to the Quarterly on Lord Lindsay's "Christian Art." In 1851 he advocated PreRaphaelitism in letters to the Times, and in 1853 he lectured in Edinburgh on Gothic architecture. In addition to the above-mentioned works, Mr. Ruskin has written "Notes on the Construction of Sheepfolds," the "King of the Golden River," a story for children, illustrated by Doyle, in 1851; "The Two Paths: Lectures on Architecture and Painting," in 1854; "Notes to Pictures in the Royal Academy, Nos. 1 to 5," in 1854-9; "Giotto and His Works in Padua," written in 1855 for the Arundel


Society, of which he is a member; Notes on the

Turner Collection," in 1857; "Cambridge School of Art," and "Lectures on Art: Political Economy of Art," in 1858; "Elements of Perspective," and "Lectures on Art: Decoration and Manufacture," in 1859; "Unto this Last: Four Essays," republished from the Cornhill Magazine, in 1862; "Ethics of the Dust: Ten Lectures;" "Sesame and Lilies: Two Lectures;" and "Study of Architecture in Our Schools," in 1865; "Crown of Wild Olive: Three, Lectures," in 1866; and "The Queen of the Air: Being a Study of the Greek Myths of Cloud and Storm." To the Art Journal he contributed the "Cestus of Aglaia,” and he has written for various periodicals. Mr. Ruskin was appointed Rede Lecturer, at Cambridge, in April, 1867, and the Senate conferred the degree of LL. D. upon him, May 15. He was also elected Slade Professor of Fine Art at Oxford, and in 1872 published "Aratra Pentelici: Six Lectures on the Elements of Sculpture, given before the University of Oxford in Michaelmas Term, 1870." In 1871 he proposed to devote $15,000 for the purpose of an endowment to pay a master of drawing in the Taylor Galleries, Oxford, and this handsome offer was, with some modifications, accepted by the University in January, 1872. He was re-elected to the Slade Professorship of Fine Art, March 1, 1876. A collection of his letters, with a preface by himself, was published in 1880, under the title of "Arrows of the Chase." In 1883 he was again elected Slade Professor, and at his inaugural lecture was received with unprecedented enthusiasm. So great was the crowd that thronged to hear his lectures that it was impossible to accommodate the audience, and Prof. Ruskin undertook to deliver each lecture twice. He was obliged to resign the post in 1884 on account of failing health. Of late he has been issuing, in parts, his autobiography, under the title of "Praeterita." In 1887 he published "Hortus Inclusus: Letters from Mr. Ruskin to the Ladies of the Thwaite." For several years he has lived in tranquil retirement at Brantwood, Coniston. G. W. M.


WHEN our delight is desolate,

And hope is overthrown;

And when the heart must bear the weight Of its own love alone;

And when the soul, whose thoughts are deep,
Must guard them unrevealed,
And feel that it is full, but keep

That fullness calm and sealed;

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Like the bow in the cloud that is painted so bright,

Like the voice of the nightingale, heard through the night,

Oh, sweet is remembrance, most sad though it be, For remembrance is all that remaineth for me.


From "Leoni; A Romance of Italy."

FULL, broad, and bright is the silver light
Of moon and stars on flood and fell;
But in my breast is starless night,
For I am come to say farewell.
How glad, how swift, was wont to be
The step that bore me back to thee;
Now coldly comes upon my heart
The meeting that is but to part.

I do not ask a tear, but while

I linger where I must not stay, Oh, give me but a parting smile,

To light me on my lonely way. To shine a brilliant beacon star, To my reverted glance, afar, Through midnight, which can have no morrow, O'er the deep, silent surge of sorrow.


And in its hollow height there hung
From a black bar, a brazen bell:
Its hugeness was traced clear and well
The slanting rays among.
Ever and anon it swung

Halfway round its whirling wheel;
Back again, with rocking reel,
Lazily its length was flung,
Till brazen lip and beating tongue
Met once, with unrepeated peal,
Then paused;--until the winds could feel

The weight of the wide sound that clung To their inmost spirit, like the appeal

Of startling memories, strangely strung, That point to pain, and yet conceal.

Again with single sway it rung,

And the black tower beneath could feel
The undulating tremor steal
Through its old stones, with long shiver,
The wild woods felt it creep and quiver
Through their thick leaves and hushed air,
As fear creeps through a murderer's hair.
And the gray reeds beside the river,
In the moonlight meek and mild,
Moved like spears when war is wild.
-The Broken Chain.

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ven, Waterford, Ireland,

September 1, 1849. Her father's name was McGrath, a man of wide reading and much originality of thought When Mary was six years old the family came to America, settling at Quincy, Mass. Her education was acquired in the public and private schools of Boston, and at the Convent of the Sacred Heart, Manhattanville, N. Y. In June, 1885, she married Dr. John G. Blake, who has long held a prominent position among Massachusetts medical men. Up to the present time Mrs. Blake has published the following works: "Poems," (Boston, 1881), which has passed to a second edition; "On the Wing," (Boston, 1883), a volume of letters of western travel, in its fifth edition; "Mexico," (Boston, 1888), a volume of travel, written in colaboration with Mrs. Margaret Sullivan; "A Summer Holiday," (Boston, 1890), an account of her European impressions; and "Verses Along the Way," (Boston and Dublin, 1890). Mrs. Blake has for many years contributed at frequent intervals to the Boston Journal, the "Rambling Talks," over the initials "M. E. B.," being one of its most valued features. Much of her work in essays and poems has appeared in the Catholic World, Lippincott's Magazine, the Independent, St. Nicholas, and Wide Awake. At the invitation of the Boston city government she wrote the poem read on the occasion of the Wendell Phillips Memorial Service in that city, and also the poem read on the occasion of similar honors paid to the memory of Admiral Porter. Mrs. Blake's verse is lyrical rather than epic or dramatic, and its quality deepens and strengthens as time goes on. A comparison carefully made of her two books of verse, published ten years apart, shows a marked advance both in substance and technique, and leads one to look for still stronger work from her in the future. O. F. A.


WHAT lacks the summer?
Not roses blowing,

Nor tall white lilies with fragrance rife,
Nor green things gay with the bliss of growing,
Nor glad things drunk with the wine of life,
Nor flushing clouds in blue skies shining,

Nor soft wind-murmurs to rise and fall, Nor birds for singing, nor vines for twiningThree little buds I miss, no more, That blossomed last year at my garden door. — And that is all.

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