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.

SONG.

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:-

"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."

FANNY PURDY PALMER.

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.

AT AN AFTERNOON TEA.

I Do not know why even yet
You meet me with a sigh,

It was your lips which said "Forget"
In those old days gone by.

We walked at sunset on surf-printed sands, Through August mornings in green woods we sate,

Nor knew the future entering even then
War's grim novitiate.

This year upon this stretch of Southern sand
I learn another lesson-stern and sad,
No loved-tuned whispers now but Moultrie's boom
For this-our Iliad.

Those were keen words, Klare. "You are free,” you said.

Well, shall you like your jewel-studded chain? And are you happy? Does no hope remote Plead against my disdain?

The freedom which you gave me back I hold,
I trust to no new love but liberty * * *
The long roll beats, vale, Klare. Now comrades
bold

Our lives for victory!

QUENCH NOT THE FIRES.

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

glow,

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 low

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.

ANTIGONE.

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!

OH, GREAT GREY WAVES.

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.

AT PORTSMOUTH, VA.

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.

*

But different scene and drearier view Where battle smoke obscures the blue My heart divines, and waits to hear News from the conflict raging near.

How can the morning shine so fair! How can the roses scent the air, When just at hand-upon the field— Our heroes fall-but do not yield!

This throbbing reveille of life
The bugle mocks with call to strife.
O, morning hopes! oh, hearts elate,
Whom willl to-day leave desolate!

M'

GEORGE KLINGLE.

RS. GEORGIANA KLINGLE HOLMES 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.

FROM BETHLEHEM TO JERUSALEM.

AFAR, Sweet song

Echoed one night, along

The plains of Bethlehem, and rung New, wondrous changes, tongue

Had never known Through all the centuries flown. And rapt, exultant time Took up the chime

Of angel voices, swelling in amaze, Redemption's natal song of praise.

All unaware

That such a royal gift her heart should bear, Fair Bethlehem slept that night, nor dreamed such

fate

Could fall to one of low estate,

I did not mean to desecrate the Name that thou didst bear

High Heaven, knowing all things, knows that I am guiltless there

I 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 cell

The 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 last!