EDWIN FRANCIS NASON.

THE gift of song, as we recognize it in the verses

of Edwin F. Nason, is both innate and cultivated. His more serious poems possess a certain spiritual fineness while breathing an under-current of poetic passion. His insight into life is keen and his subtle analysis of human experience appears most strikingly in his short poems.

Edwin Francis Nason comes of staunch New England parentage, his ancestors being among the earliest settlers of Maine and noted for their mental and moral qualities through many generations. He was born in Hallowell, October 22, 1851, and has been from boyhood a lover of books and an indefatigable student. At the age of fourteen, he entered the Nichol's Latin School, at Lewiston, Me., and graduated from Bates College with well deserved honors, in 1872. He at once adopted teaching as a profession, and, by his scholarly acquirements and his enthusiastic and conscientious devotion to his work, he has won an enviable reputation as an instructor, while wielding a strong and helpful influence over a large circle of studentfriends. He was, for six years, teacher of Latin and mathematics in the Lynden Literary Institute, Lynden, Vt., whence, resigning his position on account of ill-health, he removed, in 1885, to Augusta, Me., where he has since resided devoting his time to study and literary work.

The poetic talent of Mr. Nason was recogized during his college career. He delivered the commencement poem before the alumni of his alma mater in 1878, and was also chosen "poet" for the "Alumni Dinner" given in Boston, December, 1886. To the mention of his poetical productions, should be added that of other excellent work in the way of editorials, reviews and critical essays, all of which bear the stamp of literary ability and thoughtful scholarship. E. H. N.

POSSESSION.

WHY is it true that all the golden fruit,

We deemed so fair when shining on the tree, Turneth to ashes and to mockery

When we have plucked it from the parent shoot?

Is it, indeed, that owning is not blest?

That only seeking bears the golden meed? Is there no joy save in the eager greed, The wildering doubt, the mad despair of quest? Are there no heights that, once attained, fulfil Their radiant promise and content the soul That longs to see the dim horizon's roll To distance measureless, remote from ill?

Are there no islands girt by sunlit seas,

No summer-lands of music and of song, Where souls shall joy to dwell, nor tales of wrong Shall enter there to mar their restful ease?

Must the great gods forever jeer and mock?
Are there no giants who of yore made war?
Are Titans but a myth? Is there no law
Save that which rules the wave and earthquake's
shock?

Is life, then, but a shuttle without rest,

Aweary darting through a ceaseless loom? Is it a light that breaks beyond the tomb? Will heaven be less than heaven because possessed?

YESTERDAY.

O HAUNTING shade that flitted down the past,
Dim ghost that shuns the day-star's rising beam!
Art thou the type of every cherished dream?
Dost ever hint of joys that may not last?

I see thee crouching 'neath Time's chilling blast;
Gone are thy vestments, and thy jewels' sheen,
Withered thy roses, O, once stately queen,
Fled the illusions life around thee cast.

Alas! I can do naught save weep to see

Such piteous ruin of my heart's delight; Fairest wert thou of all the fair to me,

Yet now I sadly give thee to the night; Still ling'ring for a moment near to pray That Morrow's shade be not like Yesterday.

TO-DAY.

O RADIANT guest, who, decked in garmets fair,
Pausest upon the threshold of the morn!
Upon my waking eyes I see thee dawn,
With wine-red roses in thy shining hair.
Within their depths thine eyes hold secets rare;
Thy crimson lips, close-curved, yet not in scorn,
Will yield their treasures ere the night is born
To seize us mid its shadows unaware.

I would not give a single, dewy rose
From out the meshes of thy sunny locks,
E'en to be Paris when by Ida's snows,

With Oread fair, he tended alien flocks;
But fain would sing one rapt and tender lay
In praise of thee, O rare and sweet To-day!

TO-MORROW.

WHERE dost thou linger while we wait for thee
Mid the vague silences that hold the air,
The deep'ning hush that spreadeth everywhere
And wraps all nature in its mystery?

Let stars grow pale and waning swiftly flee,
Let darkness hide within her gloomy lair,
While thy rich banners, tinged with colors rare,
Fill all the sky with throbbing ecstasy.

Long have we looked for thee with anxious eyes
That bore no hopefulness in their unrest;
For night is irksome, none may hear our cries,
With thee and thee alone can we be blest;
Draw nigh to us while darkness hastes away,
That we may greet in thee the better day.

OMNIPRESENCE.

YES, Thou art everywhere! and nature's heart
Beats close to thine through all her varied way;
Not solely when in springtime's fair, sweet day
With smiles she wooes us to forget her art,
Nor yet when autumn flings a golden dart

Athwart the fields where summer hies away;
But e'en when winter, wrapped in clouds of gray,
Comes halting o'er the plain to claim his part.

So may my heart, like nature's, cling to Thee, Sweet Omnipresence! all my seasons through, So may it rise unto thy mystery,

Like exhalations of the morning dew,

Till, thrilled and softened by thy influence rare,
I, too, shall seek and find Thee everywhere.

BARS.

ACROSS the years I call to thee,

O love, my love! Canst thou not hear? Are earthly cries too faint? the space Too measureless for word of cheer?

Across the void I reach to thee,

O love, my love! Dost thou not know? Are outstretched hands too weak? the arms Of flesh too frail? Ah, bitter woe!

Along the ways I toil to thee,

O love, my love! Canst thou not see?
Are heavenly eyes too dim? their glance
Too highly set to shine for me?

Nor years, nor space, nor ways can bind-
O love, my love! this heart of mine:
Perchance I cannot hear-thy call

Drops through the vast where God's stars shine.

Perchance thou leanest down the ways-
O love, my love! I cannot see-
With arms outflung and eyes that glow
Amid thy calms with love for me.

The bars that hold our souls apart,

O love, my love! I cannot break: I can but wait and onward fare Until the higher life shall wake.

SONNET.

WHY do I love thee? Do you ask me this?
Why does the bird sing to the rising day,
Flooding the air with sweet, melodious lay,
Thrilling the listener's heart with rapturous blisss?
Why does the flower bloom 'neath the tender kiss
Of the life-giving sun? The green of May,
Quickened by falling showers, deftly array
The naked earth? I cannot tell. We miss
These finer meanings. We may only say
That glad birds sing while listening hearts are
thrilled,

That warm suns shine where flowers blossom gay,
That grasses drift the naked earth above;
And while my soul with ecstasy is filled,
Rev'rent I bow my head and say, "I love!"

UNFULFILLED.

THE springtime's promise in the air,
A flush of dawn upon the hills,
A sweep of wings, a bird-note rare;
And in the heart a hope that thrills.
A wintry breath that chills the day,
A fading light in sunset skies,
Nor flight of bird, nor warbled lay;
And in the heart a hope that dies.

SLEEP AND DEATH.

THE waves of sleep roll up the strand of night, We launch our dream skiffs on the lulling tide, And drift to morning shores where, clad in light, The new day waits with gifts the old denied.

The waves of death break on the beach of time, Our storm-swept barks upon their crests may glide

Through night and wailing winds to life's fair clime Where morn eternal pours its golden tide.

ON A PICTURE.

He looks at me from out the velvet frame,
The three-year-old with sober, steadfast eyes;
What seer so gifted as to rightly name

Their childish longing or their vague surmise?

MRS

ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

RS. ELLA WHEELER WILCOX was born in Johnstown Center, Wis. Her parents were poor, but from them she inherited a literary bent. Her education was received in the public schools of Windsor, that State, and in the University of Wisconsin. She began to write poetry and sketches very early, and at the age of fourteen years some of her articles were published in the New York Mercury. Two years later she had secured the appreciation of local editors and publishers, and from that time on she contributed largely to newspapers and periodicals. Soon after, she published "Drops of Water" (New York, 1872), a small volume on the subject of total abstinence. A miscellaneous collection of verse entitled "Shells" (1883), was not successful, and is now out of print. Her talents were used for the unselfish purpose of providing a comfortable home for her parents and caring for them during sickness, and perhaps to that may be due the fact that, although her poems were sometimes derided by the hypercritical, she has had the satisfaction of being a widely-read and much admired author, as also of receiving a good price and ready sale for all she produces. In 1884 she became the wife of Robert W. Wilcox, of Meridan, Conn., and since 1887 they have resided in New York City. Her other works are "Maurine" (Chicago, 1875); “Poems of Passion" (Chicago, 1883); "Mal Moulée," a novel, (New York, 1885), and "Poems of Pleasure" (Chicago, 1888). Of recent years she has published several novels and has written much for the syndicates. L. E. J.

SOLITUDE.

LAUGH, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;

For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,

But has trouble enough of its own.

Sing, and the hills will answer;

Sigh, it is lost on the air.

The echos bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice and men will seek you;

Grieve, and they turn and go.

They want full measure of all your pleasure,

But they do not need your woe.

Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad and you lose them all.

There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,

But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure

For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

THE FAULT OF THE AGE.

THE fault of the age is a mad endeavor

To leap to heights that were made to climb;
By a burst of strength, of a thought most clever,
We plan to forestall and outwit Time.

We scorn to wait for the thing worth having;
We want high noon at the day's dim dawn;
We find no pleasure in toiling and saving,
As our forefathers did in the old times gone.
We force our roses, before their season,

To bloom and blossom for us to wear;
And then we wonder and ask the reason
Why perfect buds are so few and rare.

We crave the gain, but dispise the getting;

We want wealth-not as reward, but dower; And the strength that is waisted in useless fretting Would fell a forest or build a tower.

To covet the prize, yet to shrink from the winning;
To thirst for glory, yet fear to fight;

Why what can it lead to at last, but sinning,
To mental languor and moral blight?
Better the old slow way of striving,

And counting small gains when the year is done, Than to use our force and our strength contriving, And to grasp for pleasure we have not won.

OPTIMISM.

I'm no reformer; for I see more light

Than darkness in the world; mine eyes are quick
To catch the first dim radiance of the dawn,
And slow to note the cloud that threatens storm.
The fragrance and beauty of the rose
Delight me so, slight thought I give the thorn;
And the sweet music of the lark's clear song,
Stays longer with me than the night-hawk's cry.
And even in this great throe of pain, called Life,
I find a rapture linked with each despair,
Well worth the price of Anguish. I detect
More good than evil in humanity.
Love lights more fires than hate extinguishes,
And men grow better as the world grows old.