M' SARAH HELEN WHITMAN. RS. SARAH HELEN WHITMAN was born in Providence, R. I., in 1803, and died there, June 27, 1878. She was the daughter of Nicholas Power. She was married to John Whitman, a lawyer, of Boston, Mass., in 1828. She lived in Boston until her husband died, in 1833, when she returned to Providence. There she devoted herself to literature. In 1848 she became conditionally engaged to Edgar A. Poe, but she broke the engagement. They remained friends. She contributed essays, critical sketches and poems to magazines for many years. In 1853 she published a colleciion of her works entitled, "Hours of Life, and Other Poems." In 1860 she published a volume entitled "Edger A. Poe and His Critics," in which she defended him from harsh aspersions. She was the joint author with her sister, Miss Anna Marsh Power, of "Fairy Ballads," "The Golden Ball," "The Sleeping Beauty" and "Cinderella" (1867). After her death a complete collection of her poems was published. H. A. V. Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow, Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground, With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow, The gentian nods, in dewy slumbers bound. Upon those soft, fringed lids the bee sits brooding, The little birds upon the hill-side lonely Flit noiselessly along from spray to spray, Silent as a sweet, wandering thought, that only Shows its bright wings and softly glides away. The scentless flowers, in the warm sunlight dreaming, Forget to breathe their fullness of delight; And through the trancèd woods soft airs are streaming Still as the dew-fall of the summer night. So, in my heart, a sweet, unwonted feeling Stirs, like the wind in ocean's hollow shell, Through all its secret chambers sadly stealing, Yet finds no words its mystic charm to tell. A STILL DAY IN AUTUMN. I LOVE to wander through the woodlands hoary, How through each loved, familiar path she lingers, Kindling the faint stars of the hazel, shining To light the gloom of Autumn's mouldering halls; With hoary plumes the clematis entwining, Where, o'er the rock, her withered garland falls. Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning Beneath dark clouds along the horizon rolled, Till the slant sunbeams, through their fringes raining, Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold. The moist winds breathe of crispèd leaves and flowers, In the damp hollows of the woodland sown, Mingling the freshness of autumnal showers With spicy airs from cedarn alleys blown. THE LAST FLOWERS. "The undying voice of that dead time, DOST thou remember that Autumnal day A trance of holy sadness seemed to lull I stood beside thee, and a dream of heaven Then the bright veil of fantasy was riven, I dared not listen to thy words, nor turn To meet the mystic language of thine eyes, I only felt their power, and in the urn Of memory, treasured their sweet rhapsodies. We parted, then, forever,—and the hours SONNETS TO EDGAR ALLEN POE. I. WHEN first I looked into thy glorious eyes, A spirit looked on me with eyes like thine. II. If thy sad heart, pining for human love, In its earth solitude grew dark with fear, Lest the high Sun of Heaven itself should prove Powerless to save from that phantasmal sphere Wherein thy spirit wandered-if the flowers That pressed around thy feet, seemed but to bloom In lone Gethsemanes, through starless hours, When all, who loved, had left thee to thy doom:Oh, yet believe, that, in that hollow vale, Where thy soul lingers, waiting to attain So much of Heaven's sweet grace as shall avail To lift its burden of remorseful pain,My soul shall meet thee and its Heaven forego Till God's great love, on both, one hope, one Heaven bestow. SCIENCE. WHILE the dull Fates sit nodding at their loom, The wild waltz-music wailing through the gloom, Like a pure hope nursed beneath sorrow's wing, It wreathes no brow in the festal hall; -The Trailing Arbutus. Ere youth with its auroral blooms BOR LEWIS MORRIS. ORN in Carmarthen in 1833. Mr. Lewis Morris was educated first at Cowbridge and Sherborne schools, and subsequently at Jesus College, Oxford. A learned scholar, a diligent student, he early attained the coveted honor of being placed in the first class in classics in the First Public Examination, in 1853. Two years later he was again placed in the first class in classics at the Final Examination. In 1858 he was awarded the Chancellor's Prize for the best English Essay. In the same year he took his degree of M. A., and in 1861 he was called to the bar at Lincoln's Inn, obtaining at that period a Certificate of Honor of the First Class. From this time forward till the year 1880, we find him practicing chiefly as a Conveyancing Counsel. In this year he was appointed on the Departmental Committee charged by the government to inquire into intermediate and higher education in Walesa post for which, by his deep and detailed knowledge of the educational deficiencies and requirements of that picturesque country, he was eminenlty qualified to lend very material and considerable assistance. Mr. Morris is, further, an Honorary Fellow of Jesus College, Honorary Secretary of the University College of Wales, a Knight of the Order of the Saviour of Greece, a Justice of the Peace for the County of Carmarthenshire, and Vice-Chairman of the Political Committee of the Reform Club. It was during the later years of his connection with the bar that Mr. Morris found time to set about the first of those classic contributions to poetic literature that have won him favor throughout the length and breadth of the land. Between the years 1871 and 1874 appeared three volumes of "Songs of Two Worlds," now in their thirteenth edition. "The Epic of Hades," stamps beyond all dispute its author's genius, belongs to a somewhat later period, and has already passed into its twenty-third edition. This was followed, in 1879, by "Gwen, a Drama in Monologue," and "The Ode of Life," both in their seventh edition. In 1883 came "Songs Unsung," in 1886, "Syria," a powerful drama of the Byzantine period, written for Miss Anderson, but, owing to the departure of that lady for America, not yet acted; and in 1887, "Songs of Britain," comprising Welsh legands of great beauty, which may one day become famous. All these, with the exception of the two last-named, were published anonymously as the productions of "A New Writer," and have only, within a comparatively recent period, made their appearance with the signature of their author. F. A. H. E. DEAR LITTLE HAND. DEAR little hand that clasps my own, To the poor strength of after-life- Dear little eyes which smile on mine Dear little voice, whose broken speech All eloquent utterance can transcend; Sweet childish wisdom strong to reach A holier deep than love or friend; Dear little voice! Dear little life! my care to keep THE TREASURE OF HOPE. O FAIR bird, singing in the woods, Thrill through thee ere thy song be done: Because the summer fleets so fast; Because the autumn fades so soon; O sweet maid, opening like a rose In love's mysterious, honeyed air, Dost think sometimes the day will come When thou shalt be no longer fair: When love will leave thee and pass on To younger and to brighter eyes; And thou shalt live unloved, alone, A dull life, only dowered with sighs? O brave youth, panting for the fight, To conquer wrong and win thee fame, Dost see thyself grown old and spent, And thine a still unhonored name: When all thy hopes have come to naught, And all thy fair schemes droop and pine And wrong still lifts her hydra heads To fall to stonger arms than thine? Nay; song and love and lofty aims The future veiled-the past forgot: They bend what shall be, to their will; And blind alike to doubt and dread, IT SHALL BE WELL. If thou shalt be in heart a child, It shall be well with thee indeed, It shall be surely well. Not, where, nor how, nor when we know, It shall be well with thee, oh, soul, CELUM NON ANIMUM. OH fair to be, oh sweet to be Oh happy fortune, on and on To wander far till care be gone, Round beetling capes, to unknown seas, Seeking the fair Hesperides! But is there any land or sea Where toil and trouble cease to be- Ah, not the feeling, but the sky We change, however far we fly; How swift soe'er our bark may speed, Faster the blessed isles recede. Nay, let us seek at home to find Fit harvest for the brooding mind, And find, since thus the world grows fair, Duty and pleasure everywhere. Oh well-worn road, oh homely way, Where pace our footsteps, day by day, Ye hold experiences which reach Depths which no change of skies can teach, ONE DAY. ONE day, one day, our lives shall seem And shall no hope nor longing come, If this be age, and age no more Recall the hopes, the fears of yore, The dear dead mother's accent mild, The lisping of the little child, Come, Death, and slay us ere the blood SONG. If ever, dear, I might at last the barren victory gain, After long struggle and laborious pain, And many a secret tear, To think, since think I must of thee, Not otherwise than thou of me. Haply I might Thy chilling coldness, thy disdain, thy pride, And I my too fond self despise, But now, alas, So fast a prisoner am I to my love, So sweet the caged hours pass, I would not willingly grow free. |