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“Oh brew me a potion strong and good!

One golden drop in his wine Shall charm his sense and fire his blood,

And bend his will to mine."

Not then she bids his trembling lips express
The aching gladness, the voluptuous pain.
Life is his poem then; flesh, sense and brain
One full-stringed lyre attuned to happiness.
But when the dream is done, the pulses fail,
The day's illusion, with the day's sun set,
He, lonely in the twilight, sees the pale
Divine Consoler, featured like Regret,
Enter and clasp his hand and kiss his brow.
Then his lips ope to sing--as mine do now.

Poor child of passion ! ask of me

Elixir of death or sleep, Or Lethe's stream; but love is free,

And woman must wait and weep.



What hast thou done to this dear friend of mine, Thou cold, white, silent Stranger? From my hand Her clasped hand slips to meet the grasp of thine; Her eyes that flamed with love, at thy command Stare stone-blank on blank air; her frozen heart Forgets my presence. Teach me who thou art, Vague shadow sliding 'twixt my friend and me.

I never saw thee till this sudden hour. What secret door gave entrance unto thee? What power is thine, o’ermastering Love's own


Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes com-

mand The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. “Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp !”cries

she With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door !"



OFT have I brooded on defeat and pain,
The pathos of the stupid, stumbling throng.
These I ignore to-day, and only long
To pour my soul forth in one trumpet strain,
One clear, grief-shattering, triumphant song,
For all the victories of man's high endeavor,
Palm-bearing, laureled deeds that live forever,
The splendor clothing him whose will is strong.
Hast thou beheld the deep, glad eyes of one
Who has persisted and achieved ? Rejoice!
On naught diviner shines the all-seeing sun.
Salute him with free heart and choral voice,
'Midst flippant, feeble crowds of spectres wan,
The bold, significant, successful man.

UPON the silver beach the undines dance

With interlinking arms and flying hair;
Like polished marble gleam their limbs left

Upon their virgin rites pale moonbeams glance.
Softer the music! for their foam-bright feet
Print not the moist floor where they trip their

round: Affrighted, they will scatter at a sound, Leap in their cool sea-chambers, nimbly fleet,


Not while the fever of the blood is strong,
The heart throbs loud, the eyes are veiled, no less
With passion than with tears, the Muse shall bless
The putt-soul to help and soothe with song.

And we shall doubt that we have ever seen,
While our same eyes behold stray wreaths of

mist, Shot with faint colors by the moon rays kissed, Floating snow-soft, snow-white, where these had

beenAlready, look! the wave-washed sands are bare, And mocking laughter ripples through the air.



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PHELPS WARD was born in Boston, Mass., August 31, 1844. Her father was Rev. Austin Phelps, professor of sacred rhetoric in Andover Theological Seminary. The family removed from Boston to Andover in 1848, and lived there until the death of Professor Phelps, in 1890. Professor Phelps was elected president of the seminary in 1869, and in 1879 he became professor emeritus. Elizabeth was a precocious, imaginative child, and her education was liberal and thorough. Her mother, Mrs. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, was an author of note. After the death of her mother, in 1852, Miss Phelps, who had been christened with another name, took her mother's name in full. She began to publish sketches and stories in her thirteenth year and her literary work was mingled with charitable, temperance and general reform work. In 1876 she delivered a course of lectures in the Boston Cniversity. Her published works are “Ellen's Idol,” (1864); “Up Hill,” (1865); “The Tiny Series,” (4 vols., 1866 to 1869); “The Gipsy Series,” (4 vols., 1866 to 1869); “I Don't Know How," (1867); • The Gates Ajar," (20 editions in the first year, 1868);

Men, Women and Ghosts,” (1868); “Hedged In, (1870); “The Silent Partner,” (1870); “The Frotty Book,” (1870); “Frotty's Wedding Tour," (1873); “What to Wear," (1873); “Poetic Studies,” (1875); “The Story of Avis,” (1877); “My Cousin and I, (1879); “Old Maids' Paradise,” (1879); “Sealed Orders,” (1879); “Friends: A Duet," (1881); “Beyond the Gates,” (1883); “Dr. Zay,” (1884); “The Gates Between,” (1887); and “Jack the Fisherman,” (1887). Besides her books, she has written many sketches, stories and poems for Harper's Magazine, The Atlantic Monthly, Youth's Companion, and other periodicals. Her most famous work is “The Gates Ajar,” which has passed through many large editions in the United States and Great Britain, and was translated into several European languages. In October, 1888, she became the wife of Rev. Herbert D. Ward. Since then she has published “The Master of the Magicians,” “Come Forth,” and “Fourteen to One,'' a volume of stories. She is a slight, delicate woman, and her health is not strong. In the summer she and her husband live in East Gloucester, Mass., and in the winter their home is in Newton Highlands. Her productions throughout are marked by elevated spirit and thoughtfulness. She is interested in all philanthropic work. circle of readers is constantly growing.

I. A. K.

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A MOMENT's grace, Pygmalion! Let me be
A breath's space longer on this hither hand
Or fate too sweet, too sad, too mad to meet.
Whether to be thy statue or thy bride-
An instant spare me! Terrible the choice,
As no man knoweth, being only man;
Nor any, saving her who hath been stone
And loved her sculptor. Shall I dare exchange
Veins of the quarry for the throbbing pulse ?
Insensate calm for a sure-aching heart?
Repose eternal for a woman's lot?
Forego God's quiet for the love of man?
To float on his uncertain tenderness,
A wave tossed up the shore of his desire,
To ebb and flow whene'er it pleaseth him;

Let her pass; it is her place. Death hath given her this grace.

Let her pass; she resteth well.
What her dreams are, who can tell?

Mute the steersman; why, if he Speaketh not a work, should we?


Dead, she drifteth to his feet.
Close, her eyes keep secrets sweet.

Living, he had loved her well.
High as Heaven and deep as Hell.

Remembered at his leisure, and forgot,
Worshipped and worried, clasped and dropped at

Or soothed or gashed at mercy of his will,
Now Paradise my portion, and now Hell;
And every single, several nerve that beats
In soul or body, like some rare vase, thrust
In fire at first, and then in frost, until
The fine, protesting fibre snaps ?

Oh, who,
Foreknowing, ever chose a fate like this?
What woman out of all the breathing world
Would be a woman, could her heart select,
Or love her lover, could her life prevent?
Then let me be that only, only one;
Thus let me make that sacrifice supreme,
No other ever made, or can, or shall.
Behold, the future shall stand still to ask,
What man was worth a price so isolate?
And rate thee at its value for all time.
For I am driven by an awful law.
See! while I hesitate, it mouldeth me,
And carves me like a chisel at my heart.
'Tis stronger than the woman or the man;
'Tis greater than all torment or delight;
'Tis mightier than the marble or the flesh.
Obedient be the sculptor and the stone !
Thine am I, thine at all the cost of all
The pangs that woman ever bore for man;
Thine I elect to be, denying them;
Thine I elect to be, defying them;
Thine, thine I dare to be, in scorn of them;
And being thine forever, bless I them !

Yet that voyage she stayeth not. Wait you for her, Launcelot ?

Oh! the river floweth fast. Who is justified at last ?

Locked her lips are. Hush! If she Sayeth nothing, how should we?


Pygmalion! Take me from my pedestal,
And set me lower-lower, Love !—that I
May be a woman, and look up to thee;
And looking, longing, loving, give and take
The human kisses worth the worst that thou
By thine own nature shalt inflict on me.

For the faith that is not broken

By the burden of the day;
For the word that is not spoken

(Dearest words are slow to say); For the golden draught unproffered

To the thirst that thirsteth on; For the hand that is not offered

When the struggling strength is gone; For the sturdy heart that will not

Make a pauper of my need; Friend, I mean sometime to thank you,

From my soul, in truth and deed. Wait! Some day, when I am braver, I will do so—say so.

Now (Oh! be tender!) I am tired;

I have forgotten how.


DEAD, she drifted to his feet.
Tell us, Love, is Death so sweet?

Oh! the river floweth deep. Fathoms deeper is her sleep.


Oh! the current driveth strong. Wilder tides drive souls along.

Drifting, though he loved her not, To the heart of Launcelot,

I THINK if I should cross the room,

Far as fear; Should stand beside you like a thought

Touch you, Dear!


Like a fancy. To your sad heart

It would seem That my vision passed and prayed you,

Or my dream.


Then you would look with lonely eyes-

Lift your headAnd you would stir, and sigh, and say

“She is dead."

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Baffled by death and love, I lean

Through the gloom. O Lord of life! am I forbid

To cross the room?


ALL the rivers run into the sea."
Like the pulsing of a river,
The motion of a song,

Wind the olden words along
The tortuous turnings of my thoughts whenever

I sit beside the sea.

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"All the rivers run into the sea."
O you little leaping river,
Laugh on beneath your breath!

With a heart as deep as death, Strong stream, go patient, grave, and hasting never, —

I sit beside the sea.


poet and painter, and usually known as Dante Gabriel Rossetti, was the second child of Gabriele and Frances Rossetti, and was born in London on the 12th of May, 1828. When only five years old he distinguished himself from the childish crowd by actually writing down an attempt at dramatic composition. He cannot have been more than seven years of age when he was sent to the private school of the Rev. Mr. Paul, in Foley Street, London, for already, in 1835, his education appears to have been transferred to King's College School. Here he remained until 1843, having in the meantime written some verse, and shown a strong bent towards painting. A literary composition of his thirteenth or fourteenth year owes its preservation to the same cause as that which gave us his sister's early poems. “Sir Hugh the Heron: a Legendary Tale, in Four Parts," was privately printed by his grandfather in 1843. From the time of attaining his fourteenth year he was instructed in art at Cary's Art Academy (Bloomsbury) until 1846, when he entered the Antique School of the Royal Academy. The notable poems “My Sister's Sleep” and “The Blessed Damozel” were composed before he was nineteen years old, though not published till 1850. After quitting the schools of the Royal Academy, he became the pupil of Mr. Ford Madox Brown; but it was not till he left that artist's studio and took one jointly with Mr. Holman Hunt that he commenced his early picture, “The Girlhood of the Virgin," exhibited in 1849 at the Portland Gallery. He visited Antwerp, Bruges and Ghent in this early period of his career, and was greatly influenced by what he then saw of the work of Memling and Van Eyck; and about the same time he wrote “Hand and Soul,” the most considerable piece in prose which he has left us. Shortly afterwards the celebrated Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, of which he was the leading spirit, was founded; and in 1850 Rossetti co-operated with his brother and sister and a small band of earnest young men in the issue of that extraordinary publication the Germ, the first organ of Pre-Raphaelitism. From that time until 1870 he worked on, practically unknown to the public either as artist or as poet, though familiar to a few as a genius in the foremost rank among contemporaries. The work of his pencil, eagerly acquired by private clients, came but rarely where the general public could see it, and while deeply influencing the tone and tendency of English art, he seems to have been content to remain, so to

"All the rivers run into the sea."
Why the passion of a river?
The striving of a soul ?

Calm the eternal waters roll
Upon the eternal shore. At last, whatever

Seeks it-finds the sea.

"All the rivers run into the sea. O thou bounding, burning river, Hurrying heart! I seem

To know (so one knows in a dream) That in the waiting heart of God forever,

Thou too shalt find the sea.


Though all the wine of life be lost,

Try well the red grape's hue. Holy the soul that cannot taste The false love for the true.

- Parted.

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speak, a living tradition, except to his clients and intimates. In 1856 he contributed a few poems to the Germ's successor, the more lasting but yet short-lived Oxford and Cambridge Magazine, and in 1861 he published one of the most remarkable collections of poetic translations ever given to the world, “The Early Italian Poets, from Ciullo d'Alcamo to Dante Alighirri,” a volume which includes a version of the “Vita Nuova.” At that time he had by him a considerable collection of original poetry, on which he had bestowed that earnest thought and ceaseless revision characteristic of all his work; and of this poetry he now designed to offer the reading public a selection. In 1860 he had married Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal, who died in February, 1862, suddenly, and in somewhat tragic circumstances. The greater part of the poems intended for the public, but then still in manuscript, he impulsively brought together and laid as a last offering in his wife's coffin, in which they were accordingly buried. In time, however, he let himself be persuaded to recall this seemingly irrevocable sacrifice, and eventually the precious manuscripts were exhumed and revised for publication. In 1870 appeared the volume entitled “Poems," which contains “Dante at Verona," “Sister Helen,” “The Burdens of Ninevah,” "Jenny,” “A Last Confession,” and many of the wonderful sonnets of “The House of Life," a volume which at once met with an acceptance as wide and warm as it was unprecedented in its suddenness. Of this volume he made more than one revision; in 1874 he republished his translations, “revised and re-arranged” under the new title of “Dante and His Circle," and in 1881 he issued a second collection of original poetry, entitled “Ballads and Sonnets," at the same time reediting the "Poems," and redistributing the contents of the two volumes. Shortly after the issue of this definitive edition of his poems, Rossetti's health, which had once before completely broken down, gave way, and after a few months all hope of its restoration was at an end. He died on Easter Sunday, 1882, at Westgate-on-Sea, and was buried in the neighboring churchyard of Birchington.

H. B. F.

It was the rampart of God's house

That she was standing on;
By God built over the sheer depth

The which is Space begun;
So high, that looking downward thence

She scarce could see the sun.

It lies in Heaven, across the flood

Of ether, as a bridge. Beneath, the tides of day and night

With flame and darkness ridge The void, as low as where this earth

Spins like a fretful midge.

Around her, lovers, newly met

'Mid deathless love's acclaims, Spoke evermore among themselves

Their rapturous new names; And the souls mounting up to God

Went by her like thin flames.

And still she bowed herself and stooped

Out of the circling charm; Until her bosom must have made

The bar she leaned on warm, And the lilies lay as if asleep

Along her bended arm.


The blessed damozel leaned out

From the gold bar of Heaven;
Her eyes were deeper than the depth

Of waters stilled at even;
She had three lilies in her hand,

And the stars in her hair were seven.

From the fixed place of Heaven she saw

Time like a pulse shake fierce
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove

Within the gulf to pierce
Its path; and now she spoke as when

The stars sang in their spheres.

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