ZADEL BARNES GUSTAFSON.-ROBERT BUCHANAN. And they who found them say, in death Each on the other smiled. Robert Buchanan. 907 A native of Scotland, Buchanan was born in 1841, and educated at the High School and University of Glasgow. He published a volume of poems called "Undertones" in 1860; "Idyls of Inverburn" (1865); "London Poems" (1866); "The Drama of Kings" (1871); "Celtic Mystics" (1877), etc. Fluent, versatile, and facile in his style, he has made his mark as a poet of no ordinary power. As he has youth on his side, he may live to surpass all that he has yet done. His poems are published by Roberts Brothers, Boston. DYING. "O bairn, when I am dead, What fire will keep ye warm? How shall ye dwell on earth awa' frae me?" "O mither, dinna dee!" "O bairn, by night or day I hear nae sounds ava', But voices of winds that blaw, And the voices of ghaists that say, Come awa'! come awa'! The Lord that made the wind and made the sea, And I melt in his breath like snaw." "O bairn, it is but closing up the een, I'm weary, weary, and I scarce ken why; And sweet were sleep, but for the sake o' thee." "O mither, dinna dee!" HERMIONE; OR, DIFFERENCES ADJUSTED. I have a wife, and she is wise, Deep in philosophy, strong in Greek; Coteries rustle to hear her speak; And yet (God bless her!) is mild and meek. And how I happened to woo and wed A wife so pretty and wise withal Is part of the puzzle that fills my head- Haunts me and makes me appear so small. For I am a fellow of no degree, The Latin they thrashed into me at school At figures alone I am no fool, And in city circles I say my say, But I am a dunce at twenty-nine, And the butterfly mots blown here and there A little French is my only gift, Hermione, my Hermione! What could your wisdom perceive in me? How does it happen at all that we Love one another so utterly? Well, I have a bright-eyed boy of two, A darling who cries with lung and tongue, about As fine a fellow, I swear to you, As ever poet of sentiment sung about! And I have the courage just then, you see, Those learned lips that the learnéd praise- To tell her my stories of things and men; And I know she deems me (oh, the jest!) The cleverest fellow on all the earth! And Hermione, my Hermione, In spite of her Greek and philosophy, That is the puzzle I can't make out- I thank my God she is wise, and I LANGLEY LANE. In all the land, range up, range down, Is there ever a place so pleasant and sweet As Langley Lane in London town, Just out of the bustle of square and street? Little white cottages all in a row, Gardens where bachelors'-buttons grow, Swallows' nests in roof and wall, And up above the still blue sky, Where the woolly white clouds go sailing by,I seem to be able to see it all! For now, in summer, I take my chair, And sit outside in the sun, and hear The distant murmur of street and square, And the swallows and sparrows chirping near; And Fanny, who lives just over the way, Comes running many a time each day With her little hand's touch so warm and kind, And I smile and talk, with the sun on my cheek, And the little live hand seems to stir and speakFor Fauny is dumb and I am blind. Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she Has fine black ringlets and dark eyes clear, ROBERT BUCHANAN.-MINOT JUDSON SAVAGE. And I am older by summers three Why should we hold one another so dear? The water-cart's splash or the milkman's call! For the sun is shining, the swallows fly, The bees and the blueflies murmur low, And I hear the water-cart go by, With its cool splash-splash down the dusty row; And the little one close at my side perceives Mine eyes upraised to the cottage eaves, Where birds are chirping in summer shine, And I hear, though I cannot look, and she, Though she cannot hear, can the singers seeAnd the little soft fingers flutter in mine! Hath not the dear little hand a tongue, When it stirs on my palm for the love of me? Do I not know she is pretty and young? Hath not my soul an eye to see?— 'Tis pleasure to make one's bosom stir, To wonder how things appear to her, That I only hear as they pass around; And as long as we sit in the music and light, She is happy to keep God's sight, And I am happy to keep God's sound. Why, I know her face, though I am blind— Strange large eyes and dark hair twined Round the pensive light of a brow of snow: And when I sit by my little one, And hold her hand and talk in the sun, And hear the music that haunts the place, I know she is raising her eyes to me, And guessing how gentle my voice must be, And seeing the music upon my face. Though, if ever the Lord should grant me a prayer, (I know the fancy is only vain,) I should pray,-just once, when the weather is fair, To see little Fanny and Langley Lane; Though Fanny, perhaps, would pray to hear The voice of the friend that she holds so dear, The song of the birds, the hum of the streetIt is better to be as we have beenEach keeping up something, unheard, unseen, To make God's heaven more strange and sweet! Ah! life is pleasant in Langley Lane! There is always something sweet to hear, Chirping of birds or patter of rain! 909 And Fanny, my little one, always near! And though I am weakly, and can't live long, Aud Fanny, my darling, is far from strong, And though we can never married beWhat then-since we hold one another so dear, For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear, And the pleasure that only one can see? TO TRIFLERS. FROM "FACES ON THE WALL." Go, triflers with God's secret. Far, oh far On this bare rock amid this fitful Sea, A little lamp that may a Beacon be, Whereby poor ship-folk, driving through the night, May gain the Ocean-course, and think of me! Minot Judson Savage. AMERICAN. A native of Norridgewock, Me., Savage was born June 10th, 1841, and graduated at the Bangor Theological Seminary in 1864. Trained in the Orthodox Church, he began to preach in October of that year in a school-house in San Mateo, Cal. In 1873 he left orthodoxy, and was pastor over the Third Unitarian Church in Chicago, where he remained one year, when he was called to the pulpit in Boston, where he has presided (1880) six years. He is the author of "Christianity the Science of Manhood" (1873); "The Religion of Evolution" (1876); "Light on the Cloud" (1879); "Bluffton: a Story of To-day," " ""Life Questions," "The Morals of Evolution," "Talks about Jesus" (1880), etc. There has been also for several years. a weekly issue of his sermons. LIFE FROM DEATH. Had one ne'er seen the miracle Of May-time from December born, Who would have dared the tale to tell That 'neath ice-ridges slept the corn? White death lies deep upon the hills, And moanings through the tree-tops go; The exulting wind, with breath that chills, Shouts triumph to the unresting snow. My study window shows me where On hard-fought fields the summer died; Its banners now are stripped and bare Of even autumu's fading pride. Yet, on the gust that surges by, I read a pictured promise; soon The storm of earth and frown of sky Will melt into luxuriant June. LIFE IN DEATH. New being is from being ceased; No life is but by death; Something's expiring every where To give some other breath. There's not a flower that glads the spring Of its dead parent seed, o'er which The oak, that like an ancient tower The cattle on a thousand hills Clip the sweet herbs that grow Rank from the soil enriched by herds Sleeping long years below. To-day is but a structure built Upon dead yesterday; And Progress hews her temple-stones From wrecks of old decay. Then mourn not death: 'tis but a stair Built with divinest art, Up which the deathless footsteps climb Of loved ones who depart. But over it sometimes shadows lie In a chill and songless air. But never a cloud o'erhung the day, It is dark on only the downward side: And often, when it traileth low, There'll come a time, near the setting sun, A rift will break in the evening dun, And the soul a glorious bridge will make And all its priceless treasures take John Addington Symonds. One of the new Victorian poets, Symonds has written verses that show unquestionable power in dealing with the great problems of life and death. He is the author of "Studies of the Greek Poetry, in Two Series,” which appeared in 1876, and was republished by Harper & Brothers; "Sketches in Italy and Greece" (1879); "Sketches and Studies in Italy" (1879); "Sonnets of Michael Angelo Buonarotti and Tomaso Campanella" (1878); "Many Moods, a Volume of Verse" (1878); New and Old, a Volume of Verse" (1880). The poems have been republished by James R. Osgood & Co., Boston. In the Preface to "Many Moods," Symonds speaks of himself as "condemned by ill-health to long exile, and deprived of the resources of serious study." The themes of the volume are Love, Friendship, Death, and Sleep; and the fresh thoughtfulness with which they are treated distinguishes the book as one of the rare productions of the day. His poems on Greek themes in "New and Old" show high scholarly culture. LIGHT ON THE CLOUD. There's never an always cloudless sky, There's never a vale so fair, IN THE MENTONE GRAVEYARD. Between the circling mountains and the sea Rest thou.-Pure spirit, spirit whose work is done. Here to the earth whate'er was left of thee JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. Mortal, we render. But beyond the sun And utmost stars, who knows what life begun Even now, nor ever to be ended, bright With clearest effluence of unclouded light, Greets thee undazzled?-Lo! this place of tombs Enclose a temple of the sheltering skies To roof thee. Noon and eve and lustrous night, The sunset thou didst love, the strong sunrise That filled thy soul erewhile with strange delight, Still on thy sleeping clay shed kisses bright; But thou-oh, not for thee these waning powers Of morn and evening, these poor paling flowers, These narrowing limits of sea, sky, and earth! Of spring-time and of summer, and our red Oh, blessed! It is for us, not thee, we grieve! Yet even so, ye voices, and yon tide Of souls innumerous that panting heave To rhythmic pulses of God's heart, and hide Beneath your myriad booming breakers wide The universal Life invisible, Give praise! Behold, the void that was so still Breaks into singing, and the desert cries Praise, praise to Thee! praise for Thy servant Death, The healer and deliverer! from his eyes Flows life that cannot die; yea, with his breath The dross of weary earth he winnoweth, Leaving all pure and perfect things to be Merged in the soul of Thine immensity! Praise, Lord, yea, praise for this our brother Death! Though also for the fair mysterious veil Of life that from Thy radiance severeth Our mortal sight, for these faint blossoms frail Of joy on earth we cherish, for the pale Light of the circling years, we praise Thee too:Since thus as in a web Thy spirit through 911 The phantom world is woven :-Yet thrice praise FROM "SONNETS ON THE THOUGHT OF DEATH." III. Deep calleth unto deep: the Infinite IV. Can dissolution build? Shall death amend And in white light the hues of conflict blend?- Is lost in ether, while we blindly grope IX. Onward forever flows the tide of Life, Through plant and beast it streams, till human wills |