O'ertaken by the storm and by it spurred
Upon the coast before its crew has heard

The breakers roar. And bells that ring and ring:
And happy, purling brooks that sing and sing,
Are like the Love whose grieving is deferred.
And Love is like a red rose that has lain
Out in the beating, bleaching autumn rain.

And what can Love do? Love? Why he can do
All things that are impossible. Why he

Can run when halt, when he is blind can see,
Can hear when deaf; and Love, oh! he can woo
If Chaos come, and flood and fire pass through
Unto his goal. I tell you, there can be

But one thing that he fails to hold, ah me! The hands of Death do wave him by, yet twoHe and the passing soul-together view

Eternity: therefore he conquers Death. Reply, my verse, that he can take the breath (If any ask again, what Love can do)

And, swift as thought and all secure from harms,
Can bear it straight up to its Maker's arms.

Alas! my verse, you cannot fitly round

Love's self; there is no measure to the way
He goes, and no decline unto his day;
For if in clouds he sinks below the bound
Of earth, he rises from its depths profound

Refulgent as the gods, lit with the ray Of memory. Nay, dear Love, nay and nay, You cannot die; what has been must be found Somewhere; what is, remains; the certain wound You give, doth by its scar keep well in mind Yourself. Oh! for the poet's might to bind Life's rhythmic flow, and earth's, and make them sound Love's name! Oh! for his power to give birth To a new word, to tell Love's perfect worth!

A FAREWELL

Not Hitherto Printed.

As in the wood oft, of a sudden, seems

To come a silence, though the branches there
Still smile in garish green and every air
Is safely lapped in soft Arcadian dreams;
Although the boughs with opalescent gleams
Are luminous, the scintillating trees

Are lonely; and, though musing, still the breeze Feels not the joys with which its fancy teems:

So unto us to-day has come a hush

Filling the pauses up, and we begin
To sort the silences that brood within
Our hearts; and as the silence of the thrush
Appals the leaves, to miss, amid the rush

Of life about us, that which used to lure
Our listening ears; your accents, gracious, pure,
And tender as the winsome dawn's first flush.

Dear Friend, as birds, however far they fly,
Recall their blossom-bowers, will you not think
Sometimes of us and let our friendship link
Nearness and distance with a lasting tie,
A perfumed ribbon of a memory,

As sweet as are these petalled symbols strewn About this mourning, beggared afternoon, These blooms with which we say to you goodbye?

MAPLE LEAVES

Not Hitherto Printed.

On smooth-skinned, sappy boughs of darker brown
The woolly wads of buds are folded down,
Each swaddled in a rumpled, fuzzy gown.

The chilling breezes cannot get to them,

Thus closely cuddled to the mother stem,

Their feet wrapped in their red frock's ruffled hem.

Betimes their yellow tendrils looser curl,
Betimes their fan-shaped follicles unfurl;
They're growing stealthily, as grows a girl.

Waked by the blue-bird's chirp, some balmy day,
They'll burst the sheaths that bind them and display
Themselves, green-kirtled, to the eyes of May.

UNFORGOTTEN

Not Hitherto Printed.

Early one morn, my casement through,
A thrush into my chamber flew.
Without, the June wind softly blew.

Perched on the window-sill, he sang.
My bosom felt a tender pang.
Else, all the air with gladness rang.

He flitted out and flew away;
But in my room, come any day,
I hear that throstle sing that lay.

HARRY STILLWELL EDWARDS

[1855- ]

MR

SIDNEY ERNEST BRADSHAW

R. EDWARDS writes: "My life has been a busy one but not eventful. In brief, as you will observe from the memoranda, I was thrown upon my own resources at fifteen and had to build on a common-school training by night work. My responsibilities have been many, but I don't regret that. In all issues and crises I have tried to face the sunrise, and to me still the most beautiful thing in the world of matter, or the world of mind, is the coming of light after hours of darkness." He first faced the East on April 23, 1855, in Macon, Georgia. His father was James Carson Edwards, whose poems and songs were well known before the Civil War; his mother was Elizabeth Griffing Hunt-and they were cousins. On both sides, the genealogical tree goes back to prominent families from England and Wales, members of which settled in New Jersey and on Long Island about 1650. Their names-Edwards, Stillwell, Hand, Griffing-appear frequently in Colonial history. Leaving school at fifteen, Harry went to work in a Government office in Washington, continued three years, and then resigned to return to Macon and keep books. By night work he managed to complete his studies and was given the degree of Bachelor of Laws by Mercer University in 1876. After a period of law practice and considerable experience in journalism—when he was connected with the Macon Telegraph in various capacities from reporter to editor and part owner-he began writing for the magazines in 1886. His first story, "Elder Brown's Backslide," was contributed to Harper's Monthly, and the second, "Two Runaways," to the Century Magazine. In the Century have also been published most of the sixty or seventy short stories since written. In addition, he is the author of two novels, 'Sons and Fathers,' and 'The Marbeau Cousins.' His genius has found expression not only in prose but in many songs and poems, notable among the former "Mammy's Little Boy," and among the latter, "Dixie" and "The Vulture and His Shadow." He resides at Holly Bluff, an extensive plantation near Macon, Georgia, and devotes himself to the writing of stories and political papers. Since 1900 he has been postmaster at Macon. Mr. Edwards is author of the epitaph on the monument at Richmond, Virginia, erected to the memory of the