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Robert Buchanan.

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,

How shall ye keep frae harm?
What hand will gie ye bread?

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,
Is hard on my bairu and me,

And I melt in his breath like snaw."
"O mither, dinna dee!"

"O bairn, it is but closing up the een,
And lying down never to rise again.
Many a strong man's sleeping hae I seen,-
There is nae pain!

I'm weary, weary, and I scarce ken why;
My summer has gone by,

And sweet were sleep, but for the sake o' thee." "O mither, dinna dee!"

HERMIONE; OR, DIFFERENCES ADJUSTED.
Wherever I wander, up and about,
This is the puzzle I can't make out-
Because I care little for books, no doubt:

I have a wife, and she is wise,

Deep in philosophy, strong in Greek;
Spectacles shadow her pretty eyes,

Coteries rustle to hear her speak;
She writes a little-for love, not fame;
Has published a book with a dreary name;

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-
Plagues me at daytime, racks me in bed,

Haunts me and makes me appear so small.
The only answer that I can see
Is-I could not have married Hermione
(That is her fine wise name), but she
Stooped in her wisdom and married me.

For I am a fellow of no degree,
Given to romping and jollity;

The Latin they thrashed into me at school
The world and its fights have thrashed away;

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 kind of study that I think fine
Is a chapter of Dickens, a sheet of the Times,
When I lounge, after work, in my easy chair;
Punch for humor, and Praed for rhymes,

And the butterfly mots blown here and there
By the idle breath of the social air.

A little French is my only gift,
Wherewith at times I can make a shift,
Guessing at meanings to flutter over
A filagree tale in a paper cover.

Hermione, my Hermione!

What could your wisdom perceive in me? And Hermione, my Hermione!

How does it happen at all that we

Love one another so utterly?

Well, I have a bright-eyed boy of two,

And I know she deems me (oh, the jest!) The cleverest fellow on all the earth!

And Hermione, my Hermione,
Nurses her boy and defers to me;
Does not seem to see I'm small-
Even to think me a dunce at all!
And wherever I wander, up and about,
Here is the puzzle I can't make out-
That Hermione, my Hermione,

In spite of her Greek and philosophy,
When sporting at night with her boy and me,
Seems sweeter and wiser, I assever-
Sweeter and wiser, and far more clever,
And makes me feel more foolish than ever,
Through her childish, girlish, joyous grace,
And the silly pride in her learned face!

That is the puzzle I can't make out-
Because I care little for books, no doubt;
But the puzzle is pleasant, I know not why;
For whenever I think of it, night or morn,

I thank my God she is wise, and I
The happiest fool that was ever born!

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,

A darling who cries with lung and tongue, about And up above the still blue sky,

As fine a fellow, I swear to you,

As ever poet of sentiment sung about!
And my lady-wife, with serious eyes,
Brightens and lightens when he is nigh,
And looks, although she is deep and wise,
As foolish and happy as he or I!

And I have the courage just then, you see,
To kiss the lips of Hermione—

Those learned lips that the learned praise-
And to clasp her close as in sillier days;
To talk and joke in a frolic vein,

To tell her my stories of things and men ;
And it never strikes me that I'm profane,
For she laughs, and blushes, and kisses again,
And, presto! fly goes her wisdom then!
For boy claps hands and is up on her breast,
Roaring to see her so bright with mirth,

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 Fanny is dumb and I am blind.

Fanny is sweet thirteen, and she

Has fine black ringlets and dark eyes clear,

And I am older by summers three

Why should we hold one another so dear? Because she cannot utter a word,

Nor hear the music of bee or bird,

The water-cart's splash or the milkman's call! Because I have never seen the sky,

Nor the little singers that hum and fly--
Yet know she is gazing upon them all!

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—
I made it of music long ago:

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!

And Fauny, my little one, always near! And though I am weakly, and can't live long, And 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
Be your thin monotone, your brows flower-crowned,
Your backward-looking faces; for ye mar
The pregnant time with silly sooth of sound,
With flowers around the feverish temples bound,
And withering in the close air of the feast.
Take all the summer pleasures ye have found,
While Circe-charmed ye turn to bird and beast.
Meantime I sit apart, a lonely wight

On this bare rock amid this fitful Sea,
And in the wind and rain I try to light
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 autumn'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 everywhere To give some other breath.

There's not a flower that glads the spring
But blooms upon the grave

Of its dead parent seed, o'er which
Its forms of beauty wave.

The oak, that like an ancient tower Stands massive on the heath, Looks out upon a living world,

But strikes its roots in death.

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,
And flung its shadows down,
But on its heaven-side gleamed some ray,
Forming a sunshine crown.

It is dark on only the downward side:
Though rage the tempest loud,
And scatter its terrors far and wide,
There's light upon the cloud.

And often, when it traileth low,
Shutting the landscape out,
And only the chilly east-winds blow
From the foggy seas of doubt,

There'll come a time, near the setting sun, When the joys of life seem few,

A rift will break in the evening dun, And the golden light stream through.

And the soul a glorious bridge will make
Out of the golden bars,

And all its priceless treasures take
Where shine the eternal stars.

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 Campaneila" (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

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
With rose-wreaths and with clematis and vine,
And violets that smile in winter, blooms:
Sun, moon, and stars in sweet procession shine
Above thy shadeless grave: the waves divine
Gleam like a silver shield beneath; the bare
Broad hills o'erhead, defining the free air,

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!
For in thy tombless city of the dead
Sunrising and sunsetting, and the mirth

Of spring-time and of summer, and our red Rose-wreaths are swallowed in the streams that Supreme of Light ineffable from Him, [spread Matched with whose least of rays our sun is dim.

Oh, blessed! It is for us, not thee, we grieve! Yet even so, ye voices, and yon tide

Of souls inuumerous 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

The phantom world is woven :-Yet thrice praise
For him who frees us! Surely we shall gain,
As guerdon for the exile of these days,
Oneness with Thee; and as the drops of rain,
Cast from the sobbing cloud in summer's pain,
Resume their rest in ocean, even so we,
Lost for awhile, shall find ourselves in Thee.

FROM "SONNETS ON THE THOUGHT OF DEATH."

III.

Deep calleth unto deep: the Infinite
Within us to the Infinite without
Cries with an inextinguishable shout,
In spite of all we do to stifle it.
Therefore Death in the coming gloom hath lit
A torch for Love to fly to. Dread and Doubt
Vanish like broken armies in the rout
When the swords splinter and the hauberks split.
But in the interval of crossing spears
There is a stagnant dark, where all things seem
By frauds encompassed and confused with fears:
Herein we live our common lives, and dream;
Yet even here, remembering Love, we may
Look with calm eyes for Death to summon day.

IV.

Can dissolution build? Shall death amend
Chaos on chaos hurled of human hope,
Co-ordinate our efforts with our scope,

And in white light the hues of conflict blend?-
Alas! we know not where our footsteps tend;
High overhead the unascended cope

Is lost in ether, while we blindly grope
'Mid mist-wreaths that the warring thunders rend.-
Somehow, we know not how; somewhere, but where
We know not; by some hand, we know not whose,
Joy must absorb the whole wide world's despair.
This we call Faith: but if we dare impose
Form on this faith, we shall but beat the air,
Or build foundations on the baseless ooze.

IX.

Onward forever flows the tide of Life,
Still broadening, gathering to itself the rills
That made dim music in the primal hills,
And tossing crested waves of joy and strife.
We watch it rising where no seeds are rife,
But fire the elemental vortex fills;
Through plant and beast it streams, till human wills
Unfold the sanctities of human life.

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