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O soul most beautiful, and loving heart!
O bright, wild bird, — now crooning on

thy nest, Now soaring, sped by a divine unrest, How Nature speaks through thy perfected

Art! -
Till from our eyes ecstatic tears do start,

Till all our soul and senses are possest,

And we must weep or smile at thy behest, And in thine ever changing mood take part, Like watchers on enchanted Mount, who see

Fair visions pass at a magician's call, The fairer for their cloud of mystery, —

Who feel the necromancer's spell and fall Entranced beneath its pow'r, nor would be

free, So deep the rapture and so sweet the thrall!

Zitella Cocke.


Play on, play on, the low lights wane,

So, softly, softly play!

For your fingers draw me away, away,

And dreamland comes again. Are you ’ware of little stars in a pale sky!

Play on, — and say no word! There is scarce the breath of a midnight sigh,

Or a frond of the fern-wood stirred; Was there ever a night so magic still?

Only a low moon is peeping

Through the sway of aspens sleeping, And a ripple frets the rushes in the rill: Are you 'ware of little feet upon the grass,

Tripping, rushing,

Hardly brushing
Any feather of the frailest as they pass,
Of a twinkle of infinite tiny feet,

And the kissing of tiny kisses?
Never was night so summer-sweet

Blessed of the moon as this is!
They are threading in endless mazes,

Lifting the drowsy fold
Of the lids of the sleeping daisies

For a look at the eyes of gold:
Gossamer robes of delicate weft

Cling light on the moony air, Rosy petals, a pardoned theft,

Are bound on the streaming hair ;Now round and round in a linking chain,

Round and round and away again!
They are dancing to the ripple they are mov-

ing, Keeping time to the glinting of the star; There's a glowworm for the lantern of their

loving, And wedding-bells are ringing where the

heather-flowers are.

Can you hear their little voices? You would

If it were not for the ripple on the stream:
Still, for a moment, now you hear,
Marvellous sweetly, clear and near,

Under that silver beam,
Songs of a wonder-world, my dear,
World of a wonder-dream.

Sir Rennell Rodd.


When the great organs, answering each to

each, Joined with the violin's celestial speech, Then did it seem that all the heavenly host Gave praise to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost: We saw the archangels through the ether

winging; We heard their souls go forth in solemn sing

ing; Praise, praise to God,” they sang, “through

endless days, Praise to the Eternal One, and nought but

praise;" And as they sang the spirits of the dying Were upward borne from lips that ceased their

sighing; And dying was not death, but deeper living Living, and prayer, and praising and thanksgiving!

Richard Watson Gilder.



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A dream of interlinking hands, of feet
Tireless to spin the unseen, fairy woof,
Of the entangling waltz, Bright eyebeams

Gay laughter echoes from the vaulted roof.
Warm perfumes rise; the soft unflickering


Of branching lights sets off the changeful

charms Of glancing gems, rich stuffs, the dazzling


Of necks unkerchieft, and bare, clinging arms.
Hark to the music! How beneath the strain
Of reckless revelry, vibrates and sobs
One fundamental chord of constant pain,
The pulse-beat of the poet's heart that throbs.
So yearns, though all the dancing waves re-

joice, The troubled sea's disconsolate, deep voice.


Who shall proclaim the golden fable false
Of Orpheus' miracles? This subtle strain
Above our prose-world's sordid loss and gain
Lightly uplifts us. With the rhythmic waltz,
The lyric prelude, the nocturnal song
Of love and languor, varied visions rise,
That melt and blend to our enchanted eyes.
The Polish poet who sleeps silenced long,
The seraph-souled musician, breathes again
Eternal eloquence, immortal pain.
Revived the exalted face we know so well,
The illuminated eyes, the fragile frame,

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