To break the lens and the plane,
To burn the pen and the brush,
And, clean and alive, return
Into the old wild world! . . .

How is it? O wind that bears
The arrow from its mark,
The sea-bird from the sea,

The moth from his midnight lamp,
Fate's self, thou mocker of prayers!
Whirl up from the mighty dark,
And even so, even me

Blow far from the gypsy camp!

EDITH MATILDA THOMAS.

[U S. A.]

SOMETHING PASSES.

SOMETHING passes in the air,
That if seen would be most fair;
And if we the ear could train
To a keener joy and pain,
Sweeter warblings would be heard
Than from wild Arabian bird:
Something passes.

Blithest in the spring it stirs,
Wakes with earliest harbingers;
Then it peers from heart's-ease faces,
Clothes itself in wind-flower graces :
Or begirt with waving sedge,
Pipes upon the river's edge;
Or its whispering way doth take
Through the plumed and scented brake;
Or, within the silent wood,
Whirls one leaf in fitful mood.
Something knits the morning dews
In a web of seven hues ;
Something with the May-fly races,
Or the pallid blowball chases
Till it darkens 'gainst the moon,
Full, upon a night of June:

Something passes.

Something climbs, from bush or croft,
On a gossamer stretched aloft;
Sails, with glistening spars and shrouds,
Till it meets the sailing clouds;
Else it with the swallow flies,
Glimpsed at dusk in southern skies;
Glides before the even-star,
Steals its light, and beckons far.
Something sighs within the sigh

Of the wind, that, whirling by,
Strews the roof and flooded eaves
With the autumn's dead-ripe leaves.
Something-still unknown to me —
Carols in the winter tree,

Or doth breathe a melting strain
Close beneath the frosted pane:
Something passes.

Painters, fix its fleeting lines;
Show us by what light it shines!
Poets, whom its pinions fan,
Seize upon it, if ye can!
All in vain, for, like the air,
It goes through the finest snare:
Something passes.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

MUSIC.

BEFORE the dawn is yet the day
I lie and dream so deep,
So drowsy-deep I cannot say
If yet I wake or sleep.

But in my dream a tune there is
It rings so fresh and sweet
That I would rather die than miss
The utmost end of it.

And yet I know not an it be

Some music in the lane, Or but a song that rose with me From sleep, to sink again.

And so, alas, and even so

I waste my life away; Nor if the tune be real I know, Or but a dream astray.

EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE.

FROM "THE GOLDEN ISLES."

SAD would the salt waves be,
And cold the singing sea,

And dark the gulfs that echo to the sevenstringed lyre,

If things were what they seem,
If life had no fair dream,

No mirage made to tip the dull sea-line with fire.

361

Then Sleep would have no light,
And Death no voice or sight;

Their sister, Sorrow, too, would be as blind as they :

And in this world of doubt
Our souls would roam about

And find no song to sing and no word good to say.

But on the shores of time,
Hearkening the breakers' chime

Falling by night and day along our human strand,

The poet sits and sees

Borne on the morning breeze

The phantom islands float a furlong from the land.

White are their crags, and blue
Ravines divide them through,

And like a violet shell their cliffs recede · from sight:

.

Between their fretted capes

Fresh isles in lovely shapes

Die on the horizon pale, and lapse in liquid light.

The poet sits and smiles;

He knows the golden isles;

He never hopes to win their cliffs, their marble mines,

Reefs where their green sea raves,
The coldness of their caves,

Their felspars full of light, their rosy corallines.

All these he oft has sought,
Led by his travelling thought.
Their glorious distance hides no inward
charm from him:

He would not have their day
To common light decay;

He loves their mystery best, and bids their shapes be dim.

They solace all his pains;
They animate his strains;

Within their radiant glow he soon forgets the world:

They bathe his torrid noons
In the soft light of moons;

They leave his lingering evenings tenderly impearled.

As one who walks all day
Along a dusty way,

May turn aside to plunge in some sequestered pool,

PURE Souls that watch above me from afar,

To whom as to the stars I raise my eyes,

Draw me to your large skies, Where God and quiet are.

Love's mouth is rose-red, and his voice is sweet,

His feet are winged, his eyes are as clear fire;

But I have no desire

To follow his winged feet.

Friendships may change, or friends may pass away,

And Fame's a bride that men soon weary of;

Since rest is not with Love, No joy that is may stay.

But they whose lives are pure, whose hearts are high

Those shining spirits by the world untamed,

May, at the end, unshamed,

Look on their days gone by.

On, snows so pure! oh, peaks so high!
I lift to you a hopeless eye.

I see your icy ramparts drawn
Between the sleepers and the dawn.
I see you, when the sun has set,
Flush with the dying daylight yet.

I see you, passionless and pure,
Above the lightnings stand secure;

But may not climb, for now the hours
Are spring's, and earth a maze of flowers.

And now, 'mid summer's dust and heat, I stay my steps for childish feet.

And now, when autumn glows, I fear
To lose the harvest of the year.

Now winter frowns, and life runs slow;
Even on the plains I tread through snow:

While you are veiled, or, dimly seen, Only reveal what might have been;

gloom,

Lead Thou me on!

The night is dark, and I am far from

Rest, calm and sweet, for which I pine: From Thee I came, to Thee I comeHow shall thy dwelling-place be mine?

Ah! who is this that takes my hand? That lifts me from the pit and mire? That heals, consoles, and makes me stand, And gives the rest that I desire?

Dear Son of God! Thy blessed face

Shows where the hungry soul may flee. Thy heart is home and dwelling-place, And I am satisfied with Thee?

PHILLIPS BROOKS.

[U. S. A.]

O LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM.

O LITTLE town of Bethlehem,

How still we see thee lie!
Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent hours go by.

Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light;

The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee to-night.

For Christ is born of Mary,
And, gathered all above,

While mortals sleep, the angels keep
Their watch of wondering love.
O morning stars, together

Proclaim the holy birth!

And praises sing to God the King,
And peace to men on earth.

How silently, how silently,

The wondrous gift is given! So God imparts to human hearts The blessings of His heaven. No ear may hear His coming; But in this world of sin, Where meek souls will receive him still The dear Christ enters in.

O holy Child of Bethlehem, Descend to us, we pray! Cast out our sin and enter in ; Be born in us to-day.

We hear the Christmas angels The great glad tidings tell: Oh, come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel!

SOLOMON SOLIS-COHEN.

[U. s. A.]

"I KNOW THAT MY REDEEMER LIVETH."

SHALL the mole, from his night underground, call the beasts from the day-glare to flee!

Shall the owl charge the birds: "I am wise. Come, dwell in the shadows with me?"

Shall a man bind his eyes and exclaim : "It is vain that men weary to see?"

Let him walk in the gloom whoso will. Peace be with him! But whence is his right

To assert that the world is in darkness, because he has turned from the light? Or to seek to o'ershadow my day with the pall of his self-chosen night?

I have listened, like David's great son, to the voice of the beast and the bird; To the voice of the trees and the grass; yea, a voice from the stones I have heard;

And the sun and the moon, and the stars in their courses, reëcho the word!

And one word speak the bird and the beast, and the hyssop that springs in the wall,

And the cedar that lifts its proud head upon Lebanon, stately and tall, And the rocks, and the sea, and the stars, and "Know!" is the message of all.

Whence came light? Did its motions arise without bidding? Will science declare

That the law ruling all hath upsprung from Nomind, that abideth Nowhere ?

"Yea, I know!" cried the true man of old. And whosoe'er wills it may know.

"My Redeemer-He liveth!" I seek for a sign of His presence, and, lo! As He spoke to the light, and it was, so He speaks to my soul, and I know!

WASHINGTON GLADDEN.

[U. s. A.]

ULTIMA VERITAS.

In the bitter waves of woe,

Beaten and tossed about
By the sullen winds that blow

From the desolate shores of doubt,

When the anchors that faith had cast Are dragging in the gale,

I am quietly holding fast

To the things that cannot fail.

I know that right is right;

That it is not good to lie; That love is better than spite, And a neighbor than a spy.

I know that passion needs

The leash of a sober mind; I know that generous deeds Some sure reward will find;

And fierce though the fiends may fight,
And long though the angels hide,

I know that Truth and Right
Have the universe on their side;