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(published in Boston, 1876) went to a second edition a month after its appearance, and a third has since been put forth. She was for years the literary critic of the Baltimore Southern Review, and a diligent contributor to several Southern journals. Her sister was the wife of Stonewall Jackson (Thomas Jonathan Jackson) of military renown, and Mrs. Preston has written a poem, worthy of the subject, on his death. The "Dedication" in her "Old Songs and New," published in Philadelphia (1870), is a favorable example of her style.

DEDICATION.

Day-duty done,—I've idled forth to get

An hour's light pastime in the shady lanes, And here and there have plucked with careless pains

These wayside waifs,-sweetbrier and violet,

And such like simple things that seemed indeed Flowers, though, perhaps, I knew not flower from weed.

What shall I do with them?-They find no place In stately vases where magnolias give

Out sweets in which their faintness could not live:

Yet tied with grasses, posy-wise, for grace,

I have no heart to cast them quite away, [day. Though their brief bloom should not outlive the

Upon the open pages of your book,

I lay them down:-And if within your eye A little tender mist I may descry, Or a sweet sunshine flicker in your look,Right happy will I be, though all declare No eye but love's could find a violet there.

THE TYRANNY OF MOOD.

I. MORNING.

It is enough: I feel, this golden morn,
As if a royal appanage were mine,
Through Nature's queenly warrant of divine
Investiture. What princess, palace born,
Hath right of rapture more, when skies adorn
Themselves so grandly; when the mountains shine
Transfigured; when the air exalts like wine;
When pearly purples steep the yellowing corn?
So satisfied with all the goodliness

Of God's good world,-my being to its brim
Surcharged with utter thankfulness no less
Than bliss of beauty, passionately glad [dim,--
Through rush of tears that leaves the landscape
"Who dares," I cry, "in such a world be sad ?"

II. NIGHT.

I press my cheek against the window-pane,
And gaze abroad into the blank, black space
Where earth and sky no more have any place,
Wiped from existence by the expunging rain;
And as I hear the worried winds complain,
A darkness darker than the murk whose trace
Invades the curtained room is on my face,
Beneath which life and life's best ends seem vain.
My swelling aspirations viewless sink
As yon cloud-blotted hills: hopes that shone bright
As planets yester-eve, like them to-night
Are gulfed, the impenetrable mists before:
"O weary world," I cry, "how dare I think
Thou hast for me one gleam of gladness more ?"

SAINT CECILIA.

Haven't you seen her?-and don't you know
Why I dote on the darling so?
Let me picture her as she stands
There with the music-book in her hands,
Looking as ravishing, rapt, and bright
As a baby Saint Cecilia might,
Lisping her bird-notes,-that's Belle White.

Watch as she raises her eyes to you,
Half-crushed violets dipped in dew,
Brimming with timorous, coy surprise,—
(Doves have just such glistening eyes :)
But, let a dozen of years have flight,
Will there be then such harmless light
Warming these luminous eyes,-Belle White?

Look at the pretty, feminine grace,
Even now, on the small, young face:
Such a consciousness as she speaks,
Flushing the ivory of her cheeks,—
Such a maidenly, arch delight
That she carries me captive quite,
Snared with her daisy chain,-Belle White.

Many an ambushed smile lies hid
Under that innocent, downcast lid:
Arrows will fly, with silvery tips,
Out from the bow of those arching lips
Parting so guilelessly, as she stands
There with the music-book in her hands,
Chanting her bird-notes soft and light,
Even as Saint Cecilia might,

Dove with the folded wings,-Belle White!

John Esteu Cooke.

AMERICAN.

Cooke, a brother to Philip Pendleton Cooke, was born in Winchester, Va., in 1830. His family removed to Richmond in 1839, and, after a good education, he studied law in the office of his father, and was admitted to the Bar. Literature has, however, claimed much of his attention. He has published several popular novels, among which are "The Virginia Bohemians" and "Her Majesty the Queen."

MAY.

Has the old glory passed

From tender MayThat never the echoing blast Of bugle-horns merry, and fast Dying away like the past, Welcomes the day?

Has the old Beauty gone

From golden May

That not any more at dawn
Over the flowery lawn,

Or knolls of the forest withdrawn,
Maids are at play?

Is the old freshness dead

Of the fairy May ?-Ah! the sad tear-drops unshed! Ah! the young maidens unwed! Golden locks-cheeks rosy red! Ah! where are they?

Edna Dean Proctor.

AMERICAN.'

Miss Proctor was born in the interesting old town of Henniker, N. H., on the Contoocook River. On completing her school education, she made Brooklyn, N. Y., her home. She published a volume of poems, national and miscellaneous, in 1867. It fixed her rank among the foremost of American feminine poets. After its publication she made an extensive European tour, visiting, with a party of friends, all the countries except Portugal, ascending the Nile, inspecting the noted attractions of Syria, and travelling in Russia over routes rarely frequented. This portion of her trip she has described in "A Russian Journey," published in 1873, and full of rare and entertaining information. Miss Proctor has been a frequent contributor to magazines and newspapers. Some of her poems seem to combine a masculine vigor and spirit with feminine purity and grace. As remarkable for personal attractions as for her graces of character, she is described by one of her friends as "a true poet in deeds as well as in words."

FROM "THE RETURN OF THE DEAD."

Low hung the moon, the wind was still,
As slow I climbed the midnight hill.
And passed the ruined garden o'er,
And gained the barred and silent door,
Sad welcomed by the lingering rose
That, startled, shed its waning snows.

The bolt flew back with sudden clang,
I entered, wall and rafter rang,

Down dropped the moon, and clear and high
September's wind went wailing by;
"Alas!" I sighed, "the love and glow
That lit this mansion long ago!"

And groping up the threshold stair,
And past the chambers cold and bare,
I sought the room where, glad of yore,
We sat the blazing fire before,
And heard the tales a father told,
Till glow was gone and evening old.

Where were those rosy children three?
The boy beneath the moaning sea;
Sweet Margaret, down where violets hide,
Slept, tranquil by that father's side,
And I, alone, a pilgrim still,
Was left to climb the midnight hill.

My hand was on the latch, when, lo!
"Twas lifted from within! I know
I was not wild, and could I dream?
Within, I saw the wood-fire gleam,
And smiling, waiting, beckoning there,
My father in his ancient chair!

O the long rapture, perfect rest,
As close he clasped me to his breast!
Put back the braids the wind had blown,
Said I had like my mother grown,
And bade me tell him, frank as she,
All the long years had brought to me.

Then, by his side, his hand in mine,
I tasted joy serene, divine,
And saw my griefs unfolding fair
As flowers, in June's enchanted air,
So warm his words, so soft his sighs,
Such tender lovelight in his eyes!

"O Death!" I cried, "if these be thine, For me the asphodels entwine,

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Nor stream, nor bank the way-side by,
But lilies float and daisies throng,
Nor space of blue and sunny sky
That is not cleft with soaring song.
O flowery morns, O tuneful eves,
Fly swift! my soul ye cannot fill!
Bring the ripe fruit, the garnered sheaves,
The drifting snows on plain and hill.
Alike, to me, fall frosts and dews;
But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose!

Warm hands to-day are clasped in mine;
Fond hearts my mirth or mourning share;
And, over hope's horizon line,

The future dawns, serenely fair.
Yet still, though fervent vow denies,
I know the rapture will not stay;
Some wind of grief or doubt will rise,
And turn my rosy sky to gray.

I shall awake, in rainy morn,

To find my hearth left lone and drear; Thus half in sadness, half in scorn,

I let my life burn on as clear,

Though friends grow cold or fond love wooes; But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose!

In golden hours the angel Peace

Comes down and broods me with her wings:

I gain from sorrow sweet release;
I mate me with divinest things;
When shapes of guilt and gloom arise,
And far the radiant angel flees,--

My song is lost in mournful sighs,
My wine of triumph left but lees.
In vain for me her pinions shine,
And pure, celestial days begin;
Earth's passion-flowers I still must twine,
Nor braid one beauteous lily in.

Ah! is it good or ill I choose?
But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose!

Edward Augustus Jenks.

AMERICAN.

A native of Newport, N. H., Jenks was born Oct. 30th, 1830. He was educated at the Thetford, Vt., Academy; learned to set type before he was seventeen, and, after some experience as a publisher of newspapers, was called in 1871 to the management of the Republican Press Association of Concord, N. H. Before that he had been engaged in various enterprises at the West, and was at one time a resident of Vicksburg, Miss. An amateur in verse, he is not unfrequently the true artist.

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