WISE PASSIVENESS. Think you I choose or that or this to sing? Too common, since perhaps you see it there THE INNER LIFE. Master, they argued fast concerning Thee, And sought this brook; and by the brookside stood Even what smiles for me Thy lips have stirred; TWO INFINITIES. A lonely way, and as I went my eyes Samuel Miller Hageman. AMERICAN. Hageman, a grandson of Dr. Samuel Miller, Professor in the Princeton, N. J., Theological Seminary, and son of John Frelinghuysen Hageman, a well-known lawyer, and author of "Princeton and its Institutions," was born in that city in 1848. He began to write verses be fore he was fifteen years old; and his poem of "Silence" was originally published in the Princetonian when he was eighteen. It was issued in a volume in 1876. He was pastor of the Union Tabernacle, Brooklyn, N. Y. (1880), with a large congregation. In reference to "Silence," Miss Jean Ingelow writes: "I have read the poem more than once with interest and admiration. I congratulate the author on the beauty of his work." Hageman is the author of "Veiled," a novel; also of a volume entitled "Protestant Paganism; or, The Capital Errors of Christianity." left the spot, [heard it not. On the sounding shore the ocean thundered; but I * Could not unfasten from the Spring's sweet things: Till the stillness grew oppressive, so that when I My whole heart long; I loved each separate flower, Somewhere on this moving planet, in the mist of years to be, In the silence, in the shadow, waits a loving heart for thee; Somewhere in the beckoning heavens, where they know as they are known, There stretched the shining plain for many a mile, Are the empty arms above thee that shall clasp thee The mountains rose with what invincible power! for their own. And how the sky was fathomless and broad! Somewhere in the far-off silence I shall feel a van ished hand, Somewhere I shall know a voice that now I cannot understand; Somewhere! Where art thou, O spectre of illimitable space? THE BLUSH. If fragrances were colors, I would liken A blush that deepens in her thoughtful face Silent scene without a shadow! silent sphere with- If tastes were hues, the blissful dye I'd trace out a place! In upland strawberries, or winter-green; Comes there back no sound beyond us where the Of mountain thrushes, heard, yet seldom seen. trackless sunbeam calls? Or say that hues are felt: then would it seem Comes there back no wraith of music, melting Most like to cobwebs borne on Southern gales through the crystal walls? Against a spray of jasmine. But the glow Comes there back no bird to lisp us of the great Itself is found where sweetbrier petals gleam Shape to which all else is shadow grows within thee Who will tell me the secret, the cause clear and bleak; For the life in her swift-flying hands? Go to Silence: she shall teach thee; ripe fruit How weaves she the shuttle with never a pause, hangs within thy reach; With keys of the octave for strands? He alone hath clearly spoken, who hath learned Haye they eyes, those soft fingers of her this: Thought is Speech. O thou strong and sacred Silence, self-contained in self-control, That they kiss in the darkness the keys, O thon palliating Silence, Sabbath art thou of the Ay, marvels they are in their shadowy dance, Ye elms and oaks that comforted of yore, The night-blue sky is etched with dusky boughs, Yon branch leans downward to his eager face, Charles H. Noyes. AMERICAN. In the summer of 1878 a little volume of poetry was published in Philadelphia, entitled "Studies in Verse, by Charles Quiet." This was the pseudonyme of Charles H. Noyes, a young lawyer of Warren, Pa., and a native of Marshall, Calhoun County, Mich., where he was born in 1849. While some of his verses bear the marks of immaturity, others are fervid with the true afflatus, and full of promise. THE PRODIGAL SON TO THE EARTH. O mother, wait until my work is done! Loose thy strong arms that draw me to thy breast Till I am ready to lie down and rest; Grudge not to me the kisses of the sun. Fear not, fond earth, thy strong love holds me fast; Thou art mine heir-I shall be thine at last. O cousin roses! thirst not for my blood To dye your paling cheeks. O rank, wild grass, Clutch not with greedy fingers as I pass. And you, great hungry giants of the wood! Let not your roots for my rich juices yearn. Mine shall be yours, but you must wait your turn. roses, grasses, trees! I am your kin— Your prodigal blood-cousin, now grown strange With many wanderings through the lands of change; You lent me of your substance, and I've been A wasteful steward; yet I shall bring back My whole inheritance-you shall not lack. Divide my all among you! 'twas but lent To me a while to use. Part heart and brain, Matter and force, until there shall remain Of me no shadow; I am well content. Order and chaos wage eternal strife; The end of living is to bring forth life. Guardian of thoughts, immortal memory! MY SOLDIER. The day still lingers, though the sun is down, Kissing the earth, and loath to say good-bye; While night, impatient, shows her starry crown Just glinting through the curtains of the sky. I sit within the door and try to knit; Until she brings me to that summer's day, Following my soldier through the open door. My soldier! He was all the war to me; His safety all the victory I craved; Morn, noon, and night I prayed that I might see My soldier-I forgot my country—saved. When came a letter full of love and cheer, But when none came, and news of battles fell My soldier! and it seems but yesterday For it does seem so strange to me that he, My baby, rosy-cheeked and azure-eyedThe cherub boy I dandled on my kneeShould have become a hero and have died. My chubby baby, prattling to his toys! My stalwart soldier kissing me good-bye! My heart will have it she hath lost two boys, And lends to grief a twofold agony. And day by day, as the dear form I miss, Fierce longing burns within me like a flame, Till all the world I'd barter for a kiss, And walk through fire to hear him call my name. "Twere not so sad could I have watched his face, Soothed his last hours, and closed his dear, dead And it would comfort me to mark the place [eyes; With a wild rose-bush where my darling lies. But, knowing nothing, save that he is dead, Mrs. Rosa H. Thorpe. AMERICAN. Rosa Hartwick, by marriage Thorpe, was born July 18th, 1850, in Mishawaka, Ind. After her marriage in 1871 she went to reside in Fremont, Ind., but subsequently removed to Litchfield, Mich. She wrote her popular ballad of "Curfew must not Ring To-night" when she was sixteen years old, but it was not till 1870 that it was published: then it first appeared in the Detroit Commercial Advertiser. It has since repeatedly undergone revision. Mrs. Thorpe has much of the spirit and simplicity of the old ballad-writers, and excels in realistic narrative illumined with poetical flashes. It may be that her best work is to come. Charlie kissed her lips at morning, Now was rushing down to death! Must she stand and see him perish? Angry waters answer back: Louder comes the distant rumbling From the train far down the track. At death's door faint hearts grow fearless: In the forming of a thought. See! a lurid spark is kindled, Right and left she flings the flame, Turns and glides with airy fleetness Downward toward the coming train; Sees afar the red eye gleaming Through the shadows still and black: Hark! a shriek prolonged and deafening,They have seen her down the track! Onward comes the train-now slower, But the maiden, where is she? Flaming torch and flying footsteps Fond eyes gaze in vain to see. With a white face turned to Heaven, All the sunny hair thrown back, There they found her, one hand lying Crushed and bleeding on the track. Eager faces bent above her, Wet eyes pitied, kind lips blessed; But she saw no face save Charlie's'Twas for him she saved the rest. Gold they gave her from their bounty; But her sweet eyes wandered back To the face whose love will scatter Roses all along life's track! DOWN THE TRACK. AN ACTUAL INCIDENT. In the deepening shades of twilight Paler grew each marble feature, Faster came her frightened breath, "CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT." Slowly England's sun was setting O'er the hill-tops far away, Filling all the land with beauty At the close of one sad day; And the last rays kissed the forehead Of a man and maiden fairHe with footsteps slow and weary, She with sunny, floating hair; |