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Let Love and Passion be rife,

So long as I draw my breath; For Love is the leaven of life, But Peace the endearer of death.

FROM "ODE TO THE VINE." Again, O Vine, I turn to thee and take Assurance from thy deathless loveliness, That Love and Beauty ever are awake

At Life's veiled fountain-head: and who would press [twain:

Tow'rd Truth must go with guidance of these To whom with faith made whole

I dedicate my soul,

Trusting to them to lay a silver skein

Between my hands to guide me to the goal Where dawn shall break, and from mine eyes the darkness roll.

George Parsons Lathrop.

AMERICAN.

The son of a physician and citizen of the United States, Lathrop was born Aug. 25th, 1851, at Honolulu, Oahu, Hawaiian Islands. He received his education in New York and Germany. In 1875-'77 he was assistant edi

MUSIC OF GROWTH.

Music is in all growing things;
And underneath the silky wings

Of smallest insects there is stirred
A pulse of air that must be heard;
Earth's silence lives, and throbs, and sings.

If poet from the vibrant strings
Of his poor heart a measure flings,

Laugh not, that he no trumpet blows:
It may be that Heaven hears and knows
His language of low listenings.

SONNET: THE LOVER'S YEAR.

Thou art my morning, twilight, noon, and eve,
My Summer and my Winter, Spring and Fall;
For Nature left on thee a touch of all
The moods that come to gladden or to grieve
The heart of Time, with purpose to relieve
From lagging sameness. So do these forestall
In thee such o'erheaped sweetnesses as pall
Too swiftly, and the taster tasteless leave.
Scenes that I love, to me always remain
Beautiful, whether under summer's sun
Beheld, or, storm-dark, stricken across with rain.
So, through all humors thou'rt the same, sweet one:
Doubt not I love thee well in each, who see
Thy constant change is changeful constancy.

THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES.

The sunshine of thine eyes,

(O still, celestial beam!) Whatever it touches it fills

With the life of its lambent gleam.

The sunshine of thine eyes,

Oh, let it fall on me!

Though I be but a mote of the air, I could turn to gold for thee!

Francis W. Bourdillon.

Bourdillon, one of the younger English poets, was born in 1852. While yet an undergraduate at Worcester College, Oxford, he won reputation as a poet by two graceful stanzas, eight lines in all, entitled "Light." They were speedily translated into the principal languages of Europe. Rarely has a poet won his spurs on so small a venture in verse. Bourdillon is the author of "Among the Flowers, and other Poems," a volume of 176 pages, published in London, in 1878, by Marcus Ward & Co. A native of Woolbedding, in Sussex, he dedicates his poems to it as embracing "the influences, memories, and affections that for all men haunt the name of home."

LIGHT.

The night has a thousand eyes,

And the day but one;

Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one;

Yet the light of a whole life dies When its day is done.

There's a cottage o'ershadowed by leaves,

Growing fairer than art,

Where, under the low sloping eaves No false hand the swallow bereaves; 'Tis the home of my heart.

And there, on the slant of the lea,
Where the trees stand apart,
Over grassland and woodland, maybe
You will catch the faint gleam of the sea
From the home of my heart.

And there in the rapturous spring,

When the morning rays dart

O'er the plain, and the morning birds sing,
You may see the most beautiful thing
In the home of my heart;

For there at the casement above,
Where the rose-bushes part,

Will blush the fair face of my love:-
Ah, yes! it is this that will prove
'Tis the home of my heart.

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We would each of us shoulder his part of the load, What wonderful dreams of the future came,

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And no one smiles as he used to smile;
And, oh, it seems such a long, long while
Since I went fishing with dad.

It is 'way, 'way back in the weary years
That with aching heart and falling tears
I watched dad go away.

His aged head lay on my breast
When the angels called him home to rest-
He was too old to stay.

And I dug a grave 'neath the very sod
That my boyish feet so often trod

When I went fishing with dad.

The world has given me wealth and fame,
Fulfilled my dreams of an honored name,
And now I am weak and old;
The land is mine wherever I look;
I can catch my fish with a silver hook;
But my days are almost told.

Uncheered by the love of child or wife,
I would spend the end of my lonely life
Where I went fishing with dad.

My limbs are weary, my eyes are dim;
I shall tell them to lay me close by him,
Whenever I come to die;

And side by side, it will be my wish,

NOW AND EVER.

Ask what you will, my own and only love;
For to love's service true,

Your least wish sways me as from worlds above,
And I yield all to you

Who art the only she,

And in one girl all womanhood to me.

Yet some things e'en to thee I cannot yield,―
As that one gift by which

On the still morning on the woodside field
Thou mad'st existence rich,-

Who wast the only she,

And in one girl all womanhood to me.

We had talked long, and then a silence came;
And in the topmost firs

To his nest a white dove floated like a flame,
And my lips closed on hers
Who was the only she,

And in one girl all womanhood to me.

Since when, my heart lies by her heart-nor now
Could I, 'twixt hers and mine,

Nor the most love-skilled angel choose; so thou
In vain wouldst ask for thine,
Who art the only she,

That there by the stream where they used to fish, And in one girl all womanhood to me.
They will let the old men lie.

Close by him I would like to be,
Buried beneath the old oak-tree
Where I sat and fished with dad.

Elizabeth Henry Miller.

AMERICAN.

Born in Lexington, Va., Dec. 2d, 1859, Miss Miller can count among her ancestry some historic names: on her father's side, that of Jonathan Dickinson, founder and first President of Princeton College; while her mother, a daughter of Governor McDowell of Virginia, and niece of William C. Preston, the eloquent South Carolina Senator, had for grandfather the gallant Gen. William Campbell, who won the battle of King's Mountain in 1783; and for grandmother, Elizabeth Henry, a sister of Patrick Henry, of whom every school-boy knows. Miss Henry was quite as remarkable in intellectual respects as her illustrious brother, whom she resembled in many of her traits. Thus Miss Miller, who was named after her, may be said to be entitled to her intellectual endowments by the law of heredity. The specimen of her poems which we subjoin was written by her before she had reached her twelfth year.

Elaine and Dora Goodale.

AMERICANS.

Among the precocious poets, Elaine Goodale (born Oct. 9th, 1863), and Dora Read Goodale (born Oct. 29th, 1866), will long be remembered. Their home, which bears the appropriate name of "Sky Farm," is in South Egremont, Mass., on the very summit of the highest of the Berkshire Hills. Both mother and father have the poetical gift; but the songs of the children have been as unprompted as those of the young thrush. Their first volume, "Apple-blossoms: Verses of Two Children," was published in 1878 by G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York. In the Preface, the parents say: "These verses are, above all else, fresh and spontaneous, the almost unconscious outflow of two simple, wholesome lives, in their earliest youth."

PAPA'S BIRTHDAY.
ELAINE GOODALE.

O dear Sky Farm! O rare Sky Farm!
Rejoice, to-day, rejoice!
Unite your many tongues to ours

In one harmonious voice;

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