he writes: "I should grow very weary of life if I did not feel that I had God for friend." His marriage was an exceptionally happy one. He not only wrote poetry, but made life a poem. Says one of his friends: "He rejoiced in diffusing gladness; was intensely gentle and tender, and peculiarly sensitive to kindness." By intuition he seemed to have a thorough faith in God and a future life. His writings indicate a highly poetical temperament, and he preserved his intellectual vigor and kindly nature to the last.

FIRST OF APRIL, 1876.

Now, if to be an April-fool

Is to delight in the song of the thrush, To long for the swallow in air's blue hollow, And the nightingale's riotous music-gush, And to paint a vision of cities Elysian

Out away in the sunset-flush

Then I grasp my flagon and swear thereby, We are April-fools, my Love and I.

And if to be an April-fool

Is to feel contempt for iron and gold, For the shallow fame at which most men aimAnd to turn from worldlings cruel and cold To God in His splendor, loving and tender, And to bask in His presence manifoldThen by all the stars in His infinite sky, We are April-fools, my Love and I.

IN VIEW OF DEATH.

No: I shall pass into the Morning Land
As now from sleep into the life of morn;
Live the new life of the new world, unshorn
Of the swift brain, the executing hand;

See the dense darkness suddenly withdrawn,
As when Orion's sightless eyes discerned the dawn.

I shall behold it: I shall see the utter
Glory of sunrise heretofore unseen,
Freshening the woodland ways with brighter

green,

And calling into life all wings that flutter,
All throats of music and all eyes of light,
And driving o'er the verge the intolerable night.

O virgin world! O marvellous far days!

No more with dreams of grief doth love grow bitter,

Nor trouble dim the lustre wont to glitter In happy eyes. Decay alone decays:

817

A moment-death's dull sleep is o'er; and we Drink the immortal morning air Eäriné.

THE POSITIVISTS.

Life and the universe show spontaneity:
Down with ridiculous notions of Deity,

Churches and creeds are all lost in the mists;
Truth must be sought with the Positivists.

Wise are their teachers beyond all comparison,
Comte, Huxley, Tyndall, Mill, Morley, and Harrison:
Who will adventure to enter the lists
With such a squadron of Positivists?

Social arrangements are awful miscarriages; Cause of all crime is our system of marriages. Poets with sonnets and lovers with trysts Kindle the ire of the Positivists.

Husbands and wives should be all one community,
Exquisite freedom with absolute unity.

Wedding-rings worse are than manacled wrists,
Such is the creed of the Positivists.

There was an ape in the days that are earlier;
Centuries passed, and his hair became curlier;

Centuries more gave a thumb to his wrist—
Then he was MAN,-and a Positivist.

If you are pious (mild form of insanity),
Bow down and worship the mass of humanity.
Other religions are buried in mists:
"We're our own gods!" say the Positivists.

COLLINS'S LAST VERSES.

I have been sitting alone

All day while the clouds went by, While moved the strength of the seas, While a wind with a will of his own, A Poet out of the sky,

Smote the green harp of the trees.

Alone, yet not alone,

For I felt, as the gay wind whirled,
As the cloudy sky grew clear,

The touch of our Father half-known,
Who dwells at the heart of the world,
Yet who is always here.

Mrs. Ethel Lynn Beers.

AMERICAN.

Ethelinda Elliott (1827-1879) was born and educated in Goshen, Orange County, N. J. She began to write for the weekly and monthly periodicals under the pseudonyme of Ethel Lynn, which she retained after her marriage. A volume of poems from her pen appeared shortly before her death. Her poem of "The Picket-guard," which first appeared in Harper's Weekly, November, 1861, was afterward claimed, erroneously it would seem, for Major Lamar Fontaine of Texas. It also appeared in "The War Poetry of the South," edited by William Gilmore Simms. In a private letter Mrs. Beers wrote: "The poor Picket' has had so many 'authentic' claimants and willing sponsors, that I sometimes question myself whether I did really write it that cool September morning after reading the stereotyped announcement, 'All quiet,' etc., to which was added in small type, 'A picket shot!'"

And gathers his gun closer up to its place, As if to keep down the heart-swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree-
The footstep is lagging and weary;

Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.
Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing?

It looked like a rifle "Ah! Mary, good-bye!"
And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead-
The picket's off duty forever!

Now as a graybeard I sit here in state,

By street and by laue held in awe, sirs; And may be seen, like old Frederick the Great, On pipebowls, on cups, and on saucers. Yet the beauteous maidens, they keep afar; O vision of youth! O golden star!

Rose Terry Cooke.

AMERICAN.

Rose Terry was born in Hartford, Conn., February 17th, 1827, and educated in that city at the Female Seminary. After her marriage she became a resident of Winsted, Litchfield County, Conn. In the early days of the Atlantic Monthly she contributed to its pages many graphic and amusing sketches of rural life in New England. In 1861 she published a volume of poems in Boston. She is one of the genuine warblers, whose songs are not so much artificial products as they are the melodious expression of some heart-felt thought or emotion.

TRAILING ARBUTUS.

Darlings of the forest!

Blossoming alone

When Earth's grief is sorest

For her jewels gone―

Ere the last suow - drift melts, your tender buds

have blown.

Tinged with color faintly,

Like the morning sky,

Or more pale and saintly,
Wrapped in leaves ye lie,

Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity.

There the wild wood-robin

Hymns your solitude,

And the rain comes sobbing

Through the budding wood,

Made for beauty only,

Veiled from Nature's heart,

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With such unconscious grace as makes the dream of Art!

Were not mortal sorrow

An immortal shade, Then would I to-morrow

Such a flower be made,

And live in the dear woods where my lost childhood played.

INDOLENCE.

Indolent! indolent! yes, I am indolent,

So is the grass growing tenderly, slowly; So is the violet fragrant and lowly, Drinking in quietness, peace, and content; So is the bird on the light branches swinging, Idly his carol of gratitude singing, Only on living and loving intent.

Indolent! indolent! yes, I am indolent!

So is the cloud overhanging the mountain; So is the tremulous wave of a fountain, Uttering softly its silvery psalm.

Nerve and sensation in quiet reposing,

Silent as blossoms the night dew is closing, But the full heart beating strongly and calm.

Indolent! indolent! yes, I am indolent,

If it be idle to gather my pleasure Out of creation's uncoveted treasure, Midnight and morning, by forest and sea, Wild with the tempest's sublime exultation, Lonely in Autumn's forlorn lamentation, Hopeful and happy with Spring and the bee.

Indolent! indolent! are ye not indolent?

Thralls of the earth, and its usages weary; Toiling like gnomes where the darkness is dreary,

Were your pure lips fashioned

Out of air and dew:

Starlight unimpassioned,

Dawn's most tender hue

And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for you?

Fairest and most lonely,

From the world apart,

Stifling the heavenward breath of devotion; Crushing the freshness of every emotion; Hearts like the dead which are pulseless and cold!

Indolent! indolent! art thou not indolent? Thou who art living unloving and lonely, Wrapped in a pall that will cover thee only, Shrouded in selfishness, piteous ghost!

Sad eyes behold thee, and angels are weeping O'er thy forsaken and desolate sleeping; Art thou not indolent?--Art thou not lost?

John Townsend Trowbridge.

AMERICAN.

Trowbridge was born in Ogden, N. Y., in 1827. He received a good common school education, but was largely self-taught mastering the Latin, French, and German languages. He went to New York in 1846, applied himself to literature, encountered gallantly some of the experiences of the unknown and impecunious author, removed to Boston in 1850, wrote "Father Bright Hopes," a story for the young, then several novels which had a good sale: he contributed largely to the leading magazines, published "The Emigrant's Story, and other Poems," in 1875; and "The Book of Gold, and other Poems," in 1877. He is also the author of "Guy Brown," a novelette in verse, published in "The Masque of the Poets" (Roberts Brothers, Boston, 1878); and of some half-dozen successful stories for the young. It is in his poetry that Trowbridge excels. The Vagabonds" has It is one of the happy

been neatly illustrated by Darley. hits that are not soon forgotten.

BEYOND.

66

From her own fair dominions,

Long since, with shorn pinions,

My spirit was banished:

But above her still hover, in vigils and dreams, Ethereal visitants, voices, and gleams,

That forever remind her

Of something behind her
Long vanished.

Through the listening night,

With mysterious flight,

Pass those winged intimations:

Like stars shot from heaven, their still voices fall

to me;

Far and departing, they signal and call to me,

Strangely beseeching me,

Chiding, yet teaching me

Patience.

Then at times, oh! at times,

To their luminous climes

I pursue as a swallow!

To the river of Peace, and its solacing shades,

To the haunts of my lost ones, in heavenly glades, With strong aspirations

Their pinions' vibrations

I follow.

O heart! be thon patient! Though here I am stationed

A season in durance,

The chain of the world I will cheerfully wear;

For, spauning my soul like a rainbow, I bear,
With the yoke of my lowly
Condition, a holy
Assurance,-

That never in vain

Does the spirit maintain

Her eternal allegiance:

Though suffering and yearning, like Infancy learning Its lesson, we linger; then skyward returning, On piumes fully grown

We depart to our own Native regions!

THE VAGABONDS.

We are two travellers, Roger and I.
Roger's my dog-come here, you scamp!
Jump for the gentleman-mind your eye!
Over the table-look out for the lamp!
The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather,

And slept out-doors when nights were cold,

And ate and drank and starved together.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you-
A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,

A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow!
The paw he holds up there's been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle

(This out-door business is bad for strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings.

No, thank ye, sir-I never drink;

Roger and I are exceedingly moral.

Aren't we, Roger?-see him wink!

Well, something hot, then-we won't quarrel. He's thirsty, too-see him nod his head:

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!

He understands every word that's said,

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

The truth is, sir, now I reflect,

I've been so sadly given to grog,

I wonder I've not lost the respect (Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog. But he sticks by through thick and thin;

And this old coat, with its empty pockets

And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,

He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living

Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving

To such a miserable, thankless master!
No, sir-see him wag his tail and grin!
By George! it makes my old eyes water!
That is, there's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter.

We'll have some music if you're willing,

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir!) Shall march a little. Start, you villain!

Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your officer! Put up that paw! Dress! Take your rifle!

(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold your Cap while the gentleman gives a trifle

To aid a poor old patriot soldier.

March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes
When he stands up to hear his sentence.
Now tell us how many drams it takes
To honor a jolly new acquaintance.
Five yelps-that's five; he's mighty knowing.
The night's before us, fill the glasses!
Quick, sir! I'm ill-my brain is going!
Some brandy-thank you-there! it passes!

Why not reform? That's easily said;

But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant, That my poor stomach's past reform;

And there are times when, mad with thinking,

I'd sell out heaven for something warm

To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends,

A dear girl's love But I took to drink— The same old story; you know how it ends. If you could have seen these classic features

You needn't laugh, sir; they were not then Such a burning libel on God's creatures; I was one of your handsome men!

If you had seen her, so fair and young,
Whose head was happy on this breast,

If you could have heard the songs I sung
When the wine went round, you wouldn't have
guessed

That ever I, sir, should be straying

From door to door with fiddle and dog, Ragged and penniless, and playing

To you to-night for a glass of grog.

She's married since-a parson's wife;

"Twas better for her that we should partBetter the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.

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I have seen her! Once. I was weak and spent;
On the dusty road a carriage stopped,

But little she dreamed, as on she went,
Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!

You've set me to talking, sir; I'm sorry;

It makes me wild to think of the change! What do you care for a beggar's story? Is it amusing? You find it strange? I had a mother so proud of me!

'Twas well she died before- Do you know If the happy spirits in heaven can see The ruin and wretchedness here below?

Another glass, and strong, to deaden

This pain, then Roger and I will start. I wonder has he such a lumpish, leaden, Aching thing in place of a heart?

He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he could,
No doubt remembering things that were—

A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,
And himself a sober, respectable cur.

I'm better now; that glass was warming-
You rascal, limber your lazy feet!
We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.
Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink-The sooner the better for Roger and me!

Julian Fane.

Julian Charles Henry Fane (1827-1870), a native of London, was "a poet, a musician, a linguist, a diplomatist, an eloquent speaker, a wit, a mimic, a delightful talker." So says Mr. John Dennis, a contemporary man of letters. In conjunction with his friend Edward Robert Bulwer (afterward Lord Lytton), Fane published "Tannhäuser; or, the Battle of the Bards-a Poem" (1861). He had previously published (1852) a volume of poems, a second edition of which, with additional notes, appeared in 1853. His Sonnets to his Mother (Ad Matrem) are remarkable specimens of this form of composition, al