e writes: "I should grow very weary of life if I did not eel that I had God for friend." His marriage was an xceptionally happy one. He not only wrote poetry, out 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 manifold— Then by all the stars in His infinite sky, We are April-fools, my Love and I. 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: Churches and creeds are all lost in the mists; Wise are their teachers beyond all comparison, 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, Wedding-rings worse are than manacled wrists, There was an ape in the days that are earlier; Centuries more gave a thumb to his wrist- If you are pious (mild form of insanity), 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Live the new life of the new world, unshorn Of the swift brain, the executing hand; See the dense darkness suddenly withdrawn, I shall behold it: I shall see the utter And calling into life all wings that flutter, And driving o'er the verge the intolerable night.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: 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, The touch of our Father half-known, 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 af ter 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— All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Now as a graybeard I sit here in state, By street and by lane held in awe, sirs; 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 graphie 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 snow - drift melts, your tender buds have blown. Tinged with color faintly, Like the morning sky, Or more pale and saintly, 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, With such unconscious grace as makes the dream of Art! Were not mortal sorrow An immortal shade, 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 bird on the light branches swinging, 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 Indolent! indolent! are ye not indolent? Thralls of the earth, and its usages weary; While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be Toiling and sinning, to heap up your gold! 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; Indolent! indolent! art thou not indolent? Thou who art living unloving and lonely, Sad eyes behold thee, and angels are weeping 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 been neatly illustrated by Darley. It is one of the happy hits that are not soon forgotten. BEYOND. 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 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, spanning my soul like a rainbow, I bear, That never in vain Does the spirit maintain Her eternal allegiance: Though suffering and yearning, like Infancy learning THE VAGABONDS. We are two travellers, Roger and I. 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 fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow! (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! 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 To honor a jolly new acquaintance. 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 Is there a way to forget to think? If you had seen her, so fair and young, If you could have heard the songs I sung 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 |