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Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 134.djvu/520

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Like the notes that stir and die
When a harp-string snaps in twain;
Like a fading sunset-sky
After driving wind and rain;
Like a sound within a shell,
Like an odor on the air,
Like an echo in a dell,
Like a star, remote and fair,
O, my child, thou art to me!
And thy soul is linked to mine,
As the pale moon draws the sea
Or the sun lifts up the vine.


In the passion of my tears,
In the blindness of my grief,
Through the melancholy years
I eschewed the sweet relief;
And I stretched my yearning hands
Through the dark, to clasp thee near, —
But to bind me in the bands
Of an ever-haunting fear.
I smiled on those beside me,
And deemed I did thee wrong,
And dreamt thou mightst deride me
For sharing joy or song.


Now, thy face comes back to me,
All free from tear or stain:
A brighter image of thyself,
Triumphant over pain.
I sought it not, for heedless,
I nursed my own despair;
And so I hold it likeness
Of reality, most fair:
No picture could unfold it
To any stranger's eye;
'Tis like a starlet shining
Within a winter sky.

Good Words.E. Conder Gray.



You say, O friends! that I am strangely altered;
My dying youth has won the calm of age;
Sweet strength has come into my voice, that faltered.
And why? Because my life has turned a page
After that day.

A page — you could not trace the 'writing in it, —
So blurred and blotted, faded and obscure;
Yet angels, looking down one golden minute,
Can read it all, with smile content and pure
As mine that day.

Dear sisters, walking in our pleasant garden,
Whiter than lilies, rosier than the rose,
And almost of my pale lot asking pardon, —
Wherefore? When I might pity you, God knows,
After that day.

I have no fear of life and all its noises,
Or silent death, since more than life it brings,
In halcyon nest midst earth's tumultuous voices,
My soul sits quiet, folds her wings, and sings,
After that day.

Good Words.


A moment past, the whole of this fair scene
Was wrapt by clouds that now are rolling fast
Up yonder mountain. See now, where the last
Has left its top, the landscape lies serene,
Far-spreading; at my feet the hillside green;
Below, the lake, upon whose breast is cast
The adverse mountain's form; and, gliding past,
A boat appears, the splashing oars are seen.
As with this earthly prospect, so the soul
Is wrapt by mist, and clouds of threatening form
Beat on it with full fury; thunders roll;
And all seems death and darkness. Then the warm
Strong sun bursts through; a swift wind sweeps the whole;
The heart stands free; God's sun has held the storm.

Ardochy.St. Loe.

A poem has not the same political value as a diplomatic
document. But it may possess a deeper significance;
and the following lines by A. Maikoff, printed in the
May number of Katkoff's monthly review, the Russian
, are worth considering, if only from
the fact that they are the work of a popular Russian
poet, and are published in a popular Russian


Say that in thee again the prophet doth arise,
Say, an thou wilt, thou'rt of the gods elect;
But, empress of the east! in native eyes
No sway imperial shall thy claim reflect.
There in the Orient, rooted in the soil,
Live prophecies and very old traditions,
Which round the hearts of men like serpents coil
And nestle in the strangest superstitions.
The Eastern mind has strange prognostic drawn
Of dark dominion chased by northern star,
Which, as the herald of a promised dawn,
Shall signalize the reign of the White Tsar!

Macmillan's Magazine.