84.

In Youth's glad morning, when the rising East
Glows golden with assurance of success,
And life itself's a rare continual feast,
Enjoyed the more if meditated less,

'Tis then that friendship's pleasures chiefly bless, As if without beginning,- ne'er to end.

85.

When maids scold,

With looks that pardon, lover may be bold.

86.

You hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun;

But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all.

87.

In form and feature, face and limb,
I grew so like my brother,
That folks got taking me for him,
And each for one another.

It puzzled all our kith and kin,
It reached a fearful pitch;
For one of us was born a twin,
And not a soul knew which.

88.

In vain do ye seek to behold Him;

He dwells in no temple apart;

The height of the heavens cannot hold Him, And yet he is here in my heart

He is here, and He will not depart.

89.

Let my life pass in healthful, happy ease,

The world and all its schemes shut out my door: Rich in a competence, and nothing more, Saving the student's wealth -"Apollo's fees"Long rows of goodly volumes to appease My early love and quenchless thirst of lore. 90.

O! not a joy or blessing

With this can we compare,
The power that he hath given us
To pour our hearts in prayer.
91.

'Tis not enough to worship God alone,
Deep in the closet of a hidden nook;
'Tis not the low, self-abnegated groan

That reads aright the great life-giving Book. Love born in darkness shrinks from honest light; In secret misers hug their sordid gain; A Christian is of brightness, not of night— A smiling Abel, not a frowning Cain.

92.

Truth keeps the bottom of her well, And when the thief peeps down, the thief Peeps back at him, perpetual.

93.

I can feel no pride, but pity

For the burdens the rich endure;
There is nothing sweet in the city

But the patient lives of the poor.

Oh, the little hands too skilful,

And the child-mind choked with weeds!
The daughter's heart grown wilful,

And the father's heart that bleeds!
94.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:
And so make Life, Death, and that vast For-Ever
One grand, sweet song.

CURRENT POEMS.

BALLAD OF THE BIRD-BRIDE.

(ESKIMO.)

THEY never come back, though I loved them well.

I watch the south in vain;

The snow-bound skies are blear and gray,
Wild and wide is the wan gull's way,
And she comes never again.

Years agone, on the flat white strand,

I won my wild sea-girl:

Wrapped in my coat of the snow-white fur,

I watched the wild birds settle and stir,
The gray gulls gather and whirl.

One, the greatest of all the flock,

Perched on an ice-floe bare,

Calied and cried as her heart were broke,

And straight they were changed, that strange bird-folk,

To women young and fair.

Swift I sprang from my hiding-place
And held the fairest fast;

I held her fast, the sweet, strange thing.

Her comrades skirled, but they all took wing,
And smote me as they passed.

I bore her safe to my warm snow house;
Full sweetly there she smiled;
And yet, whenever the shrill winds blew,
She would beat her long white arms anew,
And her eyes glanced quick and wild.

But I took her to wife, and clothed her warm
With skins of the gleaming seal;

Hér wandering glances sank to rest
When she held a babe to her fair, warm breast,
And she loved me dear and leal.

Together we tracked the fox and the seal,

And at her behest I swore

That bird and beast my bow might slay For meat and our raiment, day by day. But never a gray gull more.

A weariful watch I keep for aye

'Mid the snow and the changeless frost:
Woe is me for my broken word!
Woe, woe's me for my bonny bird,
My bird and the love-time lost!

Have ye forgotten the old keen life?
The hut with the skin-strewn floor?
O wild white wife, and bairnies three,

Is there no room in your hearts for me, Or our home on the low sea-shore?

Once the quarry was scarce and shy,

Sharp hunger gnawed us sore,

My spoken oath was clean forgot,

My bow twanged thrice with a swift, straight shot, And slew me sea-gulls four.

The sun hung red on the sky's dull breast, The snow was wet and red;

Her voice shrilled out in a woful cry, She beat her long white arms on high, "The hour is here," she said.

She beat her arms, and she cried full fain
As she swayed and wavered there.
Fetch me the feathers, my bairnies three,
Feathers and plumes for ye and me,

Bonny gray wings to wear!"

They ran to her side, our bairnies three,
With the plumage black and gray,
Then she bent her down and drew them near,
She laid the plumes on our bairnies dear,
And some on her own arms lay.

"Babes of mine, of the wild wind's kin, Feather ye quick, nor stay.

Oh, oho! but the wild winds blow!
Babes of mine, it is time to go:

Up, dear hearts, and away!"

And lo! the gray plumes covered them all, Shoulder and breast and brow.

I felt the wind of their whirling flight: Was it sea or sky? was it day or night? It is always night-time now.

Dear, will you never relent, come back?
I loved you long and true.

O winged white wife, and our bairnies three,
Of the wild wind's kin though ye surely be,
Are ye not my kin too?

Ay, ye once were mine, and till I forget,
Ye are mine forever and aye,
Mine, wherever your wild wings go,
While shrill winds whistle across the snow
And the skies are blear and gray.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON. —Harper's Magazine, January, 1889.

THE BRIDE'S TRAGEDY.

"THE wind wears roun', the day wears doun, The moon is grisly gray;