And all that valley tribute pays,
From golden fields to spire of gold,
From packman on the mountain ways,
To galley, that with venture bold

Of spice and cloth of Indian grain,
Sweeps up the stream with glad refrain,
To anchor 'neath my keep in Spain.

Oh, may the sky that o'er it bends
Remain forever bright and clear!
For noble guests and gallant friends

Have shared that castle's goodly cheer: Religion tinged with tolerance,

And rank whose smallest boast was birth,
And wit that used no poisoned lance,
And beauty that forgot not worth,

And friendship free from envy's strain,
And love untouched with sinful stain,
Were welcome to my home in Spain!

At morn we hunted on the hills;

At noon we feasted in the grove; At eve a tale of others' ills

The minstrels for our pleasure wove; At night we watched the thick dews veil The earth in mists of silvery tears,

Or saw the columned clouds assail

The mountains with their lightning spears;
The morrow never dawned in pain,
We never felt life's uses vain,
Who dwelt within that keep in Spain.

That castle fair when shall I find?
Is it in memory or in dream
Its turrets tall so often gleam

Across the vision of my mind?

Is this a home, or exile sad

Wherein with alien heart I move?— For every mortal hope makes glad— Is there no vale of rest and love? And o'er the hills, across the main, Above the clouds, do all men strain To reach some castle built in Spain?

RIDING TO BATTLE.

BEFORE the cock began to crow,
We took our morning meal
And by the torch's trembling glow
We girt ourselves in steel;
While wintry thoughts around us fell
Like blossom showers in June,
For weal or woe we bade farewell
At setting of the moon.

As from the castle court we rode

And down the village street, Faint signs of dawn far eastward showed; The lark rose up to greet;

A swell of sorrow's sprayless wave,

A sad foreboding pang,

Marked every stride our chargers gave, And every weapon's clang.

But morn grows bright, the scented wind
Folds back across the hills
The curtain of the mist, untwined

From meadows veined with rills.
Past maid and churl in sad amaze
We hold our stern advance,
Till sheaves of light with greeting rays
Illumine every lance.

How all our spirits feel the charm!

Hopes quicken one by one;
Dead joys in every heart rise warm
Touched by the wizard sun;
Our leader turns with smiling face
And vails his flowing crest
To kiss the sign of lady's grace
That's bound about his breast.
No kerchief in my helmet shines,
No silken sleeve or glove;

I watch our long advancing lines,
Our banner folds above-
Whate'er may come I can not care;
I wait without a sigh;

My past it roundeth full and fair
If I this day should die!

WANDERING.

THE water bubbles o'er the gravel, It laughs a moment and is gone; It would be still if it were stone, But ripples know enough to travel.

The misty forms afloat up yonder,

Like ships whose sails a fair wind fills, Might rest forever were they hills, But clouds are wise and fain would wander. The wind it is a merry rover

And bends to kiss the rose's lips; But from embracing arms it slips, For roses elsewhere wait a lover.

The little bird too is a roamer

That flies and sings with joyous zest; He owns a house? Ah no! His nest Is but a cottage for the summer.

And over all the Queen of Gipsies,

The changeful moon, roves through the skies, The dearer in our mortal eyes For all her phases and eclipses.

The spot we're in belongs to sorrow; Why should we suffer from its stress, When we may search for happiness And hit on Paradise to-morrow?

The moon may know its place? I'll follow.
The ripples tell? I'll trace their sound.
If wind and cloud be thither bound
I'll watch; and I'll pursue the swallow.

E

EDWARD SANDFORD MARTIN.

DWARD S. MARTIN was born on January

2nd, 1856, in Willowbrook, the Martin family homestead, on the shore of Oswasco lake, a picturesque sheet of water some three miles from Auburn, N. Y. He was prepared for college in Andover, and in the fall of 1873 entered Harvard as a mem ber of the class of '77. In college Mr. Martin had the reputation of being a man of books, a clever versifier and a genial companionable fellow. He contributed verses to various publications during his undergraduate life, but no collection of them was printed until 1882. In that year a volume of his poems under the title "Sly Ballades was published. After Mr. Martin was graduated, he studied law in Auburn for a year and in the fall of 1879 went to Washington and secured a position in the State department. A year later Mr. Dana, who had been attracted by his verses, offered him a place on the New York Sun, which he accepted. In the spring of 1881, his health being poor, he took a voyage round the Horn. In 1882 he, with two others, started Life. The following autum he removed to Rochester, N. Y., resumed the study of law, and was admitted to the bar in 1884. The same year he became associate editor of the Union and Advertiser, which position he adequately filled until 1891, and was closely allied with all Rochester's literary achievements. In 1888 "A Little Brother of the Rich" was issued and at once attracted public attention, winning for its author many favorable criticisms. Of late years, Mr. Martin has given his attention more freely to literary work. He writes editorials for Life, the "Busy World," in Harper's Weekly and is a regular contributor to "The Point of View" in Scribner's Magazine.

I. R. W.

333

A LITTLE BROTHER OF THE RICH.

To put new shingles on old roofs;

To give old women wadded skirts;

To treat premonitory coughs

With seasonable flannel shirts; To sooth the stings of poverty

And keep the jackal from the doorThese are the works that occupy

The Little Sister of the Poor.

She carries, everywhere she goes,

Kind words and chicken, jams and coals; Poultices for corporeal woes,

And sympathy for downcast souls;

Her current jelly-her quinine,

The lips of fever move to bless.
She makes the humble sick-room shine
With unaccustomed tidiness.

A heart of hers the instant twin
And vivid counterpart is mine;

I also serve my fellowmen,

Though in a somewhat different line. The Poor, and their concerns, she has Monopolized, because of which

It falls to me to labor as

A Little Brother of the Rich.

For their sake at no sacrifice

Does my devoted spirit quail; I give their horses exercise;

As ballast on their yachts I sail. Upon their Tally Ho's I ride

And brave the chances of a storm; I even use my own inside

To keep their wines and victuals warm.

Those whom we strive to benefit
Dear to our hearts soon grow to be:

I love my Rich, and I admit

That they are very good to me.

Succor the Poor, my sister, I,

While Heaven shall still vouchsafe me health, Will strive to share and mollify The trials of abounding wealth.

WORTH WHILE.

I PRAY thee, Lord, that when it comes to me
To say if I will follow truth and thee,
Or choose instead to win, as better worth
My pains, some cloying recompense of earth-

It's naught to me if he's not here,
I'll not lament, nor even sigh;
I shall not feel the jar, nor fear,
For I am he, and he is I.

BEGGARS' HORSES.

I WISH that altitude of tone,

The waistband's due expansion,

The faculty to hold one's own

In this and t'other mansion;

And shirts and shoes and moral force,
Top coats and overgaiters,
Were things that always came of course
To philosophic waiters.

I wish that not by twoes and threes,
In squads and plural numbers,
Young women would destroy one's ease
Of mind and rout one's slumbers;
But that if by a poor heart's squirms
Their pleasures know accession,
They'd hold it for successive terms
In several possession.

MIXED.

WITHIN my earthly temple there's a crowd.
There's one of us that's humble; one that's proud.
There's one that's broken-hearted for his sins,
And one who, unrepentant, sits and grins.
There's one who loves his neighbor as himself,
And one who cares for naught but fame and pelf.
From much corroding care I would be free
If once I could determine which is me.

AND WAS HE RIGHT?

"I'm going to marry-not you," she said,
"But a better fellow in your stead.
You're not so bad-not bad at all;
I'd like to keep you within my call,
But not to take you for good and all.
I'm going to live on yonder street;
Do you live near me," she said;
As I'll be to you whenever we meet!
And in my house there'll be a seat
Where you can sit and warm your feet,
And your contentment shall be complete—
Come! Isn't it a divine conceit ?

Softly his breast a sigh set free:

So sweet

She said.

He said, "Dear Heart, it may not be―
Not for the perfume of the rose
Would I live near to where it grows.
If not for me the bud is blown,
I'd rather leave the flower alone;
Who by the bush sits down forlorn
Is only fit to feel the thorn."

He said.