And Christ was honored, and heaven's light came

streaming

To glorify the least that he could do.

How oft pale Envy wounds our hearts with sorrow! While Malice will invade our holiest thought; And shrouds to-day, and threatens us to-morrow, Although but kindness in our deeds is wrought.

There is a lesson in this legend olden;

Despise no sacrifice on sea or land; Thy brother's pure intent makes his act golden; Learn that no grace transcends the helping hand.

A WINTER LESSON.

I WATCHED a tiny snow-flake in its flight,
Pure as an angel's ken, its crystal eye!
So silently a good deed yields its mite,
And melts in holy grace of charity.

How like the Christmas yule log, warm and bright,
Seems each brave soul that seeks another's cheer!
How like a solitary star at night,

To him who treads life's moorland, cold and drear,

The aid that lights again his old home fire;

Bright days long gone are his; 'mid falling tears, He hears an echo from the heavenly choir,

When love rolls off the burden of the years!

Ye who are warm, forget not in your thought,
The friendless-prayerful still, in all their need;
Bid gladness be their guest, with comfort fraught,
For 'tis your helping hand and not your creed
Brings swift relief, so chill the winter blast!
While yet the poor man bows his weary head,
Or woman croons o'er fagot's blaze-the last!
Give not a stone, but bread of life instead.

No chime of bells like sound of kindly words; No sermon grander than the hand that gives; Ah, sweeter than the matins of the birds,

One sainted almoner of earth, who lives To bless from bounty's store, so oft denied, The worthy, patient poor, at Christmas-tide!

LOWELL.

In mystic whispers, lisp a nation's grief,
As Lowell passes to the Silent Land!
At Court, ambassador of civil life,
Or in that grander realm of letters, where
He reigned as king, wooing the Muses, he
Won manly hearts, and woman's pure regard.
-James Russell Lowell.

M'

LOVE M. WILLIS.

RS. WILLIS'S maiden name was Love M. Whitcomb. She is a native of Hancock, N. H., and sprung from a long line of thinkers in the liberal ranks of New England. She inherited freedom of thought and a happy gift of expression. Her writing for the public has been done principally for magazines and newspapers and consisted of stories for children, philosophical and religious articles and occasional hymns and poems. At one time she edited Tiffany's Monthly, a philosophical journal published in New York City. One book of hers, entitled "Scripture Text Illustrated," written for Sunday school children, awakened considerable interest and some controversy. Mrs. Willis's daughter, Mrs. Linn, is mentioned elsewhere in this magazine. Editor.

THE SOUL'S VENTURE.
JUST from out the cloudy dream-land
Floats the breath of summer flowers,
As if each wave of air were laden
With the wealth of Adra's bowers.
Like a mist with sunlight tinted,

When the morning splendor gleams,
I can catch a shadow's brightness
From that beauteous land of dreams.

Faintly breathing, hark! the whisper
Of sweet voices come and go,
Words of tenderness first spoken
In the charméd long ago.

From the farther shore now dimly
I can see a beck'ning hand;
Catch the echo of light footsteps

As they fall upon the strand.

Who will bear me o'er the waters
To that beaut'ous land of dream?
I will load with richest offerings
Him who braves with me the stream.

Hasten, for the shadows thicken,
Darkness comes, I must away;
Alas! alas! will no one bear me?
Ferryman, I can not stay.

There! now bear your trav'ler swiftly,
To my heart-beat dip you oar,
We are nearing, now we're nearing
Close upon the shadow shore.

Ah! the mist is floating o'er us;

Gone the brightness from the strand, Hushed are now the loving voices, Faded is the beck'ning hand!

Onward through the silent darkness!

I am tempted back no more, For to me the beauteous dream-land Lies in shadowy hope before.

ASPIRATION.

FATHER, hear the prayer I offer, For sweet peace I do not cry, But for grace that I may ever

A

Live my life courageously.

Not within the fresh, green pasture
Will I ask that I may lie,
But the steep and stony pathway
May I tread rejoicingly.

Not beside the clear, still waters
Do I pray Thou wilt me guide,
But I'd strike the flinty boulder,
Whence the living spring may glide.

If I go where flowers of summer
Still the rugged path adorn,
Let me weave them into garlands,
Though each one should bear a thorn.

Not the glorious sunlight only

Will I crave, oh God, of Thee! But to see Thy fiery pillar

In the darkness guiding me.

Be my strength in every weakness,
In my doubt be Thou my guide;
Through each peril, through each danger
Draw me nearer to Thy side.

-)(

GEORGE NEWELL LOVEJOY.

BIOGRAPHICAL sketch of Mr. Lovejoy, with several selections from his poems, will be found in THE Magazine of POETRY, April, 1890, vol II., p 220. Much of his literary work has been identified with Rochester. Editor.

UNREALIZATION.

He came to me day after day,
When joy no longer was my stay;
He came unbidden and unsought,
And to my life sweet comfort brought.

His words were few, yet each to me
Was full of wondrous sympathy,
While ever on his gentle face

There beamed for me Love's tender grace.

Still, all unconscious was my heart

He would become of me a part

So much of self,-to prove, indeed,

In every hour a gracious need.
Until, one day, all suddenly,
The angel of sad mystery
Descended at my door, and said,

383

In faltering tones: "Thy friend is dead!"'
"Dead! dead!" And should I no more hear
That voice, or see the face so dear,

Or feel that presence through whose spell
My inmost being was made well?

For now, amid my tears and loss,
When all my joy was turned to dross—
Aye, in that hour of new-made grief,
When no one came to my relief,

I realized too well-at last

Recalling all the happy past,

How much of my own life was he
Who never more would come to me.

ENVIRONMENT.

THE Poet sat in his chamber

And sought to sing of Spring, 'Twas a day of days, one of royal May'sWhen one should feel to sing!

But trying never so hard

To lift his voice, ah, me!

No musical note fell from his throat,
And never a song sang he.

But the Poet went out of his chamber
And sought the field and grove,
Feasting his soul on Nature's whole-

The earth, and the sky above.

And he found his voice as he went along,
And now he began to sing,

And sweet was each note that fell from his throat
As he sang that hour of Spring.

THE PERFECT JUNE.

TAKE all the rapturous glow of Summer's morn,—
The noontide splendor, and the sunset fair
With majesty; the soft, embracing air,
Whereon glad Zephyrus winds his fluted horn;
Take, if thou wilt, the rose so lately born,

With elfin hues, and odors rich and rare;
Take all the sum of cheer, the long hours wear
Without success, and leave the earth forlorn
In Winter's clasp; take all, yet leave, we pray,
To us that precious wealth, that hope, that faith,
That there still lies beyond this blighting clime
A rarer joy no ill can take away;-
For us the perfect June that knows not death,
The largess af Eternal Summertime!

MY LITTLE BOY.

THE old square clock had struck the hour of eight,
Outside the starry lamps were shining high,
The silver moon in regal splendor sate
In the blue glory of the Christmas sky,
And tired workers toiling homeward late
Hummed Christmas carols as they plodded by.

My little boy was standing by my knee,

One small white foot was bare upon the floor; A pair of shining eyes were bent on me; His face was eloquent with hopes in store, For hanging by the chimney I could see

The little fleecy sock my darling wore.

He had been telling me in eager speech

Of all the treasures Santa Claus would bring; There were no bounds his sweet faith could not reach,

His trust was simple and unquestioning, While I had learned the whole that life could teach Of bitter doubt and cruel suffering!

I listened to him with a wistful prayer,

I longed to make some helpful faith my own; That into my poor life of grief and care

Might creep a truer grace than it had known, Some blessed trust that would not prove a snare, Some love more honest than the world had shown.

And then I said, "The Christmas is to me
More sad, my boy, than you can understand;

It brings me gifts of pain and treachery,

And deals them through a loved and trusted hand.

It brings a broken truth my staff to be,

And leaves me nothing that will hold or stand!"

My blessed child broke in upon my woe,
Half loving, half reproachfully he said,

"You still have something left; there's me you know!

Why, one might think your little boy was dead!

I'm little now, but when I larger grow

I will take care of you, mamma," he said.

I caught him with a passionate surprise;

I covered him with kisses burning sweet! My life grew richer, looking in his eyes, Though other loves were poor and incomplete; And praying God to make him good and wise, I tucked the cover soft about his feet.

E

ELMER JAMES BAILEY.

385

'LMER JAMES BAILEY was born on May 19th, 1870. He became an Alumnus of the University of Rochester in June 1894 with the degree of Bachelor of Philosophy. He has evinced the possible utility of studies apparently so entirely outside the college curriculum as music, both piano and vocal. These have had an important influence on a finely wrought temperament, and, indirectly, upon poetic expression, which has been shown in many verses published in magazines of Boston, New York, Rochester, Buffalo, Chicago and St. Louis. Without a classical education; without the most catholic interest in the literature of the ages, and of different people, Mr. Bailey would never have conceived and could not have executed, in addition to his original work, translations in prose and verse which have been published by him from the Sanskrit, Latin, German, French, Italian and Spanish. Some of his poems have been set to music. D. L. C.

NOT AS I WILL.

"Not as I will," the Father's child,
Tho' loud may roar the storm and wild,
Bids thus his haunting fears depart,
Trusting the watchful Over-Heart
Is ever tender, ever mild.

Tho' for a time from joy exiled,
Yet to his sorrow reconciled,
These words a comfort sweet impart.
"Not as I will."

So, Father, by no doubt defiled,
As in the days when fortune smiled,

Still would I bear with tranquil heart
Whate'er Life brings of pain, of smart,
And whisper, like the little child:
"Not as I will."

AH! JUST TO LIVE IS VERY SWEET!

AH! just to live is very sweet,

The years have taught me as they fly, Tho' life has thorns and joy is fleet.

So 'gainst my fate no more I beat

With bleeding hands, with wailing cry, For just to live is very sweet.

And sometimes to my happy feet

The roads thro' pleasant pastures lie, Tho' life has thorns and joy is fleet.