UR mystical modern music deep,

Not piped by shepherds to their sheep,
But wrung from souls that weep.

Round whom in strains that scorn control
The mighty diapasons roll,

That speak from soul to soul.

Great singers of the past! whose song
Still streams down earthward, pure and strong,
Free from all stain of wrong.

Most precious all, yet this is sure,
The song which longest shall endure
Is simple, sweet and pure.

To lift how little howsoe'er

The hearts of toilers struggling here,
In joyless lives and sere.

To make a little lighter yet
Their lives by daily ills beset,

Whom men and laws forget.

ring

EPIC OF HADES. ("HELEN.")

E are what Zeus has made us, discords playing
In the great Music, but the harmony

Is sweeter for them, and the great spheres

In one accordant hymn.

THE ODE OF LOVE.

INKED arms and hearts aglow;

Wherever man is more than brute,

To this self-sacrifice our natures grow.

Rapt each in each they go, and mute,

Listening to the sweet song

Which Love, with unheard accents,

Sings to them, like a hidden bird, all day long,
Sweeter than e'er was seen or heard,

Which from life's thick-leaved tree
Sings sadly, merrily,

A strange, mixed song, a mystic strain,
Which rises now to joy and jollity,

Now seemeth to complain;

But with a sweeter Music far than is

Of earthborn melodies.

THE ODE OF YOUTH.

WEET maidenhood! that to a silvery chime
Of music, and chaste fancies undefiled,
And modest grace and mild,

Comest, best gift of God to men,

High-soaring note, keeping the eternal song
Through secular discords long

EPIC OF HADES.

HE sound of music, that is born of human breath,

Comes straighter from the soul than any strain

The hand alone can make ;

As he sang

Of what I know not, but the music touched
Each chord of being-I felt my secret life
Stand open to it, as the parched earth yawns
To drink the summer rain; and at the call
Of those refreshing waters, all my thought
Stir from its dark and secrets depths, and burst
Into sweet, odorous flowers, and from their wells
Deep call to deep, and all the mystery
Of all that is, laid open.

INCE singing is so good a thing
I wish all men would learn to sing.

T. BALDWIN.

S well the singers as the players on instruments shall be there: all my springs are

in Thee."

PSALM 1xxxvii. 7.

THE LONELY HARP.

USH! Hush! Hush!

I am listening for the voices
Which I heard in days of old-

The bursts of joyous merriment

From lips that now are cold.

The laughter, and the tones of love,
Ere yet I tasted pain-

Oh hush the sounding strings awhile,
And they'll come back again.
I am listening for the music

Which I have not heard for long,
My heart is bursting with the words
Of some familiar song.

Dim tones are lingering on my ear,
And floating through my brain-
Oh hush the sounding strings awhile,
And they'll come back again.

Hush! Hush! Hush! Hush!