Must doff my will as raiment laid away—

CHARLES LORENZO CLEAVELAND.

With the first dream that comes with the first sleep

I run, I run, I am gathered to thy heart.

A DAY TO COME.

YOUR own fair youth, you care so little for it, Smiling towards Heaven, you would not stay the advances

Of time and change upon your happiest fancies. I keep your golden hour and will restore it.

If ever, in time to come, you would explore it— Your old self whose thoughts went like last year's pansies,

Look unto me; no mirror keeps its glances;
In my unfailing praises now I store it.

To keep all joys of yours from Time's estranging,
I shall be then a treasury where your gay
Happy and pensive past for ever is.

I shall be then a garden charmed from changing,
In which your June has never passed away.
Walk there awhile among my memories.

THE MODERN POET.

A SONG OF DERIVATIONS.

I COME from nothing: but from where
Come the undying thoughts I bear?
Down through long links of death and birth
From the past poets of the earth.
My immortality is there.

I am like the blossom of an hour;

But long long vanished sun and shower
Awoke my breath in the young world's air.
I track the past back everywhere,
Through flower and seed, and seed and flower.

Or I am like a stream that flows

Full of the cold springs that arose
In morning lands, in distant hills;

And down the plain my channel fills

With melting of forgotten snows.

Voices I have not heard possessed

My own fresh songs; my thoughts are blessed

With relics of the far unknown;

And, mixed with memories not my own,
The sweet streams throng into my breast.

Before this life began to be,

The happy songs that wake in me

Woke long ago and far apart.

Heavily on this little heart

Presses this immortality.

C

HARLES LORENZO CLEAVELAND is a native of Canada, and was born near Montreal, February 25, 1855. His educational advantages were those of the ordinary country youth, and whatever success he may have achieved is due less to classical culture than to the force of native genius. Literary aspirations developed early, and while yet a mere youth he began writing for publication. His earlier poems appeared in Demorest's Monthly, and later on he became a contributor to the Atlantic. Then followed a period of rest, during which Mr. Cleaveland came to the United States, leading a sort of nomadic life through Colorado, California, and other places of interest in the West. Again resuming the pen, Mr. Cleaveland's poems appeared in The Current, Inter-Ocean, Chicago News, the St. Louis Magazine, etc. For several years he was a resident of Muskegon, Michigan, and for a time was editor of a representative labor paper in that city. In 1889 he removed to Millbury, Massachusetts, where he now resides.

Mr. Cleaveland has never made literature a profession. When he writes, it is for pastime, and as the spirit of the muse inspires. His natural vein is philosophical, contemplative and reflective. His poems are marked by originality, both in thought and expression; and it is to be hoped that in the future he will devote himself more assiduously to the production of verse, gifted, as he is, with a high degree of the creative art. C. B. C.

GREENWOOD MEN.

I.

SO LONG I've been these ranks among,
Since first the tender leaflets sprung
From dark and mellow beds of spring,
That now, when 'neath tall tasseling
The green ears fill with nectar-milk,
And stir their pendent plumes of silk,
Familiar life there seems to be
Between this waving corn and me—
A subtile sympathy unknown
In word or thought, but felt alone

By one who hears the silent sound
That cheers the heart upon the ground.

II.

All these are merry greenwood men,
Disporting in their native glen!
These lusty stalks are hunters strong,
With valiant hearts and lips of song;

One hand may reach into the south
And pluck an orange for the mouth,
The other still may fondly hold
All fruits that brave the eastern cold.
But what of hunting? Did I fail
To touch upon the deer and quail?
They're there, but hidden far below
The redwood, oak and mistletoe.
But while I stand, in sunny breeze,
Beneath the prunèd almond trees,
Fast Robin Hood's wild spirit dies
Within the warmth of these rich skies.
Upon the foothills and the peaks
The pathless chase for him who seeks!
And when he cares no more to roam,
The peerless valley's flowery home.
The peerless valley, regal height,
The genial course of day and night,
The silvery mist of early day,
The golden land of Sunnyway!

AN OBINE SONG.

GOOD-BYE, good-bye, dear Tennessee,
O land of mellow light!
Upon the brown Obine are we,
To join the river's flight;

By bluff and lowland, wood and field,
Beneath the light the clear stars yield,

A way we'll find,

And leave behind The Tiger Tail* to-night

Fair is the spot from which we go,
And true the hearts and bright;
And many ties our bosoms know
That brought us but delight;
But changes come to each who lives,
And fate sometimes no choosing gives;
And we must find,

And leave behind
The Tiger Tail to-night.

Good-bye, good-bye, dear Tennessee,
O land of mellow light!
Oh, we will often turn to thee

With fond and longing sight!

Our love we leave with thee and thine, As we float down the brown Obine

Down, down to find,

And leave behind,

The Tiger Tail to-night!

*A point near the mouth of the Obine.

THE

ROBERT, LORD LYTTON.

HE Right Hon. Edward Robert Bulwer-Lytton, G. C. B., G. C. S. I., second Baron and first Earl of Lytton, is the only son of one of the most eminent literary men of the present century, Lord Edward George Earle Bulwer-Lytton, and is a brilliant example of hereditary genius. He inherits in a remarkable degree the capacity for statesmanship, together with those rare literary talents which were so splendidly combined in his distinguished and illustrious father. He was born on November 18, 1831, and educated first at Harrow and afterwards at Bonn, where he devoted himself especially to the study of modern languages. He gave early promise of high literary attainments, his first work being "Clytemnestra, and Other Poems," published under his nom de plume of Owen Meredith. Entering the diplomatic service when only eighteen years of age, he was appointed in October, 1849, Attaché at Washington, where his uncle, Sir Henry Bulwer, was at that time minister. In 1852 he was transferred to Florence, and, two years later, to the Embassy at Paris, and successively to the Hague, St. Petersburgh, Constantinople, and Vienna. In 1862 he was gazetted second secretary in Her Majesty's diplomatic service, and acted in that capacity at Vienna. In the following year he was promoted to be Secretary of Legation, and was employed in that position at Copenhagen, Athens, and Lisbon. In 1868, after successfully concluding a treaty between Portugal and Great Britain, he was transferred to Madrid, where he only remained six months, when he was again promoted to the secretaryship of the Embassy of Vienna, and subsequently of Paris. Three months later, in January, 1873, at his father's death, he succeeded to the title of second Baron Lytton. He was appointed in December, 1874, Her Majesty's Minister to Lisbon, and after twelve months' service he was promoted to the high office of Viceroy of India, a position which he held until 1880. During his Viceroyalty Her Majesty the Queen was proclaimed Empress of India. After his resignation of the Viceroyalty, he was created Earl Lytton, of Lytton, and Viscount Knebworth, and succeeded Lord Lyons as Her Majesty's Ambassador to Paris. He married on October 4, 1864, Edith, second daughter of the Hon. Edward Villiers, and niece of the late Earl of Clarendon.

It is not, however, with his distinguished and brilliant career as a statesman and diplomatist that we have to deal, but with his position as a scholar and a poet. These latter qualities, which have been so especially marked in both father and son,