CURRENT POEMS.

PALM SUNDAY.

DEAR Lord, out of innumerable ills

Thy grace hath led my feeble steps and slow,
Vouchsafed to me Thy loveliness to show,

And given that peace, unpriced, whose gladness thrills

My spirit, so that all its essence wills

The world no more, but only Thee, to know: Before Thy feet of glory palms I strow, While my rapt heart with high Hosanna fills.

To-day Jerusalem hails Thee divine,

Yet storm of death awaits to rend the calm! What, then, if grief and bitterness like Thine

To me shall come, I shall not lack this balm,To know, that if Thy way of peace be mine, The amaranth is sweeter than the palm! ROWLAND B. MAHANY. -Buffalo Sunday Express, March 22, 1891.

A SONG.

TO SLEEP! to sleep! The long bright day is done, And darkness rises from the fallen sun.

To sleep! to sleep!

Whate'er thy joys, they vanish with the day;
Whate'er thy griefs, in sleep they fade away.
To sleep! to sleep!

Sleep, mournful heart, and let the past be past!
Sleep, happy soul! All life will sleep at last.
To sleep! to sleep!

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. -The New Review, March, 1891.

WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT?

IF I lay waste and wither up with doubt
The blessed fields of heaven where once my faith
Possessed itself serenely safe from death;
If I deny the things past finding out;

Or if I orphan my own soul of One

That seemed a Father, and make void the place Within me where He dwelt in power and grace, What do I gain, that am myself undone?

WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. -Harper's Magazine, February, 1891.

OLD-AGE ECHOES.

SOUNDS OF THE WINTER.

SOUNDS of the winter too,

Sunshine upon the mountains-many a distant strain From cheery railroad train-from nearer field, barn, house,

The whispering air-even the mute crops, garner'd apples, corn,

Children's and woman's tones-rhythm of many a farmer, and of flail,

An old man's garrulous lips among the rest— Think not we give out yet,

Forth from these snowy hairs we too keep up the lilt, THE UNEXPRess'd.

How dare one say it?

After the cycles, poems, singers, plays, Vaunted Ionia's, India's-Homer, Shakespearethe long, long times' thick dotted roads, areas,

The shining clusters and the Milky Ways of stars-Nature's pulses reap'd,

All retrospective passions, heroes, war, love, adoration,

All ages' plummets dropt to their utmost depths, All human lives, throats, wishes, brains-all experiences' utterance;

After the countless songs, or long or short, all tongues, all lands,

Still something not yet told in poesy's voice or print— something lacking,

(Who knows? the best yet unexpress'd and lacking).

SAIL OUT FOR GOOD, EIDÓLON YACHT!

Heave the anchor short!

Raise the main-sail and jib-steer forth,

O little white-hull'd sloop, now speed on really deep waters,

(I will not call it our concluding voyage,

But outset and sure entrance to the truest, best,

maturest;)

Depart, depart from solid earth—no more returning

to these shores,

Now on for aye our infinite free venture wending, Spurning all yet tried ports, seas, hawsers, densities,

gravitation,

Sail out for good, eidólon yacht of me!

AFTER THE ARGUMENT.

A group of little children with their ways and chatter flow in,

Like welcome rippling water o'er my heated nerves and flesh.

WALT WHITMAN,

-Lippincott's Magazine, March, 1891.

SONG.

FOR me the jasmine buds unfold,
And silver daisies star the lea,
The crocus hoards the sunset gold,

And the wild rose breathes for me.

I feel the sap through the bough returning, I share the skylark's transport fine,

I know the fountain's wayward yearningI love, and the world is mine!

I love, and thoughts that some time grieved,
Still, well remembered, grieve not me;
From all that darkened and deceived

Upsoars my spirit free.

For soft the hours repeat one story,
Sings the sea one strain divine,

My clouds arise all flushed with glory-
I love, and the world is mine!

FLORENCE EARLE COATES. -Harper's Weekly, February 18, 1891.

PANSY.

Ан, as radiant as thy face is
Nestling 'mong my lady's laces,
Says my heart, "Thou art no fairer,
Little thought-bloom, than thy wearer.
Thou canst tell not half the story
Of my lady's tender glory."

Is't with rapture thou are trembling

On her breast? There's no dissembling In my lady; there's none truer.

This I say who am her wooer.

When her lips breathe words of sweetness
In her soul is their completeness,
So she loves thee Pansy-blossom
For she wears thee on her bosom.

Brightly lift thy head thou fair one,
She has placed thee there to snare one.
He whose eyes by thee are captured
Looks again and is enraptured
With the face that smiles above thee.
Rightly, blossom, doth she love thee.

Thou dost wear the look of speaking
Tell me, Pansy, that I'm seeking.
Thou who art her necromancer
Whisper me my lady's answer
To the question, doth she love me?
Ah, she seems so far above me
With her gentle maiden graces!
Thou, who 'rt nestling 'mid the laces

Just above her warm heart's beating, Does my love find welcome greeting?

Does that gentle heart beat faster?
Does it leap to call me master
O'er her woman's strong devotion?
Oh, my love is like the ocean—
Deeply, widely, round her surging,—
As resistless in its urging.

And I'll win my lady's pleasure,
Pansy, I will win my treasure.

CARRIE RENFREW.

-For The Magazine of Poetry.

LINES.

(Suggested by Lyman Whitney Allen's poem, " In the Coming of His Feet.")

IN the coming of His feet,

I hear music rare and sweet.
And I listen while I ponder
With a new, increasing wonder,
O'er the beauty and the glory
I shall meet!

I have lost all fear and doubt
That long compassed me about;
I have found the meaning plain
Of my grief and care and pain,
But for these I would His coming
Be without!

For the coming of His feet,

I must rouse my soul to meet;
Laying down my weight of sorrow
Deck my temple fair to-morrow,
For His glory and His beauty
I may meet!

ALICE S. DELETOMBE.

-The Interior, January 15, 1891.

LONG AGO.

HAPPIEST dreams were those that vanished Long ago.

Fairest flowers were those that faded

Long ago.

Softest winds were those that blessed her,
Loved her fondly, and caressed her
Brow of snow.

And the brooklet's banks were shaded
Where the flow

GAUNT Wreckers watch the wintry coast at night;
The tempest rages in the outward gloom;
Rough men are praying unto God to doom
A vessel struggling with the ocean's might.
Crowded and kneeling in supreme affright
Upon the fated ship, a floating tomb,

Vast helpless throngs are seen where lightnings 'lume,

Beseeching God for salvatory light!

And He in highest heaven doth hear these prayers Offered by every soul with voice sincere,

Who for his sentence in distraction waits,

And He, environed by a million cares,
Looks on the scene of triumph and of fear,
Uplifts his judging hand, and-hesitates!
FRANCIS S. SALTUS.
-Witch of En-dor and Other Poems.

SYDNEY LANIER.

(Read at the Unveiling of the Poet's Bust, in Macon, Ga.) I HOLD a prism to mine upturned eye, The sunlight's golden lances pierce it through— Behold! what blazing splendors fill the Blue!

Ten thousand shimmering rainbows arch the sky, And interblend their glorious radiancy; All gross and common things fade from my view, And, in her virgin beauty robed anew,

The Earth, once more, an Eden seems to be.

Such are, to me, the glorifying powers

Of thy rare verse, O crystal-souled Lanier;
What valiant war for Truth thy pen did wage!

It was Ithuriel's spear-but wreathed with flowers;
Thy stainless song recalls Art's golden age,
And Love's immortal glory crowns thy bier.
CHARLES W. HUBNER.
For The Magazine of Poetry.