They had their will of thee, yet aye forlorn
Mourned the lithe soul's escape,

And gave the strand thy mortal shape

To be resolved in flame whereof its life was born.

Afloat on tropic waves, I yield once more

In age that heart of youth unto thy spell.
The century wanes.- thy voice thrills as of yore
When first it fell.

Would that I too, so had I sung a lay
The least upborne of thine,

Had shared thy pain! Not so divine

Our light, as faith to chant the far auroral day.

MORS BENEFICA

IVE me to die unwitting of the day,

GT

And stricken in Life's brave heat, with senses clear:
Not swathed and couched until the lines appear

Of Death's wan mask upon this withering clay,
But as that Old Man Eloquent made way

From Earth, a nation's conclave hushed anear;
Or as the chief whose fates, that he may hear
The victory, one glorious moment stay.
Or, if not thus, then with no cry in vain,

No ministrant beside to ward and weep,
Hand upon helm I would my quittance gain.
In some wild turmoil of the waters deep,
And sink content into a dreamless sleep
(Spared grave and shroud) below the ancient main.

Tell, oh tell me, Grizzled-Face,
Do your heart and head keep pace?
When does hoary love expire,
When do frosts put out the fire?
Can its embers burn below

All that chill December snow?
Care you still soft hands to press,
Bonny heads to smooth and bless?
When does love give up the chase?
Tell, oh tell me, Grizzled-Face!

"Ah!" the wise old lips reply,
"Youth may pass and strength may die;
But of love I can't foretoken:

Ask some older sage than I!"

J

PAN IN WALL STREET

UST where the Treasury's marble front
Looks over Wall Street's mingled nations;
Where Jews and Gentiles most are wont

To throng for trade and last quotations;
Where, hour by hour, the rates of gold
Outrival, in the ears of people,
The quarter-chimes, serenely tolled

From Trinity's undaunted steeple,-

Even there I heard a strange, wild strain

Sound high above the modern clamor,

Above the cries of greed and gain,

The curbstone war, the auction's hammer:

And swift, on Music's misty ways,

It led, from all this strife for millions,

To ancient, sweet-do-nothing days.

Among the kirtle-robed Sicilians.

And as it stilled the multitude,

And yet more joyous rose, and shriller,

I saw the minstrel, where he stood

At ease against a Doric pillar:

WALL STREET AND TRINITY CHURCH.

Photogravure from a photograph.