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HELIOTROPE.

How strong they are, those subtile spells
That lurk in leaves and flower-bells,
Rising from faint perfumes;

Or, mingling with some olden strain,
Strike through the music shafts of pain,
And people empty rooms.

They come upon us unaware,
In crowded halls and open air,
And in our chambers still;

A song, an odor, or a bird

Evokes the spell and strikes the chord,
And all our pulses thrill.

I wandered but an hour ago,

With lagging footsteps tired and slow,
Along the garden walk;

The summer twilight wrapped me round,
Through open windows came the sound
Of song and pleasant talk.

The odor-stealing dews lay wet
And heavy on the mignonette
That crept about my feet;

Upon the folded mossy vest
That clothed the ruby rose's breast
It fell in droppings sweet.

It fell on beds of purple bloom,

From whence arose the rare perfume

Of dainty heliotrope;

Which smote my heart with sudden power,

My favorite scent, my favorite flower,

In olden days of hope!

Ah, me! the years have come and gone,
Each with its melody or moan,

Since that sunshiny hour,

When, for the sake of hands that brought,
And for the lesson sweet it taught,
I chose it for my flower.

Faint-scented blossoms! Long ago
Your purple clusters came to show
My life had wider scope;

They spoke of love that day-to-night
I stand apart from love's delight,

And wear no heliotrope.

Between to-night and that far day
Lie life's bright noon and twilight gray,
But I have lived through both;

And if before my paling face
The midnight shadows fall apace,
I see them, nothing loath.

Only to-night that faint perfume
Reminds me of the lonely gloom
Of life outliving hope;
I wish I had been far to-night
What time the dew fell, silver-white,
Upon the heliotrope!

THE CLOVER.

SOME sings of the lily, and daisy, and rose,
And the pansies and pinks that the summer-time throws
In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays
Blinkin' up at the skies through the sunshiny days;
But what is the lily and all of the rest

Of the flowers to a man with a heart in his breast
That has dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew
Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew?

I never set eyes on a clover-field now,

Or fool round a stable, or climb in the mow,

But my childhood comes back, just as clear and as plain As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again;

And I wander away in a barefooted dream,

Where I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam
With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love
Ere it wept o'er the graves that I'm weepin' above.

And so I love clover it seems like a part
Of the sacredest sorrows and joys of my heart;
And wherever it blossoms, oh, there let me bow,
And thank the good God as I'm thankin' him now;
And I pray to him still for the strength, when I die,
To go out in the clover and tell it good-by,

And lovingly nestle my face in its bloom,
While my soul slips away on a breath of perfume.

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.

THE VIOLET'S GRAVE.

THE Woodland, and the golden wedge
Of sunshine slipping through;

And there, beside a bit of hedge,
A violet so blue!

So tender was its beauty, and
So douce and sweet its air,

I stooped, and yet withheld my hand-
Would pluck, and yet would spare.

Now which was best? For spring will pass,
And vernal beauty fly ·

On maiden's breast or in the grass,

Where would you choose to die?

FROM THE SICILIAN OF VICORTARI.

THE LILY AND THE LINDEN.

FAR away under skies of blue,

In the pleasant land beyond the sea, Bathed with sunlight and washed with dew, Budded and bloomed the fleur-de-lis.

Through mists of morning, one by one,
Grandly the perfect leaves unfold,
And the dusky glow of the sinking sun
Flushed and deepened its hues of gold.

She saw him rise o'er the rolling Rhine,
She saw him set in the western sea,
"Where is the empress, garden mine,

Doth rule a realm like the fleur-de-lis?

"The forest trembles before the breath,
From the island oak to the northern pine,
And the blossoms pale with the hue of death
When my anger rustles the tropic vine.

"The lotus wakes from its slumbers lone,
To waft its homage unto me,

And the spice-groves lay before my throne
The tribute due to the fleur-de-lis!"

So hailed she vassals far and wide,
Till her glance swept over a hemisphere,
But noted not, in her queenly pride,
A slender sapling growing near.

Slow uprising o'er glade and glen,

Its branches bent in the breezes free, But its roots were set in the hearts of men, Who gave their life to the linden-tree.

"Speak, O seer of the mighty mien !
Answer, sage of the mystic air!
What is the lot of the linden green?
What is the fate of the lily fair?

"Hear'st thou the wail of the winter wake?
Hear'st thou the roar of the angry sea?
Ask not, for heaven's own thunders break
On the linden fair and the fleur-de-lis!"

The storm-clouds fade from the murky air,
Again the freshening breezes blow,
The sunbeams rest on the garden rare,

But the lily lies buried beneath the snow!

From the ice-locked Rhine to the western sea
Mournfully spreads the wintry pall,
Cold and still is the fleur-de-lis,

But the linden threatens to shadow all!

Frowning down on the forest wide,

Darkly loometh his giant form,

Alone he stands in his kingly pride,

And mocks at whirlwind and laughs at storm.

"Speak, O sage of the mystic air! Answer, seer of the mighty mien ! Must all thy trees of the forest fair

Fall at the feet of the linden green ?"

"Wouldst thou the scroll of the future see?
Thus I divine the fate of all!

A worm is sapping the linden-tree,
The pride that goeth before a fall.

"For shame may come to the haughty crest,
A storm may sweep from the northern sea,
And winds from the east and winds from the west
May blow in wrath o'er the linden-tree!

"Here, where the voice of the winter grieves,
The lily hath lain its regal head;

Bright was the gleam of the golden leaves,
But the lily was flecked with spots of red.

"Behind the clouds of the battle strife

The glow of resurrection see!

Lo! I proclaim a newer life,

The truer birth of the fleur-de-lis!"

Thus saith the seer of the mighty mien,
Thus saith the sage of the mystic air,
The sunshine fell from the linden green
And gilded the grave of the lily fair.

Stewart's Quarterly.

DR. FRED CROSBY.

RAIN.

MILLIONS of massive rain-drops
Have fallen all around;

They have danced on the house-tops,
They have hidden in the ground.

They were liquid like musicians
With anything for keys,
Beating tunes upon the windows,
Keeping time upon the trees.

PROMISE.

THERE is a rainbow in the sky,
Upon the arch where tempests trod;
God wrote it ere the world was dry -
It is the autograph of God.

NOTE.This quatrain was cut from the body of a poem which contained little else of worth, and the very title of which is now forgotten.

WHAT THEY DREAMED AND SAID.

ROSE dreamed she was a lily,

Lily dreamed she was a rose;

Robin dreamed he was a sparrow,

What the owl dreamed no one knows.

But they all woke up together

As happy as could be.

Said each one: "You 're lovely, neighbor,

But I'm very glad I'm me.'

THE WANDERER.

UPON a mountain height, far from the sea,

I found a shell;

And to my listening ear this lonely thing
Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing, -

Ever a tale of ocean seemed to tell.

M. E.

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