In the way of flounced silks, and, thus left in the lurch,

Are unable to go to ball, concert, or church.
In another large mansion near the same place
Was found a deplorable, heart-rending case
Of entire destitution of Brussels point-lace.
In a neighboring block there was found, in three
calls,

Total want, long continued, of camels'-hair shawls;
And a suffering family, whose case exhibits
The most pressing need of real ermine tippets;
One deserving young lady almost unable

To survive for the want of a new Russian sable;
Another confined to the house, when it's windier
Than usual, because her shawl isn't India.
Still another, whose tortures have been most terrific
Ever since the sad loss of the steamer Pacific,
In which were ingulfed, not friend or relation,
(For whose fate she perhaps might have found con-
solation,

Or borne it, at least, with serene resignation),
But the choicest assortment of French sleeves and
collars

Ever sent out from Paris, worth thousands of dollars,

And all as to style most recherché and rare,
The want of which leaves her with nothing to
wear,

And renders her life so drear and dyspeptic
That she's quite a recluse, and almost a sceptic,
For she touchingly says that this sort of grief
Cannot find in Religion the slightest relief,
And Philosophy has not a maxim to spare
For the victims of such overwhelming despair.
But the saddest by far of all these sad features
Is the cruelty practised upon the poor creatures
By husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards and Ti-
mons,

Who resist the most touching appeals made for diamonds

By their wives and their daughters, and leave them for days

Unsupplied with new jewelry, fans or bouquets, Even laugh at their miseries whenever they have a chance,

And deride their demands as useless extravagance;
One case of a bride was brought to my view,
Too sad for belief, but, alas! 'twas too true,
Whose husband refused, as savage as Charon,
To permit her to take more than ten trunks to Sha-

ron.

The consequence was, that when she got there,

At the end of three weeks she had nothing to wear,

And when she proposed to finish the season
At Newport, the monster refused out and out,
For his infamous conduct alleging no reason,
Except that the waters were good for his gout;
Such treatment as this was too shocking, of course,
And proceedings are now going on for divorce.

But why harrow the feelings by lifting the curtain
From these scenes of woe? Enough, it is certain,
Has here been disclosed to stir up the pity
Of every benevolent heart in the city,
And spur up Humanity into a canter

To rush and relieve these sad cases instanter. Won't somebody, moved by this touching description,

Come forward to-morrow and head a subscription?
Won't some kind philanthropist, seeing that aid is
So needed at once by these indigent ladies,
Take charge of the matter? or won't PETER COOPER
The corner-stone lay of some splendid super-
Structure, like that which to-day links his name
In the Union unending of honor and fame;
And found a new charity just for the care
Of these unhappy women with nothing to wear,
Which, in view of the cash which would daily be
claimed,

The Laying-out Hospital well might be named ?
Won't STEWART, or some of our dry-goods importers,
Take a contract for clothing our wives and our
daughters?

Or, to furnish the cash to supply these distresses, And life's pathway strew with shawls, collars, and

dresses,

Ere the want of them makes it much rougher and thornier,

Won't some one discover a new California?

O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day
Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway,
From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride,
And the temples of Trade which tower on each side,
To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt
Their children have gathered, their city have built;
Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey,

Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair; Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt,

Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt, [stair

Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old, [cold. Half-starved and half-naked, lie crouched from the

See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet, All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street; Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare, Spoiled children of fashion, you've nothing to wear!

And oh, if perchance there should be a sphere
Where all is made right which so puzzles us here;
Where the glare and the glitter and tinsel of time
Fade and die in the light of that region sublime;
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense,
Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pre-
tence,

Must be clothed for the life and the service above
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love,—
O daughters of earth! foolish virgins, beware!
Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear!

Richard Henry Stoddard.

AMERICAN.

Stoddard, born in Hingham, Mass., in 1825, removed when quite young to New York. He engaged early in literary pursuits; published a volume of poems in 1842; another in 1849; "Songs of Summer," in 1856; "The King's Bell," in 1863; "The Book of the East," in 1871; "Later Poems" (1871-1880). In the last-named year an elegant edition of his collected poems, with a fine portrait, was published by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York. Stoddard has done much literary work for publishers as author, editor, and compiler. For some time he held a place in the Custom-house. His wife (Elizabeth Drew Barstow, born 1823), a native of Mattapoisett, Mass., has also achieved success in authorship, having produced several novels and contributed largely to magazines. One of her poems is subjoined. In his short lyrical pieces Stoddard exhibits much of the grace, tenderness, and delicacy of expression that charm us in Herrick, Tennyson, and the German Heine. He is one of the born poets, having manifested when a child extreme sensitiveness to the influences of external nature and to all that is beautiful in art. A series of short poems on the death of his little boy are remarkable for the deep and true pathos they embody.

SONGS UNSUNG.

Let no poet, great or small,
Say that he will sing a song;
For song cometh, if at all,

Not because we woo it long, But because it suits its will, Tired at last of being still.

Every song that has been sung Was before it took a voice;

Waiting since the world was young

For the poet of its choice. Oh, if any waiting be,

May they come to-day to me!

I am ready to repeat
Whatsoever they impart;

Sorrows sent by them are sweet-
They know how to heal the heart:
Ay, and in the lightest strain
Something serious doth remain.

What are my white hairs, forsooth,
And the wrinkles on my brow?

I have still the soul of youth-
Try me, merry Muses, now.

I can still with numbers fleet
Fill the world with dancing feet.

No, I am no longer young;

Old am I this many a year; But my songs will yet be sung,

Though I shall not live to hear. Oh, my son, that is to be, Sing my songs, and think of me!

203

FROM THE PROEM TO COLLECTED POEMS.

These songs of mine, the best that I have sung,
Are not my best, for caged within the lines
Are thousands better (if they would but sing!),
Silent amid the clamors of their mates:
I know they are imperfect, none so well,--
Echoes at first, no doubt, of older songs,
(Not knowingly caught, but echoes all the same,)
Fancies where facts were wanting, or hard facts
Which only fancies made endurable;

I grant, beforehand, all the faults they have,
Too deeply rooted to be plucked up now,
And leave them to their fate; content to know
That they sustained me in my dreariest days,
That they consoled me in my darkest nights,
And to believe, now I have done with them,
I may do well enough to win at last
The Laurel I have missed so many years.

HOW ARE SONGS BEGOT AND BRED ?

How are songs begot and bred ? How do golden measures flow?

From the heart, or from the head? Happy Poet! let me know.

Tell me first how folded flowers
Bud and bloom in vernal bowers;
How the south wind shapes its tune-
The harper he of June!

None may answer, none may know; Winds and flowers come and go, And the self-same canons bind Nature and the Poet's mind.

THE COUNTRY LIFE.

Not what we would, but what we must,
Makes up the sum of living;

Heaven is both more and less than just

In taking and in giving.

Swords cleave to hands that sought the plough, And laurels miss the soldier's brow.

Me, whom the city holds, whose feet
Have worn its stony highways,
Familiar with its loneliest street---
Its ways were never my ways.
My cradle was beside the sea,

And there, I hope, my grave will be.

Old homestead! In that old, gray town,
Thy vane is seaward blowing,
The slip of garden stretches down
To where the tide is flowing:
Below they lie, their sails all furled,
The ships that go about the world.

Dearer that little country house,
Inland, with pines beside it;
Some peach-trees, with unfruitful boughs,
A well, with weeds to hide it:
No flowers, or only such as rise
Self-sown, poor things, which all despise.

Dear country home! Can I forget
The least of thy sweet trifles?
The window-vines that clamber yet,

Whose bloom the bee still rifles?
The roadside blackberries, growing ripe,
And in the woods the Indian Pipe?

Happy the man who tills his field, Content with rustic labor;

Earth does to him her fulness yield,

Hap what may to his neighbor. Well days, sound nights, oh, can there be A life more rational and free?

Dear country life of child and man! For both the best, the strongest, That with the earliest race began,

And hast outlived the longest: Their cities perished long ago; Who the first farmers were we know.

Perhaps our Babels too will fall;

If so, no lamentations,

For Mother Earth will shelter all,

And feed the unborn nations; Yes, and the swords that menace now Will then be beaten to the plough.

ON THE CAMPAGNA.

MRS. R. H. STODDARD.

Stop on the Appian Way,

In the Roman Campagna,—

Stop at my tomb,

The tomb of Cecilia Metella!
To-day as you see it
Alaric saw it ages ago,

When he, with his pale-visaged Goths,
Sat at the gates of Rome,
Reading his Runic shield.
Odin, thy curse remains.

Beneath these battlements

My bones were stirred with Roman pride,
Though centuries before my Romans died:
Now my bones are dust: the Goths are dust,
The river-bed is dry where sleeps the king;
My tomb remains.

When Rome commanded the earth
Great were the Metelli :

I was Metellus' wife;

I loved him, and I died.

Then with slow patience built he this memorial: Each century marks his love.

Pass by on the Appian Way

The tomb of Cecilia Metella.

Wild shepherds alone seek its shelter,
Wild buffaloes tramp at its base:

Deep in its desolation,

Deep as the shadow of Rome!

Thomas D'Arcy McGee.

McGee (born in 1825) was a native of Carlingford, County Louth, Ireland; the son of a member of the Coast Guard Service. In 1842 Thomas emigrated to America, and was connected for awhile with The Pilot. He returned to Ireland to be associated, first with the Dublin Freeman's Journal, and then with The Nation. In 1848 he returned to America, and started the New York Nation; it was not a success, and he commenced The American Celt in Boston. Selling out his interest in that paper, he accepted an invitation to remove to Montreal, where he was elected to the Canadian Parliament. Here he opposed the Fenian movement, and, incurring the hatred of the most radical of his countrymen, was assassinated April 7th, 1868. His poems are unequal in merit, many of them showing a great lack of artistic care. A collection of them was published in New York in 1869.

805

Welcome, sword! thou magic wand,
Which raises kings and casts them down;
Thou sceptre to the fearless hand,
Thou fetter-key for limbs long bound,-
Welcome, wonder-working sword!

Welcome, sword! no more with love

Will Cathal look on land or main,

Till with thine aid, my sword! I prove
What race shall reap and king shall reign.
Farewell, sickle! welcome sword!

Shining sickle! lie thou there;
Another harvest needs my hand,
Another sickle I must bear

Back to the fields of my own land.
Farewell, sickle! welcome, sword!

CATHAL'S FAREWELL TO THE RYE.

Cathal Crov-derg (the red-handed) O'Connor, being banished from Connaught, was found reaping rye in a field in Leinster, when news was brought that called him to assert his rights. Cathal threw down the sickle, saying, "Farewell, sickle; now for the sword!" The saying grew to be proverbial in Ireland.

Shining sickle! lie thou there;

Another harvest needs my hand, Another sickle I must bear

Back to the fields of my own land. Farewell, sickle! welcome, sword!

A crop waves red on Connaught's plain,
Of bearded men and banners gay,
But we will beat them down like rain,
And sweep them like the storm away.
Farewell, sickle! welcome, sword!

Peaceful sickle! lie thou there,

Deep buried in the vanquished rye; May this that in thy stead I bear, Above as thick a reaping lie!

Farewell, sickle! welcome, sword!

Welcome, sword! out from your sheath, And look upon the glowing sun! Sharp shearer of the field of death, Your time of rust and rest is done. Welcome, welcome, trusty sword!

Welcome, sword! no more repose

For Cathal-Crov-derg or for thee, Until we walk o'er Erin's foes,

Or they walk over you and me,

My lightning, banner-cleaving sword!

Adelaide Anne Procter.

Miss Procter (1825-1864) was that "golden- tressed Adelaide," of whom her father, while writing under the pseudonyme of Barry Cornwall, used to sing. N. P. Willis described her while a child as "a beautiful girl of eight or nine years, delicate, gentle, and pensive, as if she was born on the lip of Castaly, and knew she was a poet's daughter." In 1858 she published "Legends and Lyrics," a book of verse. Many of her earliest poems appeared in Charles Dickens's weekly magazine, Household Words. They breathe an earnest religious sentiment, and have a character of their own which distinguishes them from all mere imitations. Miss Procter became a Roman Catholic in the latter part of her short life. An American edition of her poems has met with a good sale. One of her critics says: "It is full of a thoughtful scriousness, a grave tenderness, a fancy temperate but not frigid, with touches of the true artist."

MINISTERING ANGELS.

Angels of light, spread your bright wings and keep
Near me at morn;
Nor in the starry eve, nor midnight deep,
Leave me forlorn.

From all dark spirits of unholy power
Guard my weak heart.
Circle around me in each perilous hour,
And take my part.

From all foreboding thoughts and dangerous fears Keep me secure;

Teach me to hope, and through the bitterest tears Still to endure.

If lonely in the road so fair and wide

My feet should stray,

Then through a rougher, safer pathway guide Me day by day.

Should my heart faint at its unequal strife, Oh, still be near

Shadow the perilous sweetness of this life With holy fear.

Then leave me not alone in this bleak world,
Where'er I roam;

And at the end, with your bright wings unfurled,
Oh, take me home!

THE LOST CHORD.

Seated one day at the organ,
I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wandered idly
Over the noisy keys.

I know not what I was playing,
Or what I was dreaming of then,
But I struck one chord of music

Like the sound of a great Amen!

It flooded the crimson twilight,
Like the close of an angel's psalın,
And it lay on my fevered spirit
With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,

Like love overcoming strife; It seemed the harmonious echo From our discordant life.

It linked all perplexéd meanings
Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence
As if it were loath to cease.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That one lost chord divine,

That came from the soul of the organ,
And entered into mine.

It may be that Death's bright angel
Will speak in that chord again;

It may be that only in heaven
I shall hear that grand Amen!

STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAY. Strive; yet I do not promise, The prize you dream of to-day, Will not fade when you think to grasp it, And melt in your hand away; But another and holier treasure, You would now perchance disdain, Will come when your toil is over, And pay you for all your pain.

Wait; yet I do not tell you,

The hour you long for now,

Will not come with its radiance vanished,
And a shadow upon its brow;
Yet far through the misty future,
With a crown of starry light,
An hour of joy you know not
Is winging her silent flight.

Pray; though the gift you ask for May never comfort your fears, May never repay your pleading,

Yet pray, and with hopeful tears; An answer, not that you long for,

But diviner, will come one day; Your eyes are too dim to see it, Yet strive, and wait, and pray.

Bayard Taylor.

AMERICAN.

James Bayard Taylor, as he was christened (1825-1878), was a native of Kennet Square, Chester County, Pa. His active career began with an apprenticeship in a printingoffice of his native place. When nineteen years old he set out for Europe, and travelled afoot for two years. His first book, Views Afoot," had a profitable sale. He subsequently travelled in California, Central Africa, India, China, Japan, Sweden, Denmark, Lapland, Greece, and Russia, and embodied his experiences in many books of travel. He was connected editorially with the New York Tribune. He published three novels, made a brilliant translation of Goethe's "Faust," and was the author of several volumes of poems, containing some lyrics of a high order. Married to a German lady, he became an accomplished German scholar, and undertook a life of Goethe, for preparing which his opportunities were ample. Under the Presidency of Mr. Hayes he was made Minister to Berlin in 1878, but died in that city in the flush of his schemes of literary labor and of diplomatic culture. He was a man greatly beloved by numerous friends, and has left a literary record that is likely to make his name long familiar. A complete edition of his poems appeared in Boston in 1880.