[Page 393.]

Chief, the charm of thy reflecting, [1]

Is the moral that it brings; Nature, with the mind connecting, Gives the artist's fancy wings.

Soul, sublime 'mid human _debris_, [5]

Paints the limner's work, I ween, Art and Science, all unweary, Lighting up this mortal dream.

Work ill-done within the misty Mine of human thoughts, we see [10]

Soon abandoned when the Master Crowns life's Cliff for such as we.

Students wise, he maketh now thus Those who fish in waters deep, When the buried Master hails us [15]

From the sh.o.r.es afar, complete.

Art hath bathed this isthmus-lordling In a beauty strong and meek As the rock, whose upward tending Points the plane of power to seek. [20]

Isle of beauty, thou art teaching Lessons long and grand, to-night, To my heart that would be bleaching To thy whiteness, Cliff of Wight.

[Page 394.]

Hope

'T is borne on the zephyr at eventide's hour; It falls on the heart like the dew on the flower,- An infinite essence from tropic to pole, The promise, the home, and the heaven of Soul. [5]

Hope happifies life, at the altar or bower, And loosens the fetters of pride and of power; It comes through our tears, as the soft summer rain, To beautify, bless, and make joyful again.

The harp of the minstrel, the treasure of time; [10]

A rainbow of rapture, o'erarching, divine; The G.o.d-given mandate that speaks from above,- No place for earth's idols, but hope thou, and love.

Rondelet

"The flowers of June The gates of memory unbar: The flowers of June Such old-time harmonies _re_tune, I fain would keep the gates ajar,- So full of sweet enchantment are [20]

The flowers of June."

JAMES T. WHITE

[Page 395.]

To Mr. James T. White

Who loves not June [2]

Is out of tune With love and G.o.d; The rose his rival reigns, [5]

The stars reject his pains, His home the clod!

And yet I trow, When sweet _rondeau_ Doth play a part, [10]

The curtain drops on June; Veiled is the modest moon- Hushed is the heart.

Autumn

Written in childhood, in a maple grove [15]

Quickly earth's jewels disappear; The turf, whereon I tread, Ere autumn blanch another year, May rest above my head.

Touched by the finger of decay [20]

Is every earthly love; For joy, to shun my weary way, Is registered above.

The languid brooklets yield their sighs, A requiem o'er the tomb [25]

Of sunny days and cloudless skies, Enhancing autumn's gloom.

[Page 396.]

The wild winds mutter, howl, and moan, [1]

To scare my woodland walk, And frightened fancy flees, to roam Where ghosts and goblins stalk.

The cricket's sharp, discordant scream [5]

Fills mortal sense with dread; More sorrowful it scarce could seem; It voices beauty fled.

Yet here, upon this faded sod,- O happy hours and fleet,- [10]

When songsters' matin hymns to G.o.d Are poured in strains so sweet,

My heart unbidden joins rehea.r.s.e; I hope it's better made, When mingling with the universe, [15]

Beneath the maple's shade.

Christ My Refuge

O'er waiting harpstrings of the mind There sweeps a strain, Low, sad, and sweet, whose measures bind [20]