And for the love of those dear eyes For love of her whom God led forth (The mother's being ceased on earth When Babie came from Paradise)— For love of him who smote our lives, And woke the chords of joy and pain, We said, "Dear Christ!" our hearts bent down Like violets after rain. IV. And now the orchards, which were white The clustered apples burnt like flame, The grape hung purpling in the grange, Her lissome form more perfect grew, V. God's hand had taken away the seal We never held her being's key; VL It came upon us by degrees, We saw its shadow 'ere it fell, We shuddered with unlanguaged pain, We cried aloud in our belief, And perfect grow through grief," VII. At last he came, the messenger, We wove the roses round her brow, White buds, the summer's drifted snow, Wrapped her from head to foot in flowers, And thus went dainty Babie Bell Out of this world of ours! Thomas Bailey Aldrich. The Irishwoman's Letter. And sure, I was tould to come in till yer honer, To see would ye write a few lines to me Pat, He's gone for a soger is Misther O'Conner, Wid a sthripe on his arm, and a band on his hat. And what 'ill ye tell him? shure it must be aisy For the likes of yer honor to spake with the pen, Tell him I'm well, and mavourneen Daisy (The baby yer honor), is better again. For when he wint off so sick was the crayther, So he left her in danger, an me sorely gravin, Tell him to sind us a bit of his money, For the rint and the docther's bill, due in a wake, An, shure there's a tear on yer eyelashes honey, I' faith I've no right with such fradom to spake. I'm over much thrifling, I'll not give ye trouble, Dead! Patrick O'Conner! oh God its some ither, Dead! dead! O God, am I crazy? Shure its brakin my heart ye are telling me so, An what en the world will I do wid poor Daisy? O what can I do? where can I go? This room is so dark-I'm not seein yer honor, From Atalanta in Calydon. Before the beginning of years Grief, with a glass that ran; And life, the shadow of death. And the high gods took in hand And froth and drift of the sea; And dust of the laboring earth; And bodies of things to be In the houses of death and of birth; And wrought with weeping and laughter, And fashioned with loathing and love, With life before and after, And death beneath and above, For a day and a night and a morrow, That his strength might endure for a spau With travail and heavy sorrow, The holy spirit of man. From the winds of the north and the south They gathered as unto strife; They breathed upon his mouth, A time for labor and thought, A time to serve and to sin; And night, and sleep in the night. In his eyes foreknowledge of death; His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep. Algernon Chas. Swinburn Darius Green and his Flying Machine. If ever there lived a Yankee lad, Who, seeing the birds fly, did n't jump With flapping arms from stake or stump, Of his coat for sail, Take a soaring leap from post or rail, And wonder why He could n't fly, And flap and flutter and wish and try, He never would do for a hero of mine. An aspiring genius was D. Green: |