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A PAINTED FAN.

ROSES and butterflies snared on a fan,
All that is left of summer gone by;

Of swift, bright wings that flashed in the sun,
And loveliest blossoms that bloomed to die!

By what subtle spell did you lure them here,
Fixing a beauty that will not change,—
Roses whose petals never will fall,

Bright, swift wings that never will range?
Had you owned but the skill to snare as well
The swift-winged hours that came and went,
To prison the words that in music died,

And fix with a spell the heart's content,

Then had you been of magicians the chief;

And loved and lovers should bless your art, If you could but have painted the soul of the thing,

Not the rose alone, but the rose's heart!

Flown are those days with their winged delights, As the odor is gone from the summer rose;

Yet still, whenever I wave my fan,

The soft, south wind of memory blows.

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

ON A FAN

THAT BELONGED TO THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR.

(BALLADE.)

CHICKEN-SKIN, delicate, white,
Painted by Carlo Vanloo,

Loves in a riot of light,

Roses and vaporous blue;

Hark to the dainty frou-frou! Picture above, if you can,

Eyes that could melt as the dew,This was the Pompadour's fan!

See how they rise at the sight,

Thronging the Eil de Boeuf through,
Courtiers as butterflies bright,

Beauties that Fragonard drew,
Talon-rouge, falaba, queue,
Cardinal, duke,—to a man,
Eager to sigh or to sue,-
This was the Pompadour's fan!

Ah, but things more than polite
Hung on this toy, voyez-vous!
Matters of state and of might,

Things that great ministers do;

Things that, maybe, overthrew

Those in whose brains they began ;

Here was the sign and the cue,—

This was the Pompadour's fan!

ENVOY.

Where are the secrets it knew?
Weavings of plot and of plan?
-But where is the Pompadour, too?
This was the Pompadour's fan!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

VI.

LABOR AND REST.

HACK AND HEW.

HACK and Hew were the sons of God
In the earlier earth than now:
One at his right hand, one at his left,
To obey as he taught them how.

And Hack was blind, and Hew was dumb,
But both had the wild, wild heart;
And God's calm will was their burning will,
And the gist of their toil was art.

They made the moon and the belted stars,
They set the sun to ride ;

They loosed the girdle and veil of the sea,
The wind and the purple tide.

Both flower and beast beneath their hands
To beauty and speed outgrew,-

The furious, fumbling hand of Hack,
And the glorying hand of Hew.

Then, fire and clay, they fashioned a man,
And painted him rosy brown;

And God himself blew hard in his eyes:

"Let them burn till they smoulder down! "

And "There!" said Hack, and "There!" thought

Hew,

"We'll rest, for our toil is done."

But "Nay," the Master Workman said, "For your toil is just begun.

"And ye who served me of old as God

Shall serve me anew as man,

Till I compass the dream that is in my heart,
And perfect the vaster plan."

And still the craftsman over his craft,
In the vague white light of dawn,
With God's calm will for his burning will,
While the mounting day comes on,

Yearning, wind-swift, indolent, wild,
Toils with those shadowy two,-
The faltering, restless hand of Hack,
And the tireless hand of Hew.

THE AXE.

BLISS CARMAN.

FROM

"MALCOLM'S KATIE."

HIGH grew the snow beneath the low-hung sky,
And all was silent in the wilderness;

In trance of stillness Nature heard her God
Rebuilding her spent fires, and veiled her face
While the Great Worker brooded o'er His work.

"Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree! What doth thy bold voice promise me?"

"I promise thee all joyous things

That furnish forth the lives of kings!

"For every silver ringing blow,

Cities and palaces shall grow!"

"Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree!

Tell wider prophecies to me."

"When rust hath gnawed me deep and red, A nation strong shall lift his head.

"His crown the very Heavens shall smite, Eons shall build him in his might!"

"Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree; Bright Seer, help on thy prophecy!"

Max smote the snow-weighed tree, and lightly laughed.

"See, friend," he cried to one that looked and

66

smiled,

'My axe and I- -we do immortal tasks

We build up nations-this my axe and I!"

ISABELLA VALANCEY CRAWFORD.

LABOR.

PAUSE not to dream of the future before us;
Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us;
Hark! how Creation's deep, musical chorus,
Unintermitting, goes up into Heaven!

Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing;
Never the little seed stops in its growing;

More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,

Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

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