A PAINTED FAN. ROSES and butterflies snared on a fan, Of swift, bright wings that flashed in the sun, By what subtle spell did you lure them here, Bright, swift wings that never will range? 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, 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, Beauties that Fragonard drew, Ah, but things more than polite 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? AUSTIN DOBSON. VI. LABOR AND REST. HACK AND HEW. HACK and Hew were the sons of God And Hack was blind, and Hew was dumb, They made the moon and the belted stars, They loosed the girdle and veil of the sea, Both flower and beast beneath their hands The furious, fumbling hand of Hack, Then, fire and clay, they fashioned a man, 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 still the craftsman over his craft, Yearning, wind-swift, indolent, wild, THE AXE. BLISS CARMAN. FROM "MALCOLM'S KATIE." HIGH grew the snow beneath the low-hung sky, In trance of stillness Nature heard her God "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; Unintermitting, goes up into Heaven! Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing; More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing, |