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The hills look over on the South,

And the southward dreams the sea,
And, with the sea-breeze hand in hand,
Came innocence and she.

Where 'mid the gores the raspberry
Red for the gatherer springs,
Two children did we stray and talk
Wise, idle, childish things.

She listened with big-lipped surprise,
Breast-deep mid flower and spine;
Her skin was like a grape, whose veins
Run snow instead of wine.

She knew not those sweet words she spake,
Nor knew her own sweet way;

But there's never a bird, so sweet a song
Thronged in whose throat that day!

Oh, there were flowers in Storrington
On the turf and on the spray,

But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills
Was the Daisy-flower that day!

Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face!
She gave me tokens three,

A look, a word of her winsome mouth,
And a wild raspberry.

A berry red, a guileless look,

A still word,-strings of sand!

And yet they made my wild, wild heart
Fly down to her little hand.

For standing artless as the air
And candid as the skies,
She took the berries with her hand
And the love with her sweet eyes.

The fairest things have fleetest end;
Their scent survives their close,
But the rose's scent is bitterness
To him that loved the rose!

She looked a little wistfully,
Then went her sunshine way;
The sea's eye had a mist on it,
And the leaves fell from the day.

She went her unremembering way,
She went and left in me
The pang of all the partings gone
And partings yet to be.

She left me marveling why my soul
Was sad that she was glad,

At all the sadness in the sweet,
The sweetness in the sad.

Still, still I seemed to see her, still

Look up with soft replies,
And take the berries with her hand
And the love with her lovely eyes.

Nothing begins, and nothing ends,
That is not paid with moan;
For we are born in others' pain
And perish in our own.

-Poems, 1894.



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As I time mine to the echo, over hill and over valley,

I am marching, marching ever to that unseen bugle's call!


-Happenchance, May, 1894.


OCH, Katie's a rogue, it is thrue,
But her eyes, like the skies, are so blue,
An' her dimples so swate,
An' her ankles so nate,

She dazed, an' she bothered me, too,

Till one mornin' we wint fur a ride,
Whin, demure as a bride by me side,
The darlint, she sat

Wid the wickedest hat
'Neath purty girl's chin iver tied.

An' me heart, arrah thin, how it bate!

Fur me Kate looked so temptin' an' swate,

Wid cheeks like the roses
An' all the red posies

That grow in the gardin so nate.

But I sat jist as mute as the dead,
Till she said wid a toss uv her head:
"If I'd known that to-day
Ye'd have nothin' to say,

I'd have gone wid me cousin instade."
Thin I felt meself grow very bowld,
For I knew she'd not scold, if I towld
Ov the love in me heart
That 'ud niver depart

Though I lived to be wrinkled an' owld,

An' I said: "If I dared to do so,
I'd lit go uv this baste, and I'd throw
Both me arms roun' yer waist,
An' be stalin' a taste

Uv thim lips that are coaxin' me so.

Thin she blushed a more ilagint red, As she said, widout raisin' her head, An' her eyes lookin' down 'Neath her lashes so brown: 'Ud ye like me to dhrive, Misther Ted?" C. H. THAYER.


THE Robin sings in the apple boughs,

The Bobolink trills in the grass,

And blossoms sweep like drifts of snow

O'er the meads where the south winds pass.

But birds and blossoms are naught to me;
Not a joy their beauties impart,

For Love and Hope have gone with my dead
And left me only a bleeding heart.

I call in grief through my tears all day
To the lazy, old, wrinkled sea,
For a loving voice and tender form
He can never bring back to me.


-For The Magazine of Poetry.


IF human voice may on the plastic disk Breathe into being forms of beauty rare, And we may see the voices that we love Take shape and color, infinitely fair,

May not the lofty mountains and the hills Be voice of God, His song the gentle flowers, His chant the stars' procession, and alas! His only sigh these human hearts of ours? ELLEN KNIGHT BRADFORD. -Century Magazine, June, 1894.


A GRAIN of sand that fain would stay
Resistless Ocean's power;

A drop of rain that dares to say,
"I am alone the shower;"
A firefly claiming through the wold
The source of light to be;
A little mind that seeks to hold
And gage Infinity.

CHARLES S. O'NEILL. -Donahoe's Magazine, June, 1894.


CARLYLE. "Drumwhinn Bridge" is ascribed to Carlyle by W. H. Wylie and was published in Leigh Hunt's London Journal, for October 22nd, 1834.

SUCKLING. "A Ballad on a wedding." The wedding was that of Roger Boyle, Lord Broghill, afterwards Earl of Orrery, with Lady Margaret Howard. Mr. Hazlitt thinks that the ballad is addressed to Lovelace.

SMITH, C. JAY. "What Can I Fear?" has been set to music by the distinguished American composer, Reginald DeKoven.


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OSEPH O'CONNOR was born in Tribes Hill,


Montgomery County, N. Y., on December 17th, 1841. His family, though not blessed with an abundance of this world's goods, was notable for strong intellect and high ideals. From his father and mother, Joseph O'Connor received a heritage of character, the development of which has made him the powerful personality he is to-day. His early education was obtained in the common schools, and later in the Rochester Free Academy and the University of Rochester. He received with much distinction his Bachelor's Degree in 1863. His brother Michael, having joined the Union ranks, it devolved on Joseph to turn his hand to something that would bring immediate financial returns for the family, and he occupied himself in various pursuits from 1863 to 1866, when he became instructor in the Free Academy. Here he remained till 1869, when he was admitted to the bar. Disliking, however, the practice of the law, he entered the field of journalism, in which he has since gained such signal triumphs. From 1870-73 he was connected with the Rochester Democrat and Chronicle. In 187475 he was associate editor of the Indianapolis Sentinel, a position he resigned to go on the New York World, where he remained from 1875-79. In the latter year he was offered the associate editorship of the Buffalo Courier, of which later on he became editor-in-chief. His refusal to endorse Grover Cleveland in 1884, aroused much bitterness among that politician's friends, and Mr. O'Connor cut the Gordian knot of controversy by his resignation. He was immediately offered the editorship of the leading Republican paper of Buffalo, but being a Democrat, he conscientiously refused. The Rochester Post-Express was then in process of reorganization, and Mr. O'Connor was selected as its managing editor. This paper, under his direction, has become one of the recognized potential journals of the country. So highly is it rated, that Charles A. Dana, in the New York Sun, described its editor,

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To northward, heaved in broken lines,
Great mountains curve, the valley's rim,—
Along their sides the sombre pines,

About their heads the vapors dim;
Full many a stream leaps headlong down
To join a river broad and free,
That, winding on through grove and town,
Flows calm and deep to meet the sea;
And on a cliff above the plain,
Far glancing to the distant main,
My castle stands, my home in Spain.

Its towers are granite, strong and gray;
'Tis girt with jutting balconies;
Its walls are rich with hangings gay;
Mosaics pave its galleries;

There pictures strange, great painters' dreams,
In vivid colors are enwrought,

And many a snowy statue gleams

The care-worn sculptor's frozen thought;
And all fair things that saints disdain
And fling aside for heavenly gain,
My castle holds, my home in Spain!

Fair gardens rich in summer bloom,
Where fountains rise and white spray falls,
Breathe scent of fruit and flowers' perfume
For many a rood around its walls;

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