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
And red with blossoms when she came,
Were rich in autumn's mellow prime,

The clustered apples burnt like flame,
The soft-cheeked peaches blushed and fell,
The ivory chestnut burst its shell,

The grape hung purpling in the grange,
And time wrought just as rich a change
In little Babie Bell.

Her lissome form more perfect grew,
And in her features we could trace,
In softened curves, her mother's face,
Her angel-nature ripened too,
We thought her lovely when she came,
But she was holy, saintly now,
Around her pale angelic brow
We saw a slender ring of flame!

V.

God's hand had taken away the seal
That held the portals of her speech;
And oft she said a few strange words,
Whose meaning lay beyond our reach.
She never was a child to us,

We never held her being's key;
We could not teach her holy things,
She was Christ's self in purity.

VL

It came upon us by degrees,

We saw its shadow 'ere it fell,
The knowledge that our God had sent
His messenger for Babie Bell,

We shuddered with unlanguaged pain,
And all our thoughts ran into tears,
Like sunshine into rain.

We cried aloud in our belief,
"Oh, smite us gently, gently, God!
Teach us to bend and kiss the rod,

And perfect grow through grief,"
Ah, how we loved her, God can tell;
Her heart was folded deep in ours;
Our hearts are broken Babie Bell.

VII.

At last he came, the messenger,
The messenger from unseen lands,
And what did dainty Babie Bell?
She only crossed her hands,
She only looked more meek and fair!
We parted back her silken hair;

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,
She niver hilt up her blue eyes till his face;
And when I'd be cryin he'd look at me wild like,
And ax "would I wish for the counthry's disgrace."

So he left her in danger, an me sorely gravin,
And followed the flag wid an Irishman's jɔy;
And its often I drame of the big drums a batin,
And a bullet gone straight to the heart of my boy.

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,
I'll find some one willin-oh what can it be?
What's that in the newspaper folded up double?
Yer honor, don't hide it, but rade it to me.

Dead! Patrick O'Conner! oh God its some ither,
Shot dead! shure 'tis a wake scarce gone by,
An the kiss on the chake of his sorrowin mother,
It hasn't had time yet yer honor to dhry.

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,
I think I'll go home-And a sob hard and dry,
Rose up from the bosom of Mary O'Conner,
But never a tear drop welled up to her eye.

From Atalanta in Calydon.

Before the beginning of years
There came to the making of man,
Time, with a gift of tears;

Grief, with a glass that ran;
Pleasure, with pain for leaven;
Summer, with flowers that fell;
Remembrance fallen from Heaven,
And madness risen from hell;
Strength without hands to smite;
Love that endures for a breath;
Night, the shadow of light,

And life, the shadow of death.

And the high gods took in hand
Fire, and the falling of tears,
And a measure of sliding sand
From under the feet of the years;

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,
They filled his body with life;
Eyesight and speech they wrought
For the veils of the soul therein,

A time for labor and thought,

A time to serve and to sin;
They gave him light in his ways,
And love and a space for delight,
And beauty and length of days,

And night, and sleep in the night.
His speech is a burning fire;
With his lips he travaileth;
In his heart is a blind desire,

In his eyes foreknowledge of death;
He weaves, and is clothed with derision;
Sows, and he shall not reap;

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,
Wise or otherwise, good or bad,

Who, seeing the birds fly, did n't jump

With flapping arms from stake or stump,
Or spreading the tail

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,
If ever you knew a country dunce
Who did n't try that as often as once,
All I can say is, that's a sign

He never would do for a hero of mine.

An aspiring genius was D. Green:
The son of a farmer, - age fourteen;
His body was long and lank and lean, -
Just right for flying, as will be seen;