A weakness for the weaker side,
A siding with the helpless weak.

A palm not far held out a hand;
Hard by a long green bamboo swung,
And bent like some great bow unstrung,
And quivere like a willow wand;
Beneath a broad banana's leaf,
Perched on its fruits that crooked hung,
A bird in rainbow splendor sung
A low, sad song of tempered grief.

No sod, no sign, no cross nor stone,
But at his side a cactus green
Upheld its lances long and keen;
It stood in hot red sands alone,
Flat-palmed and fierce with lifted spears;
One bloom of crimson crowned its head,
A drop of blood, so bright, so red,
Yet redolent as roses' tears.
In my left hand I held a shell,
All rosy lipped and pearly red;
I laid it by his lowly bed,
For he did love so passing well
The grand songs of the solemn sea.
O shell! sing well, wild, with a will,
When storms blow hard and birds be still,
The wildest sea-song known to thee!

I said some things, with folded hands,
Soft whispered in the dim sea-sound,
And eyes held humbly to the ground,
And frail knees sunken in the sands.
He had done more than this for me,
And yet I could not well do more:
I turned me down the olive shore,
And set a sad face to the sea.

Over the sea, and reaching away,
And against the east, a soft light falls,
Silvery soft as the mist of morn,
And I catch a breath like the breath of
day.

The east is blossoming! Yea, a rose,
Vast as the heavens, soft as a kiss,
Sweet as the presence of woman is,
Rises and reaches and widens and grows
Right out of the sea, as a blossoming tree;
Richer and richer, so higher and higher,
Deeper and deeper it takes its hue;
Brighter and brighter it reaches through
The space of heaven and the place of stars,
Till all is as rich as a rose can be,
And my rose-leaves fall into billows of fire.
Then beams reach upward as arms from

SUNRISE IN VENICE.

NIGHT seems troubled and scarce asleep;
Her brows are gathered in broken rest;
Sullen old lion of dark St. Mark,
And a star in the east starts up from the
deep;

White as my lilies that grow in the west.
Hist! men are passing hurriedly.
I see the yellow wide wings of a bark
Sail silently over my morning-star.
I see men move in the moving dark,
Tall and silent as columns are,-
Great sinewy men that are good to see,
With hair pushed back and with open

breasts;

Barefooted fishermen seeking their boats, Brown as walnuts and hairy as goats,

UNKNOWN.

DIFFERENT POINTS OF VIEW.

SAITH the white owl to the martin folk, In the belfry tower so grim and gray : "Why do they deafen us with these bells? Is any one dead or born to-day?"

A martin peeped over the rim of its nest, And answered crossly: "Why, ain't you heard

That an heir is coming to the great estate?"

"I 'ave n't," the owl said, "pon my word."

The swallows around the woodman skimmed,

Poising and turning on flashing wing; One said: "How liveth this lump of earth? In the air, he can neither soar nor spring.

"Over the meadows we sweep and dart, Down with the flowers, or up in the skies; While these poor lumberers toil and slave, Half starved, for how can they catch their flies?"

Quoth the dry-rot worm to his artisans In the carpenter's shop, as they bored away:

"Hark to the sound of the saw and file! What are these creatures at work at, say?"

315

ANNA BOYNTON AVERILL. [U. S. A.]

BIRCH STREAM.

AT noon, within the dusty town,
Where the wild river rushes down,

And thunders hoarsely all day long, I think of thee, my hermit stream, Low singing in thy summer dream, Thine idle, sweet, old, tranquil song.

Northward, Katahdin's chasmed pile
Looms through thy low, long, leafy aisle,
Eastward, Olamon's summit shines;
And I upon thy grassy shore,
The dreamful, happy child of yore,
Worship before mine olden shrines.

Again the sultry noontide hush
Is sweetly broken by the thrush,

Whose clear bell rings and dies away
Beside thy banks, in coverts deep,
Where nodding buds of orchis sleep
In dusk, and dream not it is day.

Again the wild cow-lily floats
Her golden-freighted, tented boats,

In thy cool coves of softened gloom, O'ershadowed by the whispering reed, And purple plumes of pickerel-weed,

And meadow-sweet in tangled bloom.

The startled minnows dart in flocks Beneath thy glimmering amber rocks,

If but a zephyr stirs the brake; The silent swallow swoops, a flash Of light, and leaves, with dainty plash, A ring of ripples in her wake.

The level fields in languor swim,
- Without, the land is hot and dim;

Their stubble-grasses brown as dust;
And all along the upland lanes,
Where shadeless noon oppressive reigns,
Dead roses wear their crowns of rust.

Within, is neither blight nor death, The fierce sun woos with ardent breath,

But cannot win thy sylvan heart. Only the child who loves thee long, With faithful worship pure and strong,

Can know how dear and sweet thou art.

ow-swamp,

Over his shoulder he slung his gun, And stealthily followed the footpath damp.

Across the clover, and through the wheat,

With resolute heart and purpose grim, Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet,

And the blind bat's flitting startled him.

Thrice since then had the lanes been white, And the orchards sweet with applebloom;

And now, when the cows came back at night,

The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain;

And the old man's tremulous, palsied

arm

Could never lean on a son's again.

On her forehead of stone they laid it fair;

Over her eyes that gazed too much
They drew the lids with a gentle touch;

With a tender touch they closed up well The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;

About her brows and beautiful face They tied her veil and her marriage lace,

And drew on her white feet her white silk shoes

317

He and she; still she did not move
To any one passionate whisper of love.

Then he said: "Cold lips and breasts without breath,

Is there no voice, no language of death?

"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, But to heart and to soul distinct, intense?

"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear; What was the secret of dying, dear?

"Was it the infinite wonder of all That you ever could let life's flower fall?

"Or was it a greater marvel to feel The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?

"Was the miracle greater to find how deep Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?

choose

And they held their breath till they left the room,

With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom.

But he who loved her too well to dread

things clear?

"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss

To find out so, what a wisdom love is?

"O perfect dead! O dead most dear, I hold the breath of my soul to hear!

"I listen as deep as to horrible hell, As high as to heaven, and you do not teli.

"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet, To make you so placid from head to feet!

"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead, And 't were your hot tears upon my brow shed;

dead,

had laid

His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid.

“You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, Which of all deaths was the chiefest surprise,

"The very strangest and suddenest thing Of all the surprises that dying must bring."

That treasure of his treasury,
A mind that loved him; let it lie!
Let the shard be earth's once more,
Since the gold shines in his store!

Allah glorious! Allah good!
Now thy world is understood;
Now the long, long wonder ends;
Yet ye weep, my erring friends,
While the man whom ye call dead,
In unspoken bliss, instead,
Lives and loves you; lost, 't is true,
But in the light ye cannot see
By such light as shines for you;

Of unfulfilled felicity,

never died."

In enlarging paradise,

Lives a life that never dies.

Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell;

Where I am, ye, too, shall dwell.
I am gone before your face,
A moment's time, a little space.
When ye come where I have stepped,
Ye will wonder why ye wept;
Ye will know, by wise love taught,
That here is all, and there is naught.
Weep awhile, if ye are fain,-
Sunshine still must follow rain;
Ouly not at death, — for death,
Now I know, is that first breath
Which our souls draw when we enter
Life, which is of all life centre.

Be ye certain all seems love,
Viewed from Allah's throne above;
Be ye stout of heart, and come
Bravely onward to your home!
La Allah illa Allah! yea!

Thou love divine! Thou love alway!

He that died at Azan gave
This to those who made his grave.

UNKNOWN.

UNSEEN.

Ar the spring of an arch in the great north tower,

High up on the wall, is an angel's head; And beneath it is carved a lily flower, With delicate wings at the side out

spread.