Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share EDMUND WALLER. Yet though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise That goodness time's rude hand defies, HENRY KIRKE WHITE. [This latter stanza was written by Kirke White on the margin of a borrowed volume of Waller's poems.] H Under the Violets. ER hands are cold, her face is white; But not beneath a graven stone, Shall say that here a maiden lies, UNDER THE VIOLETS. And gray old trees of hugest limb Shall wheel their circling shadows round, That drinks the greenness from the ground, When o'er their boughs the squirrels run, The acorns and the chestnuts fall, For her the morning choir shall sing When, turning round their dial track, The crickets, sliding through the grass, At last the rootlets of the trees Shall find the prison where she lies, If any, born of kindlier blood, Should ask: What maiden sleeps below? Say only this: A tender bud, That tried to blossom in the snow, Lies withered where the violets blow. OLIVER W. HOLMES. 401 Desiderium. IN MEMORIAM W. W. A. HE shattered water plashes down the ledge; THE The long ledge slants and bends between its walls, And shoots the current over many an edge Of shelvy rock, in thin and foamy falls, With the same streaming light and numerous sound, Up by this path along the streamlet's brink, In sadness of the wealthy days of yore, When love, and hope, and youth before us boundless lay. He was a kind of genius of the glen, The soul of sunshine in its heart of gloom; Nature's great mansion, wide to other men, Here for the gentlest guest reserved a room, Where she, in secret from the general throng, Welcomed him fleeing oft, and cheered him lingering long. But hospitable Nature seeks him now, Through her wide halls or cloistered cells in vain ; The wistful face, the early-wrinkled brow, The peace that touched and purified the pain, The slender form, dilate with noble thought, The woman's welcoming smile for all fair things he brought; The light, quick step, elastic but not strong, Alert with springing spirit and tempered nerve-— Type of the heart direct that sped along Swiftly where duty led, and did not swerve For count of odds, or dread of earthly loss, Buoyed with the costliest strength to bear the heaviest cross; OUR BABY. These tokens of that gracious presence here, O Nature, you and I together mourn; But you and I, O Nature, have our cheer 403 Concerning him that helps our loss be borneYou mould his dust to keepsake grass and flower, What warmed his dust moulds me to forms of finer power. WILLIAM C. WILKINSON. Our Baby. HEN the morning, half in shadow, WH Ran along the hill and meadow, And with milk-white fingers parted Every purple morning-glory, And outshaking from the bushes Singing larks and pleasant thrushes; Not enough of earth for sinning, White arms, made for light caresses, Lips, that knew no word of doubting, That's the way our little baby, When the morning, half in shadow, Now the litter she doth lie on, PHOEBE CAREY. N The River Path. O bird-song floated down the hill, No rustle from the birchen stem, No ripple from the water's hem. The dusk of twilight round us dread, |