If we could vanish, thou and I,

While the last woodland bird is singing, Wouldst thou not be content to die?

Deep drifts of leaves in the forest lie, Red vintage that the frost is flinging, And golden Autumn passes by.

Beneath this delicate, rose-gray sky, While sunset bells are faintly ringing, Wouldst thou not be content to die?

For wintry webs of mist on high

Out of the muffled earth is springing, And golden Autumn passes by.

Oh now, when pleasures fade and fly,
And Hope her southward flight is winging,
Wouldst thou not be content to die?

Lest Winter come, with wailing cry, His cruel icy bondage bringing, When golden Autumn hath passed by,

And thou with many a tear and sigh,
While Life her wasted hands is wringing,
Shalt pray in vain for leave to die
When golden Autumn hath passed by.

THE GOD OF WINE.

CHANT ROYAL.

I.

Behold, above the mountains there is light,
A streak of gold, a line of gathering fire,
And the dim east hath suddenly grown bright
With pale aërial flame, that drives up higher
The lurid airs that all the long night were
Breasting the dark ravines and coverts bare;
Behold, behold! the granite gates unclose,
And down the vales a lyric people flows,
Who dance to music, and in dancing fling
Their frantic robes to every wind that blows,
And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing.

II.

Nearer they press, and nearer still in sight,
Still dancing blithely in a seemly choir;
Tossing on high the symbol of their rite,

The cone-tipped thyrsus of a god's desire; Nearer they come, tall damsels flushed and fair, With ivy circling their abundant hair,

Onward, with even pace, in stately rows,

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With eye that flashes, and with cheek that glows, And all the while their tribute-songs they bring, And newer glories of the past disclose, And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing.

III.

The pure luxuriance of their limbs is white,
And flashes clearer as they draw the nigher,
Bathed in an air of infinite delight,

Smooth without wound of thorn or fleck of mire, Borne up by song as by a trumpet's blare, Leading the van to conquest, on they fare,

Fearless and bold, whoever comes and goes These shining cohorts of Bacchantes close, Shouting and shouting till the mountains ring, And forests grim forget their ancient woes, And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing.

IV.

And youths are there for whom full many a night Brought dreams of bliss, vague dreams that haunt and tire,

Who rose in their own ecstasy bedight,

And wandered forth through many a scourging

brier,

And waited shivering in the icy air,

And wrapped the leopard-skin about them there,
Knowing for all the bitter air that froze,
The time must come that every poet knows,
When he shall rise and feel himself a king,
And follow, follow where the ivy grows,
And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing.

V.

But oh within the heart of this great flight,

Whose ivory arms hold up the golden lyre, What form is this of more than mortal height? What matchless beauty, what inspired ire? The brindled panthers know the prize they bear, And harmonize their steps with stately care; Bent to the morning, like a living rose, The immortal splendor of his face he shows. And, where he glances, leaf, and flower, and wing Tremble with rapture, stirred in their repose, And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing.

ENVOI.

Prince of the flute and ivy, all thy foes Record the bounty that thy grace bestows, But we, thy servants, to thy glory cling, And with no frigid lips our songs compose, And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing.

Will Carleton.

AMERICAN.

Carleton, author of "Farm Ballads," etc., was born in Hudson, Lenawee County, Mich., in 1845. His father was a pioneer settler from New Hampshire. For four years of his youth he divided his time between attending school, teaching, and assisting his father on the farm. He was graduated from Hillsdale College, Mich., in 1869. Since then he has been engaged in literary and journalistic work, and in lecturing. In 1872 appeared his ballad of "Betsy and I Are Out," which was reprinted with illustrations in Harper's Weekly, and gave the author an extended reputation. His "Farm Ballads" and "Farm Legends," published by Harper & Brothers, attained great popularity.

OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.

Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way

I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle grayI, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told,

As many another woman that's only half as old.

Over the hill to the poor-house--I can't quite make it clear!

Over the hill to the poor-house-it seems so horrid queer!

Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro,
But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.

What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame ?
Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame?
True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout;
But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without.

I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day

To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way; For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound,

If anybody only is willin' to have me round.

Once I was young and han'some-I was, upon my soul

Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal; And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' peo

ple say,

For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way.

'Taint no use of boastin', or talkin' over-free,
But many a house an' home was open then to me;
Many a han'some offer I had from likely men,
And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then.

And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart;

But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part; [strong,

For life was all before me, an' I was young an' And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along.

And so we worked together; and life was hard, but gay, [way; With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean and neat, [eat. An' went to school like others, an' had enough to

So we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every

one;

Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've done;

Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn ; [them. But every couple's child'rn's a heap the best to

Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!

I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons;

And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray,

I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way.

Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown,

And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone;

When John he nearer au' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be,

The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him away from me.

Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall

Still I worked for Charley; for Charley was now my all;

And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown,

Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town.

She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile

She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style;

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But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know;

But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go.

She had an edication, an' that was good for her; But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too fur;

An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick),

That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rithmetic.

So'twas only a few days before the thing was done-
They was a family of themselves, and I another one;
And a very little cottage one family will do,
But I never have seen a house that was big enough
for two.

An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye,

An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try; But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow, When Charley turned ag'in me, au' told me I could go.

I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small,

And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all;

And what with her husband's sisters, and what with child'rn three,

'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me.

An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got, For Thomas's buildings 'd cover the half of an acre lot;

But all the child'rn was on me-I couldn't stand their sauce-

And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss.

An' then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West,

And to Isaac, not far from her-some twenty miles at best;

And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so old,

And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold.

So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about

So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out;

But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down,

Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town.

Over the hill to the poor-house-my child'rn dear, good-bye!

Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh;

And God 'll judge between us; but I will al'ays pray That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.

Julian Hawthorne.

AMERICAN.

Hawthorne, a son of the eminent American author, Nathaniel Hawthorne, has distinguished himself more in prose than verse. He is the author of several novels, showing that he has inherited much of his father's peculiar genius. He was born June 22d, 1846, in Salem, Mass.; studied at Harvard College, and at the Scientific School; also studied engineering in Germany. He took up literature as a profession in 1871, since which time he has resided in Germany and England. The subjoined poem, which appeared originally in the New Jerusalem Messenger, is a vigorous exposition of one of the leading doctrines of Swedenborg's theosophy.

Fails boyhood's hope ere long, for the deed still

mocks the plan,

And the knave is the honest man, And thus we grow weak in a world created to make us strong.

But woe to the man who quails before that which makes him man!

Though heaven be sweet to win,

One thing is sweeter yet-freedom to side with hell!

In man succeeds or fails this great creative plan; Man's liberty to sin

Makes worth God's winning the love even God may not compel.

Shall I then murmur and be wroth at Nature's peace?

Though I be ill at ease,

I hold one link of the chain of his happiness in my hand.

Edgar Fawcett.

AMERICAN.

Fawcett, a native of the city of New York, was born in 1847, and graduated at Columbia College in 1867. He has been a frequent contributor to the magazines, and a volume of his poems appeared in Boston in 1878. In 1880 he made a dramatic venture in his play of "A False Friend," which was effectively produced at some of the principal theatres. Since then he has produced a comic drama, also successful.

Henry Augustin Beers."

AMERICAN.

Beers was born in Buffalo, N. Y., July 2d, 1847. His family were residents of Litchfield, Conn. He was graduated at Yale College in 1869, and after spending two years in New York in the study of the law, was appointed tutor in English at Yale, and in 1875 chosen Assistantprofessor of English. In 1878 he published "Odds and Ends," a volume of poems; and the same year, “A Century of American Literature." His "Carçamon" has been translated into the Czech language, and printed in a Prague newspaper. Of his poetical volume, including some comic pieces, he remarks: "It may be right to add, that at least half the pieces can lay claim to whatever indulgence, if any, is usually given to juvenilia, or the work of writers under age."

PSYCHE.

At evening in the port she lay,

A lifeless block with canvas furled;

But silently at peep of day

Spread her white wings and skimmed away, And, rosy in the dawn's first ray,

Sank down behind the rounding world.

So hast thou vanished from our side,

Dear bark, that from some far, bright strand, Anchored awhile on life's dull tide; Then, lifting spirit pinions wide, In heaven's own orient glorified, Steered outward seeking Holy Land.

Or looking from a casement tall,

Or shaped of dream or evening cloud

Forgotten when, forgotten where

Her face had filled his careless eye A moment ere he turned and passed, Nor knew it was his destiny.

But ever in his dreams it came

Divine and passionless and strong,

A smile upon the imperial lips

No lover's kiss had dared to wrong.

He took his armor from the wall

Ah! gone since then was many a dayHe led his steed from out the stall

And sought la dame de ses pensées.

The ladies of the Troubadours

Came riding through the chestnut grove: "Sir Minstrel, string that lute of yours, And sing us a gay song of love."

"O ladies of the Troubadours,

My lute has but a single string; Sirventes fit for paramours,

My heart is not in tune to sing.

"The flower that blooms upon my shield
It has another soil and spring
Than that wherein the gandy rose
Of light Provence is blossoming.

"The lady of my dreams doth hold Such royal state within my mind, No thought that comes uuclad in gold

To that high court may entrance find."

So through the chestnut groves he passed,
And through the land and far away;
Nor know I whether in the world
He found la dame de ses pensées.

Only I know that in the South,

Long to the harp his tale was told; Sweet as new wine within the mouth The small, choice words and music old.

To scorn the promise of the Real;

To seek and seek and not to find; Yet cherish still the fair IdealIt is thy fate, O restless Mind!

Edward Dowden.

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One of the younger tribe of English poets, Dowden was born about 1848. He has published "Shakspeare's Mind and Art" (1875); and "Poems" (1876), a second edition of which appeared in 1877. He shows the influence of Tennyson, Clough, and Heine; but his poems do not lack a saving original grace. They show a profoundly meditative affection for Nature, with occasional suggestions of the new Pantheism. At times they are somewhat obscure, as if their meaning were that of a momentary mood, which the poet himself might not always be able to explain. Dowden has produced some sixty sonnets, several of them of rare beauty.

ABOARD THE "SEA-SWALLOW." The gloom of the sea-fronting cliff's Lay on the water, violet-dark, The pennon drooped, the sail fell in, And slowly moved our bark.

A golden day; the summer dreamed
In heaven and on the whispering sea,
Within our hearts the summer dreamed,
The hours had ceased to be.

Then rose the girls with bonnets loosed, And shining tresses lightly blown, Alice and Adela, and sang

A song of Mendelssohn.

Oh sweet, and sad, and wildly clear,
Through summer air it sinks and swells,
Wild with a measureless desire,
And sad with all farewells.

OASIS.

Let them go by-the heats, the doubts, the strife;
I can sit here and care not for them now,
Dreaming beside the glittering wave of life
Once more,-I know not how.

There is a murmur in my heart, I hear

Faint, oh so faint, some air I used to sing; It stirs my sense; and odors dim and dear The meadow-breezes bring.

Just this way did the quiet twilights fade
Over the fields and happy homes of men,
While one bird sang as now, piercing the shade,
Long since,-I know not when.