Poetic Gems

WOOBINES IN OCTOHKIt. Ak dyed in blood, tho stroaming víuch appear, Whito Jour and low tho wind abont them frieron ; The heart of Autumu niUBt hnvr brpken hero, And poured its trrasuroH oüt vlpon tlli lcavCB. ■ - Charlotte F. Balen, in Sartoner. THERE'S A KUIP t)N THE SHA. Therc's u Bbip on tho ho.i. It is sailinu t-iii:;lit, BwHiig to-night. And fatliers aloard, and (lie moon is all brigllt, MJiiiiuifi ;nd bripht ! Dear moon 1 ho'll lic sailiuf,' íor ur.my a night- S;iiling from niotlior and me. OU 1 f ollow the b liip ith eilvory lih'lit Aö fathor nailB over the sta, - Joel Stucii, in st. Sicholax. UIPE COBN. The Rolden oar eepa tluonh the hiiBk, Tltft faded t;uHelf dryly rustle. Ho, lio, boys, ho !' From mom tlll dilRk. We'll at it then wttb Bbout and buetlo ! So, Jio, boys, ho ! iïow f or the tussle ! The lively worlt, we'll weather it ! The ripened corn, we'll gather it - Ho, boys. ho ! We'll fjather it ! - C. L. Clcarclend, in k'crilmer. TUE MUïIïOIÏ. I would jny lady's mirror be, Soinight I hold her imnge fair. . And thcn perehuncr uhe'd Kinile on me, Seeing her face reflectcd thcre. I never could her mirror be, For whon Bhfi smiiod on me, ah, then My hcart woiüil hold the image sweut And never give it back again. - W'aiter Larned, in Saibiier, ÏJFB. Our Uves aro lite a half-forgotteu train From soine great symphony, that, ead and slow, Through menaory's silent halle glides to and fro, Sceking its kiudred havnioiiy in vain. And thus - oh thought to all so f rauglit with Jain !- t How niany times do we complete in woe The scanty measure of our days below, If, seeking cagerly, we fail to gain The llvce that with our own make harmony ! What though our earthly Urea seein jangling chordts ? ín paüence let un wait our destiny ; The loviug Master'8 plan of sweet accords We know not ; but our strains shall PVer rol!, A part of His sublime hatnaonious whole ! -Kate A. Oanborn, in Galaxy. CLEMATX8. Coy frequenter of woodland vayg ! It flings A frolic wealth of sweetnepg broadeast Tvhere The undergrowtbs are thickest and the air Ib vibrant with the rush and wliir of wings-I .„.. ..- From branch to branch ite hardy tendril swings In wild, denso tangles, wliere no foot will care To follow, and the brown "wood-thruwhew rear Their broods unstartled. Here fhe víreo singa In aiiBwering cadenee throngh the fleet, frec honre Unto the rhytlmnc growing of tho flowcrs, Vhoee revelation iix cach dnky v&Hcb 'ft f I s of blithe ntrength, unworn, and fine, shy grace, As of rare souls, that joyously their cwn Best Uves do Uve, though know ing tneiu. unknown - Mary ChrUtine Kipp, in Scribn&r. THE POET'S ART. Cali it not art ; that sad, laborious name, Oh, gentío poet, doos thy warblinga wrong. When at etiil evo the nightingaJes prolong - Delicious melody, who would not blame The cold, mechanic term for that which carne, Boru of sweet throats, a gushing etream of song ? Wo from thy soiü poiu-s forth, oh, free and elrong, Thine own deep miintc on thd air of f ame. Thy art is nature's; ilion dost only hrar The whispetod.ffleoretn of her woods and skies, And then repeat thein to the common ear That cannot catch her nner harnionics. Thou art her voice, and unto her so dear, Her inmost heart is open to thine eyes. - Charles T. Dazeu,in Scribntt. UNRECOGNIZED. What words are these you ppeak to her ? Ah, tranquil words and worldly wiee ! You canuot sce her soul aBlir, Ou tiptoe, in her waitiug eycti. Yon come and go ; you touch her hair, The ring upon her slender hand. The miling trouble of her air You note, but cannot understand. You cannot understand. Ah, so Our fooliph hearte make sport of fate ! "We uit and dream, white love benda low, A kingly beggar," at the gate ! -Mary Aittffc De Verc,in Galaxy. HLIiEI' The weary portáis of tho glit U clono ; And, iu the bark qf HomnuH, Hailw luifurlöd, [n suowy wreaths of clomi, otir souls are hurlcd, At mercy of oach (itful brcezo thai blows. Then from the depthfi that prescienee nevcr knówe We tbrough a aricd flood of dreams are whirled And wake to find the life-stream that has curled For ages rouud our planet changclcsB flüWH. And bo, when drowBy deatli shall sea! our eyew, And from lamenting friends we pass away, It maj' be that, awakiug, ao ühall rie f Refreehed and Htrengmened for ji Ionger stay, And flud tho aanie old erlh, tho name blue sktee That we but lost in slumber yeeterday. - Andrcw B. üaxton, in Scribiicr. I1Sm1 _ - TIAKOUN AL HASCniD. (Mie day, Harouri Al Itaschid read A-book whcrein the ioet taid : " Where are the kinge, ;md wher,j tíie rest Of men who on4-o the world possèssed ? " They're gono with all their pomp and show, They're gone the way that thou shalt go. ' Oh, thou who choosest for tby hare The world, and what the wotld calis faií, ' ' "Take all that it can give or lend, But know that death is at the end !" Haroun Al Itapchid bowed his hc;ul ; Tears feil upon the page he read. , f- Henry W. Lcngclloic in fít Mchotivt. : DTifi What time the violéis bloom, my dear, In wny that you and I regret, I saw yonr gray eyes ürst grow clear With love I 'cannot f athom yet, But never may forgot, my lear - But never may forget ! ■ What time the winds blow freeh, my dear, A fragrant balm was blown to me ; I feit the blossom-time draw iie.ar ; My blood, like sap ín fiower or tree, Swelled ior the. fruit to bc, my dear - The. hope of fruit to bc ! . ■Vhat time tlic yiolets fade, my dear, What time the winds blow chili and wet, Through changefnl seasons year on year, Though moouö may wune and mms may set, Oh, say you won't forget, my dear - OhT say you won't forget l -Atlantic Monthly. j: