lls, "Good-bye! God bless you, dear."

Dear peaceful face and placid brow,
Dear lips that smile secure from pain,
Brave toil-worn hands, soft-folded now,
Sweet spirit freed from earthly stain.
Within God's portal Mother stands,
The while a man forspent with care
Seeketh the far-off meadow-lands,
By faith made strong to strive and bear.
And as I breast life's weary hill,
I ofttimes pause--meseems I hear
The well-loved accents breathing still
The old fond prayer, "God bless you, dear."

Roses

"Where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?"--Rubaiyat.

A red rose burns upon his breast
Where erst a white rose lay;
Above his fervent heart-throb pressed--
The red rose of To-day.

What recks he of the flower that dies--
(For roses bloom alway!)
Low in the dust, forgotten, lies
The rose of Yesterday.

But yet, To-day's red rose must die,
(For roses fade alway!)
To-morrow crushed, forgot, 'twill lie--
A rose of Yesterday.

The Poet

One fluting on sad wolds Pan's flight left drear,
One crying down the wayward wind of Chance,
One piping unto feet that will not dance
And mourning unto ears that will not hear.

Shylock

Cold craft and avarice look from out his eyes,
His face with evil passion marred and seamed,
Looks frowningly upon a Christian world.
Behind that hateful mask a demon lurks
To urge the narrow soul to darksome deeds
Of violence and greed, of hate and ruth.
His God, a God of wrath, a tyrant force
To mete to helpless souls eternal doom;
A Juggernaut, a hard unsentient power,--
But yet less potent than the yellow gold
Those crooked talons clutch, and for the which
The miser Shylock fain would sell his soul.

Sonnet

(To Charles J. O'Malley.)

As when above orchestral undertone,
The plaining wail of muted violin,
The hushed oboe and the distant din,
Of muffled drum or viol's raucous groan--
Sudden arises one pure voice-like tone,
A silver trumpet's tongue that stirs the soul
To feel the theme, and the harmonious whole
A sonant setting seems for that alone;
So, high above earth's murmurous stir and strife,
Riseth thy voice in clear enringing song--
No minor plaint of dull despairing pain,
But one true note of hope that bids us long
For higher things; and all the din of life
Seems to subserve the sweetness of thy strain.

Antithesis

The poet wrought a song of sadness, fraught
With all the pain the world's