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HELEN BARRON BOSTWICK.

[U. s. A.]

URVASI.

'Tis a story told by Kalidasa,

Hindoo poet,-in melodious rhyme, How with train of inaidens, young Urvasi Came to keep great Indra's festal time.

'T was her part in worshipful confession Of the god-name on that sacred day, Walking flower-crowned in the long pro

cession,

"I love Puru-shotta-ma" to say.

Pure as snow on Himalayan ranges, Heaven-descended, soon to heaven withdrawn,

Fairer than the moon-flower of the Ganges,

Was Urvasi, Daughter of the Dawn.

But it happened that the gentle maiden Loved one Puru-avas,-fateful name!— And her heart, with its sweet secret laden, Faltered when her time of utterance

came.

"I love" then she stopped, and people wondered;

"I love"--she must guard her secret well;

Then from sweetest lips that ever blundered,

"I love Puru-avas," trembling fell.

Ah, what terror seized on poor Urvasi!

Misty grew the violets of her eyes, And her form bent like a broken daisy, While around her rose the mocking

cries.

But great Indra said, "The maid shall marry

Him whose image in her faithful heart She so near to that of God doth carry, Scarce her lips can keep their names apart."

Call it then not weakness or dissembling,

If, in striving the high name to reach, Through our voices runs the tender trembling

Of an earthly name too dear for speech!

Ever dwells the lesser in the greater;

In God's love the human: we by these Know he holds Love's simplest stammering sweeter

Than cold praise of wordy Pharisees.

UNKNOWN.

THE FISHERMAN'S FUNERAL

UP on the breezy headland the fisherman's grave they made, Where, over the daisies and clover bells, the birchen branches swayed; Above us the lark was singing in the cloudless skies of June,

Aud under the cliffs the billows were chanting their ceaseless tune: For the creamy line was curving along the hollow shore,

Where the dear old tides were flowing that he would ride no more.

The dirge of the wave, the note of the bird,

and the priest's low tone were blent In the breeze that blew from the moor

land, all laden with country scent; But never a thought of the new-mown hay tossing on sunny plains, Or of lilies deep in the wild-wood, or roses gemming the lanes, Woke in the hearts of the stern bronzed

men who gathered around the

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UNKNOWN.

eyes,

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And the widow's sob and the orphan's | Now changed the scene and changed the wail jarred through the joyous air; How could the light wind o'er the sea, blow on so fresh and fair?

How could the gay waves laugh and leap,
landward o'er sand and stone,
While he, who knew and loved them
all lay lapped in clay alone?

But for long, when to the beetling heights
the snow-tipped billows roll,
When the cod, and skate, and dogfish dart
around the herring shoal;
When gear is sorted, and sails are set,
and the merry breezes blow,
And away to the deep sea-harvest the
stalwart reapers go,

A kindly sigh, and a hearty word, they
will give to him who lies
Where the clover springs, and the heather
blooms, beneath the northern skies.

JOHN C. FREMONT.

That here once looked on glowing skies,
Where summer smiled;

These riven trees, this wind-swept plain
Now show the winter's dread domain,
Its fury wild.

The rocks rise black from storm-packed
snow,

All checked the river's pleasant flow,
Vanished the bloom;
These dreary wastes of frozen plain
Reflect my bosom's life again,
Now lonesome gloom.

The buoyant hopes and busy life
Have ended all in hateful strife,
And thwarted aim.

The world's rude contact killed the rose,
No more its radiant color shows
False roads to fame.

Backward, amidst the twilight glow
Some lingering spots yet brightly show
On hard roads won,

Where still some grand peaks mark the way

ON RECROSSING THE ROCKY MOUN-Touched by the light of parting day

TAINS IN WINTER, AFTER MANY
YEARS.

LONG years ago I wandered here,

In the midsummer of the year, -
Life's summer too;

-

A score of horsemen here we rode,
The mountain world its glories showed,
All fair to view.

These scenes in glowing colors drest,
Mirrored the life within my breast,
Its world of hopes;

The whispering woods and fragrant breeze
That stirred the grass in verdant seas
On billowy slopes,

And glistening crag in sunlit sky,
Mid snowy clouds piled mountains high,
Were joys to me;

My path was o'er the prairie wide,
Or here on grander mountain-side,
To choose, all free.

The rose that waved in morning air,
And spread its dewy fragrance there
In careless bloom.

Gave to my heart its ruddiest hue,
O'er my glad life its color threw
And sweet perfume.

And memory's sun.

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Wet was the grass beneath our tread, Thick-dewed the bramble by the way; The lichen had a lovelier red,

The elder-flower a fairer gray.

And there was silence on the land,
Save when, from out the city's fold,
Stricken by Time's remorseless wand,
A bell across the morning tolled.

The beeches sighed through all their boughs;

The gusty pennons of the pine
Swayed in a melancholy drowse,
But with a motion sternly fine.

One gable, full against the sun,
Flooded the garden-space beneath
With spices, sweet as cinnamon,

From all its honeysuckled breath.

Then crew the cocks from echoing farms, The chimney-tops were plumed with smoke,

The windmill shook its slanted arms,

The sun was up, the country woke! And voices sounded mid the trees

Of orchards red with burning leaves, By thick hives, sentinelled by bees,From fields which promised tented sheaves;

Till the day waxed into excess,

And on the misty, rounding gray,One vast, fantastic wilderness, The glowing roofs of London lay.

UNKNOWN.

THE FISHERMAN'S SUMMONS.

THE sea is calling, calling.
Wife, is there a log to spare?
Fling it down on the hearth and call
them in,

The boys and girls with their merry din,
I am loth to leave you all just yet,
In the light and the noise I might forget,
The voice in the evening air.

The sea is calling, calling,

Along the hollow shore.

I know each nook in the rocky strand,

And the worn old cliff where the seapinks cling,

And the winding caves where the echoes ring.

I shall wake them nevermore.
How it keeps calling, calling,
It is never a night to sail.

I saw the "sea-dog" over the height,
As I strained through the haze my fail-
ing sight,

And the cottage creaks and rocks, wellnigh,

As the old "Fox" did in the days gone by, In the moan of the rising gale.

Yet it is calling, calling.
It is hard on a soul, I say,

To go fluttering out in the cold and the dark,

Like the bird they tell us of, from the ark;

While the foam flies thick on the bitter

blast,

And the angry waves roll fierce and fast, Where the black buoy marks the bay.

Do you hear it calling, calling?
And yet, I am none so old.
At the herring fishery, but last year,
No boat beat mine for tackle and gear,
And I steered the coble past the reef,
When the broad sail shook like a with-
ered leaf,

And the rudder chafed my hold.

Will it never stop calling, calling?
Can't you sing a song by the hearth?
A heartsome stave of a merry glass,
Or a gallant fight, or a bonnie lass?
Don't you care for your grand-dad just
so much?

Come near then, give me a hand to touch,
Still warm with the warmth of earth.

You hear it calling, calling?
Ask her why she sits and cries.
She always did when the sea was up,
She would fret, and never take bit or sup
When I and the lads were out at night,
And she saw the breakers cresting white
Beneath the low black skies.

But, then, it is calling, calling,
No summons to soul was sent.
Now-

Well, fetch the parson, find the book,

And the crimson weeds on the golden sand, It is up on the shelf there if you look;

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