JOHN GOWDY.
Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

Love and Death.

Love and death is all of poets’ singing,
  What sounds else can stir the heavenly breath? 
What save these can set the lyre-strings ringing: 
           Love and death? 
What things else in maiden spirit springing? 
  What words else in all the preacher saith? 
What thoughts else in God, the world forthbringing?

In the moon’s pulse and the sea’s slow swinging,
  Death that draws, and love that sighs beneath: 
Yea, life’s wine is mingled; sweet, and stinging,—­
            Love and death.

GEORGIANA GODDARD KING.
Bryn Mawr Lantern.

Opportunity.

I know not what the future holds—­
    But this I know,
Youth is a guest, who on his way
    Too soon will go.

Once gone we call to deafened ears. 
    All prayers are vain! 
For tears of blood, he will not come
    Back once again.

Then spread the board of Life, with wine
    And roses drest,
Drink deep and long, greet Joy and Love
    While Youth is guest!

ARTHUR KETCHUM.
Williams Literary Monthly,

To Austin Dobson.

Not unto you the gods gave wings,
  To scale the far Olympic height,
But made content with simpler things,
  Your Pegasus takes lower flight.

Yet while into oblivion float
  Those vaster songs, sublimely grand—­
All men are listening to your note,
  And as they listen, understand.

Sing on, then, while the heart of youth
  In glad accordance answ’ring thrills,
And life and love have still their truth,
  As spring has still its daffodils.

ARTHUR KETCHUM.
Williams Literary Monthly.

With a Copy of Keats.

Like listless lullabies of sail-swept seas
Heard from still coves, and dulcet-soft as these,
Such is the echo of his perfect song,
      It lives, it lingers long!

We love him more than all his wonder tales,
Sweeter his own song than his nightingale’s;
No voice speaks, in the century that has fled,
      So deathless from the dead!

How many stately epics have been tossed
Rudely against Time’s shore, and wrecked and lost,
While Keats, the dreaming boy, floats down Time’s
    sea
      His lyric argosy!

FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.
Wesleyan Literary Monthly.

George Du Maurier.

“Ah, if we knew; if we only knew for certain.”

“Ah, if we only knew!” he said,
The master—­now laid cold and dead—­
Under the sweetest song joy sang
This, like a burden, ever rang—­

“Ah, if we only knew!” can we,
Now death shows him the certainty,
Now he has won his peace thro’ pain,
Wish him back to the doubt again?