THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

(‡ decoration)THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.WITHOUT the rich imagination of Stoddard, or the versatility of Stedman,Mr.Aldrich surpasses them both in delicate and artistic skill. His jewelled lines, exquisitely pointed, express a single mood or a dainty epigram with a pungent and tasteful beauty that places him easily at the head of our modern lyrical writers.Thomas Bailey Aldrich was born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, November 11, 1836. In childhood he was taken to Louisiana, where he remained a number of years, his father being a merchant at New Orleans. After returning to Portsmouth, he was preparing for college when his father suddenly died, making it necessary for him to relinquish this design, to take a position of immediate remuneration, which he found in his uncle’s counting house in New York. This pursuit he found so far removed from the bent of his mind, however, that he gave it up after three years to take a situation as a reader in a New York publishing house. During his mercantile career he contributed to the current press, and afterwards became attached to various periodicals as contributor or in an editorial capacity. Among others, he worked on N. P. Willis’ “Home Journal,” the “Illustrated News,” and the “New York Evening Mirror.” During the Civil War he was for a time with the Army of the Potomac, as a newspaper correspondent. In 1865, he married, and removed to Boston, where he edited “The Weekly Journal” every Saturday. He remained with this paper until 1874. In 1881 he succeeded William Dean Howells as editor of the “Atlantic Monthly.” This position he resigned in 1890 in order to devote himself to personal literary work and travel. The degree ofA. M.was conferred upon him in 1883 by Yale, and in 1896 by Harvard University.Mr.Aldrich had published one volume of verse, “The Bells” (1854), a collection of juvenile verses, before the “Ballad of Baby Bell and Other Poems” appeared in 1858, and made his reputation as a poet. Other volumes of his poetry issued at the following dates are entitled: “Pampinea and Other Poems” (1861), “Cloth of Gold and Other Poems” (1873), “Flower and Thorn” (1876), “Friar Jerome’s Beautiful Book” (1881), “Mercedes and Later Lyrics” (1883), “Wyndham Towers” (1889), “Judith and Holofernes, a Poem” (1896).Among the prose works of the author we mention “Out of His Head, a Romance” (1862), “The Story of a Bad Boy” (1869),—which became at once a favorite by its naturalness and purity of spirit,—“♦Marjorie Daw and Other People” (1873), “Prudence Palfrey” (1874), “The Queen of Sheba” (1877), “The Stillwater Tragedy” (1880), “From Ponkapog to Pesth” (1883),“The Sisters Tragedy” (1890),“An Old Town by the Sea;” and “Two Bites at a Cherry and other Tales” (1893), “Unguarded Gates” (1895). “Complete Works,” in eight volumes, were published in 1897.Mr.Aldrich is said to be a man of the world as well as a man of letters and his personal popularity equals his literary reputation. We cannot better illustrate his companionable nature and close this sketch than by presenting the following pen picture of an incident, clipped from a recent magazine:♦‘Majorie’ replaced with ‘Marjorie’During a visit to England, upon one occasion,Mr.Aldrich was the guest of William Black, with a number of other well known people. An English journalist of some distinction, who had no time to keep in touch with the personality of poets, metMr.Aldrich, and they became excellent friends. They went on long shooting expeditions together, and found each other more than good companions. The last night of their stay came, and after dinnerMr.Black made a little speech, in which he spoke ofMr.Aldrich’s poetry in a graceful fashion. The London journalist gave a gasp, and looked atMr.Aldrich, who rose to make a response, as if he had never seen him before. As the poet sat down he leaned over him, and said:—“Say, Aldrich, are you the man who writes books?”“Yes,”Mr.Aldrich said. “I am glad you don’t know, for I am sure you liked me for myself.”THOMAS B. ALDRICH’S STUDY.ALEC YEATON’SSON.¹GLOUCESTER, AUGUST, 1720.THE wind it wailed, the wind it moaned,And the white caps flecked the sea;“An’ I would to God,” the skipper groaned,“I had not my boy with me!”Snug in the stern-sheets, little JohnLaughed as the scud swept by;But the skipper’s sunburnt cheek grew wanAs he watched the wicked sky.“Would he were at his mother’s side!”And the skipper’s eyes were dim.“Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide,What would become of him!“For me—my muscles are as steel,For me let hap what may:I might make shift upon the keelUntil the break o’ day.“But he, he is so weak and small,So young, scarce learned to stand—O pitying Father of us all,I trust him in thy hand!“For Thou, who markest from on highA sparrow’s fall—each one!—Surely, O Lord, thou’lt have an eyeOn Alec Yeaton’s son!”Then, steady, helm! Right straight he sailedTowards the headland light:The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed,And black, black fell the night.Then burst a storm to make one quailThough housed from winds and waves—They who could tell about that galeMust rise from watery graves!Sudden it came, as sudden went;Ere half the night was sped,The winds were hushed, the waves were spent,And the stars shone overhead.Now, as the morning mist grew thin,The folk on Gloucester shoreSaw a little figure floating inSecure, on a broken oar!Up rose the cry, “A wreck! a wreck!Pull, mates, and waste no breath!”—They knew it, though ’t was but a speckUpon the edge of death!Long did they marvel in the townAt God His strange decree,That let the stalwart skipper drownAnd the little child go free!¹By special permission of the Author.ON LYNNTERRACE.¹ALL day to watch the blue wave curl and break,All night to hear it plunging on the shore—In this sea-dream such draughts of life I take,I cannot ask for more.Behind me lie the idle life and vain,The task unfinished, and the weary hours;That long wave softly bears me back to SpainAnd the Alhambra’s towers!Once more I halt in Andalusian Pass,To list the mule-bells jingling on the height;Below, against the dull esparto grass,The almonds glimmer white.Huge gateways, wrinkled, with rich grays and browns,Invite my fancy, and I wander throughThe gable-shadowed, zigzag streets of townsThe world’s first sailors knew.Or, if I will, from out this thin sea-hazeLow-lying cliffs of lovely Calais rise;Or yonder, with the pomp of olden days,Venice salutes my eyes.Or some gaunt castle lures me up its stair;I see, far off, the red-tiled hamlets shine,And catch, through slits of windows here and there,Blue glimpses of the Rhine.Again I pass Norwegian fjord and fjeld,And through bleak wastes to where the sunset’s firesLight up the white-walled Russian citadel,The Kremlin’s domes and spires.And now I linger in green English lanes,By garden plots of rose and heliotrope;And now I face the sudden pelting rainsOn some lone Alpine slope.Now at Tangier, among the packed bazars,I saunter, and the merchants at the doorsSmile, and entice me: here are jewels like stars,And curved knives of the Moors;Cloths of Damascus, strings of amber dates;What would Howadji—silver, gold, or stone?Prone on the sun-scorched plain outside the gatesThe camels make their moan.All this is mine, as I lie dreaming here,High on the windy terrace, day by day;And mine the children’s laughter, sweet and clear,Ringing across the bay.For me the clouds; the ships sail by for me;For me the petulant sea-gull takes its flight;And mine the tender moonrise on the sea,And hollow caves of night.¹By special permission of the Author.SARGENT’S PORTRAIT OF EDWIN BOOTH AT “THE PLAYERS.”By Permission of the Author.THAT face which no man ever sawAnd from his memory banished quite,With eyes in which are Hamlet’s aweAnd Cardinal Richelieu’s subtle lightLooks from this frame. A master’s handHas set the master-player here,In the fairtemple¹that he plannedNot for himself. To us most dearThis image of him! “It was thusHe looked; such pallor touched his cheek;With that same grace he greeted us—Nay, ’tis the man, could it but speak!”Sad words that shall be said some day—Far fall the day! O cruel Time,Whose breath sweeps mortal things away,Spare long this image of his prime,That others standing in the placeWhere, save as ghosts, we come no more,May know what sweet majestic faceThe gentle Prince of Players wore!¹The club-house in Gramercy Park, New York, was the gift ofMr.Booth to the association founded by him and named “The Players.”

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WITHOUT the rich imagination of Stoddard, or the versatility of Stedman,Mr.Aldrich surpasses them both in delicate and artistic skill. His jewelled lines, exquisitely pointed, express a single mood or a dainty epigram with a pungent and tasteful beauty that places him easily at the head of our modern lyrical writers.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich was born at Portsmouth, New Hampshire, November 11, 1836. In childhood he was taken to Louisiana, where he remained a number of years, his father being a merchant at New Orleans. After returning to Portsmouth, he was preparing for college when his father suddenly died, making it necessary for him to relinquish this design, to take a position of immediate remuneration, which he found in his uncle’s counting house in New York. This pursuit he found so far removed from the bent of his mind, however, that he gave it up after three years to take a situation as a reader in a New York publishing house. During his mercantile career he contributed to the current press, and afterwards became attached to various periodicals as contributor or in an editorial capacity. Among others, he worked on N. P. Willis’ “Home Journal,” the “Illustrated News,” and the “New York Evening Mirror.” During the Civil War he was for a time with the Army of the Potomac, as a newspaper correspondent. In 1865, he married, and removed to Boston, where he edited “The Weekly Journal” every Saturday. He remained with this paper until 1874. In 1881 he succeeded William Dean Howells as editor of the “Atlantic Monthly.” This position he resigned in 1890 in order to devote himself to personal literary work and travel. The degree ofA. M.was conferred upon him in 1883 by Yale, and in 1896 by Harvard University.

Mr.Aldrich had published one volume of verse, “The Bells” (1854), a collection of juvenile verses, before the “Ballad of Baby Bell and Other Poems” appeared in 1858, and made his reputation as a poet. Other volumes of his poetry issued at the following dates are entitled: “Pampinea and Other Poems” (1861), “Cloth of Gold and Other Poems” (1873), “Flower and Thorn” (1876), “Friar Jerome’s Beautiful Book” (1881), “Mercedes and Later Lyrics” (1883), “Wyndham Towers” (1889), “Judith and Holofernes, a Poem” (1896).

Among the prose works of the author we mention “Out of His Head, a Romance” (1862), “The Story of a Bad Boy” (1869),—which became at once a favorite by its naturalness and purity of spirit,—“♦Marjorie Daw and Other People” (1873), “Prudence Palfrey” (1874), “The Queen of Sheba” (1877), “The Stillwater Tragedy” (1880), “From Ponkapog to Pesth” (1883),“The Sisters Tragedy” (1890),“An Old Town by the Sea;” and “Two Bites at a Cherry and other Tales” (1893), “Unguarded Gates” (1895). “Complete Works,” in eight volumes, were published in 1897.Mr.Aldrich is said to be a man of the world as well as a man of letters and his personal popularity equals his literary reputation. We cannot better illustrate his companionable nature and close this sketch than by presenting the following pen picture of an incident, clipped from a recent magazine:

♦‘Majorie’ replaced with ‘Marjorie’

During a visit to England, upon one occasion,Mr.Aldrich was the guest of William Black, with a number of other well known people. An English journalist of some distinction, who had no time to keep in touch with the personality of poets, metMr.Aldrich, and they became excellent friends. They went on long shooting expeditions together, and found each other more than good companions. The last night of their stay came, and after dinnerMr.Black made a little speech, in which he spoke ofMr.Aldrich’s poetry in a graceful fashion. The London journalist gave a gasp, and looked atMr.Aldrich, who rose to make a response, as if he had never seen him before. As the poet sat down he leaned over him, and said:—

“Say, Aldrich, are you the man who writes books?”

“Yes,”Mr.Aldrich said. “I am glad you don’t know, for I am sure you liked me for myself.”

THOMAS B. ALDRICH’S STUDY.

ALEC YEATON’SSON.¹

GLOUCESTER, AUGUST, 1720.

THE wind it wailed, the wind it moaned,And the white caps flecked the sea;“An’ I would to God,” the skipper groaned,“I had not my boy with me!”Snug in the stern-sheets, little JohnLaughed as the scud swept by;But the skipper’s sunburnt cheek grew wanAs he watched the wicked sky.“Would he were at his mother’s side!”And the skipper’s eyes were dim.“Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide,What would become of him!“For me—my muscles are as steel,For me let hap what may:I might make shift upon the keelUntil the break o’ day.“But he, he is so weak and small,So young, scarce learned to stand—O pitying Father of us all,I trust him in thy hand!“For Thou, who markest from on highA sparrow’s fall—each one!—Surely, O Lord, thou’lt have an eyeOn Alec Yeaton’s son!”Then, steady, helm! Right straight he sailedTowards the headland light:The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed,And black, black fell the night.Then burst a storm to make one quailThough housed from winds and waves—They who could tell about that galeMust rise from watery graves!Sudden it came, as sudden went;Ere half the night was sped,The winds were hushed, the waves were spent,And the stars shone overhead.Now, as the morning mist grew thin,The folk on Gloucester shoreSaw a little figure floating inSecure, on a broken oar!Up rose the cry, “A wreck! a wreck!Pull, mates, and waste no breath!”—They knew it, though ’t was but a speckUpon the edge of death!Long did they marvel in the townAt God His strange decree,That let the stalwart skipper drownAnd the little child go free!¹By special permission of the Author.

HE wind it wailed, the wind it moaned,

And the white caps flecked the sea;

“An’ I would to God,” the skipper groaned,

“I had not my boy with me!”

Snug in the stern-sheets, little John

Laughed as the scud swept by;

But the skipper’s sunburnt cheek grew wan

As he watched the wicked sky.

“Would he were at his mother’s side!”

And the skipper’s eyes were dim.

“Good Lord in heaven, if ill betide,

What would become of him!

“For me—my muscles are as steel,

For me let hap what may:

I might make shift upon the keel

Until the break o’ day.

“But he, he is so weak and small,

So young, scarce learned to stand—

O pitying Father of us all,

I trust him in thy hand!

“For Thou, who markest from on high

A sparrow’s fall—each one!—

Surely, O Lord, thou’lt have an eye

On Alec Yeaton’s son!”

Then, steady, helm! Right straight he sailed

Towards the headland light:

The wind it moaned, the wind it wailed,

And black, black fell the night.

Then burst a storm to make one quail

Though housed from winds and waves—

They who could tell about that gale

Must rise from watery graves!

Sudden it came, as sudden went;

Ere half the night was sped,

The winds were hushed, the waves were spent,

And the stars shone overhead.

Now, as the morning mist grew thin,

The folk on Gloucester shore

Saw a little figure floating in

Secure, on a broken oar!

Up rose the cry, “A wreck! a wreck!

Pull, mates, and waste no breath!”—

They knew it, though ’t was but a speck

Upon the edge of death!

Long did they marvel in the town

At God His strange decree,

That let the stalwart skipper drown

And the little child go free!

¹By special permission of the Author.

ON LYNNTERRACE.¹

ALL day to watch the blue wave curl and break,All night to hear it plunging on the shore—In this sea-dream such draughts of life I take,I cannot ask for more.Behind me lie the idle life and vain,The task unfinished, and the weary hours;That long wave softly bears me back to SpainAnd the Alhambra’s towers!Once more I halt in Andalusian Pass,To list the mule-bells jingling on the height;Below, against the dull esparto grass,The almonds glimmer white.Huge gateways, wrinkled, with rich grays and browns,Invite my fancy, and I wander throughThe gable-shadowed, zigzag streets of townsThe world’s first sailors knew.Or, if I will, from out this thin sea-hazeLow-lying cliffs of lovely Calais rise;Or yonder, with the pomp of olden days,Venice salutes my eyes.Or some gaunt castle lures me up its stair;I see, far off, the red-tiled hamlets shine,And catch, through slits of windows here and there,Blue glimpses of the Rhine.Again I pass Norwegian fjord and fjeld,And through bleak wastes to where the sunset’s firesLight up the white-walled Russian citadel,The Kremlin’s domes and spires.And now I linger in green English lanes,By garden plots of rose and heliotrope;And now I face the sudden pelting rainsOn some lone Alpine slope.Now at Tangier, among the packed bazars,I saunter, and the merchants at the doorsSmile, and entice me: here are jewels like stars,And curved knives of the Moors;Cloths of Damascus, strings of amber dates;What would Howadji—silver, gold, or stone?Prone on the sun-scorched plain outside the gatesThe camels make their moan.All this is mine, as I lie dreaming here,High on the windy terrace, day by day;And mine the children’s laughter, sweet and clear,Ringing across the bay.For me the clouds; the ships sail by for me;For me the petulant sea-gull takes its flight;And mine the tender moonrise on the sea,And hollow caves of night.¹By special permission of the Author.

LL day to watch the blue wave curl and break,

All night to hear it plunging on the shore—

In this sea-dream such draughts of life I take,

I cannot ask for more.

Behind me lie the idle life and vain,

The task unfinished, and the weary hours;

That long wave softly bears me back to Spain

And the Alhambra’s towers!

Once more I halt in Andalusian Pass,

To list the mule-bells jingling on the height;

Below, against the dull esparto grass,

The almonds glimmer white.

Huge gateways, wrinkled, with rich grays and browns,

Invite my fancy, and I wander through

The gable-shadowed, zigzag streets of towns

The world’s first sailors knew.

Or, if I will, from out this thin sea-haze

Low-lying cliffs of lovely Calais rise;

Or yonder, with the pomp of olden days,

Venice salutes my eyes.

Or some gaunt castle lures me up its stair;

I see, far off, the red-tiled hamlets shine,

And catch, through slits of windows here and there,

Blue glimpses of the Rhine.

Again I pass Norwegian fjord and fjeld,

And through bleak wastes to where the sunset’s fires

Light up the white-walled Russian citadel,

The Kremlin’s domes and spires.

And now I linger in green English lanes,

By garden plots of rose and heliotrope;

And now I face the sudden pelting rains

On some lone Alpine slope.

Now at Tangier, among the packed bazars,

I saunter, and the merchants at the doors

Smile, and entice me: here are jewels like stars,

And curved knives of the Moors;

Cloths of Damascus, strings of amber dates;

What would Howadji—silver, gold, or stone?

Prone on the sun-scorched plain outside the gates

The camels make their moan.

All this is mine, as I lie dreaming here,

High on the windy terrace, day by day;

And mine the children’s laughter, sweet and clear,

Ringing across the bay.

For me the clouds; the ships sail by for me;

For me the petulant sea-gull takes its flight;

And mine the tender moonrise on the sea,

And hollow caves of night.

¹By special permission of the Author.

SARGENT’S PORTRAIT OF EDWIN BOOTH AT “THE PLAYERS.”

By Permission of the Author.

THAT face which no man ever sawAnd from his memory banished quite,With eyes in which are Hamlet’s aweAnd Cardinal Richelieu’s subtle lightLooks from this frame. A master’s handHas set the master-player here,In the fairtemple¹that he plannedNot for himself. To us most dearThis image of him! “It was thusHe looked; such pallor touched his cheek;With that same grace he greeted us—Nay, ’tis the man, could it but speak!”Sad words that shall be said some day—Far fall the day! O cruel Time,Whose breath sweeps mortal things away,Spare long this image of his prime,That others standing in the placeWhere, save as ghosts, we come no more,May know what sweet majestic faceThe gentle Prince of Players wore!¹The club-house in Gramercy Park, New York, was the gift ofMr.Booth to the association founded by him and named “The Players.”

HAT face which no man ever saw

And from his memory banished quite,

With eyes in which are Hamlet’s awe

And Cardinal Richelieu’s subtle light

Looks from this frame. A master’s hand

Has set the master-player here,

In the fairtemple¹that he planned

Not for himself. To us most dear

This image of him! “It was thus

He looked; such pallor touched his cheek;

With that same grace he greeted us—

Nay, ’tis the man, could it but speak!”

Sad words that shall be said some day—

Far fall the day! O cruel Time,

Whose breath sweeps mortal things away,

Spare long this image of his prime,

That others standing in the place

Where, save as ghosts, we come no more,

May know what sweet majestic face

The gentle Prince of Players wore!

¹The club-house in Gramercy Park, New York, was the gift ofMr.Booth to the association founded by him and named “The Players.”

(‡ decoration)RICHARD WATSON GILDER.“POET, EDITOR AND REFORMER.”AMONG the current poets of America, few, perhaps, deserve more favorable mention than the subject of this sketch. His poetry is notable for its purity of sentiment and delicacy of expression. The story of his life also is one to stimulate the ambition of youth, who, in this cultured age, have not enjoyed the benefits of that college training which has come to be regarded as one of the necessary preliminaries to literary aspiration. This perhaps is properly so, that the public may not be too far imposed upon by incompetent writers. And while it makes the way very hard for him who attempts to scale the walls and force his passage into the world of letters—having not this passport through the gateway—it is the more indicative of the “real genius” that he should assay the task in an heroic effort; and, if he succeeds in surmounting them, the honor is all the greater, and the laurel wreath is placed with more genuine enthusiasm upon the victor’s brow by an applauding public.Richard Watson Gilder does not enjoy the distinction of being a college graduate. He received his education principally in Bellevue Seminary, Bordentown, New Jersey (where he was born February 8, 1844), under the tutelage of his father,Rev.Wm.H. Gilder.Mr.Gilder’s intention was to become a lawyer and began to study for that profession in Philadelphia; but the death of his father, in 1864, made it necessary for him to abandon law to take up something that would bring immediate remuneration. This opportunity was found on the staff of the Newark, New Jersey, “Daily Advertiser,” with which he remained until 1868, when he resigned and founded the “Newark Morning Register,” with Newton Crane as joint editor. The next year,Mr.Gilder, then twenty-five years of age, was called to New York as editor of “Hours at Home,” a monthly journal.His editorials in “Hours at Home” attracted public attention, and some of his poems were recognized as possessing superior merit.Dr.G. Holland, editor of “Scribner’s Monthly,” was especially drawn to the rising young poet and when, in 1870, it became the “Century Magazine,”Dr.Holland choseMr.Gilder as his associate editor. On the death ofDr.Holland, in 1881,Mr.Gilder became editor-in-chief. Under his able management of its columns the popularity of the “Century” has steadily advanced, the contribution of his pen and especially his occasional poems adding no small modicum to its high literary standing. His poetic compositions have been issued from time to time in book form and comprised several volumes ofpoems, among which are “The New Day;” “The Poet and His Master’; “Lyrics;” and “The Celestial Passion.”Aside from his literary works,Mr.Gilder has been, in a sense, a politician and reformer. By the word politician we do not mean the “spoils-hunting partisan class,” but, like Bryant, from patriotic motives he has been an independent champion of those principles which he regards to be the interest of his country and mankind at large. He comes by his disposition to mix thus in public affairs honestly. His father, before him, was an editor and writer as well as a clergyman. Thus “he was born,” as the saying goes, “with printer’s ink in his veins.” When sixteen years of age (1860) he set up and printed a little paper in New Jersey, which became the organ of the Bell and Everett party in that section. Since that date he has manifested a lively interest in all public matters, where he considered the public good at stake. It was this disposition which forced him to the front in the movement for the betterment of the condition of tenement-houses in New York. He was pressed into the presidency of the Tenement-House Commission in 1894, and through his zeal a thorough inspection was made—running over a period of eight months—vastly improving the comfort and health of those who dwell in the crowded tenements of New York City. The influence of the movement has done much good also in other cities.Mr.Gilder also takes a deep interest in education, and our colleges have no stauncher friend than he. His address on “Public Opinion” has been delivered by invitation before Yale, Harvard and Johns Hopkins Universities. We quote a paragraph from this address which clearly sets forth his conception of public duty as it should be taught by our institutions of learning:—“Who will lift high the standard of a disinterested and righteous public opinion if it is not the institutions of learning, great and small, private and public, that are scattered throughout our country? They are the responsible press, and the unsensational but fearless pulpit—it is these that must discriminate; that must set the standard of good taste and good morals, personal and public. They together must cultivate fearless leaders, and they must educate and inspire the following that makes leadership effectual and saving.”As appears from the aboveMr.Gilder is a man of exalted ideals. He despises sham, hypocrisy and all “wickedness in high places.” He regards no man with so much scorn as he who uses his office or position to defend or shield law-breakers and enemies of the public. In his own words,—“He, only, is the despicable oneWho lightly sells his honor as a shieldFor fawning knaves, to hide them from the sun.Too nice for crime yet, coward, he doth yieldFor crime a shelter. Swift to ParadiseThe contrite thief, not Judas with his price!”SONNET.(AFTER THE ITALIAN.)From the “Five Books of Song.” (1894.) The CenturyCo.IKNOW not if I love her overmuch;But this I know, that when unto her faceShe lifts her hand, which rests there, still, a space,Then slowly falls—’tis I who feel that touch.And when she sudden shakes her head, with suchA look, I soon her secret meaning trace.So when she runs I think ’tis I who race.Like a poor cripple who has lost his crutchI am if she is gone; and when she goes,I know not why, for that is a strange art—As if myself should from myself depart.I know not if I love her more than thoseWho long her light have known; but for the roseShe covers in her hair, I’d give my heart.THE LIFE MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.From “For the Country.” (1897.) The CenturyCo.THIS bronze doth keep the very form and moldOf our great martyr’s face. Yes, this is he:That brow all wisdom, all benignity;That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that holdLike some harsh landscape all the summer’s gold;That spirit fit for sorrow, as the seaFor storms to beat on; the lone agonyThose silent, patient lips too well foretold.Yes, this is he who ruled a world of menAs might some prophet of the elder day—Brooding above the tempest and the frayWith deep-eyed thought, and more than mortal ken.A power was his beyond the touch of artOr armed strength—his pure and mighty heart.SHERIDAN.From “For the Country.” (1897.) The CenturyCo.QUIETLY, like a childThat sinks in slumber mild,No pain or troubled thought his well-earned peace to mar,Sank into endless rest our thunder-bolt of war.Though his the power to smiteQuick as the lightning’s light,—His single arm an army, and his name a host,—Not his the love of blood, the warrior’s cruel boast.But in the battle’s flameHow glorious he came!—Even like a white-combed wave that breaks and tears the shore,While wreck lies strewn behind, and terror flies before.’Twas he,—his voice, his might,—Could stay the panic flight,Alone shame back the headlong, many-leagued retreat,And turn to evening triumph morning’s foul defeat.He was our modern Mars;Yet firm his faith that warsEre long would cease to vex the sad, ensanguined earth,And peace forever reign, as at Christ’s holy birth.Blest land, in whose dark hourArise to loftiest powerNo dazzlers of the sword to play the tyrant’s part,But patriot-soldiers, true and pure and high of heart!Of such our chief of all;And he who broke the wallOf civil strife in twain, no more to build or mend;And he who hath this day made Death his faithful friend.And now above his tombFrom out the eternal gloom“Welcome!” his♦chieftain’s voice sounds o’er the cannon’s knell;And of the three one only stays to say “Farewell!”♦“chiftain’s” replaced with “chieftain’s”SUNSET FROM THETRAIN.¹From “Five Books of Song” (1894).BUT then the sunset smiled,Smiled once and turned toward dark,Above the distant, wavering line of trees that filedAlong the horizon’s edge;Like hooded monks that harkThrough evening airThe call to prayer;—Smiled once, and faded slow, slow, slow away;When, like a changing dream, the long cloud-wedge,Brown-gray,Grew saffron underneath and, ere I knew,The interspace, green-blue—The whole, illimitable, western, skyey shore,The tender, human, silent sunset smiled once more.Thee, absent loved one, did I think on now,Wondering if thy deep browIn dreams of me were lifted to the skies,Where, by our far sea-home, the sunlight dies;If thou didst stand alone,Watching the day pass slowly, slow, as here,But closer and more dear,Beyond the meadow and the long, familiar lineOf blackening pine;When lo! that second smile;—dear heart, it was thine own.¹Copyright, The CenturyCo.“O SILVER RIVER FLOWING TO THESEA.”¹From “Five Books of Song” (1894).OSILVER river flowing to the sea,Strong, calm, and solemn as thy mountains be!Poets have sung thy ever-living power,Thy wintry day, and summer sunset hour;Have told how rich thou art, how broad, how deep,What commerce thine, how many myriads reapThe harvest of thy waters. They have sungThy moony nights, when every shadow flungFrom cliff or pine is peopled with dim ghostsOf settlers, old-world fairies, or the hostsOf savage warriors that once plowed thy waves—Now hurrying to the dance from hidden graves;The waving outline of thy wooded mountains,Thy populous towns that stretch from forest fountainsOn either side, far to the salty main,Like golden coins alternate on a chain.Thou pathway of the empire of the North,Thy praises through the earth have traveled forth!I hear thee praised as one who hears the shoutThat follows when a hero from the routOf battle issues, “Lo, how brave is he,How noble, proud, and beautiful!” But sheWho knows him best—“How tender!” So thou artThe river of love to me!—Heart of my heart,Dear love and bride—is it not so indeed?—Among your treasures keep this new-plucked reed.¹Copyright, The CenturyCo.“THERE IS NOTHING NEW UNDER THESUN.”¹From “Five Books of Song” (1894).THERE is nothing new under the sun;There is no new hope or despair;The agony just begunIs as old as the earth and the air.My secret soul of blissIs one with the singing stars,And the ancient mountains missNo hurt that my being mars.I know as I know my life,I know as I know my pain,That there is no lonely strife,That he is mad who would gainA separate balm for his woe,A single pity and cover;The one great God I knowHears the same prayer over and over.I know it because at the portalOf Heaven I bowed and cried,And I said: “Was ever a mortalThus crowned and crucified!My praise thou hast made my blame;My best thou hast made my worst;My good thou hast turned to shame;My drink is a flaming thirst.”But scarce my prayer was saidEre from that place I turned;I trembled, I hung my head,My cheek, shame-smitten, burned;For there where I bowed downIn my boastful agony,I thought of thy cross and crown—O Christ! I remembered thee.¹Copyright, The CenturyCo.MEMORIALDAY.¹From “Five Books of Song” (1894).SHE saw the bayonets flashing in the sun,The flags that proudly waved; she heard the bugles calling;She saw the tattered banners fallingAbout the broken staffs, as one by oneThe remnant of the mighty army passed;And at the lastFlowers for the graves of those whose fight was done.She heard the tramping of ten thousand feetAs the long line swept round the crowded square;She heard the incessant humThat filled the warm and blossom-scented air—The shrilling fife, the roll and throb of drum,The happy laugh, the cheer. Oh glorious and meetTo honor thus the dead,Who chose the better part,Who for their country bled!—The dead! Great God! she stood there in the street,Living, yet dead in soul and mind and heart—While far awayHis grave was decked with flowers by strangers’ hands to-day.¹Copyright, The CenturyCo.A WOMAN’STHOUGHT.¹From “Five Books of Song” (1894).IAM a woman—therefore I may notCall him, cry to him,Fly to him,Bid him delay not!And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet;Still as a stone—All silent and cold.If my heart riot—Crush and defy it!Should I grow bold,Say one dear thing to him,All my life fling to him,Cling to him—What to atoneIs enough for my sinning!This were the cost to me,This were my winning—That he were lost to me.Not as a loverAt last if he part from me,Tearing my heart from me,Hurt beyond cure—Calm and demureThen must I hold me,In myself fold me,Lest he discover;Showing no sign to himBy look of mine to himWhat he has been to me—How my heart turns to him,Follows him, yearns to him,Prays him to love me.Pity me, lean to me,Thou God above me!¹Copyright, The CenturyCo.

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“POET, EDITOR AND REFORMER.”

AMONG the current poets of America, few, perhaps, deserve more favorable mention than the subject of this sketch. His poetry is notable for its purity of sentiment and delicacy of expression. The story of his life also is one to stimulate the ambition of youth, who, in this cultured age, have not enjoyed the benefits of that college training which has come to be regarded as one of the necessary preliminaries to literary aspiration. This perhaps is properly so, that the public may not be too far imposed upon by incompetent writers. And while it makes the way very hard for him who attempts to scale the walls and force his passage into the world of letters—having not this passport through the gateway—it is the more indicative of the “real genius” that he should assay the task in an heroic effort; and, if he succeeds in surmounting them, the honor is all the greater, and the laurel wreath is placed with more genuine enthusiasm upon the victor’s brow by an applauding public.

Richard Watson Gilder does not enjoy the distinction of being a college graduate. He received his education principally in Bellevue Seminary, Bordentown, New Jersey (where he was born February 8, 1844), under the tutelage of his father,Rev.Wm.H. Gilder.Mr.Gilder’s intention was to become a lawyer and began to study for that profession in Philadelphia; but the death of his father, in 1864, made it necessary for him to abandon law to take up something that would bring immediate remuneration. This opportunity was found on the staff of the Newark, New Jersey, “Daily Advertiser,” with which he remained until 1868, when he resigned and founded the “Newark Morning Register,” with Newton Crane as joint editor. The next year,Mr.Gilder, then twenty-five years of age, was called to New York as editor of “Hours at Home,” a monthly journal.

His editorials in “Hours at Home” attracted public attention, and some of his poems were recognized as possessing superior merit.Dr.G. Holland, editor of “Scribner’s Monthly,” was especially drawn to the rising young poet and when, in 1870, it became the “Century Magazine,”Dr.Holland choseMr.Gilder as his associate editor. On the death ofDr.Holland, in 1881,Mr.Gilder became editor-in-chief. Under his able management of its columns the popularity of the “Century” has steadily advanced, the contribution of his pen and especially his occasional poems adding no small modicum to its high literary standing. His poetic compositions have been issued from time to time in book form and comprised several volumes ofpoems, among which are “The New Day;” “The Poet and His Master’; “Lyrics;” and “The Celestial Passion.”

Aside from his literary works,Mr.Gilder has been, in a sense, a politician and reformer. By the word politician we do not mean the “spoils-hunting partisan class,” but, like Bryant, from patriotic motives he has been an independent champion of those principles which he regards to be the interest of his country and mankind at large. He comes by his disposition to mix thus in public affairs honestly. His father, before him, was an editor and writer as well as a clergyman. Thus “he was born,” as the saying goes, “with printer’s ink in his veins.” When sixteen years of age (1860) he set up and printed a little paper in New Jersey, which became the organ of the Bell and Everett party in that section. Since that date he has manifested a lively interest in all public matters, where he considered the public good at stake. It was this disposition which forced him to the front in the movement for the betterment of the condition of tenement-houses in New York. He was pressed into the presidency of the Tenement-House Commission in 1894, and through his zeal a thorough inspection was made—running over a period of eight months—vastly improving the comfort and health of those who dwell in the crowded tenements of New York City. The influence of the movement has done much good also in other cities.

Mr.Gilder also takes a deep interest in education, and our colleges have no stauncher friend than he. His address on “Public Opinion” has been delivered by invitation before Yale, Harvard and Johns Hopkins Universities. We quote a paragraph from this address which clearly sets forth his conception of public duty as it should be taught by our institutions of learning:—

“Who will lift high the standard of a disinterested and righteous public opinion if it is not the institutions of learning, great and small, private and public, that are scattered throughout our country? They are the responsible press, and the unsensational but fearless pulpit—it is these that must discriminate; that must set the standard of good taste and good morals, personal and public. They together must cultivate fearless leaders, and they must educate and inspire the following that makes leadership effectual and saving.”

As appears from the aboveMr.Gilder is a man of exalted ideals. He despises sham, hypocrisy and all “wickedness in high places.” He regards no man with so much scorn as he who uses his office or position to defend or shield law-breakers and enemies of the public. In his own words,—

“He, only, is the despicable oneWho lightly sells his honor as a shieldFor fawning knaves, to hide them from the sun.Too nice for crime yet, coward, he doth yieldFor crime a shelter. Swift to ParadiseThe contrite thief, not Judas with his price!”

“He, only, is the despicable one

Who lightly sells his honor as a shield

For fawning knaves, to hide them from the sun.

Too nice for crime yet, coward, he doth yield

For crime a shelter. Swift to Paradise

The contrite thief, not Judas with his price!”

SONNET.

(AFTER THE ITALIAN.)

From the “Five Books of Song.” (1894.) The CenturyCo.

IKNOW not if I love her overmuch;But this I know, that when unto her faceShe lifts her hand, which rests there, still, a space,Then slowly falls—’tis I who feel that touch.And when she sudden shakes her head, with suchA look, I soon her secret meaning trace.So when she runs I think ’tis I who race.Like a poor cripple who has lost his crutchI am if she is gone; and when she goes,I know not why, for that is a strange art—As if myself should from myself depart.I know not if I love her more than thoseWho long her light have known; but for the roseShe covers in her hair, I’d give my heart.

KNOW not if I love her overmuch;

But this I know, that when unto her face

She lifts her hand, which rests there, still, a space,

Then slowly falls—’tis I who feel that touch.

And when she sudden shakes her head, with such

A look, I soon her secret meaning trace.

So when she runs I think ’tis I who race.

Like a poor cripple who has lost his crutch

I am if she is gone; and when she goes,

I know not why, for that is a strange art—

As if myself should from myself depart.

I know not if I love her more than those

Who long her light have known; but for the rose

She covers in her hair, I’d give my heart.

THE LIFE MASK OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

From “For the Country.” (1897.) The CenturyCo.

THIS bronze doth keep the very form and moldOf our great martyr’s face. Yes, this is he:That brow all wisdom, all benignity;That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that holdLike some harsh landscape all the summer’s gold;That spirit fit for sorrow, as the seaFor storms to beat on; the lone agonyThose silent, patient lips too well foretold.Yes, this is he who ruled a world of menAs might some prophet of the elder day—Brooding above the tempest and the frayWith deep-eyed thought, and more than mortal ken.A power was his beyond the touch of artOr armed strength—his pure and mighty heart.

HIS bronze doth keep the very form and mold

Of our great martyr’s face. Yes, this is he:

That brow all wisdom, all benignity;

That human, humorous mouth; those cheeks that hold

Like some harsh landscape all the summer’s gold;

That spirit fit for sorrow, as the sea

For storms to beat on; the lone agony

Those silent, patient lips too well foretold.

Yes, this is he who ruled a world of men

As might some prophet of the elder day—

Brooding above the tempest and the fray

With deep-eyed thought, and more than mortal ken.

A power was his beyond the touch of art

Or armed strength—his pure and mighty heart.

SHERIDAN.

From “For the Country.” (1897.) The CenturyCo.

QUIETLY, like a childThat sinks in slumber mild,No pain or troubled thought his well-earned peace to mar,Sank into endless rest our thunder-bolt of war.Though his the power to smiteQuick as the lightning’s light,—His single arm an army, and his name a host,—Not his the love of blood, the warrior’s cruel boast.But in the battle’s flameHow glorious he came!—Even like a white-combed wave that breaks and tears the shore,While wreck lies strewn behind, and terror flies before.’Twas he,—his voice, his might,—Could stay the panic flight,Alone shame back the headlong, many-leagued retreat,And turn to evening triumph morning’s foul defeat.He was our modern Mars;Yet firm his faith that warsEre long would cease to vex the sad, ensanguined earth,And peace forever reign, as at Christ’s holy birth.Blest land, in whose dark hourArise to loftiest powerNo dazzlers of the sword to play the tyrant’s part,But patriot-soldiers, true and pure and high of heart!Of such our chief of all;And he who broke the wallOf civil strife in twain, no more to build or mend;And he who hath this day made Death his faithful friend.And now above his tombFrom out the eternal gloom“Welcome!” his♦chieftain’s voice sounds o’er the cannon’s knell;And of the three one only stays to say “Farewell!”♦“chiftain’s” replaced with “chieftain’s”

UIETLY, like a child

That sinks in slumber mild,

No pain or troubled thought his well-earned peace to mar,

Sank into endless rest our thunder-bolt of war.

Though his the power to smite

Quick as the lightning’s light,—

His single arm an army, and his name a host,—

Not his the love of blood, the warrior’s cruel boast.

But in the battle’s flame

How glorious he came!—

Even like a white-combed wave that breaks and tears the shore,

While wreck lies strewn behind, and terror flies before.

’Twas he,—his voice, his might,—

Could stay the panic flight,

Alone shame back the headlong, many-leagued retreat,

And turn to evening triumph morning’s foul defeat.

He was our modern Mars;

Yet firm his faith that wars

Ere long would cease to vex the sad, ensanguined earth,

And peace forever reign, as at Christ’s holy birth.

Blest land, in whose dark hour

Arise to loftiest power

No dazzlers of the sword to play the tyrant’s part,

But patriot-soldiers, true and pure and high of heart!

Of such our chief of all;

And he who broke the wall

Of civil strife in twain, no more to build or mend;

And he who hath this day made Death his faithful friend.

And now above his tomb

From out the eternal gloom

“Welcome!” his♦chieftain’s voice sounds o’er the cannon’s knell;

And of the three one only stays to say “Farewell!”

♦“chiftain’s” replaced with “chieftain’s”

SUNSET FROM THETRAIN.¹

From “Five Books of Song” (1894).

BUT then the sunset smiled,Smiled once and turned toward dark,Above the distant, wavering line of trees that filedAlong the horizon’s edge;Like hooded monks that harkThrough evening airThe call to prayer;—Smiled once, and faded slow, slow, slow away;When, like a changing dream, the long cloud-wedge,Brown-gray,Grew saffron underneath and, ere I knew,The interspace, green-blue—The whole, illimitable, western, skyey shore,The tender, human, silent sunset smiled once more.Thee, absent loved one, did I think on now,Wondering if thy deep browIn dreams of me were lifted to the skies,Where, by our far sea-home, the sunlight dies;If thou didst stand alone,Watching the day pass slowly, slow, as here,But closer and more dear,Beyond the meadow and the long, familiar lineOf blackening pine;When lo! that second smile;—dear heart, it was thine own.¹Copyright, The CenturyCo.

UT then the sunset smiled,

Smiled once and turned toward dark,

Above the distant, wavering line of trees that filed

Along the horizon’s edge;

Like hooded monks that hark

Through evening air

The call to prayer;—

Smiled once, and faded slow, slow, slow away;

When, like a changing dream, the long cloud-wedge,

Brown-gray,

Grew saffron underneath and, ere I knew,

The interspace, green-blue—

The whole, illimitable, western, skyey shore,

The tender, human, silent sunset smiled once more.

Thee, absent loved one, did I think on now,

Wondering if thy deep brow

In dreams of me were lifted to the skies,

Where, by our far sea-home, the sunlight dies;

If thou didst stand alone,

Watching the day pass slowly, slow, as here,

But closer and more dear,

Beyond the meadow and the long, familiar line

Of blackening pine;

When lo! that second smile;—dear heart, it was thine own.

¹Copyright, The CenturyCo.

“O SILVER RIVER FLOWING TO THESEA.”¹

From “Five Books of Song” (1894).

OSILVER river flowing to the sea,Strong, calm, and solemn as thy mountains be!Poets have sung thy ever-living power,Thy wintry day, and summer sunset hour;Have told how rich thou art, how broad, how deep,What commerce thine, how many myriads reapThe harvest of thy waters. They have sungThy moony nights, when every shadow flungFrom cliff or pine is peopled with dim ghostsOf settlers, old-world fairies, or the hostsOf savage warriors that once plowed thy waves—Now hurrying to the dance from hidden graves;The waving outline of thy wooded mountains,Thy populous towns that stretch from forest fountainsOn either side, far to the salty main,Like golden coins alternate on a chain.Thou pathway of the empire of the North,Thy praises through the earth have traveled forth!I hear thee praised as one who hears the shoutThat follows when a hero from the routOf battle issues, “Lo, how brave is he,How noble, proud, and beautiful!” But sheWho knows him best—“How tender!” So thou artThe river of love to me!—Heart of my heart,Dear love and bride—is it not so indeed?—Among your treasures keep this new-plucked reed.¹Copyright, The CenturyCo.

SILVER river flowing to the sea,

Strong, calm, and solemn as thy mountains be!

Poets have sung thy ever-living power,

Thy wintry day, and summer sunset hour;

Have told how rich thou art, how broad, how deep,

What commerce thine, how many myriads reap

The harvest of thy waters. They have sung

Thy moony nights, when every shadow flung

From cliff or pine is peopled with dim ghosts

Of settlers, old-world fairies, or the hosts

Of savage warriors that once plowed thy waves—

Now hurrying to the dance from hidden graves;

The waving outline of thy wooded mountains,

Thy populous towns that stretch from forest fountains

On either side, far to the salty main,

Like golden coins alternate on a chain.

Thou pathway of the empire of the North,

Thy praises through the earth have traveled forth!

I hear thee praised as one who hears the shout

That follows when a hero from the rout

Of battle issues, “Lo, how brave is he,

How noble, proud, and beautiful!” But she

Who knows him best—“How tender!” So thou art

The river of love to me!

—Heart of my heart,

Dear love and bride—is it not so indeed?—

Among your treasures keep this new-plucked reed.

¹Copyright, The CenturyCo.

“THERE IS NOTHING NEW UNDER THESUN.”¹

From “Five Books of Song” (1894).

THERE is nothing new under the sun;There is no new hope or despair;The agony just begunIs as old as the earth and the air.My secret soul of blissIs one with the singing stars,And the ancient mountains missNo hurt that my being mars.I know as I know my life,I know as I know my pain,That there is no lonely strife,That he is mad who would gainA separate balm for his woe,A single pity and cover;The one great God I knowHears the same prayer over and over.I know it because at the portalOf Heaven I bowed and cried,And I said: “Was ever a mortalThus crowned and crucified!My praise thou hast made my blame;My best thou hast made my worst;My good thou hast turned to shame;My drink is a flaming thirst.”But scarce my prayer was saidEre from that place I turned;I trembled, I hung my head,My cheek, shame-smitten, burned;For there where I bowed downIn my boastful agony,I thought of thy cross and crown—O Christ! I remembered thee.¹Copyright, The CenturyCo.

HERE is nothing new under the sun;

There is no new hope or despair;

The agony just begun

Is as old as the earth and the air.

My secret soul of bliss

Is one with the singing stars,

And the ancient mountains miss

No hurt that my being mars.

I know as I know my life,

I know as I know my pain,

That there is no lonely strife,

That he is mad who would gain

A separate balm for his woe,

A single pity and cover;

The one great God I know

Hears the same prayer over and over.

I know it because at the portal

Of Heaven I bowed and cried,

And I said: “Was ever a mortal

Thus crowned and crucified!

My praise thou hast made my blame;

My best thou hast made my worst;

My good thou hast turned to shame;

My drink is a flaming thirst.”

But scarce my prayer was said

Ere from that place I turned;

I trembled, I hung my head,

My cheek, shame-smitten, burned;

For there where I bowed down

In my boastful agony,

I thought of thy cross and crown—

O Christ! I remembered thee.

¹Copyright, The CenturyCo.

MEMORIALDAY.¹

From “Five Books of Song” (1894).

SHE saw the bayonets flashing in the sun,The flags that proudly waved; she heard the bugles calling;She saw the tattered banners fallingAbout the broken staffs, as one by oneThe remnant of the mighty army passed;And at the lastFlowers for the graves of those whose fight was done.She heard the tramping of ten thousand feetAs the long line swept round the crowded square;She heard the incessant humThat filled the warm and blossom-scented air—The shrilling fife, the roll and throb of drum,The happy laugh, the cheer. Oh glorious and meetTo honor thus the dead,Who chose the better part,Who for their country bled!—The dead! Great God! she stood there in the street,Living, yet dead in soul and mind and heart—While far awayHis grave was decked with flowers by strangers’ hands to-day.¹Copyright, The CenturyCo.

HE saw the bayonets flashing in the sun,

The flags that proudly waved; she heard the bugles calling;

She saw the tattered banners falling

About the broken staffs, as one by one

The remnant of the mighty army passed;

And at the last

Flowers for the graves of those whose fight was done.

She heard the tramping of ten thousand feet

As the long line swept round the crowded square;

She heard the incessant hum

That filled the warm and blossom-scented air—

The shrilling fife, the roll and throb of drum,

The happy laugh, the cheer. Oh glorious and meet

To honor thus the dead,

Who chose the better part,

Who for their country bled!

—The dead! Great God! she stood there in the street,

Living, yet dead in soul and mind and heart—

While far away

His grave was decked with flowers by strangers’ hands to-day.

¹Copyright, The CenturyCo.

A WOMAN’STHOUGHT.¹

From “Five Books of Song” (1894).

IAM a woman—therefore I may notCall him, cry to him,Fly to him,Bid him delay not!And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet;Still as a stone—All silent and cold.If my heart riot—Crush and defy it!Should I grow bold,Say one dear thing to him,All my life fling to him,Cling to him—What to atoneIs enough for my sinning!This were the cost to me,This were my winning—That he were lost to me.Not as a loverAt last if he part from me,Tearing my heart from me,Hurt beyond cure—Calm and demureThen must I hold me,In myself fold me,Lest he discover;Showing no sign to himBy look of mine to himWhat he has been to me—How my heart turns to him,Follows him, yearns to him,Prays him to love me.Pity me, lean to me,Thou God above me!¹Copyright, The CenturyCo.

AM a woman—therefore I may not

Call him, cry to him,

Fly to him,

Bid him delay not!

And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet;

Still as a stone—

All silent and cold.

If my heart riot—

Crush and defy it!

Should I grow bold,

Say one dear thing to him,

All my life fling to him,

Cling to him—

What to atone

Is enough for my sinning!

This were the cost to me,

This were my winning—

That he were lost to me.

Not as a lover

At last if he part from me,

Tearing my heart from me,

Hurt beyond cure—

Calm and demure

Then must I hold me,

In myself fold me,

Lest he discover;

Showing no sign to him

By look of mine to him

What he has been to me—

How my heart turns to him,

Follows him, yearns to him,

Prays him to love me.

Pity me, lean to me,

Thou God above me!

¹Copyright, The CenturyCo.

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