AndLilith oft to Paradise returned,For fierce within her, bitter hatred burned,And better, dearer, seemed revenge than aughtShe else desired. The coppice oft she sought,Much hoping direful evil might be wroughtUpon the love that bloomed in Eden.WideOft strayed fair Eve; the little maid, beside,Plucking the lotus; or by sedgy moats,From ribbed papyrus broad, frail fairy boatsDeft fashioning. Or Adam, watching, smiled,With flowery wreaths engarlanding the child.And laughed the pair, intent on pleasant toil,When blithe the child upheaped her fruity spoil—Great globes of red and gold. Or roguish faceO’er feathery broods, or in the further spaceTo count the small blue eggs, she sportive bent;And far her restless feet swift glancing went.It chanced one day she watched the careless flightOf vagrant butterflies, that circled lightUncertain, high, above a copse rose-wreathed;Then soft down-dropping, gaudy wings they sheathedBeside a darkling pool. The copse anearWith yellow buds was strewn. And softly hereShe crept, deeming her little half-shut handMight snare the fairest of that gleaming band.Yet ere she touched it, wide its wings outspreadIn flight.And still she, swift pursuing, spedAmong the groves, till wearied, slept the maidDeep in the mid-day shadows, lowly laid.Without, stooped Lilith. And with fingers swift,Among the leaves she oped a small green rift,That she might see the child. The hedge was wetWith starry blooms. Whereto her hand she setWhen she awaked, seeing each dainty frondOf fragrant ferns, dusk mirrored in the pond.The child came near the copse, much wondering:From glossy stems the smooth leaves sundering.And stooping o’er the rift, she saw there, lowAgainst the hedge, a face like drifted snow,And soft eyes, blue as violets showAbove the brooks; and hair that downward rolledUpon the ground in glittering strands of gold.Mute stood the maid, naught fearing, but amazed.Then nearer drew, and lingering, she gazedIn those blue orbs. And smiling as she knelt,The stranger quickly loosed her shining beltOf gems. Flawless each stone whose pallid gleamLit silent nooks, or slept by far-off streamUnheeded—pale pearls with shimmering light,From distant oceans plucked, blue sapphires bright,And diamonds rosy-cold, and burning redThe rubies fine, and yellow topaz shedIts sultry glow, jasper, dull onyx white,Sardonyx, rare chalcèdon, streaked with light.Against her white breast that bright zone she laid,Then stretched it, flashing forth, toward the maid,And clasped it round her throat.A luring strainShe sung, sweet as the pause of summer rain.So soft, so pure her voice, the child it drewStill nearer that green rift; and low there-throughShe laughing stroked the down-bent golden headWith her soft baby hands. And parting, spreadThe silken hair about her little face,And kissed the temptress through the green-leaved space.Whereat fell Lilith snatched the babe and fled,Crying, as swift from Eden’s bounds she sped,And like a fallen star shone on her breastThe child, “At last! at last! thy peaceful restEre long will cease. O helpless mourn, frail Eve,Uncomforted. O hapless mother, grieve,Since Lilith far from thee thy babe doth bear!She leaves thy loving arms, thy tender care.Nor canst thou follow anywhere my flight,When far we go athwart the falling night.Ah, little babe, close-meshed in yellow hairThou liest pale! Fear not, thou art so fair,Much comfort lives in thee.”So ended she,And onward, hostile lands among, passed fleetBlue solitudes afar, till paused her feet,Where highest ’mong hoar climbing peaks, uproseA mountain crest.It was the third day’s close.In those untrodden ways there was no sound,No sight of living thing, the barren heights around.No hum of insect life, no whirring wing of bird.Bare rocks alone, all fissured, blotched and blurredAs with red stain of battle-fields unseen.Far, far below, still vales were shining green.And leaping downward swift, a mountain streamCrept soft to sleep, where meadow grasses dream.Wan, wayworn, there, the babe upon her knee,Lilith sat down. “O Eve,” she said, “on meThe child smiles sweet! Fondle her silken hairIf now thou canst, or clasp her small hands fair.Thou hast my Paradise. Lo, thine I bearAfar from thee. See, then! Its transient woeThy babe e’en now forgets; and sweet and lowIt babbles on my knee. In sooth, not longEndure her griefs, and through my crooning songShe kisses me, recalling not the placeWhence she has come. Nay, nor her mother’s face.”Long time stayed Lilith in that land. More calmEach day she grew, for soft, like healing balm,The child’s pure love fell on her sin-sick soul.Now oft among the crags, fleet-footed, stoleThe maid, or lightly crossed the fertile plain.And blithesome sang among the growing grainThat brake in billowy waves about her feet.But when the wheat full ripened was, and sweet,She plucked and ate. Thereat a shadowy pain,A sense of sorrow, stirred that childish brain,She wist not why. For it did surely seemBefore her waking thought, with pallid gleamOf other days, dim pictures passed; of woodAnd stream, beyond these mountain rims. And stood,It seemed, midway a garden wide, a tree that brightLike silver gleamed, and broad boughs lightUplifted. Like ripened wheat the fruit thereon,When low the westering sun upon it shone.Then slow the maid did turn, and silent standAt Lilith’s side. And o’er that mountain land,Down-looking, mused. Or lifted pensive eyes,And gaze that questioned if in any wiseShe might perceive the land she longing sought;But of its stream, or garden, saw she naught.Thereat Lilith with white lips drew more near,And clasped in her lithe arms the child so dear.And once again fled swift, a shadowy shape,Across green fields. And heard, through silence, breakA voice she could not hush, that loudly wailed,“My babe! Give me my babe!”And Lilith paled,And listening, heard, borne ever on the wind,The tread of feet fast following behind.Then westward turned, where once among new waysWith Eblis she had trod in other days,When far they wandered. Thitherward she bentHer timid steps, the babe upon her breast,Until with travel worn her noontide restShe took. And now a land of alien bloomsAbout them lay, outwafting strange perfumes.And quaint defiles, that sloped behind a bay;And level fields; and curly vines that layThick clustered o’er with unripe fruit; and bentAbove them fragrant limes and spicy scentOf citron and of myrtle all the placeMade sweet, and ’mid the trees, an open spaceThey saw.Not far away a broad lagoonBurned like a topaz ’neath a crescent moon,For day was parting. Even-tide apaceDrew on, and chill the night dews filled the place.Upon the waters dusky shadows clung,And ashen-gray the broad leaves drooping hung;Low ’mong the marish buds lay one that madeAgainst the sudden dusk a duskier shade—Despairing arms upflinging to the sky,Smiting the silence with unheeded cry—“O mother, childless! Wife—of all bereft!Alas, my babe, not even thou art leftTo comfort me, in these last hopeless days,Shut out from Paradise. Through unknown waysI sought thee sorrowing. Oh, once again,My Adam, come! Is not this gnawing painOf punishment enow, that thou unkindArt grown? Ah, never more shall I thee find?Alas, I ever was but weak. AloneI cannot live. Come but again, mine own.No longer leave me mourning, desolate.In tears I call thee. Oh, in tears I waitThy sweet, forgiving kiss!”Ended she soHer plaint. And ’mong the glistening leaves hid low,Lilith yet fiercer clasped the childWhen that lorn mother, tear-stained, weeping, wild,Poured forth her woe.As one that wakes to lifeFrom peaceful dreams, leaps quick amid the strifeOf morning hours, so now the maid to passFrom Lilith’s arms strove hard. And loosed her clasp,And turned her shadowed face with plaintive moanAnd fond beseeching eyes, where lay her mother lone.But Lilith hardening, seized the child again,And from her ears shut out the mother’s painWith wilful hands.So passed she quick away.Across the dusky path, low fallen, layPale Eve, till clear she saw the dawn’s pure ray,And as she looked, the voice of one she heardAnigh. Her heart to sudden joy was stirred.“Rise up, mine own,” he said, “no more apartWe walk.” Then she arose, and cried, “Dear heart,Close hold me. So! Methinks I dreamed we wereParted long time.”So went, the exiled pairFrom home thrust out, together—everywhere.And oft they journeyed on with sufferings spentTo distant lands. And oft with labor bentRecalled the olden home, with brimming eyes,Hemmed in by mountains blue—lost Paradise.Meanwhile, to her own realm Lilith long sinceWas come, glad greeting Eblis. “O my prince,I have most bravely done. Our foes full soreAre smitten now. My guerdon o’er and o’erThou wilt bestow, I ween, in kisses warmAs my own southland’s breath. For I great harmHave wrought that hated pair. With feeble moanLies Eve in a far land, thrust out. Alone,Deserted. And whence angered Adam fliesI know not. Nay, nor what new world his eyesBehold. Nor even if he live.“But see!Sleeps on my breast the babe—Eve’s babe. And sheShall know no more its tender, sweet caress,Soft medicining woe. The wildernessUncheered by love, is hers.”And by the sea,Peaceful abode, long time content, the three,Save that the child unmurmuring drooped.Then oft above her Lilith, singing, stooped,Striving to wake the baby smiles againAbout her wee, warm mouth. Vain wiles! And vainHer loving skill. All still she lay, and pale.As one at sea pines for a lonely valeBesprent with cuckoo flowers; the faint wild breathOf cradled buds, among the cloven elms, and saith,‘I shall not see that place beyond the seas,Nor any more pluck red anemonesIn windless nooks.’So seemed the child, and frailAs one that weeps above dead joys. Then paleGrew Lilith as those wasting lips she pressedAnd kissed the filmy eyes, and kissing, blessedThe child.But Eblis touched the hand so worn,The faded, wasted face. “Happy, thou mother lorn,Unseeing her,” he said. “This fragile thingTo-day lies on thy breast. To-morrow’s wingHath brushed it from thy sight.” Low Lilith sighed:“My Eblis, is this death?” And louder cried,“But thou art wise, and sure some hidden wayFrom this sore hap canst find. O Eblis, say,Hast thou no spell whereby the child may live?O love, my realm thy recompense I give,If she be healed.”“Nay; not Archangel’s craftStays fleeting life, or turns Death’s nimble shaft,”He said. “Yet if,” she mused, “I laid againThe child in young Eve’s arms, like summer rain,The mother’s love may yet restore againThis shriveled life. And yet, must I resignThe babe? Alas, my little one! Nay, mineNo more!” Weeping she ceased.But after, boreThe child far northward; the exiled pair o’erMany lands long seeking. Till from a crestOf barren hills Lilith looked down. At rest,The twain she saw, for it was eventide.And low they spoke of hidden snares besideTheir unknown path, since unaware fared theyInto this hostile spot. The dim wolds layAll bare beneath chill stars. And far awayWere belts of pine, and dingy ocean shore,Like wrinkled lip. Cold was the land, and hoarWith wintry rime. Near by, its leafless boughsA thorn bush bent, with withered berries red.At sight thereof Adam, rejoicing, said,“My Eve, bide here. From yonder friendly treeThe ripe fruit I will pluck and bring to thee.”“Oh, leave me not! This solitude I fear;The land about is chill,” she said, “and drearIt seems to me.” But Adam answered, “Nay,Sore famished art thou, and not far awayIt is—nor long I stay.”So parted he.Not long alone was Eve. Upstarted sheDismayed. A woman, most exceeding fair,Beside her stood, with coils of yellow hair,And blue eyes, calm as sleep among the hills’Dim lakes. Eve, frighted, shrank. As mountain rills,Sweet fell the stranger’s words. “My sister, oneIs here that glad salutes thee. And since doneIs now my quest, and here my journey ends,I bring a goodly gift. For elsewhere wendsMy pathway, Eve.“Beside a coppice green,Brighter than gold, purer than silver sheen,In a fair garden, once a jewel shone.With it, compared in all the world, no stone.And low the Master set it shining clearAgainst the hedge, saying, ‘When she draws nearShe will perceive on whom I do bestowThis moteless gem, that fellow doth not know.’“Now I without the copse that day was hid.Soft shone the jewel, as the moon amidThe blue. And in the garden I saw thee,Where in the midst stood a fair wheaten treeAs emerald green. Its ears, as rubies red,Fragrant as breath of musk, its odors spread.And white its shining grains as rifted snow.I looked again. And in thy fair hand, lo,Full ripe bright gleamed the yellow wheaten grain.Thou saidst, ‘Though I did eat, I live. No painHath marred this pleasant feast.’“Then I the moreDesired thy gem. ‘All things most goodly pourOn Eve their gifts. But I am famished lone,’I said. And still against the hedge the stoneRayed like a frozen tear the pure Night shed—The which with trembling hand I seized, and fledAfar.“But now upon my soul weighs soreA dream. A voice called loud, ‘Straightway restoreTo Eve that which is hers; lest I, that brightSet it against the hedge, will quench its light.Yea, I will crumble it and quickly smiteIt into dust e’en from thy hand.’ Mine eyesI careless closed. But yesternight ‘Arise!’The stern voice cried. ‘Stay not at all. For lo,I wait not. Lest I scourge thee sorely, go!’Ah, Eve, though long upon my heart I woreThis jewel rare, behold, I now restoreThine own!”Then Eve cried loud, “Ere my heart break,Give me my babe! Where is she, for whose sakeI sorrowed all these years—the little maid?”She said, through tender sobs.And Lilith laidApart upon her breast her garment, dyedIn blended hues. And stooping at Eve’s side,Gave back the child.As one that ending questMost perilous, safe harbor sees—at restAmong green hills—and enters glad therein,So Lilith was.So passed she once againInto her land.But Eve, like rainLong pent, upon the child poured swiftly downSweet kisses. And again, twixt laugh and frownDivided, smoothed the baby face, and throughHer fingers soft the silken hair she drew,And kissed again.And with a vague surpriseRecalled the stranger’s smile, the mournful eyes,Much marveling whence she fared. And said, “As paleShe seemed as bramble-blooms in Eden’s vale.”When homeward Adam came, the child she setUpon his knee, saying, “Erewhile I metAn angel. So to me she seemed, as thereShe stood. So tall, so yellow-haired, so fair;And lo, she brought again the babe.”TherewithShe ended low. “Doubtless an angel, love, sithSo you deem her,” he replied. And mused on allEve told.And watching, saw a shadow fallUpon the child. And later, did recallThose words, sad pondering “so fair, so tall.”But nothing uttered.In that land long timeThey lingered. And the child slow faded, tillOne day Eve frighted cried, “See, Adam, stillShe lies! Ah, little one, unseal those eyes!Rouse but awhile, ere waning daylight flies!”For she discerned not yet its doom, nor knewThe hour was near.But Adam, parting, drewBeneath the thorn, lest he might see the child.And all the lone hours through Eve, babbling, smiledAdown. And blew her warm breath o’er the cheeksSo wan. “The night grows cold,” she said. “Sleep creepsDull on my babe. The night grows cold and chill,”She said.Nor dreamed aneath those lids closed still,The death film hung.A wind uprose, and sweptAmong the dry leaves heaped, where lowly sleptThe child. Cold grew the night and colder, tillAgainst the east the dawn glowed daffodil,Above dun wolds white with new-fallen snow.So rose the day and widened into morning glowWith rosy tints o’erstreaked, and faintly blurredWith flecks of cloud.Still lay the child, nor stirred.Dumb Eve looked down, nor knew Death’s pallid masque,And strove to wake the maid. In vain. Her taskWas done. And as she gazed, a gentle graspSoft loosed the dead from that cold mother’s clasp,And Lilith laid the babe in its chill bed—Straightened the limbs, and kissed the little head.And o’er the sleeper, kneeling, she did lean.Forth from her breast she drew, close folded, green,A sheath of leaves, bright shining, lustrous—wetWith tears—that in those waxen hands she set.Then those shut leaves oped slow. And low and frailBloomed ’mid the tintless snows a snow-drop pale.Soft Lilith said, “For this pale sleeper’s sake,O Eve, one kiss bestow. E’en thou canst takePity on me. For thee new, happy days await,But I—I am forever desolate.For thee fresh love will bloom above this mould;For thee, in coming years, pure lips unfold;But I—no more, no more, shall feel the warmBreath ’gainst my breast. Nay, nor the baby armSoft clasping me. Nor see the feet that passLike falling music, through the waving grass.Therefore, one pardoning kiss give e’er I goTo my own land, beyond this realm of snow.”And Eve, uprising, took the hand she gave,And weeping, kissed; and parted by that grave.Stood Adam, after-time, by that small mound.Low at their feet a sheaf of leaves Eve found,Wherein white flowers shone. “Oh, like,” she said,“To this was one abloom within the bedWhere lies the child. And fair, O, passing fair,She was, and tall, with yellow gleaming hair,And cheeks soft flushed as fresh pomegranate bells;And dewy eyes, like violets in the dells,Who came. So, silent passed that stranger fairWho loved our babe. And e’er I well was ware,She vanished.”Otherwhiles, “Of alien raceShe was,” Eve said. “A princess, with a faceSurpassing fair, who trod the pathway brightAmong the mists, beyond the rim of nightTo her own land.”And oft in after-time,When Cain had lain in her young arms, and chimeOf voices round her came, and clasp of hands,And thick with baby faces bloomed the lands,Eve silent sat, remembering that one childAmong the snowdrops, in a Northern wild.And Lilith dwelt again in her own land;With Eblis still strayed far. And hand in handThey talked; the while her phantom brood in gleeLaughed overhead. Then looking on the sea,Low voiced, she sang. So sweet the idle song,She said, “From Paradise, forgotten long,It comes. An elfin echo that doth riseUpward from summer seas to bending skies.In coming days, from any earthly shoreIt shall not fail. And sweet forever moreShall make my memory. That witching strainPale Lilith’s love shall lightly breathe again.And Lilith’s bitter loss and olden painO’er every cradle wake that sweet refrain.My memory still shall bloom. It cannot dieWhile rings Earth’s cradle-song—sweet lullaby.”Slow passed dim cycles by, and in the earthStrange peoples swarmed; new nations sprang to birth.Then first ’mong tented tribes men shuddering spakeDread tales of one that moved, an unseen shape,’Mong chilling mists and snow. A spirit swift,That dwelt in lands beyond day’s purple rift.Phantom of presage ill to babes unborn,Whose fast-sealed eyes ope not to earthly morn.“We heard,” they cried, “the Elf-babes shrilly scream,And loud the Siren’s song, when lightnings gleam.”Then they that by low beds all night did wake,Prayed for the day, and feared to see it break.When o’er the icy fjords cold rise white peaks,And fierce wild storms blot out the frozen creeks,The Finnish mother to her breast more nearDraws her dear babe—clasps it in her wild fearStill closer to her heart. And o’er and o’erThrough her weird song fall echoes from that loreThat lived when Time was young, e’er yet the rimeOf years lay on his brow. In that far primeNature and man, couched ’neath God’s earliest sky,Heard clear-voiced spheres chant Earth’s first lullaby.Now, in the blast loud sings the Finn, and long,Nor knows that faint through her wild cradle-songYet sweetly thrills the vanished Elf-babes’ cry,Nor dreams, as low she croons her lullaby,Still breathes through that sweet, lingering refrainLilith the childless—and to life again,To love, she wakes.The soft strain clearer ringsAs through the gathering storm that mother sings:Pile the strong fagot,Pale Lilith comes!Wild through the murky air goblin voices shout.Hark! Hearest thou not their lusty rout?Lilith comes!Listen, my babe!See how the dusk pinesTremble and crouch;Over wide wastes borne, white are the snow-wreaths blown,And loud the drear icy fjords shudder and moan;Lilith comes!Listen, my babe!Ah! Hear the wild din,Fierce o’er the linn,The sea-gull, affrighted, soars seaward away,And dark on the shores falls the wind-driven spray;Lilith comes!Listen, my babe!The shuddering iceShivers. It cracks!Like a wild beast in pain, it cries to the wrackOf the storm-cloud overhead. The sea answers back—Dread Lilith comes!Listen, my babe!Near draws the wraith fair,Dull gleams her hair.Ah, strong one, so cruel—fierce breath of the North—The torches of heaven are lighting thee forth!Fell Lilith comes!Listen, my babe!Cold spirit of Snow,Ah, I fear thee!The sports of my hunter, the white fox, the bear,The spoils of our rivers are thine. Ah, then spare,Dread Lilith, spareThe babe at my breast!Mercy, weird Lilith!Even sleeping,My babe lies so chill. See, the reindeer I give!Ah, lift thy dark wings, that my darling may live!Pale Lilith comes!Listen, my babe!Once, in the Northland,Pale crocus grewBy half-wakened stream. It lay shriveled and lowEre the spring-time had come, in soft shroud of snow.Sad Lilith comes!Listen, my babe!Foul Vampire, drain notFrom my loved oneThe life-current red. O Demon, art breakingMy heart while I plead? Ah, babe! Art thou waking?Lilith, I live!Closer my babe!Far o’er the dun wold,Baby, behold’Mid the mist and the snow, fast, fast, and more fast—In the teeth of the blast—flies Lilith at last.Pale Lilith flies!Nearer, my babe!By Ganges still the Indian mother weavesAbove her babe her mat of plantain leaves,And laughing, plaits. Or pausing, sweet and lowHer voice blends with the river’s drowsy flow;The while she fitful sings that old, old strain,Forgetting that the love, the deathless painOf wandering Lilith lives and throbs againWhen falls the tricksy Elf-babes’ mocking cryFaintly across her crooning lullaby—Ah, happy babe, that here may sleepWhere the blue river winds along,And sweet the trysting bulbuls keepThe night o’er-brimmed with pulsing song.Not so, mine own, as legends tell,In lands remote, beyond the day,The soulless babes of Lilith dwell,Or vanish ’mong the cold mists gray.Or oft in elfin glee they rideO’er burning deserts blown adrift,Or singing idly, idly glideAfar beyond Night’s purple rift.But thou, my babe, for thee shall growThe lilies, nodding by the stream;For thee, the poppy’s sleepy glow;For thee, the jonquil’s pallid gleam.My baby, sleep! Against the skyThe pippul lifts its trembling crest.O baby, hush each wailing cry,Close to the holy river’s breast.Not here shall come that pale wraith fair,Who, wandering once in Northern lands,Bore o’er long reaches sere and bareThe death-flower white, for baby hands.Fear not, mine own, the Elf-babes shrill,Nor Lilith tall, with brow of snow.They may not haunt thy slumbers stillWhere Ganges’ sacred waters flow.Where coral reefs gnaw with white cruel teethThe yellow surf, and the torn billows seethe—When shines the Southern Cross o’er placid isles,The Afric mother sits, and singing, smiles,Unheeding that a dead world’s hidden painBeats wildly rhythmic through her pure refrain,And lingers softly still an echoed sighLow in Earth’s cradle-song—sweet lullaby.A warning song of doom—a song of woe,Of terror wild, she sings, down bending low,The while bright gleams the Starry Cross aboveYet tells to her no tale of tender loveOf Him who lifteth after-time a crossThat healeth all the wide world’s sin and loss.Ah, linger no longer ’mong blooms of the mangoes,Nor pluck the bright shells by the low sighing sea,Swift, swift, through the groves of the palms and acaciasComes Lilith, the childless one, seeking for thee.She will bind thee so fast in her yellow-gold hair—Ah, hasten, my children, of Lilith beware!Cold, cold are her cheeks as the spray of the wild sea,Red, red are her lips as the pomegranate’s bloom;Cold, cold are the kisses the phantom will give thee,Ah, cruel her kisses, that smell of the tomb.Hist, hist! ’tis the sorceress with yellow-gold hair—Oh! lullaby, baby—of Lilith beware.She flies to the jungle, with false tales beguiling,Ah, hear’st thou her elfin babes scream overhead!Close, close in her strong arms she bears my babe, smiling;She hath sucked the soft bloom from the lips of my dead.Now far speeds the vampire, with yellow-gold hair—Oh! lullaby, baby—of Lilith beware!Art frighted, my baby? Nay, then, thy motherLow singing enfolds thee all safe from the snare;Afar flit the Elf-babes ’mid gray, misty shadows,Afar flees the temptress with yellow-gold hair.Ah, heed not her songs in the still slumbrous air—Oh! lullaby, baby—of Lilith beware!When hawthorn-trees sift thick their rifted snow,The English mother o’er her babe sings low;Where red the cross burns on the ivied fane,Unwitting, pagan Lilith lives again—And softer sings, nor feels the wailing painStill faintly surging through that low refrain;Nor dreams she hears Love’s early cradle crySlow echoing through Earth’s song—sweet lullaby—And in the shadow of that cross, her strainBreathes sweetly; love, and hope, and ended pain.Softlier while that small arm closely clingsAbout her heart, that mother peaceful sings:O babe, my babe, the light doth fade!My baby, sleep, while I do keepClose watch, where thou art lowly laid.Sweet dreams shall steep thy slumber deep.Ah, little feet, be still at last—Rest all the night, for day is past;One watches thee from yon blue sky,One watching here sings lullaby,Lullaby;Sings lullaby.Here on his bed the sunny headLies still; and soft the brown eyes close;Sweet steals the breath, ’twixt lips as red,As dewy fresh, as new-born rose.O little lips, be hushed at last;Fear naught, sweetheart, though day be past.One looks adown from yon far sky,One close beside, sings lullaby,Lullaby;Sings lullaby.
AndLilith oft to Paradise returned,For fierce within her, bitter hatred burned,And better, dearer, seemed revenge than aughtShe else desired. The coppice oft she sought,Much hoping direful evil might be wroughtUpon the love that bloomed in Eden.WideOft strayed fair Eve; the little maid, beside,Plucking the lotus; or by sedgy moats,From ribbed papyrus broad, frail fairy boatsDeft fashioning. Or Adam, watching, smiled,With flowery wreaths engarlanding the child.And laughed the pair, intent on pleasant toil,When blithe the child upheaped her fruity spoil—Great globes of red and gold. Or roguish faceO’er feathery broods, or in the further spaceTo count the small blue eggs, she sportive bent;And far her restless feet swift glancing went.It chanced one day she watched the careless flightOf vagrant butterflies, that circled lightUncertain, high, above a copse rose-wreathed;Then soft down-dropping, gaudy wings they sheathedBeside a darkling pool. The copse anearWith yellow buds was strewn. And softly hereShe crept, deeming her little half-shut handMight snare the fairest of that gleaming band.Yet ere she touched it, wide its wings outspreadIn flight.
And still she, swift pursuing, spedAmong the groves, till wearied, slept the maidDeep in the mid-day shadows, lowly laid.
Without, stooped Lilith. And with fingers swift,Among the leaves she oped a small green rift,That she might see the child. The hedge was wetWith starry blooms. Whereto her hand she setWhen she awaked, seeing each dainty frondOf fragrant ferns, dusk mirrored in the pond.The child came near the copse, much wondering:From glossy stems the smooth leaves sundering.And stooping o’er the rift, she saw there, lowAgainst the hedge, a face like drifted snow,And soft eyes, blue as violets showAbove the brooks; and hair that downward rolledUpon the ground in glittering strands of gold.Mute stood the maid, naught fearing, but amazed.Then nearer drew, and lingering, she gazedIn those blue orbs. And smiling as she knelt,The stranger quickly loosed her shining beltOf gems. Flawless each stone whose pallid gleamLit silent nooks, or slept by far-off streamUnheeded—pale pearls with shimmering light,From distant oceans plucked, blue sapphires bright,And diamonds rosy-cold, and burning redThe rubies fine, and yellow topaz shedIts sultry glow, jasper, dull onyx white,Sardonyx, rare chalcèdon, streaked with light.Against her white breast that bright zone she laid,Then stretched it, flashing forth, toward the maid,And clasped it round her throat.A luring strainShe sung, sweet as the pause of summer rain.So soft, so pure her voice, the child it drewStill nearer that green rift; and low there-throughShe laughing stroked the down-bent golden headWith her soft baby hands. And parting, spreadThe silken hair about her little face,And kissed the temptress through the green-leaved space.Whereat fell Lilith snatched the babe and fled,Crying, as swift from Eden’s bounds she sped,And like a fallen star shone on her breastThe child, “At last! at last! thy peaceful restEre long will cease. O helpless mourn, frail Eve,Uncomforted. O hapless mother, grieve,Since Lilith far from thee thy babe doth bear!She leaves thy loving arms, thy tender care.Nor canst thou follow anywhere my flight,When far we go athwart the falling night.Ah, little babe, close-meshed in yellow hairThou liest pale! Fear not, thou art so fair,Much comfort lives in thee.”So ended she,And onward, hostile lands among, passed fleetBlue solitudes afar, till paused her feet,Where highest ’mong hoar climbing peaks, uproseA mountain crest.It was the third day’s close.In those untrodden ways there was no sound,No sight of living thing, the barren heights around.No hum of insect life, no whirring wing of bird.Bare rocks alone, all fissured, blotched and blurredAs with red stain of battle-fields unseen.Far, far below, still vales were shining green.And leaping downward swift, a mountain streamCrept soft to sleep, where meadow grasses dream.Wan, wayworn, there, the babe upon her knee,Lilith sat down. “O Eve,” she said, “on meThe child smiles sweet! Fondle her silken hairIf now thou canst, or clasp her small hands fair.Thou hast my Paradise. Lo, thine I bearAfar from thee. See, then! Its transient woeThy babe e’en now forgets; and sweet and lowIt babbles on my knee. In sooth, not longEndure her griefs, and through my crooning songShe kisses me, recalling not the placeWhence she has come. Nay, nor her mother’s face.”Long time stayed Lilith in that land. More calmEach day she grew, for soft, like healing balm,The child’s pure love fell on her sin-sick soul.Now oft among the crags, fleet-footed, stoleThe maid, or lightly crossed the fertile plain.And blithesome sang among the growing grainThat brake in billowy waves about her feet.But when the wheat full ripened was, and sweet,She plucked and ate. Thereat a shadowy pain,A sense of sorrow, stirred that childish brain,She wist not why. For it did surely seemBefore her waking thought, with pallid gleamOf other days, dim pictures passed; of woodAnd stream, beyond these mountain rims. And stood,It seemed, midway a garden wide, a tree that brightLike silver gleamed, and broad boughs lightUplifted. Like ripened wheat the fruit thereon,When low the westering sun upon it shone.Then slow the maid did turn, and silent standAt Lilith’s side. And o’er that mountain land,Down-looking, mused. Or lifted pensive eyes,And gaze that questioned if in any wiseShe might perceive the land she longing sought;But of its stream, or garden, saw she naught.Thereat Lilith with white lips drew more near,And clasped in her lithe arms the child so dear.And once again fled swift, a shadowy shape,Across green fields. And heard, through silence, breakA voice she could not hush, that loudly wailed,“My babe! Give me my babe!”And Lilith paled,And listening, heard, borne ever on the wind,The tread of feet fast following behind.Then westward turned, where once among new waysWith Eblis she had trod in other days,When far they wandered. Thitherward she bentHer timid steps, the babe upon her breast,Until with travel worn her noontide restShe took. And now a land of alien bloomsAbout them lay, outwafting strange perfumes.And quaint defiles, that sloped behind a bay;And level fields; and curly vines that layThick clustered o’er with unripe fruit; and bentAbove them fragrant limes and spicy scentOf citron and of myrtle all the placeMade sweet, and ’mid the trees, an open spaceThey saw.Not far away a broad lagoonBurned like a topaz ’neath a crescent moon,For day was parting. Even-tide apaceDrew on, and chill the night dews filled the place.Upon the waters dusky shadows clung,And ashen-gray the broad leaves drooping hung;Low ’mong the marish buds lay one that madeAgainst the sudden dusk a duskier shade—Despairing arms upflinging to the sky,Smiting the silence with unheeded cry—“O mother, childless! Wife—of all bereft!Alas, my babe, not even thou art leftTo comfort me, in these last hopeless days,Shut out from Paradise. Through unknown waysI sought thee sorrowing. Oh, once again,My Adam, come! Is not this gnawing painOf punishment enow, that thou unkindArt grown? Ah, never more shall I thee find?Alas, I ever was but weak. AloneI cannot live. Come but again, mine own.No longer leave me mourning, desolate.In tears I call thee. Oh, in tears I waitThy sweet, forgiving kiss!”Ended she soHer plaint. And ’mong the glistening leaves hid low,Lilith yet fiercer clasped the childWhen that lorn mother, tear-stained, weeping, wild,Poured forth her woe.As one that wakes to lifeFrom peaceful dreams, leaps quick amid the strifeOf morning hours, so now the maid to passFrom Lilith’s arms strove hard. And loosed her clasp,And turned her shadowed face with plaintive moanAnd fond beseeching eyes, where lay her mother lone.But Lilith hardening, seized the child again,And from her ears shut out the mother’s painWith wilful hands.So passed she quick away.Across the dusky path, low fallen, layPale Eve, till clear she saw the dawn’s pure ray,And as she looked, the voice of one she heardAnigh. Her heart to sudden joy was stirred.“Rise up, mine own,” he said, “no more apartWe walk.” Then she arose, and cried, “Dear heart,Close hold me. So! Methinks I dreamed we wereParted long time.”So went, the exiled pairFrom home thrust out, together—everywhere.And oft they journeyed on with sufferings spentTo distant lands. And oft with labor bentRecalled the olden home, with brimming eyes,Hemmed in by mountains blue—lost Paradise.
Meanwhile, to her own realm Lilith long sinceWas come, glad greeting Eblis. “O my prince,I have most bravely done. Our foes full soreAre smitten now. My guerdon o’er and o’erThou wilt bestow, I ween, in kisses warmAs my own southland’s breath. For I great harmHave wrought that hated pair. With feeble moanLies Eve in a far land, thrust out. Alone,Deserted. And whence angered Adam fliesI know not. Nay, nor what new world his eyesBehold. Nor even if he live.“But see!Sleeps on my breast the babe—Eve’s babe. And sheShall know no more its tender, sweet caress,Soft medicining woe. The wildernessUncheered by love, is hers.”And by the sea,Peaceful abode, long time content, the three,Save that the child unmurmuring drooped.Then oft above her Lilith, singing, stooped,Striving to wake the baby smiles againAbout her wee, warm mouth. Vain wiles! And vainHer loving skill. All still she lay, and pale.As one at sea pines for a lonely valeBesprent with cuckoo flowers; the faint wild breathOf cradled buds, among the cloven elms, and saith,‘I shall not see that place beyond the seas,Nor any more pluck red anemonesIn windless nooks.’So seemed the child, and frailAs one that weeps above dead joys. Then paleGrew Lilith as those wasting lips she pressedAnd kissed the filmy eyes, and kissing, blessedThe child.But Eblis touched the hand so worn,The faded, wasted face. “Happy, thou mother lorn,Unseeing her,” he said. “This fragile thingTo-day lies on thy breast. To-morrow’s wingHath brushed it from thy sight.” Low Lilith sighed:“My Eblis, is this death?” And louder cried,“But thou art wise, and sure some hidden wayFrom this sore hap canst find. O Eblis, say,Hast thou no spell whereby the child may live?O love, my realm thy recompense I give,If she be healed.”“Nay; not Archangel’s craftStays fleeting life, or turns Death’s nimble shaft,”He said. “Yet if,” she mused, “I laid againThe child in young Eve’s arms, like summer rain,The mother’s love may yet restore againThis shriveled life. And yet, must I resignThe babe? Alas, my little one! Nay, mineNo more!” Weeping she ceased.But after, boreThe child far northward; the exiled pair o’erMany lands long seeking. Till from a crestOf barren hills Lilith looked down. At rest,The twain she saw, for it was eventide.And low they spoke of hidden snares besideTheir unknown path, since unaware fared theyInto this hostile spot. The dim wolds layAll bare beneath chill stars. And far awayWere belts of pine, and dingy ocean shore,Like wrinkled lip. Cold was the land, and hoarWith wintry rime. Near by, its leafless boughsA thorn bush bent, with withered berries red.At sight thereof Adam, rejoicing, said,“My Eve, bide here. From yonder friendly treeThe ripe fruit I will pluck and bring to thee.”“Oh, leave me not! This solitude I fear;The land about is chill,” she said, “and drearIt seems to me.” But Adam answered, “Nay,Sore famished art thou, and not far awayIt is—nor long I stay.”So parted he.Not long alone was Eve. Upstarted sheDismayed. A woman, most exceeding fair,Beside her stood, with coils of yellow hair,And blue eyes, calm as sleep among the hills’Dim lakes. Eve, frighted, shrank. As mountain rills,Sweet fell the stranger’s words. “My sister, oneIs here that glad salutes thee. And since doneIs now my quest, and here my journey ends,I bring a goodly gift. For elsewhere wendsMy pathway, Eve.“Beside a coppice green,Brighter than gold, purer than silver sheen,In a fair garden, once a jewel shone.With it, compared in all the world, no stone.And low the Master set it shining clearAgainst the hedge, saying, ‘When she draws nearShe will perceive on whom I do bestowThis moteless gem, that fellow doth not know.’“Now I without the copse that day was hid.Soft shone the jewel, as the moon amidThe blue. And in the garden I saw thee,Where in the midst stood a fair wheaten treeAs emerald green. Its ears, as rubies red,Fragrant as breath of musk, its odors spread.And white its shining grains as rifted snow.I looked again. And in thy fair hand, lo,Full ripe bright gleamed the yellow wheaten grain.Thou saidst, ‘Though I did eat, I live. No painHath marred this pleasant feast.’“Then I the moreDesired thy gem. ‘All things most goodly pourOn Eve their gifts. But I am famished lone,’I said. And still against the hedge the stoneRayed like a frozen tear the pure Night shed—The which with trembling hand I seized, and fledAfar.“But now upon my soul weighs soreA dream. A voice called loud, ‘Straightway restoreTo Eve that which is hers; lest I, that brightSet it against the hedge, will quench its light.Yea, I will crumble it and quickly smiteIt into dust e’en from thy hand.’ Mine eyesI careless closed. But yesternight ‘Arise!’The stern voice cried. ‘Stay not at all. For lo,I wait not. Lest I scourge thee sorely, go!’Ah, Eve, though long upon my heart I woreThis jewel rare, behold, I now restoreThine own!”Then Eve cried loud, “Ere my heart break,Give me my babe! Where is she, for whose sakeI sorrowed all these years—the little maid?”She said, through tender sobs.And Lilith laidApart upon her breast her garment, dyedIn blended hues. And stooping at Eve’s side,Gave back the child.As one that ending questMost perilous, safe harbor sees—at restAmong green hills—and enters glad therein,So Lilith was.So passed she once againInto her land.But Eve, like rainLong pent, upon the child poured swiftly downSweet kisses. And again, twixt laugh and frownDivided, smoothed the baby face, and throughHer fingers soft the silken hair she drew,And kissed again.And with a vague surpriseRecalled the stranger’s smile, the mournful eyes,Much marveling whence she fared. And said, “As paleShe seemed as bramble-blooms in Eden’s vale.”
When homeward Adam came, the child she setUpon his knee, saying, “Erewhile I metAn angel. So to me she seemed, as thereShe stood. So tall, so yellow-haired, so fair;And lo, she brought again the babe.”TherewithShe ended low. “Doubtless an angel, love, sithSo you deem her,” he replied. And mused on allEve told.And watching, saw a shadow fallUpon the child. And later, did recallThose words, sad pondering “so fair, so tall.”But nothing uttered.
In that land long timeThey lingered. And the child slow faded, tillOne day Eve frighted cried, “See, Adam, stillShe lies! Ah, little one, unseal those eyes!Rouse but awhile, ere waning daylight flies!”For she discerned not yet its doom, nor knewThe hour was near.But Adam, parting, drewBeneath the thorn, lest he might see the child.And all the lone hours through Eve, babbling, smiledAdown. And blew her warm breath o’er the cheeksSo wan. “The night grows cold,” she said. “Sleep creepsDull on my babe. The night grows cold and chill,”She said.Nor dreamed aneath those lids closed still,The death film hung.A wind uprose, and sweptAmong the dry leaves heaped, where lowly sleptThe child. Cold grew the night and colder, tillAgainst the east the dawn glowed daffodil,Above dun wolds white with new-fallen snow.So rose the day and widened into morning glowWith rosy tints o’erstreaked, and faintly blurredWith flecks of cloud.Still lay the child, nor stirred.Dumb Eve looked down, nor knew Death’s pallid masque,And strove to wake the maid. In vain. Her taskWas done. And as she gazed, a gentle graspSoft loosed the dead from that cold mother’s clasp,And Lilith laid the babe in its chill bed—Straightened the limbs, and kissed the little head.And o’er the sleeper, kneeling, she did lean.Forth from her breast she drew, close folded, green,A sheath of leaves, bright shining, lustrous—wetWith tears—that in those waxen hands she set.Then those shut leaves oped slow. And low and frailBloomed ’mid the tintless snows a snow-drop pale.Soft Lilith said, “For this pale sleeper’s sake,O Eve, one kiss bestow. E’en thou canst takePity on me. For thee new, happy days await,But I—I am forever desolate.For thee fresh love will bloom above this mould;For thee, in coming years, pure lips unfold;But I—no more, no more, shall feel the warmBreath ’gainst my breast. Nay, nor the baby armSoft clasping me. Nor see the feet that passLike falling music, through the waving grass.Therefore, one pardoning kiss give e’er I goTo my own land, beyond this realm of snow.”And Eve, uprising, took the hand she gave,And weeping, kissed; and parted by that grave.
Stood Adam, after-time, by that small mound.Low at their feet a sheaf of leaves Eve found,Wherein white flowers shone. “Oh, like,” she said,“To this was one abloom within the bedWhere lies the child. And fair, O, passing fair,She was, and tall, with yellow gleaming hair,And cheeks soft flushed as fresh pomegranate bells;And dewy eyes, like violets in the dells,Who came. So, silent passed that stranger fairWho loved our babe. And e’er I well was ware,She vanished.”Otherwhiles, “Of alien raceShe was,” Eve said. “A princess, with a faceSurpassing fair, who trod the pathway brightAmong the mists, beyond the rim of nightTo her own land.”And oft in after-time,When Cain had lain in her young arms, and chimeOf voices round her came, and clasp of hands,And thick with baby faces bloomed the lands,Eve silent sat, remembering that one childAmong the snowdrops, in a Northern wild.And Lilith dwelt again in her own land;With Eblis still strayed far. And hand in handThey talked; the while her phantom brood in gleeLaughed overhead. Then looking on the sea,Low voiced, she sang. So sweet the idle song,She said, “From Paradise, forgotten long,It comes. An elfin echo that doth riseUpward from summer seas to bending skies.In coming days, from any earthly shoreIt shall not fail. And sweet forever moreShall make my memory. That witching strainPale Lilith’s love shall lightly breathe again.And Lilith’s bitter loss and olden painO’er every cradle wake that sweet refrain.My memory still shall bloom. It cannot dieWhile rings Earth’s cradle-song—sweet lullaby.”
Slow passed dim cycles by, and in the earthStrange peoples swarmed; new nations sprang to birth.Then first ’mong tented tribes men shuddering spakeDread tales of one that moved, an unseen shape,’Mong chilling mists and snow. A spirit swift,That dwelt in lands beyond day’s purple rift.Phantom of presage ill to babes unborn,Whose fast-sealed eyes ope not to earthly morn.“We heard,” they cried, “the Elf-babes shrilly scream,And loud the Siren’s song, when lightnings gleam.”Then they that by low beds all night did wake,Prayed for the day, and feared to see it break.
When o’er the icy fjords cold rise white peaks,And fierce wild storms blot out the frozen creeks,The Finnish mother to her breast more nearDraws her dear babe—clasps it in her wild fearStill closer to her heart. And o’er and o’erThrough her weird song fall echoes from that loreThat lived when Time was young, e’er yet the rimeOf years lay on his brow. In that far primeNature and man, couched ’neath God’s earliest sky,Heard clear-voiced spheres chant Earth’s first lullaby.Now, in the blast loud sings the Finn, and long,Nor knows that faint through her wild cradle-songYet sweetly thrills the vanished Elf-babes’ cry,Nor dreams, as low she croons her lullaby,Still breathes through that sweet, lingering refrainLilith the childless—and to life again,To love, she wakes.The soft strain clearer ringsAs through the gathering storm that mother sings:
Pile the strong fagot,Pale Lilith comes!Wild through the murky air goblin voices shout.Hark! Hearest thou not their lusty rout?Lilith comes!Listen, my babe!
See how the dusk pinesTremble and crouch;Over wide wastes borne, white are the snow-wreaths blown,And loud the drear icy fjords shudder and moan;Lilith comes!Listen, my babe!
Ah! Hear the wild din,Fierce o’er the linn,The sea-gull, affrighted, soars seaward away,And dark on the shores falls the wind-driven spray;Lilith comes!Listen, my babe!
The shuddering iceShivers. It cracks!Like a wild beast in pain, it cries to the wrackOf the storm-cloud overhead. The sea answers back—Dread Lilith comes!Listen, my babe!
Near draws the wraith fair,Dull gleams her hair.Ah, strong one, so cruel—fierce breath of the North—The torches of heaven are lighting thee forth!Fell Lilith comes!Listen, my babe!
Cold spirit of Snow,Ah, I fear thee!The sports of my hunter, the white fox, the bear,The spoils of our rivers are thine. Ah, then spare,Dread Lilith, spareThe babe at my breast!
Mercy, weird Lilith!Even sleeping,My babe lies so chill. See, the reindeer I give!Ah, lift thy dark wings, that my darling may live!Pale Lilith comes!Listen, my babe!
Once, in the Northland,Pale crocus grewBy half-wakened stream. It lay shriveled and lowEre the spring-time had come, in soft shroud of snow.Sad Lilith comes!Listen, my babe!
Foul Vampire, drain notFrom my loved oneThe life-current red. O Demon, art breakingMy heart while I plead? Ah, babe! Art thou waking?Lilith, I live!Closer my babe!
Far o’er the dun wold,Baby, behold’Mid the mist and the snow, fast, fast, and more fast—In the teeth of the blast—flies Lilith at last.Pale Lilith flies!Nearer, my babe!
By Ganges still the Indian mother weavesAbove her babe her mat of plantain leaves,And laughing, plaits. Or pausing, sweet and lowHer voice blends with the river’s drowsy flow;The while she fitful sings that old, old strain,Forgetting that the love, the deathless painOf wandering Lilith lives and throbs againWhen falls the tricksy Elf-babes’ mocking cryFaintly across her crooning lullaby—
Ah, happy babe, that here may sleepWhere the blue river winds along,And sweet the trysting bulbuls keepThe night o’er-brimmed with pulsing song.
Not so, mine own, as legends tell,In lands remote, beyond the day,The soulless babes of Lilith dwell,Or vanish ’mong the cold mists gray.
Or oft in elfin glee they rideO’er burning deserts blown adrift,Or singing idly, idly glideAfar beyond Night’s purple rift.
But thou, my babe, for thee shall growThe lilies, nodding by the stream;For thee, the poppy’s sleepy glow;For thee, the jonquil’s pallid gleam.
My baby, sleep! Against the skyThe pippul lifts its trembling crest.O baby, hush each wailing cry,Close to the holy river’s breast.
Not here shall come that pale wraith fair,Who, wandering once in Northern lands,Bore o’er long reaches sere and bareThe death-flower white, for baby hands.
Fear not, mine own, the Elf-babes shrill,Nor Lilith tall, with brow of snow.They may not haunt thy slumbers stillWhere Ganges’ sacred waters flow.
Where coral reefs gnaw with white cruel teethThe yellow surf, and the torn billows seethe—When shines the Southern Cross o’er placid isles,The Afric mother sits, and singing, smiles,Unheeding that a dead world’s hidden painBeats wildly rhythmic through her pure refrain,And lingers softly still an echoed sighLow in Earth’s cradle-song—sweet lullaby.A warning song of doom—a song of woe,Of terror wild, she sings, down bending low,The while bright gleams the Starry Cross aboveYet tells to her no tale of tender loveOf Him who lifteth after-time a crossThat healeth all the wide world’s sin and loss.
Ah, linger no longer ’mong blooms of the mangoes,Nor pluck the bright shells by the low sighing sea,Swift, swift, through the groves of the palms and acaciasComes Lilith, the childless one, seeking for thee.She will bind thee so fast in her yellow-gold hair—Ah, hasten, my children, of Lilith beware!
Cold, cold are her cheeks as the spray of the wild sea,Red, red are her lips as the pomegranate’s bloom;Cold, cold are the kisses the phantom will give thee,Ah, cruel her kisses, that smell of the tomb.Hist, hist! ’tis the sorceress with yellow-gold hair—Oh! lullaby, baby—of Lilith beware.
She flies to the jungle, with false tales beguiling,Ah, hear’st thou her elfin babes scream overhead!Close, close in her strong arms she bears my babe, smiling;She hath sucked the soft bloom from the lips of my dead.Now far speeds the vampire, with yellow-gold hair—Oh! lullaby, baby—of Lilith beware!
Art frighted, my baby? Nay, then, thy motherLow singing enfolds thee all safe from the snare;Afar flit the Elf-babes ’mid gray, misty shadows,Afar flees the temptress with yellow-gold hair.Ah, heed not her songs in the still slumbrous air—Oh! lullaby, baby—of Lilith beware!
When hawthorn-trees sift thick their rifted snow,The English mother o’er her babe sings low;Where red the cross burns on the ivied fane,Unwitting, pagan Lilith lives again—And softer sings, nor feels the wailing painStill faintly surging through that low refrain;Nor dreams she hears Love’s early cradle crySlow echoing through Earth’s song—sweet lullaby—And in the shadow of that cross, her strainBreathes sweetly; love, and hope, and ended pain.Softlier while that small arm closely clingsAbout her heart, that mother peaceful sings:
O babe, my babe, the light doth fade!My baby, sleep, while I do keepClose watch, where thou art lowly laid.Sweet dreams shall steep thy slumber deep.Ah, little feet, be still at last—Rest all the night, for day is past;One watches thee from yon blue sky,One watching here sings lullaby,Lullaby;Sings lullaby.
Here on his bed the sunny headLies still; and soft the brown eyes close;Sweet steals the breath, ’twixt lips as red,As dewy fresh, as new-born rose.O little lips, be hushed at last;Fear naught, sweetheart, though day be past.One looks adown from yon far sky,One close beside, sings lullaby,Lullaby;Sings lullaby.
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The set in a neat box, $3.00.A STORY-BOOK FOR THE CHILDREN.Illustrated.16mo.$1.00.THE JIMMYJOHNS.POLLY COLOGNE.Each volume illustrated.16mo.$1.00.DOMESTIC PROBLEMS.WORK AND CULTURE IN THE HOUSEHOLD, AND THE SCHOOLMASTER’S TRUNK.Two volumes in one.Illustrated.16mo.$1.00.HOLIDAY BOOKS.CHRISTMAS MORNING.180 Illustrations.12mo.Cloth,$1.50 Bds., $1.25.KING GRIMALKUM AND PUSSYANITA; OR, THE CATS’ ARABIAN NIGHTS.Illustrated. Quarto. Cover in colors. $1.25.⁂For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, on receipt of price, byD. LOTHROP & CO., 32Franklin Street, Boston.THE HOMESPUN SERIES.BYSOPHIA HOMESPUN.Ruthie Shaw:Or,The Good Girl.16mo.Cloth.Illustrated.Price, $1.00.Much Fruit.16mo.Cloth.Illustrated.Price $1.00.Blue Eyed Jimmy:Or, The Good Boy.16mo.Cloth.Illustrated.Price, $1.00.Johnny Jones:Or, The Bad Boy.16mo.Cloth.Illustrated.Price, $1.00.Nattie Nesmith:Or, The Bad Girl.16mo.Cloth.Illustrated.Price, $1.00.Either or all of the above sent by mail, post-paid, on receipt of price.D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY.30 & 32Franklin St., BostonMay be obtained of Booksellers.Writings of Ella Farman,EDITOR OF WIDE AWAKE.Ella Farman teaches art no less than letters; and what is more than both stimulates a pure imagination and wholesome thinking. In her work there is vastly more culture than in the whole schooling supplied to the average child in the average school.—New York Tribune.The authoress, Ella Farman, whose skilful editorial management of “Wide Awake” all acquainted with that publication must admire, shows that her great capacity to amuse and instruct our growing youth can take a wider range. Her books are exceedingly interesting, and of that fine moral tone which so many books of the present day lack.—The Times, Canada.A LITTLE WOMAN.Illustrated.12mo.$1.00A GIRL’S MONEY.Illustrated.12mo.1.00GRANDMA CROSBY’S HOUSEHOLD.Illustrated.12mo.1.00GOOD-FOR-NOTHING POLLY.Illustrated.12mo.1.00HOW TWO GIRLS TRIED FARMING.Illustrated.12mo.1.00COOKING CLUB OF TU-WHIT HOLLOW.Illustrated.12mo.1.25MRS. HURD’S NIECE.Illustrated.12mo.1.50ANNA MAYLIE.Illustrated.12mo.1.50A WHITE HAND.Illustrated.12mo.1.50The above set of nine volumes will be furnished at $10.00.⁂ For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by mail, post-paid, byD. LOTHROP & CO.,Franklin St., BostonBOOKS BY E. A. RAND.SCHOOL AND CAMP SERIES.Each volume, 12mo, price, $1.25.This series gives the experience of “Big Brother” Dave Allen at the Academy; Roy Allen in his dory, theSunbeam, in Boston Harbor; Ruth Atherton as teacher, and Beth Allen as pupil at the country schoolhouse, Little Brown-Top.PUSHING AHEAD;or, big Brother Dave.ROY’S DORY AT THE SEA-SHORE.LITTLE BROWN-TOP,and the People under it.BARK CABIN SERIES.Each volume, 12mo, price, $1.00.Here we find the mountain camp-experience of the merry family, the captain, his daughters, the vivacious Rob, and the irrepressible servant-boy, Jule.BARK-CABIN ON MOUNT KEARSARGE.THE TENT IN THE NOTCH.AFTER THE FRESHET.12mo, price, $1.25.Arthur Manley whom a villain tries to ruin, is the hero of this book.BOOKSSELECTED FROMD. Lothrop & Co.’s Catalogue.John S. C. Abbott.History of Christianity.12mo, cloth, illust., $2.00.Nehemiah Adams.At Eventide.12mo, cloth, $1.25.Agnes and the Little Key.12mo, cloth, $1.00.Bertha.12mo, cloth, $1.00.Broadcast.12mo, cloth, $1.00.Christ a Friend.12mo, cloth, $1.00.Communion Sabbath.12mo, cloth, $1.25.Catherine.12mo, cloth, $1.25.Cross in the Cell.12mo, cloth, $1.00.Endless Punishment.12mo, cloth, $1.00.Evenings with the Doctrines.12mo, cloth, $1.00.Friends of Christ,12mo, cloth, $1.00.Under the Mizzen-mast.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.Lydia Maria Child.Jamie and Jennie.16mo, cloth, illust., $.75.Boy’s Heaven.16mo, cloth, illust., $.75.Making Something.16mo, cloth, illust., $.75.Good Little Mittie.16mo, cloth, illust., $.75.The Christ Child.16mo, cloth, illust., $.75.Col. Russell H. Conwell.Bayard Taylor.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.Lizzie W. Champney.Entertainments.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.Abby Morton Diaz.Story Book for children.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.William Henry and his Friends.12mo, illust., $1.00.William Henry Letters.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.Polly Cologne.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.Lucy Maria.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.The Jimmyjohns.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.Domestic Problems.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.King Grimalkum.4to, boards, illust., $1.25.Christmas Morning.12mo, illust., b’ds, $1.25; cloth, $1.50.Julia A. Eastman.Kitty Kent.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.Young Rick.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.The Romneys of Ridgemont.12mo, illust., $1.50.Striking for the Right.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.75.School Days of Beulah Romney.Illust., $1.50.Short Comings and Long Goings.12mo, $1.25.Ella Farman.Anna Maylie.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.A Little Woman.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.A White Hand.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.A Girl’s Money.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.Grandma Crosby’s Household.12mo, cloth, il., $1.00.Good-for-Nothing Polly.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.How two Girls tried Farming.12mo, paper, $.50; cloth, $1.00.The Cooking Club.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.25.Mrs. Hurd’s Niece.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.A. A. Hopkins.Waifs and their Authors.Plain, $2.00; gilt, $2.50.John Bremm: His Prison Bars.12mo, cloth, $1.25.Sinner and Saint.12mo, cloth, $1.25.Our Sabbath Evening.16mo, cloth, $1.25.E. E. Hale and Miss Susan Hale.A Family Flight through France, Germany, Norway and Switzerland.Octavo, cloth, illust., $2.50.Lothrop’s Library of Entertaining History.Edited byArthur Gilman.India, byFannie Roper Feudge.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50; half Russia, $2.00.Egypt, byMrs. Clara Erskine Clement.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50; half Russia, $2.00.Spain, byProf. James H. Harrison.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50; half Russia, $2.00.Switzerland, by MissH. D. S. Mackenzie.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50; half Russia, $2.00.George MacDonald.Warlock o’ Glenwarlock.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.75.Seaboard Parish.12mo, cloth, $1.75.Thomas Wingfold, Curate.12mo, illust., $1.75.Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood.12mo, $1.75.Princess Rosamond.Quarto, board, illust., $.50.Double Story.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.George E. Merrill.Story of the Manuscripts.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.Battles Lost and Won.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.Elias Nason.Henry Wilson.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.Originality.16mo, cloth, $.50.Pansy.(Mrs. G. R. Alden.)12mo,cloth, $1.50Each.A New Graft on the Family Tree.Chautauqua Girls at Home (The).Divers Women.Echoing and Re-echoing.Ester Ried.Four Girls at Chautauqua.From Different Standpoints.Hall in the Grove.Household Puzzles.Julia Ried.King’s Daughter.Links in Rebecca’s Life.Modern Prophets.Pocket Measure (The).Randolphs (The).Ruth Erskine’s Crosses.Sidney Martin’s Christmas.Those Boys.Tip Lewis and his Lamp.Three People.Wise and Otherwise.12mo,cloth, $1.25Each.Cunning Workmen.Dr. Deane’s Way.Grandpa’s Darlings.Miss Priscilla Hunter and My Daughter Susan.Mrs. Deane’s Way.Pansy Scrap Book. (Former title, the Teachers’ Helper.)What She Said, and What she Meant.12mo,cloth, $1.00Each.Next Things.Some Young Heroines.Mrs. Harry Harper’s Awakening.Five Friends.12mo,cloth, 75 cts.Each.Bernie’s White Chicken.Docia’s Journal.Getting Ahead.Helen Lester.Jessie Wells.Six Little Girls.That Boy Bob.Two Boys.Mary Burton Abroad.Pansy’s Picture Book. 4to, board, $1.50; cloth, $2.00.The Little Pansy Series.10 volumes.Boards, $3.00; cloth, $4.00.Nora Perry.Bessie’s Trials at Boarding-school.12mo, $1.25.Austin Phelps.The Still Hour.16mo, cloth, $.60; gilt, $1.00.Work of the Holy Spirit.16mo, cloth, $1.25.Edward A. Rand.Roy’s Dory.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.25.Pushing Ahead.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.25.After the Freshet.12mo, cloth, $1.25.All Aboard for Sunrise Lands.Illust., boards, $1.75; cloth, $2.25.Tent in the Notch.16mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.Bark Cabin.16mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.Margaret Sidney.Five Little Peppers.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.Half Year at Bronckton.12mo, cloth, $1.25.Pettibone Name.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.25.So As by Fire.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.25.Spare Minute Series.Edited by E. E. Brown.Thoughts that Breathe.(Dean Stanley).$1.00.Cheerful Words.(George MacDonald).$1.00.The Might of Right.(W. E. Gladstone).$1.00.True Manliness.(Thos. Hughes).12mo, cloth, $1.00.Wide Awake Pleasure Book.Edited byElla Farman.Bound volumes A to M.Chromo cover, $1.50; full cloth, $2.00.T. D. Wolsey, D.D., LL. D.Helpful Thoughts for Young Men.12mo, $1.25.Kate Tannatt Woods.Six Little Rebels.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.Doctor Dick.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.C. M. Yonge.12mo, illustrated.Young Folks’ History of Germany.$1.50.Young Folks’ History of Greece.$1.50.Young Folks’ History of Rome.$1.50.Young Folks’ History of England.$1.50.Young Folks’ History of France.$1.50.Young Folks’ Bible History.$1.50.Lances of Lynwood.12mo, illust., $1.25.Little Duke.12mo, illust., $1.25.Golden Deeds.12mo, illust., $1.25.Prince and Page.12mo, illust., $1.25.Little Lucy’s Wonderful Globe.Boards, $.75; cloth, $1.00.MARGARET SIDNEY’S BOOKS.Margaret Sidney may be safely set down as one of the best writers of juvenile literature in the country.—Boston Transcript.Margaret Sidney’s books are happily described as “strong and pure from cover to cover,... bright and piquant as the mountain breezes, or a dash on pony back of a June morning.” The same writer speaks of her as “An American authoress who will hold her own in the competitive good work executed by the many bright writing women of to-day.”There are few better story writers than Margaret Sidney.—Herald and Presbyter.Comments of the Secular and Religious Press.FIVE LITTLE PEPPERS AND HOW THEY GREW.A charming work.... The home scenes in which these little Peppers are engaged are capitally described.... Will find prominent place among the higher class of juvenile presentation books.—Religious Herald.One of the best told tales given to the children for some time ... The perfect reproduction of child-life in its minutest phases, catches one’s attention at once.—Christian Advocate.A good book to place in the hands of every boy or girl.—ChicagoInter-Ocean.SO AS BY FIRE.Will be hailed with eager delight, and found well worth reading.—Christian Observer.An admirable Sunday-school book—Arkansas Evangel.We have followed with intense interest the story of David Folsom ... A man poor, friendless, and addicted to drink;... the influence of little Cricket;... the faithful care of aunt Phebe; all steps by which he climbed to higher manhood.—Woman at Work.THE PETTIBONE NAME.It is one of the finest pieces of American fiction that has been published for some time.—Newsdealers’ Bulletin, New York.It ought to attract wide attention from the simplicity of its style, and the vigor and originality of its treatment.—Chicago Herald.This is a capital story illustrating New England life.—Inter-Ocean, Chicago.The characters of the story seem all to be studies from life.—Boston Post.It is a New England tale, and its characters are true to the original type, and show careful study and no little skill in portraiture.—Christian at Work, New York.To be commended to readers for excellent delineations, sparkling style, bright incident and genuine interest.—The Watchman.A capital story; bright with excellent sketches of character. Conveys good moral and spiritual lessons ... In short, the book is in every way well done.—Illustrated Christian Weekly.HALF YEAR AT BRONCKTON.A live boy writes: “This is about the best book that ever was written or ever can be.”“This bright and earnest story ought to go into the hands of every boy who is old enough to be subjected to the temptations of school life.”D. LOTHROP & CO., Publishers, Boston.Books of the Celebrated Prize Series.The preparation of this famous series was a happy inspiration. No books for the young worthy of circulation have ever met so warm a welcome or had a wider sale. The fact that each of them has passed the criticism of a committee of clergymen of different denominations, men of high scholarship, excellent literary taste, wide observation, and rare good judgment, is a commendation in itself sufficient to secure for these books the widest welcome. The fact that they are found, in every instance, to be fully worthy of such high commendation, accounts for their continued and increasing popularity.The $1000 prize Books.A fresh edition in new style of binding.16 vols.12mo.$24.50The New $500 Prize Series.A fresh edition in new style of binding.13 vols.12mo.$16.75The Original $500 Prize Series.A fresh edition in new style of binding.8 vols.12mo.$12.00The Original $500 Prize Stories.Andy Luttrell.$1.50.Sabrina Hackett.$1.50.Shining Hours.$1.50.Aunt Matty.$1.50.Master and Pupil.$1.50.Light from the Cross.$1.50.May Bell.$1.50.Contradictions.$1.50.New $500 Prize Series.Short-Comings and Long-Goings.$1.25.The Flower by the Prison.$1.25.Lute Falconer.$1.50.Trifles.$1.25Hester’s Happy Summer.$1.25.The Judge’s Sons.$1.50.One Year of My Life.$1.25.Daisy Seymour.$1.25.Building-Stones.$1.25.Olive Loring’s Mission.$1.25.Susy’s Spectacles.$1.25.The Torch-Bearers.$1.25.The Trapper’s Niece.$1.25.The $1000 Prize Series.Striking for the Right.$1.75.Coming to the Light.$1.50.Walter Macdonald.$1.50.Ralph’s Possession.$1.50.The Wadsworth Boys.$1.50.Sunset Mountain.$1.50.Silent Tom.$1.75.The Old Stone House.$1.50.The Blount Family.$1.50.Golden Lines.$1.50.The Marble Preacher.$1.50.Luck of Alden Farm.$1.50.Evening Rest.$1.50.Glimpses Through.$1.50.Margaret Worthington.$1.50.Grace Avery’s Influence.$1.50.D. LOTHROP & CO., Publishers, Boston.Lothrop’s Historical Library.EDITED BY ARTHUR GILMAN, M. A.AMERICAN PEOPLE.By Arthur Gilman, M. A.INDIA.By Fannie Roper Feudge.EGYPT.By Mrs. Clara Erskine Clement.CHINA.By Robert K. Douglas.SPAIN.By Prof. James Herbert Harrison.SWITZERLAND.By Miss Harriet D. S. MacKenzie.JAPAN, and its Leading Men.By Charles Lanman.ALASKA: The Sitkan Archipelago.By Eliza Ruhamah Scidmore.Other volumes in preparation.Each volume12mo, Illustrated, cloth, $1.50.D. LOTHROP & CO., Publishers,Franklin and Hawley Streets, Boston.Spare Minute Series.THOUGHTS THAT BREATHE.From Dean Stanley. Introduction by Phillips Brooks.CHEERFUL WORDS.From George MacDonald. Introduction by James T. Fields.THE MIGHT OF RIGHT.From Rt. Hon. Wm. E. Gladstone. Introduction by John D. Long, LL. D.TRUE MANLINESS.From Thomas Hughes. Introduction by Hon. James Russell Lowell.LIVING TRUTHS.From Charles Kingsley. Introduction by W. D. Howells.RIGHT TO THE POINT.From Theodore L. Cuyler, D. D. Introduction by Newman Hall, LL. B.MANY COLORED THREADS.From Goethe. Introduction by Alexander McKenzie, D.D.Each volume, 12mo,cloth, $1.00.D. LOTHROP & CO., Publishers,Franklin and Hawley Streets, Boston.
“Ideal American magazines!”
It is a factacknowledged by the English press that American magazines, by enterprise, able editorship, and liberal expenditure for the finest of current art and literature, have won a rank far in advance of European magazines.
It is also a factthat for young people
WIDE AWAKE
Each year’s numbers contain athousand quarto pages, covering the widest range of literature of interest and value to young people, from such authors as John G. Whittier, Charles Egbert Craddock, Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney, Susan Coolidge, Edward Everett Hale, Arthur Gilman, Edwin Arnold, Rose Kingsley, Dinah Mulock Craik, Margaret Sidney, Helen Hunt Jackson (H. H.), Harriet Beecher Stowe, Elbridge S. Brooks and hundreds of others; andhalf a thousand illustrationsby F. H. Lungren, W. T. Smedley, Miss L. B. Humphrey, F. S. Church, Mary Hallock Foote, F. Childe Hassam, E. H. Garrett, Hy. Sandham and other leading American artists.
ONLY $3.00 A YEAR. PROSPECTUS FREE.
Wide Awakeis the official organ of the C. Y. F. R. U. The Required Readings are also issued simultaneously as theChautauqua Young Folks’ Journal, with additional matter, at 75 cents a year.
For the younger Boys and Girls and the Babies:
Our Little Men and Women,
With its 75 full-page pictures a year, and numberless smaller, and its delightful stories and poems, is most admirable for the youngest readers.
$1.00a year.
Babyland
Never fails to carry delight to the babies and rest to the mammas, with its large beautiful pictures, its merry stories and jingles, in large type, on heavy paper.
50cts. a year.
The Pansy,
Edited by the famous author of the “Pansy Books,” is equally charming and suitable for week-day and Sunday reading. Always contains a serial by “Pansy.”
$1.00a year.
☞Send for specimen copies, circulars, etc., to the Publishers,
D. LOTHROP & CO., BOSTON, MASS., U. S. A.
Probably no living author has exerted an influence upon the American people at large, at all comparable with Pansy’s. Thousands upon thousands of families read her books every week, and the effect in the direction of right feeling, right thinking, and right living is incalculable.
Each volume 12mo.Cloth.Price, $1.50.
Each volume 12mo.Cloth.Price, $1.25.
Each volume 16mo.Cloth.Price, $1.00.
Each volume 16mo.Cloth.Price, $.75.
The Little Pansy Series, 10 vols.Boards, $3.00.Cloth, $4.00.Mother’s Boys and Girls’ Library, 12 vols.Quarto Boards, $3.00.Pansy Primary Library, 30 vol.Cloth.Price, $7.50.Half Hour Library.Octavo, 8 vols.Price, $3.20.
⁂ For sale by all Booksellers. Sent post-paid, on receipt of price, by
D. LOTHROP & CO.,Boston, Mass.
THE WILLIAM HENRY LETTERS.WILLIAM HENRY AND HIS FRIENDS.LUCY MARIA.
Each in one 16mo volume, beautifully illustrated and bound. Price per volume, $1.00. The set in a neat box, $3.00.
Illustrated.16mo.$1.00.
Each volume illustrated.16mo.$1.00.
WORK AND CULTURE IN THE HOUSEHOLD, AND THE SCHOOLMASTER’S TRUNK.
Two volumes in one.Illustrated.16mo.$1.00.
180 Illustrations.12mo.Cloth,$1.50 Bds., $1.25.
Illustrated. Quarto. Cover in colors. $1.25.
⁂For sale by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, on receipt of price, by
D. LOTHROP & CO., 32Franklin Street, Boston.
BY
SOPHIA HOMESPUN.
Ruthie Shaw:Or,The Good Girl.16mo.Cloth.Illustrated.Price, $1.00.
Much Fruit.16mo.Cloth.Illustrated.Price $1.00.
Blue Eyed Jimmy:Or, The Good Boy.16mo.Cloth.Illustrated.Price, $1.00.
Johnny Jones:Or, The Bad Boy.16mo.Cloth.Illustrated.Price, $1.00.
Nattie Nesmith:Or, The Bad Girl.16mo.Cloth.Illustrated.Price, $1.00.
Either or all of the above sent by mail, post-paid, on receipt of price.
D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY.
30 & 32Franklin St., Boston
May be obtained of Booksellers.
EDITOR OF WIDE AWAKE.
Ella Farman teaches art no less than letters; and what is more than both stimulates a pure imagination and wholesome thinking. In her work there is vastly more culture than in the whole schooling supplied to the average child in the average school.—New York Tribune.
The authoress, Ella Farman, whose skilful editorial management of “Wide Awake” all acquainted with that publication must admire, shows that her great capacity to amuse and instruct our growing youth can take a wider range. Her books are exceedingly interesting, and of that fine moral tone which so many books of the present day lack.—The Times, Canada.
The above set of nine volumes will be furnished at $10.00.
⁂ For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by mail, post-paid, by
D. LOTHROP & CO.,Franklin St., Boston
Each volume, 12mo, price, $1.25.
This series gives the experience of “Big Brother” Dave Allen at the Academy; Roy Allen in his dory, theSunbeam, in Boston Harbor; Ruth Atherton as teacher, and Beth Allen as pupil at the country schoolhouse, Little Brown-Top.
PUSHING AHEAD;or, big Brother Dave.ROY’S DORY AT THE SEA-SHORE.LITTLE BROWN-TOP,and the People under it.
Each volume, 12mo, price, $1.00.
Here we find the mountain camp-experience of the merry family, the captain, his daughters, the vivacious Rob, and the irrepressible servant-boy, Jule.
BARK-CABIN ON MOUNT KEARSARGE.THE TENT IN THE NOTCH.
AFTER THE FRESHET.
12mo, price, $1.25.
Arthur Manley whom a villain tries to ruin, is the hero of this book.
SELECTED FROM
D. Lothrop & Co.’s Catalogue.
John S. C. Abbott.History of Christianity.12mo, cloth, illust., $2.00.Nehemiah Adams.At Eventide.12mo, cloth, $1.25.Agnes and the Little Key.12mo, cloth, $1.00.Bertha.12mo, cloth, $1.00.Broadcast.12mo, cloth, $1.00.Christ a Friend.12mo, cloth, $1.00.Communion Sabbath.12mo, cloth, $1.25.Catherine.12mo, cloth, $1.25.Cross in the Cell.12mo, cloth, $1.00.Endless Punishment.12mo, cloth, $1.00.Evenings with the Doctrines.12mo, cloth, $1.00.Friends of Christ,12mo, cloth, $1.00.Under the Mizzen-mast.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.Lydia Maria Child.Jamie and Jennie.16mo, cloth, illust., $.75.Boy’s Heaven.16mo, cloth, illust., $.75.Making Something.16mo, cloth, illust., $.75.Good Little Mittie.16mo, cloth, illust., $.75.The Christ Child.16mo, cloth, illust., $.75.Col. Russell H. Conwell.Bayard Taylor.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.Lizzie W. Champney.Entertainments.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.Abby Morton Diaz.Story Book for children.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.William Henry and his Friends.12mo, illust., $1.00.William Henry Letters.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.Polly Cologne.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.Lucy Maria.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.The Jimmyjohns.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.Domestic Problems.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.King Grimalkum.4to, boards, illust., $1.25.Christmas Morning.12mo, illust., b’ds, $1.25; cloth, $1.50.Julia A. Eastman.Kitty Kent.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.Young Rick.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.The Romneys of Ridgemont.12mo, illust., $1.50.Striking for the Right.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.75.School Days of Beulah Romney.Illust., $1.50.Short Comings and Long Goings.12mo, $1.25.Ella Farman.Anna Maylie.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.A Little Woman.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.A White Hand.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.A Girl’s Money.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.Grandma Crosby’s Household.12mo, cloth, il., $1.00.Good-for-Nothing Polly.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.How two Girls tried Farming.12mo, paper, $.50; cloth, $1.00.The Cooking Club.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.25.Mrs. Hurd’s Niece.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.A. A. Hopkins.Waifs and their Authors.Plain, $2.00; gilt, $2.50.John Bremm: His Prison Bars.12mo, cloth, $1.25.Sinner and Saint.12mo, cloth, $1.25.Our Sabbath Evening.16mo, cloth, $1.25.E. E. Hale and Miss Susan Hale.A Family Flight through France, Germany, Norway and Switzerland.Octavo, cloth, illust., $2.50.Lothrop’s Library of Entertaining History.Edited byArthur Gilman.India, byFannie Roper Feudge.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50; half Russia, $2.00.Egypt, byMrs. Clara Erskine Clement.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50; half Russia, $2.00.Spain, byProf. James H. Harrison.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50; half Russia, $2.00.Switzerland, by MissH. D. S. Mackenzie.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50; half Russia, $2.00.George MacDonald.Warlock o’ Glenwarlock.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.75.Seaboard Parish.12mo, cloth, $1.75.Thomas Wingfold, Curate.12mo, illust., $1.75.Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood.12mo, $1.75.Princess Rosamond.Quarto, board, illust., $.50.Double Story.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.George E. Merrill.Story of the Manuscripts.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.Battles Lost and Won.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.Elias Nason.Henry Wilson.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.Originality.16mo, cloth, $.50.Pansy.(Mrs. G. R. Alden.)12mo,cloth, $1.50Each.A New Graft on the Family Tree.Chautauqua Girls at Home (The).Divers Women.Echoing and Re-echoing.Ester Ried.Four Girls at Chautauqua.From Different Standpoints.Hall in the Grove.Household Puzzles.Julia Ried.King’s Daughter.Links in Rebecca’s Life.Modern Prophets.Pocket Measure (The).Randolphs (The).Ruth Erskine’s Crosses.Sidney Martin’s Christmas.Those Boys.Tip Lewis and his Lamp.Three People.Wise and Otherwise.12mo,cloth, $1.25Each.Cunning Workmen.Dr. Deane’s Way.Grandpa’s Darlings.Miss Priscilla Hunter and My Daughter Susan.Mrs. Deane’s Way.Pansy Scrap Book. (Former title, the Teachers’ Helper.)What She Said, and What she Meant.12mo,cloth, $1.00Each.Next Things.Some Young Heroines.Mrs. Harry Harper’s Awakening.Five Friends.12mo,cloth, 75 cts.Each.Bernie’s White Chicken.Docia’s Journal.Getting Ahead.Helen Lester.Jessie Wells.Six Little Girls.That Boy Bob.Two Boys.Mary Burton Abroad.Pansy’s Picture Book. 4to, board, $1.50; cloth, $2.00.The Little Pansy Series.10 volumes.Boards, $3.00; cloth, $4.00.Nora Perry.Bessie’s Trials at Boarding-school.12mo, $1.25.Austin Phelps.The Still Hour.16mo, cloth, $.60; gilt, $1.00.Work of the Holy Spirit.16mo, cloth, $1.25.Edward A. Rand.Roy’s Dory.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.25.Pushing Ahead.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.25.After the Freshet.12mo, cloth, $1.25.All Aboard for Sunrise Lands.Illust., boards, $1.75; cloth, $2.25.Tent in the Notch.16mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.Bark Cabin.16mo, cloth, illust., $1.00.Margaret Sidney.Five Little Peppers.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.Half Year at Bronckton.12mo, cloth, $1.25.Pettibone Name.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.25.So As by Fire.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.25.Spare Minute Series.Edited by E. E. Brown.Thoughts that Breathe.(Dean Stanley).$1.00.Cheerful Words.(George MacDonald).$1.00.The Might of Right.(W. E. Gladstone).$1.00.True Manliness.(Thos. Hughes).12mo, cloth, $1.00.Wide Awake Pleasure Book.Edited byElla Farman.Bound volumes A to M.Chromo cover, $1.50; full cloth, $2.00.T. D. Wolsey, D.D., LL. D.Helpful Thoughts for Young Men.12mo, $1.25.Kate Tannatt Woods.Six Little Rebels.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.Doctor Dick.12mo, cloth, illust., $1.50.C. M. Yonge.12mo, illustrated.Young Folks’ History of Germany.$1.50.Young Folks’ History of Greece.$1.50.Young Folks’ History of Rome.$1.50.Young Folks’ History of England.$1.50.Young Folks’ History of France.$1.50.Young Folks’ Bible History.$1.50.Lances of Lynwood.12mo, illust., $1.25.Little Duke.12mo, illust., $1.25.Golden Deeds.12mo, illust., $1.25.Prince and Page.12mo, illust., $1.25.Little Lucy’s Wonderful Globe.Boards, $.75; cloth, $1.00.
Edited byArthur Gilman.
12mo,cloth, $1.50Each.
12mo,cloth, $1.25Each.
12mo,cloth, $1.00Each.
12mo,cloth, 75 cts.Each.
Edited by E. E. Brown.
Edited byElla Farman.
12mo, illustrated.
Margaret Sidney may be safely set down as one of the best writers of juvenile literature in the country.—Boston Transcript.
Margaret Sidney’s books are happily described as “strong and pure from cover to cover,... bright and piquant as the mountain breezes, or a dash on pony back of a June morning.” The same writer speaks of her as “An American authoress who will hold her own in the competitive good work executed by the many bright writing women of to-day.”
There are few better story writers than Margaret Sidney.—Herald and Presbyter.
Comments of the Secular and Religious Press.
A charming work.... The home scenes in which these little Peppers are engaged are capitally described.... Will find prominent place among the higher class of juvenile presentation books.—Religious Herald.
One of the best told tales given to the children for some time ... The perfect reproduction of child-life in its minutest phases, catches one’s attention at once.—Christian Advocate.
A good book to place in the hands of every boy or girl.—ChicagoInter-Ocean.
Will be hailed with eager delight, and found well worth reading.—Christian Observer.
An admirable Sunday-school book—Arkansas Evangel.
We have followed with intense interest the story of David Folsom ... A man poor, friendless, and addicted to drink;... the influence of little Cricket;... the faithful care of aunt Phebe; all steps by which he climbed to higher manhood.—Woman at Work.
It is one of the finest pieces of American fiction that has been published for some time.—Newsdealers’ Bulletin, New York.
It ought to attract wide attention from the simplicity of its style, and the vigor and originality of its treatment.—Chicago Herald.
This is a capital story illustrating New England life.—Inter-Ocean, Chicago.
The characters of the story seem all to be studies from life.—Boston Post.
It is a New England tale, and its characters are true to the original type, and show careful study and no little skill in portraiture.—Christian at Work, New York.
To be commended to readers for excellent delineations, sparkling style, bright incident and genuine interest.—The Watchman.
A capital story; bright with excellent sketches of character. Conveys good moral and spiritual lessons ... In short, the book is in every way well done.—Illustrated Christian Weekly.
A live boy writes: “This is about the best book that ever was written or ever can be.”
“This bright and earnest story ought to go into the hands of every boy who is old enough to be subjected to the temptations of school life.”
D. LOTHROP & CO., Publishers, Boston.
The preparation of this famous series was a happy inspiration. No books for the young worthy of circulation have ever met so warm a welcome or had a wider sale. The fact that each of them has passed the criticism of a committee of clergymen of different denominations, men of high scholarship, excellent literary taste, wide observation, and rare good judgment, is a commendation in itself sufficient to secure for these books the widest welcome. The fact that they are found, in every instance, to be fully worthy of such high commendation, accounts for their continued and increasing popularity.
The $1000 prize Books.A fresh edition in new style of binding.
The New $500 Prize Series.A fresh edition in new style of binding.
The Original $500 Prize Series.A fresh edition in new style of binding.
D. LOTHROP & CO., Publishers, Boston.
EDITED BY ARTHUR GILMAN, M. A.
Other volumes in preparation.
Each volume12mo, Illustrated, cloth, $1.50.
D. LOTHROP & CO., Publishers,Franklin and Hawley Streets, Boston.
Spare Minute Series.THOUGHTS THAT BREATHE.From Dean Stanley. Introduction by Phillips Brooks.CHEERFUL WORDS.From George MacDonald. Introduction by James T. Fields.THE MIGHT OF RIGHT.From Rt. Hon. Wm. E. Gladstone. Introduction by John D. Long, LL. D.TRUE MANLINESS.From Thomas Hughes. Introduction by Hon. James Russell Lowell.LIVING TRUTHS.From Charles Kingsley. Introduction by W. D. Howells.RIGHT TO THE POINT.From Theodore L. Cuyler, D. D. Introduction by Newman Hall, LL. B.MANY COLORED THREADS.From Goethe. Introduction by Alexander McKenzie, D.D.Each volume, 12mo,cloth, $1.00.D. LOTHROP & CO., Publishers,Franklin and Hawley Streets, Boston.
From Dean Stanley. Introduction by Phillips Brooks.
From George MacDonald. Introduction by James T. Fields.
From Rt. Hon. Wm. E. Gladstone. Introduction by John D. Long, LL. D.
From Thomas Hughes. Introduction by Hon. James Russell Lowell.
From Charles Kingsley. Introduction by W. D. Howells.
From Theodore L. Cuyler, D. D. Introduction by Newman Hall, LL. B.
From Goethe. Introduction by Alexander McKenzie, D.D.
Each volume, 12mo,cloth, $1.00.
D. LOTHROP & CO., Publishers,Franklin and Hawley Streets, Boston.