Mrs. Emma Tuttle. AMERICAN. Mrs. Tuttle, whose maiden name was Reed, was born in Braceville, Trumbull County, O., in 1839. Well educated at a Methodist seminary, she early developed a taste for literature, and published two volumes of poems. She is the author of several popular songs, which have been set to music by James G. Clark and other wellknown composers. As an elocutionist and public reader, she has won a high reputation at the West. She is the wife of Hudson Tuttle (born 1836), who to the pursuits of a farmer, resident at his ancestral home, Berlin Heights, Ohio, unites the studies of a philosopher. He is the author of several works, partly intuitional, and partly scientific, some of which have been republished in England and Germany, and have had a wide circulation in America. Mrs. Tuttle's little poem, "The First Fledgling," is not one of her best or most elaborate poems, but it will carry its delicate pathos to many a true mother's heart. And somehow since she left the nest, We miss her busy hand If little Gold-locks asks of me, "When will my sister come? Will it be very, very long?" I seem as one struck dumb. But when her brother bites his lip And turns to hide a tear, I answer, with a flashing smile, "Not long, I hope, my dear." She flutters back more bright with joy And we are happy-only this- Not long in the old nest, THE FIRST FLEDGLING. It seems so lonely in the nest, Since one dear bird is flown, To fashion, with its chosen mate, A home-nest of its own. We miss the twitter and the stir, The eager stretching wings, The flashing eyes, the ready song, And-oh, so many things! We find it hard to understand The changes wrought by years; How our own sprightly little girl A stately wife appears. It seems to us she still should be Among her dolls and toys, Making the farm-house sound again With "Little Tomboy's" noise. When berries ripen in the sun, We miss her fingers light, Who used to heap them up for tea, Dusted with sugar white. They never more will taste as fresh As when she brought them in, Her face ablush with rosiness From sunny brow to chin. The autumn peaches always turned Their reddest cheek to her; She knew the ferneries of the woods And where the wild-flowers were, James Ryder Randall. AMERICAN. Randall is the author of one of the most spirited lyr ics of the Civil War. It bears date Pointe Coupée, La., April 26th, 1861. He is a native of Baltimore, born in 1839, and was educated at the Catholic college in Georgetown, D. C. He edited a newspaper in Louisiana, but at the close of the war settled in Georgia. Fortunately for the interests of human liberty throughout the world, "My Maryland" did not answer the poet's appeal; but the "Northern scum" can now join in hearty recognition of the lyrical fervor he has displayed. MARYLAND. The despot's heel is on thy shore, Maryland! His torch is at thy temple door, Maryland! Avenge the patriotic gore That flecked the streets of Baltimore, And be the battle-queen of yore, Maryland! my Maryland! Hark to thy wandering son's appeal, My mother State! to thee I kneel, For life and death, for woe and weal, It would please the old lady to have it, Then I'll come back here, and be shot." "That is the last we shall see of him," The grizzled captain grinned, As the little man skimmed down the hill, Like a swallow down the wind. For the joy of killing had lost its zest In the glut of those awful days, And Death writhed gorged like a greedy snake From the Arch to Père-la-Chaise. But before the last platoon had fired, The child's shrill voice was heard! "Houp-là! the old girl made such a row, I feared I should break my word." Against the bullet-pitted wall He took his place with the rest, A button was lost from his ragged blouse, Which showed his soft, white breast. "Now blaze away, my children! With your little one-two-three!" The Chassepots tore the stout young heart, And saved Society! MY CASTLE IN SPAIN. There was never a castle seen It stands embowered in green, And at eve its shade flaunts o'er The storied Vega plain, And its towers are hid in the mists of Hope; And I toil through years of pain Its glimmering gates to gain. In visions wild and sweet Sometimes its courts I greet; Sometimes in joy its shining halls I tread with favored feet; But never my eyes in the light of day Were blessed with its ivied walls, Where the marble white and the granite gray Turn gold alike when the sunbeams play, When the soft day dimly falls. I know in its dusky rooms Are treasures rich and rare; The spoil of Eastern looms, And whatever of bright and fair Painters divine have won From the vault of Italy's air; White gods in Phidian stone People the haunted glooms; And the song of immortal singers Like a fragrant memory lingers, I know, in the echoing rooms. But nothing of these, my soul ! Nor castle, nor treasures, nor skies, Nor the waves of the river that roll, With a cadence faint and sweet, In peace by its marble feet— Nothing of these is the goal For which my whole heart sighs. The Queen whose gracious reign Her face so purely fair Sheds light in the shaded places, And the spell of her maiden graces Holds charmed the happy air. A breath of purity Forever before her flies, And ill things cease to be In the glance of her honest eyes. Where her dear feet wander free The wings of the vague desires; But the thought that love would utter In reverence expires. Not yet! not yet shall I see That face, which shines like a star O'er my storm-swept life afar, Transfigured with love for me. Toiling, forgetting, and learning, With labor and vigils and prayers, Pure heart and resolute will, At last I shall climb the Hill, And breathe the enchanted airs Where the light of my life is burning, Most lovely and fair and free; Where alone in her youth and beauty, And bound by her fate's sweet duty, Unconscious she waits for me. Helen S. Conant. AMERICAN. Mrs. Conant was born in Methuen, Mass., in 1839. Her first book, "The Butterfly-hunters," was published in 1866. She has since written "The Primer of German Literature" and "The Primer of Spanish Literature," each enriched with many original translations. Mrs. Conant is a frequent contributor to American periodical literature. FROM THE SPANISH OF CALDERON. An ancient sage, once on a time, they say, Who lived remote, away from mortal sight, Sustained his feeble life as best he might With herbs and berries gathered by the way. "Can any other one," said he, one day, "So poor, so destitute, as I be found ?" And when he turned his head to look around He saw the answer: creeping slowly there Came an old man who gathered up with care The herbs which he had cast upon the ground. ALAS! FROM THE SPANISH OF HEREDIA. How many wait alone, Sighing for that sweet hour When love with subtle power Shall claim its own. And if the maiden fair Her faithlessness discover, Then shall the hapless lover Cry in despair. Love, thou hast flying feet! Thy hands are hot and burning, And few, unto thee turning, Shall find thee sweet! Yet though thy pleasures pass, The heart in sad seclusion Still guards its fond illusion. Alas! alas! I love the sapphire glory Of those starry depths above, Where I read the old, old story Of human hope and love; I love the shining star, But when I gaze on thee, The fire of thine eyes is brighter far. The fleeting, fleeting hours, And never more may pass The gentle breeze which plays Of the moon on the midnight seaAy! all have passed away, Have faded far from me, Like the love which lasted only one sweet day. MEETING. FROM THE SPANISH OF EMILIO BELLO. Many years have floated by I can hear her trembling sighs, See the sweetness in her eyes. Silently I hold and press Her soft hand with tenderness. Silence, who shall fathom thee? Hidden between loving eyes, Burning hands, and answering sighs? SPANISH SONG. On lips of blooming youth There trembles many a sigh, Then silently to die. Thy languishing sweet love In sighs upon thy lips shall oft expire. GERMAN LOVE SONG. Thou art the rest, the languor sweet! I consecrate my heart to thee, Come in to me, and shut the door So fast that none shall enter more; Fill all my soul with dear delight; Oh, tarry with me day and night! Austin Dobson. Born in England in 1840, Dobson has written "Vignettes in Rhyme and Vers de Société," which reached a third edition in 1877. That same year he published "Proverbs in Porcelain, and other Verses." An edition of his poems, edited by Edmund C. Stedman, was published (1880) in New York, and well deserves the editor's discriminating praise. Mr. Dobson is one of a recent class of English poets who have reproduced the old French forms of verse in the rondeau, virelai, villanelle, ballade, etc. Mark the ingenious multiplication of the rhymes in the first three poems we quote. "Damosels-Dames, be piteous!" (But the dames rode fast by the roadway trees.) "Hear us, O Knights magnanimous !" (But the knights pricked on in their panoplies.) Nothing they gat of hope or ease, But only to beat on the breast and say:"Life we drank to the dregs and lees; Give us-ah! give us-but Yesterday!" ENVOY. Youth, take heed to the prayer of these! "MORE POETS YET!" "More Poets yet!"-I hear him say, Arming his heavy hand to slay ; "Despite my skill and 'swashing blow,' They seem to sprout where'er I go;I killed a host but yesterday!" Slash on, O Hercules! You may: And though you cut, not less will grow Too arrogant! For who shall stay YOU BID ME TRY. AFTER VOITURE. You bid me try, Blue-eyes, to write Still, there are five lines,-ranged aright. These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright My easy Muse. They did till youYou bid me try! That makes them nine. The port's in sight:"Tis all because your eyes are bright! Now just a pair to end with "00,"— When maids command, what can't we do! Behold!-the Rondeau, tasteful, light, You bid me try! THE PRODIGALS. "Princes!—and you, most valorous, Nobles and Barons of all degrees! Hearken awhile to the prayer of us,Prodigals driven of destinies! Nothing we ask or of gold or fees; Harry us not with the hounds, we pray; Lo, for the surcote's hem we seize;Give us-ah! give us-but Yesterday!" "Dames most delicate, amorous! Damosels blithe as the belted bees! Beggars are we that pray thee thus, Beggars outworn of miseries! Nothing we ask of the things that please; Weary are we, and old, and gray; Lo, for we clutch and we clasp your knees,— Give us―ah! give us-but Yesterday!" A SONG OF THE FOUR SEASONS. When Spring comes laughing, by vale and hill, By wind-flower walking, and daffodil,Sing stars of morning, sing morning skies, Sing blue of speedwell, and my Love's eyes. When comes the Summer, full-leaved and strong, When Autumn scatters the leaves again, |