The Sunday Oregonian., June 08, 1902, PART FOUR, Page 27, Image 27

THE SUNDAY OREGONIAtf, PORTLAND, JUNE 8, 1902.
27
BEAUTY AT THE COMING CORONATION
QUEEN ALEXANDRA HAS SURROUNDED HERSELF
WITH- THE PRETTIEST VOMEN- IN ENGLAND
QUEEN ALEXANDRA la very like
Queen Anne. In that she takes the
slncerest pleasure in flowers and
pretty women. Since her husband has
assumed supremely royal state and In
fluence she has slowly, gently, but flrmly
been retiring, from all the posts of honor
about her person and household, the good
but frumpy elderly ladles who ministered
to the pleasure of the late gracious
Queen.
By the time the coronation takes place
the English court will be Justly famous
for a galaxy of lovely girls and youth
ful matrons, all worthy the brush of Sir
Peter Lely and the admiration of that
notable Judge of feminine beauty, gay
King Charles II. About the court this l
preference of the Queen for good looks,
and good tempers, and good hearts, is
well known, and nobody was in the least
surprised when two of the most pic
turesque twin beauties in Great Britain
were chosen as her first maids of honor.
These sweet girls are the Honorable Doris
and the Honorable Violet Vivian. Though
they are twin sisters, they are not coun
terparts one of the other, and the Hon
orable Violet is esteemed rather the fair
est of the two. If the Honorable Doris
is Just a trifle less perfect than her tall.
Blender, chestnut-haired, violet-eyed, Bo-settl-mouthed
sister, she is keenly witty
end quite as popular with the Queen, who
is not so severe a stickler for royal
etiquette as was her predecessor, and
likes to hear of the jokes and pranks of
her shrewd maid of honor. The Honor
able Doris is one of the few persons who
can read aloud to the satisfaction of het
mistress, who is hard o hearin. but does
not wish to be reminded of her weakness.
Next after the Vivian girls, as these
sweet maids are familiarly spoken of in
London drawing-rooms, the Queen la
fondest of the Ladles Butler, the daugh
ters of the Marquis of Ormonde, -who are
counted the two handsomest women in
Irish society. Last year Lady Beatrice
Butler, the oldest sister, married for love
the gallant General Pole-Carew, and her
sister, Lady Constance, is invited to servo
at court Lady Constance is an all
around modern girl; almost faultless in
feature and coloring; a finished horse
woman, an expert in and on the water,
a clever water colorist a maker of the
most -delicate varieties of fine Irish lace,
a linguist and a charming companion.
She yachts with her father, physics and
advises and Jests with the Irish peasantry
on her father's estate, and is delightfully
unspoiled by admiration and wealth. She
is to take her turn as a court lady during
the coronation, in association with one
of the prettiest women and boldest fox
hunters in the United Kingdom, the Hon
orable Ethel Gerard.
The horse has yet to be found that
this courageous young lady would fear
to ride; and yet, despite that fact and
that she comes of a long line of hard
riding maternal, as well as paternal, an
cestors, she Is In no sense a horsy girl.
Off her horse she 13 as frou-frou as a
Parisian Marquise, and she has long been
a prime favorite with the Queen, who ad
mires her high spirits, and her gentle
volpq. and big appealing gray, eyes.
If women below the rank of Duchess
were permitted to bear a canopy over her own right She is first cousin of the
the Queen in Westminster Abbey, it is j Duke of Sutherland, and through her
safe to predict that the Countess of Cro- father inherits the Earldom of Cromar
martie would have been one of four J tie. which he inherited from his mother.
cuosen io tnis nign oiuce. as it was, the
Queen deliberately passed oier the claims
of many superior elderly ladies, who be
lieved in their divine right to assist at
coronations, and picked out her four
canopy-bearers because they were young,
pretty and eminently likeable. Their
graces of Sutherland, Marlborough, Mont
rose and Portland are to support the
Queen, greatly to the disgust -of the
Duchess of Devonshire, etc. Among the
assisting ladies only will be seen the
pretty, piquant Countess of Cromartle,
who Is a Countess and heiress quito in
N THE most unpretentious studio,
plain and unadorned save by his art
productions, Thomas Moran spends
his time in New York, in a small sky par
lor of West Twenty-second street This
room, however, is well fitted for a studio,
there being a skylight admitting the
northern light at all hours. In this day
of fads and decorations, one expects to
find in the average studio hangings of
fish-nets, draperies, relics, antiques and
the like, for these things often play their
part In giving emphasis to tho taste of
the artist however doubtful the charac
ter of the recommendation suggested by
these accessories. There is a convenient
elevator to the den of Mr, Moran, and
tho visitor finds the boat most amiable,
cordial. In fact, though the open day is
well known to be. Saturday. But this
does not bar the stranger from perfect
cordiality and grace of manner. If there
be any impatience at an unintentional in
trusion, it never shows Itself, and tho
guest Is invited to a seat in one of the
many quaint old chairs scattered around
the room. One of these is possessed of
a fine history, having been brought over
In the Mayflower, and is the favorite
chair of the artist when at his canvas.
On the walls, mostly unframed, are half
a dpzen of the best pictures of the artist
some of which are several years of age,
others Just finished, and many still in
process of development Regarded by
the best critics as the leading American
landscape artist Thomas Moran is withal
the most modest of men. He never ob
trudes his views on art and has never
sought publicity in any form at any time
in his career. His modesty on this point
is to be commended, and it can be said in
this connection, that all of his success,
-which has been far beyond the ordinary,
has been obtained solely on the merit
of his art and his fame has been made
purely along the lines established by the
mere exhibitions of his works in the so
cieties where he has entered. Incident
ally, it might be mentioned, and not as
coming from the artist that he has re
ceived far less encouragement from the
recognized art organizations than from
any other source, though on this point
he is never outspoken. His record has
been to rise or fall solely on the merit
of his paintings.
Sitting as one finds him at his easel, he
turns in his fiddle-back Mayflower chair
and ays. with eye looking keenly into
yours, his soul in every word, for the
perfect candor and earnestness of the
man are irresistible:
"In art as In any profession, knowledge
Is power. TwlBt this into any form you
may, but it remains a truth, and the
foundation-stone of al true art It will
always be the same, and this vrill al
ways show itself in the pictures of tho
artist no matter how bumble, or how
pretentious. Just how far tho artist
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aCifl'A foN. Doris Vhnm.
who was also Countess of Cromartle in
her own right Lady Cromartle, with
all her wealth and good looks and high
lineage, chose to marry Tdajor Blunt, and
hft nnd h llva tit Pnottn T .unA nf at- To- '
... ,wv-w v ... ...-
bard House, on Cromartle Firth. In all
things, even to her braw accent she is
Scotch, and speaks Gaelic as fluently as
her Highland tenantry. Her sister is
the sturdy Lady Constance Mackenzie,
who rides astride and swims like a South
Sea Islander, and travels as industriously .
ou.uau ma oiuior. ana cares not me (
snap of her fingers to be at court Lady
AN AMERICAN PAINTER'S
TALK WITH THOMAS MORAN, THE
shall go with his knowledge Is left to
him. He must typify his own personal
ity. This covers all. taste, opinions,
everything. The man must exhibit him
self in his pictures. This is tho theory
of art and also of Judgment It is the
same with the art critic, or, as I said
before, any of the professions, the law,
finance or anything. Knowledge in art
cannot be excluded, as in law, or the
sciences. Knowledge in art is the power
behind the handwork. Eyesight Is noth
ing unless backed by brains. In condensed
form, this is my theory of art In paint
ing the Grand Canyon of the Colorado
and its wonderful color scheme, I have
to be full of my subject I have to have
knowledge. I must know the geology.
I must know the rocks and the trees and
the atmosphere and the mountain tor
rents and the birds that fly in the blue
ether above me. Whatever of arbitrary
forms that grow out of this Intimacy
THOMAS MORAX, TAIKTER.
' m
tub $os- ' - . yyy
x2" &Efcs jrfm&r
Ethel rz
Cromartle Is gentle and domestic, and a
iruiy warm friend of the Queen, who,
though old enough to be her mother. Is
OPINION OF PAINTING
FOREMOST LANDSCAPE ARTIST
with nature, becomes a part of the work,
,? if,2,natV 11 aftorrw?rk because
my knowledge of the topic loads me to
n , ,.,. r , a-i- .?..
r w, .. v. uic Aiuciiuiii a kioiM.
Here Is where most artists fear to falL
They seldom like to talk of each other,
and Mr. Moran is not unlike the type.
Speaking of the faults of those at home,
he said:
"If there be faults, and no one can deny
this, it lies In the lack of Individuality
of the men. This is noticeable in all of
our exhibitions. "While this may not be
relished by some who are rated high In
LSS SL - :
""Clduic liiiuil UiUSU n Slop lO K1VO
the subject
ri iiimn i'imiiiirra:inn an
consideration. An-
ntlirr ffmlt nS, In thn tnn fonllo flrt mnv
"- - --
of our Americans have of Imitating the
work of other men. They do not think
i
not in the least overshadowed by the
fresh young beauties she chooses to
gather about her.
"for themselves. They do not delve Into
the depths of mysteries of nature, and
frnrn , , ,, ,,, , .. , .
nurch. Kcnsett and the Harts these
were purely American, and they were an
honor to our land. Perhaps Church was
the greatest landscape painter we have
ever produced. These men I have named
were purely American painters, uninflu
enced by schools of other nationalities.
Today it is not to. Our men go abroad and
return with foreign Ideap, and apply the
teachings of foreign masters to American
material where they use American mate
rial. I want tO be OUOteri ns hlrur rtn-
' Posed Vthe forelrb ectln S
l it-hen V.o.,. .. i.l , . " '
.... -
.. .... ... j cwuc ui jiiuuai;ajit3
Tinn oitrtAs- w . - .
." " "J -- ' Home. America IS
SS.aloTrfh,8 VnZ ?? TlSt
J l?
weaving out vcnice, we are the most
wonderfully prolific country In the variety
of subjects known to civilization."
i Of a distinct school of American art Mr.
Moran, perhaps, thinks more than he
would announce In conversation. But he
did say: "We have no distinct school of
art in America. I have already named
the three leading artists in my humble
i opinion this country has produced, and
perhaps the greatest of these was F. E.
, Church. Where do we find today such
1 masterpieces as his 'Niagara and his
'Heart of the Andes?' That he is con
demned by some of our artists Is due
solely to the fact that his work is not the
j royal road to art His nlctures minn
work, constant unending toll. Nothing
else would have produced such tremend
ously successful canvases. The trouble
witn tne average young artist Is that ho
likes to slop over his canvas in order to
exhibit it These examples lack the true
art principles and tho true standard of
measurement as gauged by the past
They do not stop to consider that it is a
false standard to Judge by the living. No
i man can be Judged by the living. Only
; those that are dead are worthy in art
ifor standards of taste."
"What I ask," continued Mr. Moran,
"is to see a man's brains as evidenced
In his work. I want to know his opinions.
He is the arbiter of his own pictures and
of nature. Zola's definition of art exact
ly fills my demands when he cays that
art is nature seen through a tempera
ment The old Idea that art is best de
fined as 'painting nature as it looks, and
not as It Is, will not satisfy me. An
artist's business is to produce for the
spectator of his pictures the Impression
produced by nature on himself. Suppos
ing a man to be an ordinary individual.
Ho sees only a limited amount of art in
a picture; or, in plain English, he sees
as he has the ability to see. It is tho
same thing when he looks at nature. So
the Impressions in art The artist affects
all men, but not alike not in the same
degree. The measure of the artist? as In
the layman, is shown by his choice. Both
have feelings, but it may be differently
expressed.
Tho artist cannot hop to
reach the pinnacle of his art till he proves
his perfect fidelity. There Is a3 much
difference In nature as in men. Technical
skill is only a means to an end, and In
itself is valueless, the real value in a
picture being the application of skill to a
worthy subject"
Perhaps there Is no phase of art more
misunderstood than what we call the Im
pressionist school. On this point Mr. Mo
ran would change the position of many
who heretofore have placed reliance in
the fidelity of this style of paintings.
"Yes," said he, "I am an Impressionist,
but I do not belong to the accepted school
of impressionism. The school of impres
sionism is not true impressionism, because
it is too false to nature, and I boldly
say that it is not the way the artist sees
it This Is common sense. Common sense
is as applicable to painting as to any of
the arts. There Is no material difference.
The highest poetry is the simplest kind
that is backed by common sense, and
where there 13 no abnormal circumlocu
tion in order to portray a meaning. I
cite Shakespeare and Homer to prove my
ideals. There you have the ideals of sim
plicity. They have great thought, simply
expressed, and in a style that could not
suggest a misunderstanding of the author.'s
meaning. I do not consider that my
views are at all radical, since they are
based on sound Judgment A person look
ing at a picture does not want to stop
to think out the suggestion placed on the
canvas. True art Bhould Instantly convey
its meaning. Ilka true music or poetry.
There never was a truer picture, or a
more simple one, than the cloud-painting
in 'Hamlet, where Hamlet and Polonius
Imagine they see camels and weasels in
the clouds. That is a perfect picture,
and one no one can fall to comprehend.
It appeals to us Instantly. So I say the
school of impressionism is false to the
very thing it pretends to imitate, and is,
therefore, a mere pretention and not real
art"
On the subject of the Inspired artist
Mr. Moran has decided views, and they
are like all he says, highly interesting.
"I believe in the Inspiration of the artist
to this extent: The genius or inspired
artist may be born, but he has to be
made.' Constant work is the only thing
to make the original genius. There is no
such thing as neglected genius. There
are no 3uch people. "Where real genius
exists, it is an impelling force that com
pels development And all of our real
men of genius have been tremendous
workers. There are many men of great
talent who are lazy. Theso lack the ap
plication of the genius."
Mr. Moran is an admirer of the moral
tone of art and also of the sentimental
side of it but he admits that this may be
very vicious. He believes that art Is ele
vating Just insofar as it Is treated from
a viewpoint of lofty ideals. He likes
Bougereau because his nudes are not
sensual any more than were the works
of Ingras, the other great Frenchman.
Of the art critics, the great American
landscape exponent has rigid views. He
claims that our art critics have their chief
business in finding fault which, if it
should not exist H made to exist by their
peculiar brewing of criticism. He believes
these critics should study to find some
thing to admire and not to criticise. "The
critics have led the public to believe we
have no artists In this country. That is
why we who have studied hard all our
lives to prove the contrary object to the
statement," he added in conclusion.
Mr. Moran Is now 63 years of age, and
is as vigorous as a man of 40. He spends
the entire Summer of every year in the
Rocky Mountains, whore he has drawn
his inspiration for his wonderful paintings
of the Colorado canyons. There Is much
more to be said of this artist but more
Is expressed in one of his works than
could be conveyed In a volume.
CHARLES THOMAS LOGAN.
THE LAY OP THE STREET.
CWHh apologies to Tennyson.)
I come from mud and broken stone,
I'm mistaken for an alley.
For all that's vile Is on me- thrown
And In my gutters dally.
The laboring horses hurry down.
And stumble on my ridges.
And one of the worst sights in the town
Is where I approach the bridges.
The crowds that o'er my sidewalk surge
Slip on banana peellngis
Then break commandments o'er and o'er.
Relieving of their feelings.
Politician's eloquence o'er mc flows.
As campaigns spur endeavor;
But elections may come and elections may go,
But I go on forever.
Men chatter much about my ways.
In meetings and committees.
And tell of cleaner, emooth highways
In bigger, better cities.
"With many a break my blocks I fret
And many an oozy puddle
"Where many a wheelman geta upset
And la picked up In a muddle.
And he grumbles, grumbles of my ruts.
As he pulls hlmelf together.
But that no figure with me cuts.
He should walk In rainy weather.
I patch my ways with broken rocks,
With here and there a plankliuj.
And here and there a garbage box,
My broken curbstones flanking.
And here and there and everywhere.
Upon me as I travel.
St
The winds that o'er my surface tear.
Stir up the dirt and gravel.
And draws them all along the way.
To Join the bits of paper,
That sometimes In the gutters play, ,
And sometimes on the sidewalks caper.
t
The Council says, with grave "resolies,"
That my ways shall be mended. r
But all this In thin air dissolves, ,
"When election time has ended. ,
The city taxpayer stands no show.
With hi protest and palaer.
For Councils may come and Councils may go,
But I go on forever.
EDITH L. NILES.
It will be observed no fpeelal street Is des
ignated In the above. A prize of. a handsome,
beautiful and useful blacking brush will be
presented to the person who properly names
the especial street to which this could be ap
propriately dedicated.
Spectacle nnd Failing: "Vision.
American Medicine.
M. Ie Roux, a French lecturer, speak
ing of his American audiences, says: "I
had but one regret as I looked down Into
their faces I saw too many spectacles.
They have worked their eyes so hard that
their sight is falling. They should not
let their love for knowledge Impair their
vision."
The newspapers without medical advis
ers have begun to echo this inane remark,
and In the next month it will probably
be reprinted a thousand times. American
oculists will think of the famous correc
tion of the dictionary definition of a crab.
It has been given as "a small, red fish
which travels backward," and was pro
nounced by the scientist correct, with the
exception that "the crab is not a fish, not
red, and does not travel backward."' So
In the case of M. Le Roux's Americans,
they have not worked their eyea harder
than other nations, their love for knowl
edge has not impaired their vision, and
their eight is not failing. On the contrary,
our eyes are far less diseased than those
of Europeans who have yet to learn that
proper spectacles prevent moro serious
ocular and al$o much systemic disease.
Our people have good leather shoes In
stead of going barefoot or wearing sabote,
but the fact is not proof that our feet are
weaker or more diseased than those of
the French peasant They also have se
cured scientific care of their teeth, but
that do? s not prove that carious teeth are
superior to "flllcd" onea, or that no teeth
are preferable to artificial ones. M. Le
Roux's ophthalmology shows that Frenoh
ophthalmologists should cross the ocean
and take a post-cradnate course In Amur.
1 lean ophthalmology.
FOR THE SCRAP BOOK
June.
"What Is so rare as a day !n June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then heaven tries earth it It be in tune.
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
"Whether we look, or whether we listen,
"Wo hear life murmur, or see It glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might.
An Instinct within It that reaches the towers,
And. groping blindly above it for light
Climbs to a soul In grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles In meadows green.
The buttercup catches the Bun In Its chalice.
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door In the sun.
Atllt like a blossom among the leaves.
And lets his Illumined being o'errun
"With the deluge of Summer It receives!
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings.
And the heart In" her dumb breast flutters and
sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her
nest
In tho nice ear of Nature, which sons Is the
bestr
i
Now Is the high tide of tho year.
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer.
Into every bare Inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart Is so full that a drop overfills it
"We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been.
'Tls enough for us now that the leaves aro
green;
"We sit in tho warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help
knowing
That skies are clear and grass Is growing;
The breeze comes whispering In our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near.
That maize has sprouted, that streams are
flowing.
That the river Is bluer than the sky.
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And If the breeze kept the good news back,
For other couriers we should not lack:
We could guess It all by yon heifer's lowing
And hark! hov clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year.
Tells all In his lusty crowing!
Joy comes, grief goes, we know no how;
Everything' la happy now.
Everything is upward striving;
'Tls as easy now for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue
'Tls the natural way of living;
"Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
In the unscarred heaen they leave no wako;
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed.
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;
The soul partakes the season's jouth.
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.
James Bussell LowelL
Something; Xctv.
A showman to the jungle went
And caught a fierce young gnu.
Said he, "I'll teach hlm'to perform,
And sell him to tho Zoo."
This man was very much surprised.
And quite delighted, too.
For, lo! each quick and not el trick
The new gnu knew!
E. Warde Btalsdell In June St. Nicholas.
"Whom the Gods Love."
I.
"Whom the gods love dleyoung." Nay, rath
er say.
With bated breath, "Whom the gods love die
old!"
Shall the mom pale ere It hath coined Its gold?
The surf go down while It is jel full day?
The statue sleep unmolded In the clay?
The parchment crumble ere It la unrolled?
The story end with half tho tale untold?
The song dtp mute and breathless by
the
way?
Oh, weep for Adonals when he dies
With all youth's lofty promise unfulfilled.
Its splendor lost In sudden drear eclipse!
With loe unlived and dreams half dreamed he
lies,
All the red wine from life's gold chalice spilled
Ere Its bright brim hath touched his eager
lips.
If.
Whom the gods love die old! O life, dear life.
Let the old sing thy praises, for they know
How jear by jear the Summers come and go.
Each with Its own abounding sweetness rife!
They know, though frosts be cruel as the
knife,
Tet with each Juno the perfect rose shall blow
And daisies blossom and the green grass grow
Triumphant still, unvexed by storm or strife;
They know that night more splendid is than
day;
That sunset skies flame in the gathering dark
And the deep waters change to molten gold;
They know that Autumn richer; Is than May;
They hear the night birds singing like the
lark
Ah, life, eweet life, whom the gods love die
old. Julia C. R. Dorr.
"The Brevity of Life."
How short a span
Was long enough of old.
To measure out the life of man
In these well-tempered das! His time was
v then
Surveyed, cast up and found but three'-score
years and ten.
Alas!
Behold!
And what Is that?
They come, and elide, and pas,
Before my pen can tell thee, what.
The posts jf time are swift which, having run
Their seen short stages o'er, their short-Ued
task Is done.
Our days
Begun we lend
To sleep, to antic plays
And tojs until the first stage ends:
Twelve waning mocns, twice the times told,
we gl e
To unrecoer'd loss; we rather breathe than
live.
We spend
A ton years' breath
Before we apprehend
What 'tis to ll e. or fear a death:
Our childish dreams are flll'd with painted
Joys,
Which please our sense a while, and., waking,
proe but tojs.
How soon
Our new-born light
Attains to full-aged noon!
And this how soon to gray-haired night.
Wo spring, we bud, we blossom and we blast.
Ere we can count our dajs, our days they flee
so fast.
They end
When scarce begun;
And ere we apprehend
That we begin to live, our life Is done.
Man. count thy da; and If they fly too fast
For thy dull thoughts to count, count etery
day the last.
Francis Quarles.
The Wind.
The wind went forth o'er land and sea.
Loud and free;
Foaming waxes leapt up to meet It,
Stately pines bowed down to greet It;
While the walling sea
And the forest's murmured sigh
Joined the cry
Of the wind that swept o'er land and sea.
The wind that blew upon the sea ""
Fierce and free.
Cast the bark upon the shore.
Whence It sailed the night before
Full of hope and glee;
And the cry of pain and death
Was but a breath.
Through the wind that roared upon the sea.
The wind was whispering on the lea
Tenderly:
But the white rose felt it pass.
And the fragile stalks of gross 4
Shook with fear to see
All her trembling petals shed,
As It fled
5o gently by the wind upon tho lea.
Blow, thou wind upon the sea
Fierce and free,
And a gentler messago send, ""
Where frail flowers and grasses bend.
On the sunny lea;
For thy bidding still Is one.
Be it done
In tenderness or wrath, on land or sea!
Adelaldo A. Proctor.
A Dream of the Unknown.
I dreamed that as I wander'd by the way
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring;
And gentle odors led my steps astray,
MIx'd with a sound of wraters murmuring
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
Its green arms round the bosom of the stream.
But klss'd It and then fled, as thou mlghtest la
dream.
There grew pied wind-flowers and violets.
Daisies, those perl'd Arcturi of the earth.
The constellated flower that never sets;
Faint oxllps, tender bluebells, at whose births
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower
that wets
Its mother's face with heaven-collected team.
When the low wind. Its playmate's voice. It
hears.
And Jn the warm hedge grew lush eglatlne.
Green cowblnd and the moonllght-color'd
May,
And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whosa
wine
Was the bright dew yet draln'd not by the.
day;
And wild roses, and Ivy serpentine
With Its dark buds and Icaes, wandering
astray;
And flowers, azure, black and streak'd with
gold
Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.
And nearer to the river's trembling edge
There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd
with white.
And starry river-buds among the sedge.
And floating water-lilies, broad and bright
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
With moonlight beams of their own watery
light;
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothed the dazzling eye with sober sheen.
Methought that of these isionary flowers
I made a nosegay, bound In such a way
That the same hues, which In their natural
bowers
Were mingled or opposed, the like array
Kept these lmprlson'd children of the hours
Within my hand and then, elate and gay,
I hastn'd to the spot whence I had come
That I might there present It Oh, to whom?
Percy Bysshe Shelley.
John Bnrni of Gettysburg.
Just where the tide of battle turns.
Erect and lonely stood old John Burns.
How do you think the man was dressed?
Ho wore an ancient long buff vest
Yellow as saffron but his best;
And buttoned over his manly breast
Was a bright blue coat with a rolling collar
And large gilt buttons size of a dollar
With tails that tho country folk called "swal
ler." He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned bat
White as the locks.cn which It sat.
Never had such a sight been seen
For forty years on the village green.
Since old John Burns was a country beau.
And went to the "qulltlngs" long ago.
Close at his elbows all that day.
Veterans of tho Peninsula,
Sunburnt and oearded, charged away;
And striplings, downy of lip and chin
Clerks that the Home Guard mustered In
Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore.
Then at the rifle his right hand bore;
And hailed him, from nut their youthful lore.
With scraps of a slangy repertoire:
"How are jou. White Hat?" '"Put her
through!"
"Tour head's level," and "Bully for you!"
Called him "Daddy," begged he'd disclose
The name of the tailor who made his clothes.
And what was the value he set on those;
While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff.
Stood there picking the rebels off
With his long brown rifle, and bell-crowned
hat
And the swallow talis theywere laughing at.
"Twas but a moment, for that respect
Which clothes all courage their voices checked;
And something the wildest could understand
Spake In the old man's strong right hand;
And his corded throat, and the lurking frown
Of his eyebrows under his old bell crown;
Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe
Through the ranks in whispers, and some men
saw.
In the antique vestments and long white hair.
The Past of the Nation In battle there;
And dome of the soldiers since declare
That the gleam of his old white hat afar,
Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre,
That day was their orlflamnre of war.
Bret Harte.
Three ICIiaes of Fnrevrell.
Three, only three, my darling.
Separate, solemn, slow;
Not like the swift and Jojous ones
We used to know
When we kissed because we loed each other.
Simply to taste lore's sweet.
And lavished our kisses as the Summer
Lalshes heat
But as they kiss whose hearts are wrung,
When hope and fear are spent.
And nothing Is left to gle, except
A sacrament!
First of the three, my darling.
Is sacred unto pain;
We have hurt each other often;
We shall again.
When we pine because we miss each other.
And do not understand
How the written words are so much colder '
Than eye and hand.
I kiss thee, dear, for all such pain
Which we may give or take;
Burled, forgotten, before It cornea
For our love's sake!
The second kiss, my darling,
Is full of Joy's sweet thrill;
We hae blessed each other always;
We always will.
We shall reach until we feel each other.
Past all of time and space;
We shall listen till we hear each other
In eery place;
The earth Is full of messengers.
Which love sends to and fro;
I kiss thee, darling, for all Joy
Which we shall know!
The last kiss, oh! my darling.
My love I cannot see
Through my tears, as I remember
What It may be.
We may die and never see each other,'
Die with no time to give
Any sign that our hearts are faithful
To die, as lle.
Token of what they will not see
Who see our parting breath.
This one last Ms", my darling, seals
The seal of death I Saxe Holms.
The Land of Xod.
At night, when off I go to bed,
I scurry quickly up the stairs
For fear that boglc from their lairs
To make a spring on me are led
(To hurry Is much bet one finds.
And pass ere they've made up their minds).
The friendly moon that sails so free, .
Throws shadows great and shadows small.
That dance a polka on the wall,
And to mazurkas beckon me.
And while I heavy-lidded peep,
Tho eandman comes and I'm asleep.
And in the dlm-llt Land of Dreams,
Strange birds, and beasts, and elves, and fays,
I meet In dells and bosky ways.
And on the banks of rippling streams.
Or Join In singing soft sweet staves.
With mermaids fair, in Dreamland caves.
And then I wake and give a yawn.
And see the sun come slanting In,
And hear aealn th tuneful din
( Of blackbirds piping on the lawn,
And, while I listen to their song
Why, gracious! There's the breakfast gong!
One Fnce Alone.
One face alone, one face alone.
These eyes require;
But when that long'd-for sight Is shown.
What fatal flro
Shoots 'through my veins a keen and liquid
flame.
That melts each fiber of my wasting frame!
One voice alone, one voice alone,
I ptne to hear;
But when its meek, mellifluous tone
Usurps mine ear.
Those lavish chains about my soul are wound,
Which ne'er till death Itsolf can bo unbound.
One gentle hand, one gentle hand,
I fain would hold;
But when It seems at my command.
My own grows cold;
Then low to earth I bend in sickly swoon
Llko lilies drooping 'mid the blaze of noon.
Sara Colerlda,