Rensselaer Republican, Volume 27, Number 41, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 18 June 1896 — THE Poetic MUSE [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

THE Poetic MUSE

In the Orchard. The orchard trees are all ablow; Like downy drifts of mimic snow Against the clear blue sky they show. The fleecy clouds that hurry by Half pause, as if they spy Some comrades wandering from the akyt Beneath the beauty of their bloom, In fleckered space of light and gloom I rest, and breathe the sweet perfuma. Down drifting from the laden trees, Stirred by the lang’rous southern breast That many a snowy petal frees And wafts about, as if in play, Till, tired out they fall, and lay Upon the grass their “milky way.” The merry birds call down to me, And looking up for them, I see A flush of pink through yonder tree. Methinks at first it blushed with shams To hear its poorly chosen name; How fair ijts blushes all the same! O balm of beauty everywhere! O Lethe fount for fretting care If I but bathe my spirit there! So blest is he who owns but sight, His heart may pulse with new delight From blushing morn, throiigh rtany night! —Boston Transcript. For My Love. ■ ... r What shall I give my love? Violets? Ah, no! The violet droops and fades and dies, And violet’s the color of her eyes, And so, Not violets for my love. What shall I give my love? Lilies? Ah, well. Her neck is your rival, lily queen; Her hair, like your stamens, has golds* sheeny Ma belle — "Ndt lilies for ihy love. What shall I give my love? Roses? 17 Ah, see How the petals pink are scattered there, Sweeter I find not anywhere, So she Needs roses not—my love! What shall I give my love? Pansies? In a day The beautiful, tender flower face Will lose its richness and form of grMfe Nay! nay! Not pansies for my love. Violets, lilies, roses, pansies, None will do. Even these tiny heather bells, I pass them by for immortelles, And you Are crowned with them, my love. —E. C. L., in New Orleans-Ficayuns. Springtide. Now April yields the wand to May And spring’s old spell is on the air; With what delight of sound and sight. It tingles, flushes everywhere, Till green has conquered gray!

This lively mirdcle of spring, I view it with an alien eye; Applaud the show; my pulses grow, Responsive—-I, ’twixt earth and sky The only thinking thingl The curtain’s up, the play’s begun— Man, the spectator, sits aside. His pride of thought seems dearly bought At seasons of the gay springtide, His earth disowned her son! Perhaps, although the words of flame Still flicker round our Eden-gate, She half withdraws her own hard law*, One splendid'vffinute; ah! too lat®, For have I dared to claim My portion of a right divine, And sent regret the way of dream*? Alas, not so! Put this I know, Earth smiles on me sometimes, and aeesM To lift her mouth to mine. —New York Tribune. : « Scotlo’a Robin. Gie’s a sang in Robin’s praise, Scotia’s Robin! Darling Robin! Wearer o’ fair Cbila’s bays, Scotia’s darling Robin! Man! at singing wha sae fine? Scotia’s Robin! Lilting Robin! Nane can match his Doric line, Scotia’s lilting Robin? Sangs o’ his hae mainthan soun’, Scotia’s Robin! Rhyming Robin! Rin our gamut up an’ doun, Scotia’s rhyming Robin ! Humor, wit, an’ pathos true, Scotia’s Rollin! Bardie Robin! Mak’ his sangs a famous brew, . Scotia’s bnrdie Robin! Man an’ singer baith were gran’, Scotia’s Robin! Matchless Robin! Men to him were a’ ae clan, Scotia's matchless Robin! Lived an’ loved an' gane to rest, Scotia’s Robin! Darling Robin! Ta’en his place among the best, Scotia’s ain dear Robin. —Hunter MncCulloch, in N. Y. Hom* Journal. Ariette. The tears are falling in my heart, E’eu as the rain falls on the town-r-Whence may this grief of mine upstart. This weary languor of my heart? O gentle patter of the rain Upon the gables and the ground! How kindly to a heart in pain Comes this soft singing of the rain! These tears upspring without a cans* In my poor sorrow-smitten heart— Have they no reason, think you? Pause! Nay, they are shed without a cause! It is a dreary sort of fate To know, forsooth, in no wise why, Unloving, yet untouched by hate, « My heart is doomed to this sad fate! —Paul Verlaine. A Song of Early Spring, There are shadows out under the maples, Sunlight on the breast of the hills; And a robin come buck from the southland Is whistling his earliest trills. In the voice of the wood-stream is laughter, Broken free from its frost-fettered < brink, Unuer brown, withered leaves there is moisture For tendrils of wind-flowers to drink. In the breatli' of the wind ther - is fra- , grand!*, * Thers are dreams in the cloud-drift* above; , In the world there is promise of summer, In the heart there is love, there is lovo! -Clata Wood Shipman. _