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An opening blush of purest pink,
That swiftly streams and grows,
As shoreward all the liquid waste
Enkindled flows,

Every ripple of all the sea,
Rose on rose.

Through the heavens of midnight
Came a bitter cry,
Flesh and spirit breaking,

Mortal agony;
Died away unanswered
Through the sky.

But all the dim blue south was filled
With the auroral flame,

Far out into the southward land
Without a name,

That dreamed away into the dark, —
When one came,

Suddenly came stepping,
Where the roseate rift
Of the boreal blossoms
Crossed the snowy drift
In a trailing pathway,
Straight and swift.

Her robes were full and silken,
Her feet were silken-shod,

In sweeping stately silence,
Serene she trod

The starry carpets strewing
The soft sod.

The eyes of the veronica

Looked out and far away,

A golden wreath around her head Of light curls lay,

And rippled back a shining shower, In bright array.

About her neck the diamonds flashed
In rivers of blue fire;

But whiter her soft shoulders than
Her white attire,

And tenderer her tender arms

Than heart's desire.

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At the second hour the cold limbs

Felt comfort unaware;

Flickering, a golden glow
Warmed all the air:

Is it the hearth-flame lighted, -
Or her hair?

At the third hour, round the faint heart
Failing in chill alarms,

Is it some silken coverlet

Still wraps and warms

In close and closer clasping?-
Or her arms?

At the fourth hour, to the wan lips
There came a draught divine:
Some last reviving cup poured out
Of hallowed wine,-

Or is it breath of hers

Mixed with thine?

At the fifth hour all was dimness

Alike to him and her;

One low and passionate murmur
Still moved the air;

Is it the voice of angels, -
Or her prayer?

At the sixth hour there stirred only
The soft wave on the beach;

Two were lying stilly,
Past sound or speech,

Fair and carven faces,
Each by each.


The Summer Palace stood by night
Lit up in dazzling sheen;

The doors unfolded, and the pomp
Stirred in between ;
To a burst of royal music
Came the queen.

Her eyes like stars of speedwell
Shone down the great saloon;
She came, and all before her

Knew it was June;
The passing of her presence
Was too soon.

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For young bloom past away, Blossom-white, rose-white, White of the May;

'Twixt white dress and white neck, Who could say?

She moved to measure of music,
As a swan sails the stream;
Where her looks fell was summer,
When she smiled was a dream;
All faces bowing towards her
Sunflowers seem.

O the rose upon her silent mouth,
The perfect rose that lies!
O the roses red, the roses deep,
Within her cheeks that rise!
O the rose of rapture of her face
To our eyes!

The tall fair princes smile and sigh
For grace of one sweet glance,
The glittering dancers fill the floor,
The queen leads the dance;
The dial-hands to midnight
Still advance.

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Swept low down across the east,

Through the morning grey,

A flock of white clouds swiftly,
Dim, far away;

Like a flight of white wings, -
What were they?

Through the palace suddenly,
Through every floor,
Wailed a wind and whistled,
Shook every door,

Rattled through the windows,
Then passed o'er.

And as they stood with tapers tall
Around the queen, there came

A soft and far-off fluttering
Over her frame,

And from between her sleeping lips,
One faint flame.

They take her hand, they call on her,
She answers them likewise;

She sits upright, she looks around,
With her blue eyes,

And a smile as of thy secrets,

Winter is here, and has not brought
The traveller of renown;

Why has he not come back again
To court and town?
Rumors and questionings pass
Up and down.

Is it only the wolves of the Northland
Know where his bones lie white?
Only the swans could tell us,

In southward flight?

Is it only the wind could whisper
To the night?

The queen sits still and smiling,
She hears the talk prevail,

She speaks no word, she gives no glance,
She tells no tale;

In the golden shadow always

She is pale.


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For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year, free of postage.

Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co.

Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, 18 cents.


"Miles after miles of graves and not one word or sign of the gloominess of death." - Extract from Prof. Jules De Launay's Lecture.

MILES after miles of graves,

League after league of tombs,
And not one sign of spectre Death,
Waving his shadowy plumes;
Hope, beautiful and bright,
Spanning the arch above-
Faith, gentle overcoming faith,
And love, God's best gift, love.

For early Christians left

Their darlings to their rest, As mothers leave their little ones When the sun gilds the west; No mourning robes of black, No crape upon the doors, For the victorious palm-bearers, Who tread the golden floors.

Arrayed in garments white,

No mournful dirges pealing, Bearing green branches in their hands, Around the tomb they're kneeling; This was their marching song,

"By death we are not holden," And this their glorious funeral hymn, "Jerusalem the golden."

Beautiful girls sleep there,

Waiting the Bridegroom's call, Each lamp is burning brilliantly, While the bright shadows fall; And baby martyrs passed

Straight to the great I AM, While sturdier soldiers carved o'er each, "Victor, God's little lamb."

Miles after miles of graves,

League after league of tombs,

The Cross upon each conqueror's brow,
Lights up the Catacombs;

"Tis in this sign we conquer,"
Sounds on the blood-stained track,
"'Tis in this sign we conquer,"
We gladly answer back.

Golden Hours.



LET it be as Fashion wills

In the Park, or in the RowNothing wear but Daffodils!

In the valley, on the hills,

In the street, where'er you go – Let it be as Fashion wills.

Though the east wind blights and clills,
Though we think of frost and snow,
Nothing wear but Daffodils!

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As little babes in tender keeping grow,
Some narrow gorge each flowery limit binds;
Thus we from childish eyes hide elder woe.
The vales are thick with corn, with plenty

Thus should the children smile in sunny glee,
For One hath blessed them with a love divine,
The untried pilgrims of life's stormy sea.
Though rough winds cannot enter, gentle rain
Refreshes the green vale, till springs arise,
Their source the snow-clad hills; so age should

By gentle teaching, childhood's eager eyes.
Rain fills the pools, the thirsty vale is blest;
Thus should the children thrive, by love ca-

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