Let us gather up the sunbeams

Lying all along our path; Let us keep the wheat and roses, Casting out the thorns and chaff; Let us find our sweetest comfort In the blessings of to-day; With a patient hand removing All the briars from our way.

TIRED MOTHERS.

A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee,
Your tired knee, that has so much to bear;
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly

From underneath a thatch of shining hair:
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch

Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight, You do not prize this blessing overmuchYou almost are too tired to pray, to-night!

But it is blessedness! A year ago

I did not see it as I do to-day, We are so dull and thankless; and too slow To catch the sunshine e'er it slips away. And now it seems surpassing strange to me, That while I wore the badge of motherhood, I did not kiss more oft and tenderly

The little child that brought me only good!

And if some night when you sit down to rest,
You miss this elbow from your tired knee;
This restless, curling head from off your breast,
This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;
If from your own the dimpled hand had slipped,
And ne'er would nestle in your palm again;
If the white feet into their grave had tripped,

I could not blame you for your heartache then!

I wonder so that mothers ever fret

At little children, clinging to their gown; Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, Are ever black enough to make them frown!

If I could find a little muddy boot,

Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor;

If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot,

And hear its music in my home once more;

If I could mend a broken cart to-day,

To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky There is no woman in God's world could say She was more blissfully content than I. But, ah! the dainty pillow next my own Is never rumpled by shining head; My singing birdling from its nest is flownThe little boy I used to kiss is dead!

THE INN OF REST.

TOILING among my garden thorns one day, While in a stirless swoon the hot air lay,

A traveler passes toward the glowing west, Who seemed intent upon some cheerful quest, For with a song he did beguile the way.

Perhaps some question stirred within my eyes, For thus he spake: "In yonder valley lies, Among the murmurous trees, the Inn called Rest; Where all the pillows are with poppies strewn, Where toil-worn feet are shod with silken shoon, And bed of down awaits each jaded guest;

I haste at this good Inn to make request, For see! the dial marks the hour of noon." "God grant," I cried, "you reach that threshold soon!"

The singer passed, and in the winding lane,
I lost, at length, the thread of his refrain.
One Sabbath eve, consoled and comforted
By chant and prayer at Vesper-service said,
With a laus Deo thrilling through my pain

I left the church, and careless where I went, Behind its ivied walls my footsteps bent, Among the low green tents where dwell the dead; The chill winds sobbed among the grasses sere Which thatched the narrow roofs. The sky was

drear, And drops of rain fell on my down-bent head. Turning to go, upon a stone I read

A name, and dropped upon these words a tear: He sought an Inn of Rest, and found it-here."

SOMETIME.

SOMETIME, when all life's lessons have been learned,
And sun and stars forevermore have set,
The things which our weak judgments here have
spurned,

The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet, Will flash before us, out of life's dark night,

As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; And we shall see how all God's plans are right, And how what seemed reproof was love most

true.

And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh, God's plans go on as best for you and me; How, when we called, He heeded not our cry, Because His wisdom to the end could see. And even as wise parents disallow

Too much of sweet to craving babyhood,

So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now
Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth good.

And if, sometimes, commingled with life's wine,
We find the wormwood, and repel and shrink,
Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine
Pours out this portion for our lips to drink.
And if some friend we love is lying low,
Where human kisses can not reach his face,
Oh, do not blame the loving Father so,

But wear your sorrow with obedient grace!
And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath
Is not the sweetest gift God sends His friend.
And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death
Conceals the fairest boon His love can send.
If we could push ajar the gates of life,

And stand within and all God's workings see,
We could interpret all this doubt and strife,
And for each mystery could find a key!

But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart!
God's plans like lilies pure and white unfold.
We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart,
Time will reveal the calyxes of gold.
And if, through patient toil, we reach the land
Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, may rest,
When we shall clearly see and understand,

I think that we will say, 'God knew the best!"

IF.

IF, sitting with this little worn-out shoe
And scarlet stocking lying on my knee,

I knew the careless feet had pattered through
The pearl-set gates that lie 'twixt Heaven and

me,

And I could see beyond the mists of blue

God's tender hand, I could submissive be.

If, in the morning, when the song of birds Reminds me of a music far more sweet, I listen for his pretty broken words

And for the music of his dimpled feet, I could be almost happy, though I heard No answer, and but saw his vacant seat.

I could be glad, if, when the day is done,
And all its cares and heartaches laid away,
I could look westward to the hidden sun,
And, with a heart full of sweet yearnings, say,
"To-night I'm nearer to my little one

By just the travel of a single day."

If I could know those little feet were shod
In sandals wrought of light in better lands,
And that the foot-prints of a tender God
Ran side by side with his in golden sands,
I could bow cheerfully and kiss the rod,
Since Benny was in wiser, safer hands.

If he had died, as little children do,

I would not stain the wee sock on my knee With bitter tears, nor kiss the empty shoe

And cry, “Bring back again my little boy to me!"

I could be patient, until patience grew
Into the gladness of Eternity.

But oh, to know the feet once pure and white, The haunts of vice have boldly ventured in! The hands that should have battled for the right Have been wrung crimson in the clasp of sin! And should he knock at heaven's gate to-night, Alas my boy could scarce an entrance win!

MY MOTHER.

THE Sweetest face in all the world to me,
Set in a frame of shining silver hair,
With eyes whose language is fidelity:
This is my mother. Is she not most fair?

Ten little heads have found their sweetest rest
Upon the pillow of her loving breast:
The world is wide; yet nowhere does it keep
So safe a haven, so secure a rest.

'Tis counted something great to be a queen,
And bend a kingdom to a woman's will.
To be a mother such as mine, I ween,
Is something better and more noble still.

O mother! in the changeful years now flown,
Since, as a child I leant upon your knee,
Life has not brought to me, nor fortune shown,
Such tender love! such yearning sympathy!

Let fortune smile or frown, whiche'er she will; It matters not, I scorn her fickle ways!

I never shall be quite bereft until

I lose my mother's honest blame and praise!

CROSS-PURPOSES.

WHAT Sorrow we should beckon unawares,
What stinging nettles in our path would grow,
If God should answer all our thoughtless prayers,
Or bring to harvest the poor seed we sow!

The storm for which you prayed, whose kindly shock

Revived your fields, and blessed the fainting air, Drove a strong ship upon the cruel rock,

And one I love went down in shipwreck there.

I ask for sunshine on my grapes to-day;
You plead for rain to kiss your drooping flowers;
And thus within God's patient hand we lay
These intricate cross-purposes of ours.

I greeted with cold grace and doubting fears
The guest who proved an angel at my side;
And I have shed more bitter, burning tears
Because of hopes fulfilled than prayers denied.
Then be not clamorous, O restless soul,

But hold thy trust in God's eternal plan!
He views our life's dull weaving as a whole;
Only its tangled threads are seen by man!
Dear Lord, vain repetitions are not meet

When we would bring our messages to Thee.
Help us to lay them then at Thy dear feet
In acquiescence, not garrulity!

CHARLES G. BLANDEN.

CHAR

HARLES GRANGER BLANDEN was born at Marengo, Illinois, January 19, 1857. After receiving such instruction as the public schools afford, his education was supplemented by a course at Edinboro, Pennsylvania, and at a private school in Bridgeport, Connecticut. At an early age he wrote verse, and while attending school at Bridgeport started a school paper called Young Ideas, and was also a contributor to The School-Day Visitor.

In 1874, Mr. Blanden located at Fort Dodge, Iowa, and the following year became book-keeper in the First National Bank of that place. Shortly after he was made assistant cashier and this pro motion was followed by another making him cashier, which position he at present holds. In addition to such titles as Poet and Banker, Mr. Blanden might also claim that of Politician, although he undoubtedly holds his political achievements to be of small account. They are of enough importance, however, to distinguish a man of smaller attainments. In 1887 he was elected mayor of Fort Dodge, and his administration of municipal affairs has roven him an excellent official. During the last,idential election, he was made chairman of the Aublican Central Com. mittee of his county.

In 1884, Mr. Blanden was married to Elizabeth Mills, of Ottumwa, Iowa. Mrs. Blanden is the daughter of an Episcopal rector, and is in every way qualified to be the life companion of a poet. Her natural endowments, of a high order, have been ripened by rare educational opportunities.

Tancred's Daughter, and Other Poems," recently published, is the first volume Mr. Blanden has put forth. While representing the quality of his work, it by no means gives the reader an idea of the quantity, equally good, this poet has done. "Tancred's Daughter," the poem which gives the book its title, is composed of six hundred lines, and is only one of several poems which other critics than the author would place beside it; and of the shorter poems which appear in this book, however good they are (and to me they seem to call for the highest praise), the same may be said. Of his poetical works an eminent critic remarked in a recent review: "A noble dignity characterizes this poet's verses; his most pretentious effort, "Tancred's Daughter," is singularly well sustained in the elaboration of its elevated theme. Yet we are not sure that we do not prefer the lighter work-such graceful, breezy little bits as High Ho,' A Glass of Wine,' 'To a Critic,' 'Pomona' and those others of that ilk, which the poet may not set much store by, but which are bright and refreshing with that indefinable subtlety called touch." W. S. L.

DAWN.

CHASTE pilot of the dawn,

The morning star a golden welcome finds In peaceful, kingdoms and in quiet minds. Up, up! ere it be gone.

A rosy shell along the shore of night

This dewy hour appears,

A nautilus, around the world that sails
A blithe ship heralding Apollo bright,

Thro' all the rolling years,

Blown hitherward by cool and spicy winds,
Still emulous of last eve's nightingales,
And lovers' ne'er too oft repeated tales.
Lo! as I gaze it disappears from sight:
In sails the whole grand argosy of light.

THOUGHTS OF KEATS.
I.

THIS athlete strength-this home of health-this frame

Built up to pass the prophet's numbered days Is a sweet blessing in the common ways. Thankful am I, yet often do I name One all grand and glorious child of fame,

Diseased from birth, dead young, born to the bays,

And late-oh, all too late-receiving praise His due; then I do burn with wholesome shame To think: Had he this healthful body mine With which to ward away insidious death, What other wonders had his spirit done! These months to him had been a boon divine, With inspiration freighting every breath, And Beauty through a thousand splendors,

won.

II.

Within the shades of Cestius' pyramid

Still doth our Adon slumber on in death.
Long hath it been since a too-niggard breath
Forsook that patient body as it did-
Too long, too long, since he away was hid

In foreign earth and there be no word saith
To summon back his gentle, wandering wraith.
Will ye, his lovers true, this thing forbid?
Or must he endless sleep away from home?
O England! England! him unto thy breast,
Unto the English fields and daisies take,
And let his banished spirit be at rest.

In song a Grecian for sweet Beauty's sake, Yet loved he England more than Greece or Rome. III.

O Keats; thy spirit was too keenly fine
For earth's realities, the pinching cold
Of human yet inhuman hearts, the bold

And froward bristling time; far too divine
Wert thou to please the herd with songs like thine.
Thou, delver deep in lore of legends old,
Outfluting Pan in his own realm of gold,
And rousing wonder in the tuneful Nine.
The new Endymion thou, enamored so

Of thy supernal themes, some goddess, proud And jealous, doomed thee to a deathless swoon, As he on myrtled Latmos long ago

Wast doomed. I will not think thee in thy shroud, But sleeping quietly and waking soon.

TO LISA.

HER heart, her mind, her voice, her looks!
Her hundred virtues sweet as nard!
Could I but set them down in books,

The world would need no other bard,
And I, secure with fadeless bays,
Be hailed immortal through her praise.

PANDEAN.

HAVE you seen Pan? I heard him pipe.
In yonder wood I strayed,
When strains divine were wafted through
The beechen shade.

Have you scen Pan? I heard him pipe;
I followed up the sound,

I peeped me 'neath the sheltering boughs But no god found.

Have you seen Pan? I heard him pipe, And down the forest wide

I hastened on in swift pursuit:

Him ne'er I spied.

Have you seen Pan? I heard him pipe,
And found this reed, this wreath;
Pan dropt them both-and both are warm
With his late breath.

Have you seen Pan? (I heard him pipe.)
Ah, Poet, tell me true,

Or I shall think that wreath and reed
Belong to you.

LUCASTA.

TO HER LOVER, ON HIS GOING TO THE WARS,
YEA, haste thee, haste thee to the wars,
Unto the call of honor,

And through its maintenance and scars,
Be then the path that won her!
Away, away! I will not weep;—
'Tis but a woman's pallor;
To-morrow I shall blush as deep
To hear thy deeds of valor.