O ARY SCHEFFER! when beneath… Touched with the light that cometh… Grew the sweet picture of the dear… No dream hadst thou that Christia… Therefrom the token of His equal…

Still linger in our noon of time And on our Saxon tongue The echoes of the home-born hymns The Aryan mothers sung. And childhood had its litanies

Hands off! thou tithe-fat plundere… No trick of priestcraft here! Back, puny lordling! darest thou l… A hand on Elliott’s bier? Alive, your rank and pomp, as dust…

THE Quaker of the olden time! How calm and firm and true, Unspotted by its wrong and crime, He walked the dark earth through. The lust of power, the love of gai…

A STRONG and mighty Angel, Calm, terrible, and bright, The cross in blended red and blue Upon his mantle white! Two captives by him kneeling,

SECRETARY OF THE BOS… Gone before us, O our brother, To the spirit-land! Vainly look we for another In thy place to stand.

Oh, dwarfed and wronged, and stain… Behold! thou art a woman still! And, by that sacred name and dear, I bid thy better self appear. Still, through thy foul disguise,…

The autumn-time has come; On woods that dream of bloom, And over purpling vines, The low sun fainter shines. The aster-flower is failing,

Is this the land our fathers loved… The freedom which they toiled to w… Is this the soil whereon they move… Are these the graves they slumber… Are we the sons by whom are borne

GEORGE FULLER Haunted of Beauty, like the marve… Who sang Saint Agnes’ Eve! How p… Her shapes took color in thy homes… How on thy canvas even her dreams…

As a guest who may not stay Long and sad farewells to say Glides with smiling face away, Of the sweetness and the zest Of thy happy life possessed

Though flowers have perished at th… Of Frost, the early comer, I hail the season loved so much, The good St. Martin’s summer. O gracious morn, with rose-red daw…

Pipes of the misty moorlands, Voice of the glens and hills; The droning of the torrents, The treble of the rills! Not the braes of bloom and heather…

The burly driver at my side, We slowly climbed the hill, Whose summit, in the hot noontide, Seemed rising, rising still. At last, our short noon-shadows bi…

Around Sebago’s lonely lake There lingers not a breeze to brea… The mirror which its waters make. The solemn pines along its shore, The firs which hang its gray rock…