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THREE SONNETS.

I.

THE ONE CERTAINTY.

Lightly I hold my life with little dread,

And little hope for what may spring therefrom,
But live like one that builds his summer's home
For coolness on a dried-up river-bed,

And takes no thought for frescoed blue or red,
To paint the walls, and plans no golden dome,
Knowing the flood, when autumn rains are come,
Shall roll its ravening waters overhead.

And wherefore should I plant my ground and sow?
Since, though I know not of the day or hour,
The Conqueror comes at last, the alien foe

Shall come to my defenceless place in power,
With force, with arms, with ruinous overthrow,
Taking the goods I gathered for his dower.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

II.

A PARABLE.

I built a house for quiet and dim peace,
A place whereto when weary I might go
To sit alone, and let the pent tears flow,
And feel a little while their bitter ease.

I built my house, I ringed it round with trees,
And often when the sun and winds were low

I sat and mused there, while there seemed to grow

A rest begotten of dear memories:

But strange unholy shapes with snake-wreathed brows
Did throng my refuge and defile my grove.
So now no more about that house I move.
Still it looks peaceful through its shadowing boughs;
But voices from within the calm disprove.

What say you, then-shall I not burn my house?

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

III.

TO A LADY WHO DESIRED TO BE ABSORBED

INTO THE INFINITE.

Sweet soul, that strivest so thyself to tear
Out of this outer wilderness of things,

Would that I too were given the power of wings
To follow thee within the infinite air

Whence all things live,-to fly and watch thee there,
Lose in the Uncreate thy flutterings;

Then, while thy sleep its deepest softness brings,
One deed within that Presence I would dare.

-To pray thee forth! . . . to watch thy soul emerge,
Soothed by the large impress of God's own hand,
Made strong to climb and stand upon life's verge,
Yet holding still the Glory Unconfined:
"Twould be my joy to see thy strength expand,
Thy mind reflect the light of Infinite Mind.

K. C.

"ARIEL:" A VISIONARY ROMANCE.

I.

"A pale dream came to a lady fair.” FLOWERS! Flowers! Flowers! The very air seemed full of these sweet souls, so utterly perfect in their life. Tossed blossoms lay even upon the carpet of the room; great baskets fresh from floral hothouses stood upon the chairs, just opened, filling the whole place with perfume and beauty. Upon the tables bowls were filled on every side with crowded exquisiteness, white bells and maidenhair sprays, great arums and wonderful pale roses, which come in midwinter under glass to make glad the heart of exotic man, who has left behind him, in his mad pursuit of what he calls life, the meaning and the unstimulated passion of nature. Deep, indeed, was the vivid beauty which flooded the room, and intoxicating was the sweet scent from the great handfuls of forced mignonette which lay in a basket upon the centre table. Magical was the glimpse into that utterness of relinquishment which belongs to actual beauty; here its emblems lay massed, surrendered, plucked, gathered, chaotic, their lives sundered suddenly by man's disturbing hand, yet entirely beautiful to the very last. Wild flowers-who talks of wild flowers? Oh, ye winds of heaven, whispering your untaught secrets to the dim ears of mountain harebells, what can you guess of the vividness and strange ephemeral sense of glory that dwells within the half-opened blossom of a rose which has been

forced by man's desire, not fed by Nature's simple bounty?

Stephanotis ; yes heaped, cluster upon cluster. Oh, how sweet, how luscious is that strong delight of odour which fails description, and can be suggested only by the name of the flower which generously creates this wonder of the senses! Lilies of the valley embracing chastely, and hiding within their loving leaves, because the air is so full of life that is stronger than theirs. And now turn aside from all this soft, sweet, melting vision of beauty, and look at those camellias. Strangely enough, a great shallow vase is brimming with Russian violets, just by the side of a box which is filled with cotton wool and camellias-the two poles of flower beauty. The violets, nestling into the moisture which they love, fill the air with a fragrance that is as true, as humble, as unconscious, as lovely a thanksgiving as the song of the skylark, as the hymn of the archangel Michael. The camellias -red, white, striped, voluptuous, and silent, giving no scent, and caring for nothing but a statuesque repose. What are they? Drawing-room beauties. Well, perhaps so; and even if so, perfectly beautiful.

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'Oh, God! Oh, my God! How I love beauty!"

These words-the utterance of a man, the outcry of a distressed spirit-broke upon the silent odorous room. A man, alone, save for the overwhelming presence of these flowers, sat upon a chair, the

only chair unoccupied by flowers, and rocked himself as though in pain. His hands were clasped around one knee, and he had caught himself up as if in a spasm of thought. Truth to tell, a second since he had been revelling with all the delight of a voluptuous nature in the marvellous beauty around him. But a spasm had indeed passed over him and left him writhing.

"I can buy this," he went on, "buy it and look at it. I ask why -why cannot I be it? Why am I made to worship beauty with my whole capacity of worship, and yet to be incapable of it ?"

He rose, went to a long mirror at the side of the room, and anxiously scrutinised himself. He formed a

strange picture in the midst of the magical flower faces reflected all around him. He was dressed like a youthful dandy; he was an ugly old man-yes, very ugly; yes, very old.

He could see it himself, for nature had endowed him with good eyesight and a rational intelligence.

"There's no disguising it," he said to himself, "I am getting old; and yet—and yet "-with a change of expression-"the women still seem to like me. I wonder whether they do, or whether the little devils pretend? I am ugly now. I can feel like an angel when I look at these sweet soft flowers-so perfect, so beautiful, so effortless. like a fiend when I look at myself -padded, rouged, and certainly not beautiful!"

I feel

He shook his fists at his own reflection with a spasmodic ferocity, and returned to the chair on which he had been sitting when this mood came over him.

"I wish I could forget myself," he went on, speaking aloud still. "Why has the Creator given us a consciousness? I don't want one, not in the intolerable modern

sense. I only want to know I have senses and to see and feel beauty. Oh! I wish someone would come in! I shall go mad if I am alone much longer!"

"You are not alone,” said a voice behind him-a voice very soft and luscious, so soft that it did not startle him any more than the fall of a roseleaf would have done. Yet that voice had a hidden volume in it-its whisper could hold an audience spell-bound.

"So it is you," he said, without turning immediately. "How much of my absurdity have you witnessed?"

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Why all of it, at a glance," she answered, "if you mean this gathering of flowers."

Relieved, he turned round and advanced towards his visitor.

"Then you did not see me shake my fists at myself ?" he asked, as he came to her with outstretched hand of greeting.

"Ah! don't step on those lilies," she cried, by way of reply, and then after a little pause added, "Oh yes, I did, of course. I saw the worshipper of beauty stand before her altar-the looking-glass, and I heard his voice also."

"You are very cruel," said he, much disconcerted.

"No I am not," she answered. "You are horribly vain, and I know it. I have your secret-you cannot escape me."

"Madonna !" he exclaimed in amazement, "what do you mean? you did not hear me aright."

"I saw, if I did not hear aright," she replied. "No man who was not intolerably vain would go and look in the glass at the reflection of a paltry human being when he had all these glorious flower faces around him to look into."

"But you see that human being happened to be me," he answered, "and there always seems to be something rather special about

one's own individuality. Now, come and sit. Flowers even must give place to Madonna, for she is more beautiful than they;" and he swept away a huge bunch of roses from a chair.

"One of your compliments," said she, as she took the vacated seat. "You like to pay compliments for the very sake of paying them. How the whole atmosphere of prettiness pleases you."

"Well, can I help it ?" he asked, piteously. "It is my atmosphere. If I were an artist, you would admire instead of despising me. But I am not creative, only appreciative. Because the master hand has made me after this fashion, great creatures like Madonna consider me frivolous."

"Not frivolous," she answered, "only mistaken."

"About what am I mistaken ?" he asked, looking at her with a curious expression, as if he half expected to receive some help from her, yet at the same time wholly despaired of help.

"About what?" repeated Madonna, rather absently. Her eyes Her eyes had lost themselves among the flowers, and in an instant's space of delight she had almost forgotten the presence of the man who had gathered this crowd of splendour. Now she looked back into his face and remembered.

"In this," she replied, "that you persist in contemplating the flowers and forget their roots and leaves."

"What do you mean?" he answered. "It is only the Creator, the gardener, and the flower itself which has to do with its roots. We need only observe the result, just as we look at an artist's picture, not his palette."

na.

"Quite true," answered Madon

"That is exactly what I mean. The flowers are taught of God to proceed on simple artistic lines.

They nourish their roots and fling out their leaves to draw breath, and are finally crowned by that highest moment of energy when the flower opens. You expect to open your flower all at once.

"You talk enigmas, Madonna," he said. "I am growing old, and I have not found any flowering time yet."

"True again, but then you have always expected to flower all at once. You have prevented your flowering by never attending to your roots. You have accepted that theory of yours about being only appreciative much too humbly. Don't

you ever think that after all we must everyone of us be artists ? The creative mood is the spark that links us to our divine origin. Some are artists upon canvas or in marble; or, greater still, in words; but the greatest artist of all is he who makes life itself plastic beneath his hands. The fluidic atmosphere which passes from one human being to another is a more subtle medium to work in than any paint, even were it mixed by Perugino himself."

"I

"I am lost," he answered. don't know what you talk of. These flowers are beautiful externally. I desire to be this also."

"So you may be," she said confidently. "These flowers are beautiful externally as you say; but we know them to be innocent and inoffensive. We know their mood is beautiful while they grow, because their efforts and effects are all beautiful and innocent. I hear my horses pawing; they are very impatient. Will you come out with me?"

He gladly went with her, for he dared no longer be left in that room, now made a ghost chamber by the thoughts which the flowers had called forth.

"You could spare a few of these, could you not ?" said Madonna,

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