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TO MILTON-BLIND.

He who said suddenly, "Let there be light!"
To thee the dark deliberately gave;
That those full eyes might undistracted be
By this beguiling show of sky and field,

This brilliance, that so lures us from the Truth.
He gave thee back original night, His own
Tremendous canvas, large and blank and free,
Where at each thought a star flashed out and sang.
O blinded with a special lightning, thou
Hadst once again the virgin Dark! and when
The pleasant flowery sight, which had deterred
Thine eyes from seeing, when this recent world
Was quite withdrawn; then burst upon thy view
The elder glory; space again in pangs,
And Eden odorous in the early mist,

That heaving watery plain that was the world;

Then the burned earth, and Christ coming in clouds. Or rather a special leave to thee was given

By the high power, and thou with bandaged eyes Wast guided through the glimmering camp of God. Thy hand was taken by angels who patrol

The evening, or are sentries to the dawn,

Or pace the wide air everlastingly.

Thou wast admitted to the presence, and deep

Argument heardest, and the large design

That brings this world out of the woe to bliss.

A. S. P.

Frail was she born; petal by petal fell
Her life till it was strown upon the herb;

Like petals all her fancies lay about.

And the dread Powers kept her face toward grief,
Although she swerved; and still with many a lash
Guided her to the anguish carefully.

So bare her soul that Beauty like a lance
Pierced her, and odour full of arrows was.
She drugged her brain against realities,
And lived in dreams, and was with music fed,
Imploring to be spared e'en sweetest things.
She suffered, and resorted to the ground,
Glad to be blind, and eager to be deaf;

Soliciting eternal apathy.

And she was swift to steep her brain in moss,

And with the heart that so had loved, to blow

Merely, and to be idle in the wind.

She craved no Paradise but only peace.

MRS. RADFORD

It is difficult to strike just the right note of praise for the poems in Mrs. Radford's two modest little volumes. To define them by negatives is easy enough, but scarcely satisfactory. They are not pictorial, they are not philosophical, they are not dramatic; they are not multitudinous in measure, or opulent in rhyme, or inventive in stanza. Never was there poetry with less of the "big bow-wow" style about it. Yet Mrs. Radford is a poetess certainly, and a poetess of distinct individuality. She finds touchingly sweet and simple expression for some of the moods and emotions of a finely-tempered, delicate, courageous, and essentially feminine nature. There is a tremulous sincerity in her accent which often goes straight to the reader's heart; and though she has no great technical accomplishment, the form of her utterance is always clear, graceful, and unaffected.

The lyric quality in her best work is very genuine. Her songs are not mere measured speech; they carry with them each its little wistful melody. I should not be surprised if for this very reason they were difficult to set to music; the verses which sing themselves are not generally those best suited to the musician's peculiar purposes. There is a certain exaggeration and emphasis in even the simplest musical setting which would do some injustice to the absolute sincerity of Mrs. Radford's singing.

Any attempt at definition of its charm would merely dust the bloom off the wings of such a song as this:

My lover's lute has golden strings,
Bright as the sunlight in the air,
My lover touches them and sings
His happy music everywhere.

My lover's eyes see very far,

Through the great toiling in the street,
To where the seas and mountains are,
And all the land lies still and sweet.

My lover's lips are very kind,

He smiles on all who pass him by,
And all who pass him leave behind
A greeting, with a smile or sigh.
My lover's heart, ah! none may say
How tenderly it beats for me,

And, if I took my love away,

How silent all its song would be.

Is not this the perfection of tender simplicity? If Mrs. Radford had never written another line, she would have added a lyric to the language. But she has other songlets of equal charm. Take this as an example:

The little songs which come and go,

In tender measures, to and fro,
Whene'er the day brings you to me,
Keep my heart full of melody.

But on my lute I strive in vain

To play the music o'er again,
And you, dear love, will never know

The little songs which come and go.

Here now is a Spring Song which came, and fortunately did not go:

Ah love, the sweet spring blossoms cling
To many a broken wind-tossed bough,
And young birds among branches sing,
That mutely hung till now.

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