The record-union., 1892-10-29

peared. if not from life, at least from the
literary centers and brilliant circles
which once torgave but no longer for
gives him, on account of his genius, for
the grave vices which he possessed.
Wakeman is altogether Iovable. He is
an Arab, whose home is wherever he
pitches his tent. One week we read about
ms climbing the steeple of Trinity Church
at midnight Christmas Eve, and mp there
above the snowy noonlit roofs, above the
sleeping city, like Carlyle's wondrous
| hero in 'Sartor Resartus," who lived
in the topmost story in the highest house
in the City of Weissnichtwo, there alone
| with the stars, writing poem in prose
| about the sleeping city below, as the
| Trinity chimes rang out their first Christ
mas greeting to the sleepers below and
out over the black waters of the harbor
70 the white ships from all over the
world. A wondrous story, wondrously
told, and next he is waiting to us orange
blossoms and azaleas the musk Of mag
nolla blooms, and making us hear the
tWang of the Spanish guitar and the
laugh OF the black-eyed seuoritas as they
danced the bolcro away down in sunny
Cuba.
He is always surprise. and a delight
lul one His letters from the Riviera and
Mediterranean cities read like poetry and
SOUND IKE music; but the rarest pleasure
is when he sends from over the sea a
poem shining like Il diamond with gor-
gous coIoring and as sweetly sad as the
sight OF maiden on her wedding night.
mere are few tr2gmentary poems writ
ten III the past ten years which equals his
latest from Venice, his Well-nigh peerless
AhgeIus." There is something OF Dante
!Aosettl III the word painting oil tie open
| Ing stanZa:
''.-i2getGS Dontini alo3tiapit IEayicen
81 Mark sets the peal for an hundred chimes,
Gear;
"Af0ef1S Do8ini 39iinti7uH lIari,en'
4Aus TIE low prayer Of my styarth gondolier.
The purple curtains of the West
Have almost hid the sunsets lire.
y" men, naming Nence-ward a crest,
LlguiS softly GONE ana cross and spire.
Deep lie the shadows III iaguOns
- Ear as CniO@gia'S SANS and reeds;
ne ar with litndwa4 perfume sWoons,
My narSln2n bows ana counts his beads
Our craft rlueS silent On the stream:
ANA, Hoatins thus, idly dream.
1t Is picture full OF Turneresque reds,
put perfect a d gorgeous rose. Then one
can near minor chord like Chopin as
| the Wanderer, under the OLD bells OF the
ume-Worn towers, lets his memory drift
PACK 70 the diamond morn Of long ago, to
Inc 1arm, to the mother. ana draws the
exquisite p!cture;Ino longer Turner or IL
Gerome with flashing colors but n pict-
ure inll Of grays, painted in q lonely,
nomesick twilight hour, TO be seen dimly
! Il LCdtSs
Aiia dream" Ah, fair queen Of the sea,
| Not an tiny witchngs can cnthIau
| ana lolu The wings OF memory.
thousand leagues ono tone can call
! y thouSand leagues one picturc bring
IN fudclcss form and scene to Ire;
( Ana though thy AngtiUs Lhrilul ling
Out DER the Adrlatc Sea,
hear through al lis ry.hlnics rtin1r
4hose good o.d songs my mother siingt
| y AngeluS-hour to heart and soul
/ ~ AISeIUs -hour OF peace and calm.
| Wlen DER The farm the evening stole
EHiOIdlng all IN summer balm,
! " uncut, ne scents Of tields-the musk
~ VI hedSe, OF corn, of Ninrowed hay
! me sdDtie attars OF the dusk;
/ Ana SlOW-WOrms like some milky way.
! ~ lthlu, as from an angel $ tongue
| Ihose dear Old songs my mother sung:
/ r rom every stormy wind that blows"
r'Soitiy now the light OF day."
| "Iuuu hidden source OF calm repDse.5
! II love to steal awhile aWay;''
! MI Gays are gliding sWity hv:"
/ . depths of mercy there can ye;'
/ "JeSGs look with plying eye;D
/ "ltocll OF ages cleft FOR me-"
! savior on me thy grace bestOW.,
Praise God from whom all BLESSINGS fio,v',,