She stands beside her mate, companion-wise, Erect, self-poised, with clear, straightforward eyes. For what she knows he is she holds him dear, And not for what she fancies him--with fear. Brave spirit! Disillusionized, she lifts What blinder women bear as heaven's ill gifts. She asks but, ere she reproduce a man, He truly be one, so a woman can. She gives not for the asking, nor as one Who does unpleasant things that must be done. Nay, he who half-unwilling love receives Knows not the full-orbed joy she freely gives. Emancipated, on firm feet she stands, And all that man exacts of her demands; The new morality, the art of life, And not obedience, holds her as wife. Hail, the new woman! By her choices she Determines wisely what mankind shall be. She will not with eyes open be beguiled To choose a tainted father for her child. UNDER THE STARS. BY COATES KINNEY. It is a sad, sad sight.--_Carlyle._ O stars! as the flakes of a snowstorm How ye fly and fall and drift! Swift snowing of suns out of darkness, Whirled by winds of force and whiffed! Fly! fall! but the wind the Almighty Still behind you always runs, Still pushes you onward together, Fixed each sun in drift of suns. Fixed, ay, to the vision of mortal Never change hath shown in you; Lands, seas, and their kingdoms and races All have changed, but ye are true-- Still true to the old constellations, Such as when the forebrain first Uplifted itself to their glories With this human spirit's thirst. Calm! still! though in every sparkle Motions like the thunderbolt, Wide whirlings of worlds in their sunlight, Planet's wheel and comet's volt, All hang, as it were, in a dewdrop Frozen to a steadfast gleam; Time, place, dwindled down to a glitter, Whimseys of an instant's dream. Drift! drift! all the universe drifting Round some sun too vast for thought! On! on! awful maelstrom of matter Whirling in a gulf of naught! Whirl! wheel! and my soul like a seabird Flies across and dips and flees-- Wild wings of my soul, like the seabird's, Tossed and lost upon the seas! THE CRY OF THE VALLEY. BY CHARLES MELVIN WILKINSON. Too long, too long on the mountain's brow You linger, O storm-cloud! Know you not I, the suffering lowland, need you now Where the scorching sun glares hot? You deluge the barren cliffs of chalk While wither the grass and the fruitful grain, And the red rose, shrivelling, dies on its stalk With a smothered cry for rain. You lavish your wealth on the lordly height That knows not a miser's need therefor,-- With a smile I must take what is mine by right As the gift true souls abhor.