Trinity’s self was new-born with the nation;
  Springing from ashes of desolation,
    She helped to forge posterity. 
  Now she looks from her chosen station,
  At pageant, starvation, begg’ry, ovation,
    Results of her sons’ prosperity.

  Within, away from the din and crowd
  And the mendicants’ cries and the laughter loud,
    Of Pleasure in hand with Youth,
  Is the silent yet eloquent reign of Peace
  And the utterance of words which shall not cease
    While the earth has a place for Truth.

  When peal on peal the organ’s voice
  Calls the assembled to rejoice
    For blessings unsurpassed,
  Or when its milder tones tell Grief,
  Then e’en Death’s triumph is but brief,
    Old Trinity’s charm but half is grasped.

  Far sweeter it is in the twilights glim,
  When the symbolled altar is growing dim,
    And the wayward shadows dart,
  To watch the golden light stream in
  Each lofty window, as though all sin
    At its entrance must depart.

  Saints’ and martyrs’ pictured graces,
  Illumined by these heavenly traces,
    Shine in blue and saffron and red;
  But in the sun’s last traces, above their faces,
  Beam the eyes which no might from the soul effaces,
    And the Christ’s mock-crowned head.

Literary Monthly, 1894.

TWO TRIOLETS OF AUTUMN

KARL E. WESTON ’96

  ’Neath fading leaves and dreary skies,
  A late-born rose burst into bloom
  And gazed about with sad surprise,
  ’Neath fading leaves and dreary skies;
  Let fall from Summer’s bier, it lies
  In Autumn’s pathway ’mid the gloom
  Of fading leaves and dreary skies,
  A late-born rose, burst into bloom.

  Beside the ever restless sea
  Fair Autumn stands.  With beckoning hand
  She hails the passing days, which flee
  Across the ever restless sea,—­
  Their sealed ears hearing not the plea
  Which sea-winds waft from that fair land
  Beside the ever restless sea,
  Where Autumn stands with beckoning hand.

Literary Monthly, 1894.

NANTUCKET

ARTHUR KETCHUM ’98

  Adrift in taintless seas she dreaming lies,
  The island city, time-worn now, and gray,
  Her dark wharves ruinous, where once there lay
  Tall ships, at rest from far-sea industries. 
  The busy hand of trade no longer plies
  Within her streets.  In quiet court and way
  The grass has crept—­and sun and shadows play
  Beneath her elms, in changing traceries;
  The years have claimed her theirs, and the still peace
  Of wind and sun and mist, blown thick and white,
  Has folded her.  The voices of the seas
  Through many a soft, bright day and brooding night
  Have wrought her silence, wide as they, and deep,
  And dreaming of the past, she waits—­asleep.