A Rosebud In Lent.

        You saw her last, the ball-room's belle,
            A soufflé, lace and roses blent;
        Your worldly worship moved her then;
            She does not know you now, in Lent.

        See her at prayer! Her pleading hands
            Bear not one gem of all her store.
        Her face is saint-like. Be rebuked
            By those pure eyes, and gaze no more

        Turn, turn away! But carry hence
            The lesson she has dumbly taught
        That bright young creature kneeling there
            With every feeling, every thought

        Absorbed in high and holy dreams
            Of new Spring dresses truth to say,
        To them the time is sanctified
            From Shrove-tide until Easter day.

George Augustus Baker, Jr.

No biography available

George Augustus Baker, Jr.

Chivalrie.

George Augustus Baker, Jr., Simple Poetry

Fishing.

George Augustus Baker, Jr., Simple Poetry

De Lunatico.

George Augustus Baker, Jr., Simple Poetry

Les Enfants Perdus.

George Augustus Baker, Jr., Simple Poetry

English

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Easter

April 1, 1888

Lent gathers up her cloak of sombre shading
    In her reluctant hands.
Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading,
    As pensively she stands
Awaiting Easter's benediction falling,
    Like silver stars at night,
Before she can obey the summons calling
    Her to her upward flight,
Awaiting Easter's wings that she must borrow
    Ere she can hope to fly -
Those glorious wings that we shall see to-morrow
    Against the far, blue sky.
Has not the purple of her vesture's lining
    Brought calm and rest to all?
Has her dark robe had naught of golden shining
    Been naught but pleasure's pall?
Who knows? Perhaps when to the world returning
    In youth's light joyousness,
We'll wear some rarer jewels we found burning
  ...

Emily Pauline Johnson

Ash-Wednesday.

Glitt'ring balls and thoughtless revels
    Fill up now each misspent night -
'Tis the reign of pride and folly,
    The Carnival is at its height.
Every thought for siren pleasure,
    And its sinful, feverish mirth;
Who can find one moment's leisure
    For aught else save things of earth?

But, see, sudden stillness falling
    O'er those revels, late so loud,
And a hush comes quickly over
    All the maddened giddy crowd,
For a voice from out our churches
    Has proclaimed in words that burn:
"Only dust art thou, proud mortal,
    And to dust shall thou return!"

And, behold, Religion scatters
    Dust and ashes on each brow;
Thus replacing gem and flower
    With that lowly symbol now:
On the forehead fair of beauty,
  ...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Easter Morning.

        Too early, of course! How provoking!
            I told Ma just how it would be.
        I might as well have on a wrapper,
            For there isn't a soul here to see.
        There! Sue Delaplaine's pew is empty,
            I declare if it isn't too bad!
        I know my suit cost more than hers did,
            And I wanted to see her look mad.
        I do think that sexton's too stupid
            He's put some one else in our pew
        And the girl's dress just kills mine completely;
            Now what am I going to do?
        The psalter, and Sue isn't here yet!
            I don't care, I think it's a sin
        For people to get late to service,
            Just to make a great show coming in.
        Perhaps she is sick, and can't ...

George Augustus Baker, Jr.

An Easter Flower.

I.

The flower that she gave to me
    Has withered now and died--
But yet with fond fidelity
    Its faded leaves abide.


II.

The petals that so fragrant then
    She wore upon her breast--
Still clinging to the lifeless stem,
    With miser care possessed.


III.

As when in sweetest purity
    It shed its perfume rare,
A symbol dear 'twill ever be
    Of one divinely fair!


IV.

Plucked by the cruel hand of Death
    In beauty's youthful bloom--
She perished with his chilling breath,
    And withered in the tomb.


V.

But I will cherish ever thus
    The token that she gave
When sun-lit skies were over us,
    Unclouded by the grave!

George W. Doneghy

A Song.

        Spring-time is coming again, my dear;
            Sunshine and violets blue, you know;
        Crocuses lifting their sleepy heads
            Out of their sheets of snow.
        And I know a blossom sweeter by far
        That violets blue, or crocuses are,
            And bright as the sunbeam's glow.
        But how can I dare to look in her eyes,
            Colored with heaven's own hue?
        That wouldn't do at all, my dear,
            It really wouldn't do.

        Her hair is a rippling, tossing sea;
            In its golden depths the fairies play,
        Beckoning, dancing, mocking there,
            Luring my heart away.
        And her merry lips are the ripest red
        That ever addled a poor man's head,
            Or...

George Augustus Baker, Jr.

The Young Novice.

The lights yet gleamed on the holy shrine, the incense hung around,
But the rites were o'er, the silent church re-echoed to no sound;
Yet kneeling there on the altar steps, absorbed in ardent prayer,
Is a girl, as seraph meek and pure - as seraph heav'nly fair.

The blue eyes, veiled by the lashes long that rest on that bright cheek
Are humbly bent, while the snow-white hands are clasped in fervor meek,
While in the classic lip and brow, each feature of that face,
And graceful high-bred air, is seen she comes of noble race.

But, say, what means that dusky robe, that dark and flowing veil,
The silver cross - oh! need we ask? they tell at once their tale:
They say that, following in the path that fair as she have trod,
She hath renounced a fleeting world, to give herself to G...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon