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The chords of raptures, of hopes, of fears, The chords of anguish, and joy, and tears,

I say you have struck them all, And the hidden meaning put in each strain By the Great Composer you have made plain.

BLASE.

With a soothing murmur,the River of Slumber

Flows o'er a bed of silver sand;
And angels are keeping watch o'er the sleeping

Babes of Babyland.
And there in the Valley of Babyland,

Under the moss and leaves and ferns,
Like an unfledged starling they find the

darling For whom the heart of a mother yearns. And they lift him lightly, and tuck him tightly

In feathers as soft as a Lady's hand,
And off with a rock-away step they walk away

Out of Babyland.
As they go from the Valley of Babyland

Forth into the world of great unrest,
Sometimes weeping he wakes from sleeping

Before he reaches his mother's breast. Ah! how she blessed him, how she carressed

him, Bonniest bird in the bright home band, That o'er land and water the kind storks

brought her From far off Babyland.

The world has outlived all its passion;

Its men are inane and blase,
Its women mere puppets of fashion;

Life now is a comedy play.
Our Abilard sighs for a season,

Then yields with decorum to Fate; Our Heloise listens to reason,

And seeks a new mate. Our Romeo's flippant emotion

Grows pale as the summer grows old, And our Juliet proves her devotion

By clasping - a cup filled with gold.
Vain Antony boasts of love's favors

From fair Cleopatra the frail,
And the death of the sorceress savors

Less of asps than of ale.
With the march of bold civilization

Great loves and great faiths are down trod; They belonged to an era and nation

All fresh with the imprint of God. High culture emasculates feeling;

The overtaught brain robs the heart; And the shrines now were mortals are kneel.

ing Is a commonplace mart. By the lady-like minds of our mothers

We are taught that to feel is bad form;" Our effeminate fathers and brothers

Keep carefully out of life's storm; Our worshippers, now, and our lovers,

Are calmly devout - with their brains; And we laugh at the man who discovers

Warm blood in his veins.

THE MASTER HAND.
It is something too strange to understand,

How all the chords on the instrument,
Whether sorrowful, blithe, or grand,
Under the touch of your master hand

Were into one melody blent: Major, minor, everything,--all Came at your magic fingers' call. Why, famed musicians had turned in despair

Again and again from those self-same keys:
They mayhap brought forth a simple air,
But a discord always crept in somewhere

In their fondest efforts to please.
Or a jarring, jangling, meaningless strain
Would anger the silence to noisy pain.
Out of tune," they would frown, and say,

Or a loosened key," or " a broken string;"
But sure and certain they were alway
That no man living on earth could play

Measures more pleasing, or bring
Sounds more sweet, or a finer air,
Out of that curious instrument there.
And then you came. You swept the scale

With a mighty master's wonderful art;
You made the minor keys sob and wail,
While the deep notes rang like a bell in a gale,

And every chord in my heart, From the low bass tones to the shrill ones

above, Joined into the glorious harmony - Love. And now, though I live for a thousand years, On no new chords can a new hand fall.

But you, O twin souls, passion-mated,

Who love as the gods loved of old, What blundering destiny fated

Your lives to be cast in this mould?
Like a lurid volcanic upheaval

In pastures prosaic and gray
You seem, with your fervors primeval,

Among us to-day,
You dropped from some planet of splendor,

Perhaps, as it circled afar, And your constancy swerveless and tender

You learned from the course of that star. Fly back to its bosom, I warn you,

As back to the ark flew the dove:
The minions of earth will but scorn you

Because you can love!

HENRY RYDER-TAYLOR.

BORN IN ENGLAND, MAY 5, 1850. WHEN a boy, Henry wrote a Poetical History of England. He was attached to the London Telegraph and All The Year Round, and at one time was amanuensis to Charles Dickens. He was subsequently employed by several prominent London and provincial papers, and wrote several able pamphlets, socn gaining a reputation as a forcible, witty, elegant and entertaining writer. Mr. RyderTaylor has edited various otber publications

They'll soon grow big and alter things,

In the better by and by. The lovers often quarrel,

And think each other hard, As often they make up their tiffs,

And greater grows regard. They think upon the future,

When bound by dearer tie, And hope for wedded happiness,

In the better by and by.
When man and wife are parted,

As oft we see in life,
By cruel fate, or worse yet still,

Perhaps by cankerous strife;
If pure love in their hearts has burned,

This solace they apply,-
The hope of blessed reunion,

In the better by and by.
The widow, in her sore distress,

Is turned from her grief,
To her dear, loving little child,

And in it finds relief;
By want and care she is oppressed,

And under ban doth lie,
Yet waits in patience and in hope,

The better by and by.
The rich man's often envied,

By reasons of his wealth;
He trials has, vexations too,

And often bad his health. Surrounded by his riches,

His heart has still its cry,
And even he looks forward

To the better by and by.
The poor man going forth at dawn

Toils very hard all day,
His wages small, his comforts few,

And very rough his way;
To make the most of humble means,

He and his wife doth try,
Encouraged by the goodly hope,

Of the better by and by.
The prisoner in his lonely cell,

As punished for crime,
Toils sadly on throughout the day,

And wears away his time:
He thinks of wife and loving friends,

And on them doth rely,
And longs for Freedom's happy hour,--

In the better by and by.
The sick man tossing on his bed,

Racked by the body's pain,
For him there seems but little hope

He may be well again;
But when folks come to see him,

How welcome the reply,
- You are doing very nicely-

You'll be better by and by."

[graphic]

HENRY RYDER-TAYLOR. of note; has filled several public offices; was for a time professor of English literature and elocution, and gave lectures on important subjects. In 1881 he came to the United States, settling in San Antonio, Texas, where he soon became an American citizen. He is now editor of the Sunday Mirror, and contributes to several prominent journals. Mr. Ryder-Taylor has a wife and a family of several children, of whom he is very proud.

THE BETTER BY AND BY.
As onward through the world we go,

We many trials see,
And troubles oft oppress us sore,

They seem so hard to be;
But when the heart is lone and sad,

Then hope to us is nigh,
And shows a happy prospect

In the better by and by.
The children think it very hard,

That elders bear the rule;
And harder still the lessons

They learn in life's great school. Hope gives them courage as they think,

It sparkles in the eye

Where oppression cannot trouble,

In the haven of the blest. I have fought the fight now fairly,

But I seem to be awrong And waiting still I sadly ery,

- How long, oh! Lord, how long?"

But when we mourn our loved, our dead,

How bitter is the heart!
'Tis then we feel the force of love-

How hard it is to part!
But hope stands by to cheer us,

While we with tate comply,
And says that we shall meet again

In the better by and by.
Since all of us, both rich and poor,

Of trials have a share,
To each let's give a helping hand,

And have a friendly care;
Let's do our duty in this world,

And when we come to die, We'll surely be rewarded,

In the better by and by.

MRS. JANE R. H.CARPENTER.

BORN: ROCKINGHAM, VT., JAN. 2, 1834. This lady has written poems from time to time for the past quarter of a century, many of which have appeared in the local press. She was married in 1853 to Byron F. Carpenter; removed to Orient, Iowa, in 1874, where she now resides with her husband and family.

THE SONG OF THE WEARY. I am weary, oh! my darling,

Of this fell earthly strife,
That day by day I'm waging

Just to sustain our life.
But I struggle on still hoping

That Time will right the wrong;
And yet my weary heart will sigh,

“How long, Oh! Lord, how long?" I am weary, oh! my darling,

Of the sights I daily see,
Of vice in glorious splendor,

The poor in misery.
The gilded herd, with iron rule,

Oppress the common throng;
I'm patient, yet the heart will cry:

.. How long, oh! Lord, how long?" I am weary, oh! my darling,

Of the friendship that's not true,
And sigh that we no Damons find

To gild life's dreary hue.
I am weary of the love that comes

Just like a Syren's song;
And sadly does my heart repeat,

How long, oh! Lord, how long?"
I am weary, oh! my darling,

Of the fashions of the time,
That only make dressed dummies

Of womanhood sublime,
That make of young men noodles,

Effeminate, not strong;
And, sickened, then I sadly cry,

. How long, oh! Lord, how long?" I am weary, oh! my darling,

Of politic's shrewd game, Where bosses rule in all things,

Defile the people's name;
Where the sharp" and not the honest,

To power pass along;
And, heart-sick, I cry the louder,

.. How long, oh! Lord, how long?" I am weary, oh! my darling,

And I long to be at rest,

FANCY'S PICTURE. Beautiful moonlight over me falling Dearly loved scenes to my mind thou'rt call

ing, Scenes of my childhood, long gone though

they be, Thou bringest these back in bright mem'ries

to me. In the old home, nestled 'mong forest-crown

ed hills, I list to the music of swift dancing rills, And musical voices far sweeter than these Are floating to me on the soft evening breeze. Over my heart, long shaded in sadness, Softly there falleth a feeling of gladness, For the dear old days have come back to me, When I was a child so careless and free. Here in their prime I find Father and Mother; Once more I frolic with sister and brother, Building a playhouse in some pleasant nook, Or romp in the orchard or down by the brook, Sweet as the flowers that bloom in the wild

wood Are the beautiful days of innocent childhood, And like the fair flowers how short is their

stay, The swift passing years soon bear them away. E'en as I gaze, fancy's picture is fading, Realities, stern my pathway are shading, Life's burdens and years have furrowed my

brow, And my loved ones dwell not in the old home

now.

EXTRACT. Many a time comes sorrow and care, And trials the heart can scarcely bear. But seldom will come a measure of bliss, In a world as cold and careless as this; The strangest of things will sometimes befall Yet the pleasures we know as the sweetest of

all May come but once in a lifetime.

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MRS. MARTHA K. COLBURN. And the town, which lay peaceful, at break

of day, BORN: GARRETTSVILLE, O., OCT. 4, 1846.

Was, in a few moments, all swept away. THE poetical productions of Mrs. Colburn

And thousands of souls, borne down by the have already received recognition in Harper's

Shall lie forever in nameless graves; [waves,
Among them the rider, who thought in the

morning,
To the valley below, he'd carry the warning.
He thought for a time to outride the ware,
But alas! too soon it would be bis grave. [tide,
As he gained the bridge, he was struck by the
And e'er he could reach the other side
The structure, with a crash, was seen to fall,
And bridge, and rider, steed and all
Were plunged, in the seething mass below!
Alas! alas! that it should be so.
A nameless Paul Revere" he dies --
Somewhere, with the nameless dead he lies;
Though nomarble slab shall mark the spot,
Yet his daring deed will be ne'er forgot,
As ages roll, and the pen shall tell,
Of hero's who, with laurels fell,
No name shall shine with a brighter hue,
Than that of the rider, so brave and true.

[graphic]

ELMER OSBORN LAUGHLIN.

Born: PARIS, ILL., AUG. 2, 1867. ALTHOUGH a young man, Elmer has written quite extensively for the Toledo Blade, Cincinnati Gazette, Chicago Tribune and other equally prominent journals. He is now study. ing medicine, and resides in Paris, IU.

MRS. MARTHA K. COLBURN. Weekly, although she has but recently commenced to court the muse. She is a very pleasant lady, and now lives in Waterford, Pa.

THE HERO'S LAST RIDE.
Through the valley with the paleness of death

on his brow,
Dashed a rider - unmindful of where, or how
He could best escape the torrent wide,
Which was bearing destruction on every side.
His only thoughts were of those below,
Who, in the valley, the danger did not know;
And through the air, his clear voice thrills,

Run for your lives, to the hills, to the hills."
Madly the noble steed plunged along,
The rider, unheeding the gathering throng,
Flew by. While the vale echoed back the
thrills,-

[the hills." . To the hills, to the hills, for your lives, to With the speed of the wind, he hurried down The valley to warn the ill-fated Johnstown; For the mighty dam, had, at last, given 'way, And the water was eagerly seizing its prey. Sweeping everything clean that lay in its

track, It came like a demon, all grim and black;

AN AUTUMN SONG.
But yesterday

Bright flowers of May,
Smiled in the sunshine everywhere!

And joyous notes,

From tuneful throats
Of countless songsters filled the air.

But yesterday

Earth, young and gay,
Tripped lightly 'neath the bluest skies,

While sunbeams kissed

Away the mist
Of morning, from her dewy eyes.

Oh, yesterday,

How far away:
How distant from the bleak to-day

Thy mem'ries fade

Into a shade,
A dream of birds and flowers and May.

For ah, to-day

Skies cold and gray
Hang heavy o'er the Earth's pathway;

And naked trees

Mourn in the breeze
For yesterday, --- sweet yesterday.

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