And prison walls, have slain in the name
Of Christian liberty. Turn now thine eyes,
Exalting tyranny, thou low vituperation
Of fair liberty, and look upon the lowest of
thy sons

Whose mind is fettered with stale ignorance,
Whose body daily feeds on bread alone,
Whose soul has never yet been satisfied.
Albeit his hands are rough with honest toil,
He stands a moral blot upon the foremost page
Of nature's book. Now go from this low specia
Of thy native law to the weird denizens of the
damned,

And there behold the brilliant minds on fire, The loathsome, bloated, reeling human form That hold those minds, and hear the frenzied

oaths,

The kicks, the cuffs, the midnight pistol shots,
And watch the flowing of the crimson stream
That once did feed a soul as pure as they -
Who bow before the throne of the most high,
And plead with dissipation. Turn now thine
eyes

From this revolting scene of loathsome filth
To mad insanity in all its varied forms,
From minds where reason comes and goes at
will

To those who ever wait in utter darkness,
And from bright youth unto the faded crone
Whose aspirations once leaped mountain high,
Arched by the bow of promise spite of doubts,
Clothed in the gorgeous hues of night, resolves
Led on by faith while hope held high her hand
And pointed forward to the final goal.
Look! look upon the highest of God's works,
Wrecked and worse than slaughtered by thy
hand,

Shut up in prisons, dark and damp and cold,
Or in the madhouse gnawing at their chains
Until their teeth are keenly set on edge;
Or worse than all, drinking the fiery draught
Of hell - deluded hell holes deep and dark,
While thus you stand within hell's open jaws
And scan the miseries of oppression's chains,
Trample the gaudy crown beneath thy feet
Which thou hast worn with such an empty
grace,--

Brush from thy robes the vile corroding dust
Of foul deceit,-then sprinkle them
With mercy's sparkling gems of human love;
Tear down the tottering pillows of thy throne,
Which stand upon the shaky, crumbling
sands

Of dead men's bones already rotten-
Not from the lapse of time, but from the
stench

Arising from the wasted, stagnant blood Of honest men. Wash well thy bloody hands at nature's fount

And cleanse the inner temple of thy throne With the bright glowing fires of human rights.

Then hie away to the beautiful hills of God, And there behold the progeny of all below thy

race,

Feeding on living pastures bright and green,
Drinking deep at the fount of natural life,
All living out the order of God's laws
In perfect harmony on their native plain;
Look and compare and then say, if you can,
My creeds, my customs and my laws are just;
Next roll away the stone from nature's tomb
And there behold wrapped in a little napkin
pure and white,

And lain away for future use

The holy principles of justice, love and truth, At which the world still scoffs and wags its head

And spits upon and crowns with thorns,
And crucifies and tries to kill, but which,
Though crushed to earth, will ever rise again
In spite of all the hellish powers that crush it
down,

And still proclaim the truth, and truth alone
Shall make you free. And now, O tyranny,
But liberty,so-called, lurking within the house
of holy creeds,

Cast off thy monarch crown of shining gold And bow before the throne of human rights And there confess thy sins. Show to mankind That he who'd save the world must save him

self

By living out his own, his innate laws,
Which are the only way-marks on the road
Leading up to wisdom's holy mount
And the unfoldment of the spirit man
To future peace and universal love
Throughout the vast domains of spirit worlds.

REV. DRYDEN WM. PHELPS.

BORN: NEW HAVEN, CONN., MARCH 16, 1854. AFTER graduating at the Hopkins grammar school in his native city, Dryden passed one year in Yale college, and three in Brown university, graduating at the latter institution in. 1877. The three years following he was assistant editor of the Christian Secretary, when he entered the Hartford theological seminary, in which he spent two years. In

REV. DRYDEN WM. PHELPS. 1887 he was ordained as pastor of the Baptist church in Wilmington, Vt., a position that terminated in 1889. The poems of the Rev. D. W. Phelps have appeared in the Christian Secretary, the World's Crisis, Vermont Phoenix, Our Home Guards, and other journals of prominence. In person he is a little above the average height, yet he weighs about 180 pounds, and is a very pleasant and intellectual gentleman.

THOUGHTS AT THE WATER-SIDE.

Look at the bright blue sea,

Think of thy Father's care;
Child of mortality,

O look to Him in prayer.

He calleth thee to-day,
"My son, give me thy heart."
How canst thou still delay?
Choose now the better part.

Then shalt thou joyful look
Upon the bright blue sea,
And read as in a book
Thy immortality.

TO THE MOURNER.

173

In hours of grief, oppressed with tribulation, When storms beat sore within the troubled breast,

How sweet to know the author of salvation Said: Come to me, and I will give you

rest."

Those words attend, O mourner sad and

lonely;

Our Lord on earth was often lone and sad. When loved ones sleep, the thought of Jesus

only

Can dry our tears and bid the heart be glad. The day draws nigh-- how joyous the reflection! --

When Christ shall come, descending from above.

The Lord Himself, our life and resurrection, Shall crown us His whom now unseen we love.

THE LIGHTS OF THE EARTH.

Sun, thou king of day who sendest light to our dwelling,

O how grand thou appearest at noon in fiery

splendor!

Who can stand thy glare? 'tis not poor earthholden mortals;

No, thy blinding gaze o'ercomes short-sighted

vision.

Thou art a work of God, and manifestest this splendor.

"Tis no wonder that people of old, not knowing their Maker,

Should have worshiped thee, and paid their devout adoration Which belonged to God, to thee this horrible emblem!

Moon, thou queen of the night, of the sun a poor imitation,

Where would be thy light if the sun did not freely bestow it?

Yet thou art gentler far than the hot burning day-king who lights thee, And we love thy beautiful gentleness, pride of the evening!

Stars, ye jewels who deck the lovely expanse of the heavens

When the moon has come to whisper of love

and the angels,

Yes, we love ye the best, O bright magnificent

gold drops!

And in ye the most can we praise the Eternal Creator.

174

BIRCH ARNOLD.

BORN: DELAVAN, WIS.

BIRCH ARNOLD is the author of Until the Day Break, an essentially American novel, which has been very favorably received. Her poems have appeared in the leading periodicals of

BIRCH ARNOLD.

America. This lady is a gifted conversationalist, a graceful elocutionist, and ably renders selections from her writings in a very pleasing manner. She now resides in Armada, Michigan.

FORGETFULNESS.

If, in the viewless haunts of time,
Some gift of fortune, treasured there
In garnered fullness, might be mine,
In answer to entreating prayer,
I scarce could claim a boon to bless,
To equal thine - Forgetfulness!
A haunting shadow sups with me,
To greet the morning's glad surprise,
With only sense of misery

And bitter meaning in it's eyes;
Alas! I cannot seek redress
Except in thee - Forgetfulness!
The summer suns may rise and set,
And blossomed fragrance fill the air,
I see thro' tears, nor can forget
That ever hovering wraith of care;

Though sorrow makes the sunshine less,
They're one with thee, Forgetfulness!
Each heart must know its day of grief,
All earthly things must fade and die,
Remembrance brings perchance relief,
Or bitterness of tear and sigh:
For me, no other boon can bless
Alike to thee,- Forgetfulness!

THE ROUND OF BLUE. Oh, Maude, sweet Maude, with your golden hair,

Your witching eyes, and your winsome air -
Do you know the mischievous things you do,
Crocheting the endless round of blue?

I have watched your taper fingers, white-
Now in, now out, now left, now right,
As the glittering needle willing flew,
Crocheting the endless round of blue.

At first my eyes you sought to chain
To the tangled threads of your azure skein;
At length, I think, you bolder grew,
Crocheting the endless round of blue.
For over my heart that tangled thread,
Over my eyes, and over my head,
In a filmy chain, you deftly threw,
Crocheting the endless round of blue.

I do not ask, sweet Maude, to be
From the pretty prison e'er set free:
I know full well there are jailers few
Like the one crocheting the round of blue.

If the fairy chain is woven strong,
To hold me fast, and hold me long-
Then, Maude, weave on, if this be true;
Weave ever on the round of blue.

64

A WIND-BLOWN SOUL.
The deepest pang of hell?
'Tis this remembering

In present griefs, the joys of yesterday."
Aye, look upon me while I linger
Behind the prison bars of sin!

I can no longer bear in silence,
Or shut the burning truth within.
I saw it speak in eye and gesture,
Tho' dead upon my lips it lay,
Until It burst its bonds asunder,

And found my soul the potter's clay.
That kiss! Oh, angels in yon heaven,
Is yours a dearer joy than mine?
Upon my throbbing lips it lingers,
And maddens me with love's strong wine.
And no remorse! Ah, Jesu! shrive me!
A dagger stroke my broken vow
But deeper still lives unforgotten
The love I had and might have now.

JAMES NESTOR GALLAGHER

BORN: CONCORD, N. H., JULY 5, 1848.

FOR the past fifteen years the pen of Mr. Gallagher has been engaged more or less in literary work. His new work, Let 'er Go Gal

JAMES NESTOR GALLAGHER.

lagher, which is a book of poetry and prose combined, has had an extensive sale from Maine to California. Mr. Gallagher now resides with his wife in San Antonio, Texas.

GOT LEFT HIMSELF.
There's little worse, ye clams of verse,
Than rhyming with the shears,

And warming o'er the thoughts of yore,
The chestnuts of the years.
Oft sterile pens, like brooding hens,
Warm over other's lays,

And spread anew, in borrowed hue,
The light of other days.
Bards that rely on sonnets dry
For hash and raiment here,
Discover soon an empty spoon
And trousers worn a year.

Alas, the time that's spent in rhyme
Would many furrows turn;
Yet idle scribes write diatribes
And-Tanner diet earn.

But little fame-which many claim-
Heads 'neath the poet's wig,
And few rewards enrich the bards
That write instead of dig.

A silly bard once musing hard,
Plucked verses out of time,

And missed the freight a minute late
Because he stopped to rhyme.

So jingle not 'less flaming hot,

Ye fire-bugs of the brain,

For if you do, like him you'll rueHello! I've missed the train!

THE COUNTRY EDITOR.

Manipulating rural type,

He sits behind his shears and pipe
And clips and puffs to make it.. biz
That other's brains be counted his.
He seldom sniffs the musive air
That circles genius everywhere,
But rather waits his choice exchange,
To garble o'er its cheering range.
Behind his .. form " he toils away
To keep outside three meals a day,
Save when amused by corner roughs
At pistols, knives and fisticuffs.

To advertisers he will state

His circulation's vastly great;

Then caring not for clique or clan,

He circulates, a solid man.

To indicate the mind's behest

Of language he is well possessed,
Which he has loved with constancy,
Till made to say, "delinquency."

Still withal he typifies

Every good beneath the skies,
And though we censure and malign,
Illumes the way to Virtue's shrine.

GOLD.

An impress of satanic mold
Art thou, creation-hunted gold,
Which deifies this pinch of earth
And classifies its current worth.
You arm the strong, enchain the weak,
And blanch the ruddy, virgin cheek;
And most the evil we behold
Originate from thee, oh gold!
Many in this mortal fold

By thee, alas! are bought and sold;
And yet, despite thy hellish mold,
We idolize thee, winsome gold.

BE YE HARD TO GET.
Possession seidom tends
To enhance the value set;
So be ye hard to get, friends,
Be ye hard to get.

The curliest of curls
Some libertine may stretch;
So be ye hard to catch, girls,
Be ye hard to fetch.

176

GEORGE DUDLEY DODGE, BORN: HAMPTON FALLS, N. H., MAY 4, 1836. GRADUATING from the academy of his native village, George entered Brown university in 1853. He has always resided in his native place, with the exception of three years while in trade in the state of Georgia, just before and during the war. Since that time Mr. Dodge has been engaged in cotton manufacture, and as country merchant and postmaster, until compelled by ill-health to seek the larger liber

GEORGE DUDLEY DODGE.

ty of farm life. In 1880 he was the nominee of the prohibition party for governor; afterward chairman of the state executive committee, and chosen a delegate to the national convention of that party in 1884. As a writer, Mr. Dodge is best known through his prose contributions to the press, although his poems have been widely copied and favorably commented upon. Mr. Dodge comes from old stock, dating back to the sixteenth century.

THE FADED LEAF.

Silently, softly, the faded leaf, Downward flits to the earth beneath, Or roughly whirled by wintry blast, In far off nook alights at last.

Its duty done, its season past,
To earth it finds its way at last,
Soon to mingle in common dust,
As all below at some time must.
In living green it nourished well,
The lofty tree before it fell,
In gorgeous colors glowing bright,
Touched by the frost, enrapt the sight.
Thus may we all our task perform,
In sunshine and in bitter storm,
And always show our beauty best,
When chill misfortune makes the test.

TEMPTED AND TRIED.

O kindest Father, friend and God,
O dear Redeemer, Brother, Lord,
O blessed Comforter divine,

O wond'rous three that one combine.

Let ev'ry stormy wind that blows,
But drive me to thy side more close,
Then Satan's arts shall not prevail,
That oft my trembling heart assail.
So let me watch and pray each hour,
As threatening clouds around me lower,
That quickened faith with help divine
Shall all my steps aright incline.

PEACE BE STILL.

Tempest tost on the billows of life,
Weary and worn with struggle and strife,
Upward I glance to heaven above,
And list to words of tender love,

Peace be still, O weeping soul,

I will all thy grief console.

Hope would vanish and the giant Despair, Would drag my soul to his dreadful lair, But for the voice of tender love, Speaking to me from heaven above, Peace be still, O trembling soul,

I will ev'ry foe control.

Let the tempest roar and the billows roll, Naught shall disturb my peaceful soul, While come to me from heaven above, These cheering words of tender love, Peace be still, O trusting soul,

I will ev'ry storm control.

God help poor souls in the voyage of life, Weary and worn with struggle and strife, Who hear no voice of tender love, Speaking to them from heaven above, Peace be still, O weary soul,

I will all thy grief console.