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Then take the gloves that have, for ages past, Covered the treachery of thy blood-stained
hands, And wipe thy bloody sword -- then sprinkle it With gold dust from the streets of freedom's
heaven; Then stand before thy throne of burnished
gold And there behold, written by demons' hands, Upon its brazon front, The lust of power;" Then look above, below, on either side, Thou monstrous vulture of all civilities, And see the different titles thou hast heldThe different garbs you've worn; The different chains you've forged about the
necks Of slavery by tyranny, oppression, despotism,
mammon, And worst of all, by creeds. Then draw aside The drapery of thy curtained throne and there
behold The piles upon piles of heaped up skeletons, Which thou, with ax, and rope, and sword, and
gun, 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 ber band And pointed forward to the final goal. Look! look upon the highest of God's works, Wrecked and worse than slaughtered by thy
Shut up in prisons, dark and damp and cold,
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 tbe 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 bebold 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.
Then shalt thou joyful look Upon the bright blue sea, And read as in a book Thy immortality.
REV. DRYDEN WM. PHELPS.
Borx: New Haven, Coxx., 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 1871. The three years following he was assistant editor of the Christian Secretary, when be entered the Hartford theological seminary, in which he spent two years. In
TO THE MOURNER. 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, 0 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 reflec
tion! --When Christ shall come, descending from
above. The Lord Himself, our life and resurrection, Shall crown us His whom now unseen we
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 earth
holden 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
THOUGHTS AT THE WATER-SIDE.
My son, give me thy heart."
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
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 percbance 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.
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.
Some gift of fortune, treasured there In garnered fullness, might be mine,
In answer to entreating prayer,
To equal thine - Forgetfulness!
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;
A WIND-BLOWN SOUL. • The deepest pang of hell?
'Tis this remembering In present griefs, the joys of yesterday." Aye, look upon me wbile 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
A silly bard once musing hard,
Plucked verses out of time, And missed the freight a minute late
Because he stopped to rhyme.
Ye fire-bugs of the brain,
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.
JAMES NESTOR GALLAGHER. lagher, which is a book of poetry and prose combined, bas 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,
The chestnuts of the years.
Warm over other's lays,
The light of other days. Bards that rely on sonnets dry
For hash and raiment here,
And trousers worn a year.
Would many furrows turn;
And - Tanner diet earn.
Heads 'neath the poet's wig,
That write instead of dig.
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.
GEORGE DUDLEY DODGE, BORN: HAMPTON FALLS, N. H., MAY 4, 1838. 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
Its duty done, its season past,
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.
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.
MAY QUEEN. Hurrah, hurrah, long live the Queen, Whom we to-night have crowned, May health, and wealth and peace be hers, And ev'ry joy abound. . . . .