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Man speaks of death, but that he cannot
mean, We only go up higher; Our travel finished - by the living seen
We but approach God nigher. 'Tis step by step we're ever traveling on,
We cannot stop and stay;
God meets us on our way.
Yet with Faith's home in view;
FRIENDSHIP. When friend to friend hath spoken the fare
well, And trembled at the thought that ne'er
again Perchance they two shall meet, -the magic
spell Of sacred friendship, is it rent in twain? From shore to shore the waves of ocean roll,
From east to west the lonely breezes blow; And'shall not soul commune with kindred soul
In mutual sympathetic ebb and flow?
MARY MORGAN. This lady has written under the nom de plume of Gowan Lea. Poems and Translations is a beautiful little volume from her pen. The grace and sweetness of her writings appear in these poems. Her translations from the French, Italian and German, also add a charm to this beautiful little work.
TO NATURE. Nature, I would be thy child,
Sit and worship at thy feet; Read the truth upon thy face,
Wait upon thine accent sweet: I would put my hand in thine,
Bow my head upon thy knee, Live upon thy love alone, Fearless, trusting all to thee.
CHARITY. Thou askest not to know the creed, The rank, or name is naught to thee, Where'er the human heart cries help! Thy kingdom is, O Charity!
SING ON, SWEET BIRD.
It joys my heart to hear;
No clouds in all thy year?
As seeking Heaven's high dome, I envy thee thy upward flight,
From this my earth-bound home.
Oh teach me all thy art,
Heavenward with lightsome heart. What though the skies be dark betimes,
The sun must shine again;
As if they knew no pain!
Will follow my refrain,
Sad memory leads the strain.
THE PRESENT AND THE FUTURE.
Know'st thou, Futurity?
Show me my destiny.
Show thee thy destiny?
Apart from mystery.
My power thou may'st defy;
That which in me doth lie!
SUMMUM BONUM. To live in every thought
A life so true and pure; To do in every deed
The noblest, and endure; To hate with direst hate
The wrong and sin we see; The sinner to restore
With gentlest charity;This is the heavenly mind,
Wherever it be found; A soulat one with good,
Knows only hallowed ground.
THE IDEAL. .. What now is thine ideal?" asks a friend, As with an earnest glance he turns to me:
Each one bath his own vision; let us see Wherein these differ, and whereto they tend. Think of the world that is; of what might
be;' Of what was loveliest to you long agoThe shattered ideals - place them in a rowBeginning with the years of infancy." I strove then to call up the vanished past
A swift-drawn mental picture of the whole
Tracing each aim unto the present hour; But words were halting, and I could at last But say: . ( sky-ward looking, fleet-winged
soul! Earth hath no name for thine ideal flower."
LYDIA A. PLATT RICHARDS.
BORN: MALONE, N. Y., OCT. 5, 1844. The poems of this lady have been published in the Chicago Times, Tribune and Inter-Ocean, and other papers of equal prominence, from which they have been copied extensively by
She may have sinned - 0, womankind,
FIRST VOICE: In pride and wrath I fled his side, Yet loved him so; his promised bride For lying tongues had sown the seed Of rank distrust, that venomed weed, From sea to sea; we dwell apartThough sundered far, yet near at heart, He wed another, so did I --Both learn too late, love will not die; The years fly past; my hair is gray --My one mad-love is young to-day. Age does not reach the heart they say, Nor love grow old or fade-decay, While vengeful wrath will cool, subside, And love, alone, remain, abide. I feel his warm breath on my brow, Past thirty years; it seems as now. His strong arms, too; they haunt my waist, Persistent, as his last embrace; His soft, sweet tones, I hear them still, And shall, till heart itself, grows chill. Ah, saddest fate! I hopeless cry, That woman's love can never die.
SECOND VOICE: I wed my love of the tender tone, Him that I loved, and loved alone, His kisses now are few and cold, His arms have ceased to clasp, enfold I saw him kiss my servant-maid, And know that love was doomed -- be
trayed. The vile saloon, the billiard hall, The club and lodge, I hate them all, Too late, I learn, the pure in heart From vicious comrades stand apart. Who flirts with vice, and sin and shame, No wifely hand can e'er reclaim; Divorce and courts are useless, vain; Confiding love, no laws regain. Rough, cruel words are often mine; For tender tones I've ceased to pine; While want, and taunts and even blows, Have taught me much of wedded woes. Deep, buried down from sneering eye, Where human jackals dare not pry; I shroud that old love, stark and dead, And o'er its grave, lone tears are shed. Ah, saddest fate! I mournful cry, When woman lives, and love will die.
THE OUTCAST. She may have sinned I never knew, There were reports - how false, or true, I had no cause to ask, or knowThe world condemned, and made it so. She may have sinned - the reckless child, Or been deceived, mistaught, beguiled; Judge not, -the measure which you mete, You shall receive at Jesus' feet. She may have sinned - is sinning yet, These least, these low ones you forget, Are God's own children, whom you spurn; They sin no more than you who turn. She may have sinned - there is no doubt, Her sins have someway found her out; Who has no sin - may cast a stone By sinless bands, no stones are thrown.
THE PATIENT SHOPGIRL. I saw a shopgirl, pale and proud, Glide shrinking through the common crowd, As though her labor was a shame;
O poet, sing this flower of song,
As Cambridge bard of fleur-de-lis, The iris by the river marge,
Or golden lily of the lea.
Guest of the passing hour,
Though but a summer flower.
That toiler, worker was a name
MRS. ISADORE BAKER. THE poems of Mrs. Isadore Baker have appeared in the leading periodicals and widely copied by the local press. She has a volume of poems ready for publication, which will probably appear in 1890. Mrs. Baker is now a resident of Iowa City, Iowa. THE SONG OF THE MORNING GLORIES. So faintly flushing, freshly fair --
Born of the dawn and dew,
Of sky-ethereal hue.
The blue of firmament;
As some rare instrument.
The music of the spheres,
In morn of summer years?
In lone and lowly places,
Like wistful baby faces.
And Erin isle, the clover;
And Egypt lotus lover.
Though known to song and story,
Of New World morning glory.
Hath gift as fair in waiting,
If death be new creating,
In flag or blossom tender.
THE VIKING'S DAUGHTER. Venus above the wave,
Daughter of Viking brave,
Save to thy lover;
As for none other.
Some of their fragrance; List to their whisper low, Gulls white as drift of snow. Fearing nor friend nor foe,
Birds of brave vagrance. They shall my message bring, They of unwearied wing, Scorn not thy offering,
Daughter of Viking:
My fortune seeking.
News of thy lover?
As for none other.
Jewel love-lighted. Or, but a vision sweet Dawning from wave to greet Eyes that with thine may meet
Love's own expression; Speak thou, O maid of mist! Oft by the tempest kissed, Speak! for we fain would list
Thy naive confession.
JOHN GOSSE FREEZE.
When the stars in their beauty were pouring
A silvery sheen o'er the night, BORN: LYCOMING CO., Pa., Nov. 4, 1825.
| My soul, with that spirit-voice soaring, Jous received a common school and academic Was off in far regions of light: education, including Latin and Greek, taught Its music was in and around me, school for several years, studied law and was / Pervading each visible thing; admitted to the bar of Columbia county, Penn
Like a low, distant echo it bound me, sylvania, in 1848. Mr. Freeze has resided in
Repeating that mystic word, Sing." Bloomsburg since that date, in the constant
The song of the syren subdued me,--practice of his profession. This gentleman
I boast no Ulyssean art, was married in 1854; has had five children, all
With all of itself it imbued me, of whom are dead. In person Mr. Freeze is
Enshrining itself in my heart; about five feet nine inches in height, of spare
With Fate I could struggle no longer, build, weighing about 130 pounds, eyes of gray
The air seemed with music to ring, color, hair and beard dark in youth, but now
Each moment the soft voice grew stronger, gray. His life, the life of a lawyer, has been
Till it bade me, in thunder tones, - Sing." uneventful, and the reports of the supreme
I sang but how lame was the metre! court of the state attest his standing in his profession. He has been register and recorder
I sang - but how common the there! of his county, was elected a member of the
Oh, teach me some strain that is sweeter, Pennsylvania constitutional convention of
And grant me pure poesy's dream. 1872, from which body he resigned; is a mem
Since now to thy mandate I bow me, ber of the episcopal church, and chancelor of
Deign o'er me thy mantle to fling; the diocese of Central Pennsylvania. He is the
With all of thy spirit endow me,-author of a History of Columbia county, Penn
Enable me truly to sing." sylvania, and of a volume of verse entitled A
TO MARGARET. Royal Pastoral and Other Poems.
Have thou a care, most trustful Margaret, SPIRIT MELODY.
Who comes a-wooing to thy garden gate; The spirit said Sing," as I wandered
Keep him a suppliant, Alone by the babbling brook,
Nor grant a favor thou canst not recall. Whose music welled up as I pondered,
It is enough that he in Eden walks, Entranced o'er some magical book;
And the sweet perfume of its shrubs inhales, The days glided by me unheeded,
Nor let him cross the stream Their coming no pleasure could bring,
That keeps the way twixt him and ParaFor the day and the night which succeeded
dise. Inceasingly whispered me, Sing."
Oft shall he circle the forbidding walls, That voice was the first in the morning, Oft seek the breeze that wantoned with thy It came with the sun o'er the hill,
hair, It seemed like a spirit-land warning
Reach for thy absent self, Mysteriously working its will;
And think he sees thee though thou be The wind bore that voice to me often,
not there. It came with the zephyrs of spring,
Thou unessayed art ever fair and pure, Low breathing, - The best way to soften
A kiss, a touch, a step may break the charm, The harshness of life is to sing.”
Then keep thee to thyself It came in the cool breeze of noontide,
The sought for gem is ever prized the While nature was musing at rest;
most. Though deep silence reigned o'er the hillside, while thus he stands an humble, My ear with its music was blest;
Thou art the mistress of his fate and thine; The notes of the birds, as they wended
Pass but the Rubicon, Away on the swift-speeding wing,
He is the Cæsar, thou the fallen Rome. With the hum of the bright insect blended,
Therefore beware, most trustful Margaret, And whispered me gently to . sing.'
Who comes a wooing to thy garden gate; As comes a sweet love-tale at evening
While ignorance is bliss To the heart, it thrillingly came,
The Tree of Knowledge grows in Paradise! Still into my willing ear breathing Its story of greatness and fame.
THE REASON WHY. I listened with joy, though I trembled,-
Why do you love me? said my blushing maid, It seemed the behest of a king:
As on her head caressingly I laid I doubted no more, nor dissembled,
The sun-browned hand that wins my daily "Twas certain the voice bade me .. sing."
Dark phantoms breed, My efforts will not wane,
Still would I toil And cultivate again
The stubborn soil.
It cannot be my wealth of golden hair,
Why do you love me? I've no lily hand
To turn the stone,
When he is blown,-
MARY D. MCINTOSH. BORN: FERNANDINA, FLA., APRIL 4, 1867. The poems of this lady have appeared chiefly in local papers. She now resides in Williamstown, in the state of Virginia.
Why do you love me? I can never bring
caress The highest in the land -- I cannot, cannot
guess. Why do I love thee? It is naught to me That high estates are wanting unto thee, That jewels flash not o'er thee brilliantly --Mere dross are they! One living golden hair Is worth them all. Thou art thyself, my fair, Made precious by our love, thy heart a jewel
DR. W. M. GRAY. This gentlemen now resides in Allegheny, Pa. He has written hundreds of poems which have received publication, and also has several long poems that he intends to publish in book form at an early date.
LONGINGS. Yet luck is most too vague
For me to trust-, It may come back to plague
And turn to dust. Then let me try once more
To win the race, And with the men of lore
To gain a place. By labor, thought and skill,
I may get through,
Until I do.
Should not succeed, Or if again reverse
THE FOUR-LEAF CLOVER. A little four-leaf clover That by the wayside grew, She stooping plucked and fastened Within her dainty shoe. So 3mall I did not see it As adown the lane we met; But the face of she who wore it I never can forget. O little four-leaf clover With leaves of emerald hue, I'd roam the wide fields over To get a glimpse of you. More sought than any flower That grows in field or dell, Luck upon thy leaves has power, Fate has bound thee with a spell. 'Twas fate that caused the meeting And love that came at sight Of the graceful little figure With eyes so blue and bright; With voice so sweet and cheery, It went straight to my heart, And a winning look that memory Will never let depart. My thoughts will ever be of her, Though many years have fled; The days of joy have vanished The hopes of youth are dead. But I feel in looking backward That my heart would wake anew, Could I meet again the maiden With the clover in her shoe.