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FURTHERMORE. We, that are held of you in narrow chains, Sought for our beauty, thro' our folly raised One moment to barren eminerce, To drop in dreary nothingness, amazed; We, dwarfed to suit the measure of our pride, Thwarted in all our pleasures and our powers, Have yet a sad, majestic recompense, The dignity of suffering, that is ours. The proudest of you lives not but he wrung A woman's unresting form with pain, While the long nurture of your helpless years Brought back the bitter childbirth throes again.
They who mete and they who gather, counting
out the shining spoil, Bade me stand and tarry reck’ning, show my
toil, Comes a beggar to the banquet where the full
in heart rehearse, He shall take his place in silence, he shall neith
er bless nor curse: We must cover his short-comings with a treas.
ure of our ownMeet it is, in spirit-council, men's possessions
should be shown. Let me pass then, as a spendthrift, with a
single golden coin I shall never risk nor barter, for a kingdom or
a mine: Not for bread would I exchange it, tho' the
wolf should gnave my bones, Not for pearls of purest water, not for wealth
of priceless stones. Nor the child I dearest cherish, shall inherit
with my land This, my chiefest of resources, shut within a
dying hand; Not too costly of the passage of the dark and
silent sea, If but Love, star-crowned, immortal, shall af
ford me company.
We wait upon your fancies, watch your will,
Ev'n Nature, partial mother, reasons thus:
BABY'S RETURN. Welcome again to thy father's roof Thou dreamer of innocent dreams! Flower of pure and constant breath, Shadow of sunniest gleams! With the eyes that speak for the untried lips, And the little, stammering tongue, And the arms, like an amulet of price, O'er the Mother's shoulders flung; And the curls that ring, like silver bells, With the voice's silvery chime, Each counted and combed, none broken yet In the weary tangle of time.
And flow'ret wonder-pied, -
Black-leaved, and golden eyed. Her voice was borrowed from the choir
That rings the vernal years; Her temper was ethereal fire
That calmed itself in tears. Some nameless touch of God's delight
Fell on her, as she lay
And never passed away.
Had not one scornful strain:
Were tender and humane.
As though she felt it not;
Her beauty was forgot. For soul to outward Beauty is
As Sun to dawning Day, The rosy drapery vanished
Before the conquering ray. Twas hers to move in fearlessness,
And throne herself at ease: Too royal were her gifts, that she
Should condescend to please.
Thy beauty shall train its blossom wreath
WHAT I HAVE. In this world of hasty knowing, in this world
of doubt and dread, Where men die with hearts unopened, and the
word of Fate unsaid,
CHARLES W. LAFFERTY.
BORN: MARTINSVILLE, ILL., Nov. 2, 1857. IN 1884 Mr. Lafferty was married, which he considers the happiest event of his life. In 1858 he built a beautiful home in Casey, Ill.,
The untried face of a stranger, Dims the face of a tried true friend. A boy leaves his home of plenty, Allured by the world's fairest charms. Yes hoping and looking to be, Encircled in fancies strong arms, His mind to vice and shame will tend. The untried faces of strangers, Dims the face of a tried true friend. Yes a mother pleads for her child, And says, look to that world above. But he treats with contempt and scorn Her advice of life and love; Yes and turns to the world again. The untried face of a stranger, Dims the face of a tried true friend. The face of a tried and true friend, May look homely, common and old; And the face of an untried stranger, Fascinating, daring and bold; But you throw yourself in danger, When you give up a tried true friend For the face of a bold stranger.
THE STRANGER AND FRIEND. We all have our faults in this life, Some of them great and some are small, Deception will dazzle our eyes, And over life throw a pall. Yes we see it time and again, The untried face of a stranger, Dims the face of a tried true friend. Yes the life of a gilt saloon, Is to capture and fascinate, And often it will wind up, Inclosed in a cold prison grate, And a kind mother's help to lend. The untried faces of strangers, Dims the face of a tried true friend, Yes a kind mother's love you see, Treated with contempt, and with shame, And bringing disgrace upon son, And branding his mother's fair name. Yes, you see it time and again,
THE CRY OF THE POOR. Cramped by poverty and indigent's slave,
Sorrow and trouble compelled here to brave, The home of the poor, wherever we go,
The same song of sorrow, all of them know. We sometimes pass, with gentle remark,
Never stopping to think, how sad and dark Are some hours to them, as sad want they see,
Never stopping to say . If that was me." We see the children and light-clad are they,
Hardly enough to keep warm in the day, As the winter blast brings ice,sleet and snow, Pain, grief and sorrow their little hearts
know. They go to their bed, to seek there some rest,
That should be as warm as the robin's nest, But poverty here makes his presence felt, And thoughts of a cold night makes one's
heart melt. Yes, children of the poor go to their bed, Hungry and cold, they all lay down their
head, While mothers of plenty sing lullaby songs,
And always their table, luxury throngs. The poor children cry to parents for bread,
As hunger and want hang over their head, And who of us know that fond parent's
mind, Yes unable to help and yet so kind. These kind parents have misfortune picked
out, As over this earth he laid out his route, Yes, picked them out here to suffer and want, And all thoughts of plenty must come to
Yes, the poor stand back and look at the world
[hurled, From luxury and plenty, they have been To go through this life with hearts as of lead,
Poverty-stricken, and begging for bread. Now cheer up ye poor, and listen what is said, Cheer up your heart, and come hold up your
head, We know it is hard to lead such a life,
With suffering children and bosom wife. But the time will come and you will lie down With the rich and all that now wear the crown,
(grave The green grass then will grow over your
The same as over the rich or the brave. Your soul will pass to the infinite land,
And the rich and poor will join hand in hand, And all that has been, none there will know,
As time and years of eternity go.
LEANDER COX HOWE.
BORN: MAYSLICK, KY., Nov. 15, 1866. As a minister of the gospel, Mr. Howe has experienced fair success. He is very fond of literature, and hopes at no distant date to devote the greater part of his time to literary work. The Rev. Howe has written poetry from his youth, and will present a volume of his poems to the public in book-form at an early date. He is at present located at Poplar Plains, in his native state.
And by decree eternal
Its light can never die.
Its light may gently fall
In life who was your all.
Where starlight diamonds glisten,
Though millions of us listen.
That casts its rays below,
With jewels in the snow.
We love to think of this:
Its beauty that we miss.
Upon the lonely molds,
Of many noble souls.
Which smiles in fairy blue,-
Whose looking at it too;
That to her nature gave,
All is not in the grave.
A happy hour just now,
We made loves fondest vow.
Down from the blue above! And fill all blissful hearts
With nature's truest love. () yonder is a fatal star
One that we ought to hate;
Are wedded unto fate.
In Shakespeare's play make fun
That through the ages run.
And read King Lear to see,
For what we seem to be.
Or vicious rake of earth,
The cradle of their birth;
Whose life no vice did mar,
Beneath that very star.
STAR-THOUGHTS BY TWILIGHT. The purple glory of the dying day
Reflects its luster on the sky above, While deep down in my heart their lies
The precious gift-first love.
Let sacred be the trust
The mortal lost in dust.
Bright jewel in the blue,
My love is true to you.
In azure realms of space,
On many a faded race.
That mortals ne'er can miss,
In distant years from this. Behold a lustrous sister star,
High o'er the old church spire,
Its beauty may admire.
LAWRENCE S. MCDONALD
BORN: GLENDALE, PA., MAY 14, 1866. AT fourteen he attended a high school at Clearfield, Pa., where he now resides; beginning in the primary department and making such rapid progress that he graduated with the first honors four years afterward. His talents are comprehended in painting, music, oratory and poetry, and a faculty ef generali
There is yet one thing that binds us,
Though our throbbing hearts unheard, And that is the golden binding cord
That is made of her truthful word.
As true as death's our goal,
O'er the shades of her lovely soul.
From heath and highland purple all night long
Two drowsy sentinels from starlit towers, Call to each other in the trembling silence,
The passage of the hours.
In trembling splendor, as on wings of love, And some bright soul-deep-robed in spotless
Delights me from above. Some rustling spirits move across the floor
As if sweet angels thereupon do rove, To me they're whisperings of a voice no more
To soothe my soul with love. Across my bed the curtain fringes flow,
Kissed by the amorous zephyrs from above, To me they're like the presence of a loved one
I do believe our fathers' faith of old
Each letter of its every hallowed word, Its accents from the lips of nature rolled
The golden dictates of creation's Lord. The spirit of that book in trembling beauty
As fragrant incense from old fanes will rise, That God the same that paved the path of
duty, As writ in light the pages of the skies.
LAWRENCE S. M'DONALD. zation that amounts to genius. He is essentially an orator, and as such has made a wide reputation in his native state. Mr. Dc Donald is now practicing law at the county seat of Clearfield, and has made a success of journalism, but finds the practice of law more lucrative. He stands reasonably high as a poet,
And the day that's far away
Day that knows no noon, no night, Fast it breaks in purple streaks
How my eyes do drink the lightFast it breaks o'er hills and peaks,
Jasper amber golden streaks Thus that day streams on my sight.
Shadowy presentiments come and go, Though yet I roam the precincts of her hazel
eye It is not well that mortal man should know The hidden destinies that, swinging to and
fro, Cast their short shadowings across the page 1
sing, As if cast there by some strange bird on lofty
Since that hour I courted Nature's
Scenes eclipsing skies of gold, And I sipped the honeyed beauties
That the fields and forests' fold, But to-night here in the silence,
As the twilight in the west
Kissing silver luna's crest.
Of my mother in the grave,
Tosses shareward on her wave.
| But the press of my lips to her marble cheek
Is a sacrilegious touch;
DR. JOSEPH P. RUSSELL.
BORN: BOURBON Co., KY., JULY 23, 1815. For thirty years Dr. Russell has practiced medicine in Waveland, Indiana. From his youth this gentleman has written poems
Most clearly blended;
On roadside or dell, There's naught in all nature
Your grace can excel. With your summer so short,
Your life but a span, Are you a fair model,
Or type of the man? Oh! butterfly tell me,
Have you a dread fear Of your dissolution,
Of death that's so near? Will you be immortal
With life cloth'd anew, And in a new world
Your pleasures pursue? A world of sweet flowers
That bloom all the year, A butterfly heaven,
With no death to fearOr, doomed by the frost-king
To death and decay, Will death be eternal, Oh! butterfly, say?
TO A BUTTERFLY. Butterfly, butterfly
Where are you wending? .. This a way, that a way,"
Whither now tending? With your gaudy rich tints,
That rivals all art, Bliss surely is center'd
In your little heart; From a chrysolite state,
From darkness so drear, You have fledged into light,
You wing through the air. You sip at the nectar
Of each op'ning flow'r, Your home in the garden,
And blooming gay bow'r So graceful and lithely
You wander at will, You warble in valley,
And zig-zag o'er hill, So crooked your course seemed
THE PERSECUTED RABBIT. Poor timid hare, and innocent as well, I would I could thy wrongs redress, and tell, Of persecutions meted out to you; Fain would I be thy friend and advocate, Hold up the horrors of thy bloody fate, Till man relenting, would not thee pursue. Thy graceful form and manners mild should A warrant for thy peace and liberty, [be That rest, sweet rest miglıt be to thee secure; Those brownish mild benignant eyes of thine, Ought to repress the lawless hordes of crime, And hold inviolate a life so pure. [strife, No armor thine to shield from murd'rous A modest meekness marks thy gentle life; With hungry eagles hover o'er thy head; And num'rous foes do intercept thy joys, Yet man more cruel, most of all annoys, By wholesale slaughter gives thee most to
dread. The heartless huntsman with his dog and gun, Thinks it rare sport to see you start and run, Regardless of your common right to life; And if by speedy flight you reach your den, He sends his cruel red mouth'd ferrets in, And tragic horror end the bloody strife. Oh guilty man who will no mercy know, Sin-cas'd and harden'd will no pity show, Can you a pray’r for heav'nly mercy frame With heart so obdurate, with hands blood
stain'd? To lift them up o'er all the dead and maim'd, And plead for self, what you denied the game?