GATHER THE ROSES.

A spirit, unnamed and unknown,

From the cycles of ages unnumbered, Came into my dreams as I slumbered, And talked with my spirit alone.

Sweet and grand were the words that it said;
And as bright (as my spirit remembers)
As the glowing at midnight of embers,
Was the halo of beauty it shed.
It spake of the deeds of the just;
It unfolded the leaves of the ages,
And wiped from their moldering pages
The blood, and the tears, and the dust;
And it painted their pictures anew

In colors of glory-world splendor

In lines that were touching and tenderThe deeds of the pure and the true.

It purged from the time-colored leaves

The tares that have sprung from ambitionThe thistles of dark superstition But gathered the wheat into sheaves. The records of history stood

Replete with the warring of powers,
It blotted the carnage-stained hours,
And pointed alone to the good.

It spoke of no battle where Might
Had marshaled its legions in action
To crush an inferior faction,
But breathed of the triumphs of Right.

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W. T. VANCE.

BORN: CANADA, JULY 12, 1826. WHEN eleven years of age the subject of this sketch removed to Sturgis, Mich. After receiving his education he learned the wagonmakers' trade, and subsequently as a journeyman meandered over the then railroadless re

Where laden with trains, the steamers land,
Or, swiftly gliding them o'er and o'er
To the loveliest town on the eastern shore,
Of that inland sea;

Whose pure winds free,
Scatter the blooms from myriad trees,
Whose odors exhaled, perfumes the breeze,
That bear the sea-birds' song, as they soar
O'er the loveliest town on the eastern shore,
Of that inland sea,

Whose pure winds free,

All rippling with laughter and song, Rising from pleasure boats moving along, As soft as the flight of the raven,

Gliding into our beautiful Haven.

A SIMPLE PLAN.

Deep in my soul a feeling
Comes o'er my senses stealing
All other thoughts away:
Of my brothers lowly toiling-
All their aspirations foiling,
Because of scanty pay.
Employers kind and just
Grieve because they must

Cut wages in self-defense.
Now here's a simple plan
Good alike to every man,

And appeals to common sense.

Let employers form a ring,
And large enough to bring

All trades together banded,

To raise wages fifty per cent,-
Your goods to that extent
Will surely be demanded.

Labor millions more can buy
To maks the wheels of commerce fly,
Then happiness becomes the style;
Looms dance-spindles sing
Amid the anvil chorus ring-
Sad-eyed millions smile.

THE LAND SHALL NOT BE SOLD.
Men of conscience, men of brains,
From the workshops and the trains;
Men from Grangers' rural halls,
On you the sacred duty falls,
To say the land shall not be sold.
Men from pulpits and the bar,
Hurl Promethean brands afar,
To break the stupor of the ages,
And prove yourselves the sages
Who say the land shall not be sold.
Wake ye giants of the mighty press,
Whose world-wide power to bless
Is crippled by the stupid lie,

The sordid nabob's right to buy
Land that shall not be sold.

EDGAR POE ARCHBOLD.

BORN: CHILLICOTHE, OHIO, FEB. 13, 1857. MR. ARCHBOLD has been employed as a newspaper writer upon the principal dailies of the west. In 1882 he went to Leadville, and there became a gold miner and prospector. He has contributed quite extensively to the mining

EDGAR POE ARCHBOLD. literature of Colorado, in which state he now resides at Pueblo, although he expects to make Kansas his permanent abode. The poems of Mr. Archbold have appeared quite extensively in the local press.

MASONRY.

The mystic lights that wrap thy shrine
In antique vestments of the past,
Within our modern temple shine,
As rays from vanished ages cast.
The minds that gave thy mysteries birth,
With all that marked thy days of youth,
Have slowly withered from the earth,

And naught remains but light and truth.
The centuries which have o'er thee flown,
Have left us these to guide our way,
Through paths which masons tread alone,
To reach the light of perfect day.
And he who takes thy vows sublime,
And at thy modern altar kneels,
In whatsoever land or clime,

But seeks the light that truth reveals.

A BROKEN COLUMN AND A SPRIG OF

ACACIA.

IN MEMORY OF ROB. MORRIS. By imagination's aid, we stand to-day at the grave of our most distinguished brother. Upon his lips there rests a silence born of death, and on his forehead lies the jeweled crown of Fate.

For him, the acacia blooms no more. For him, the dawn has faded from the sky. From the weeping stars of Palestine, to the moonlight of the Nile, the broken column mutely mourns the dead.

Eternal night has come; and somewhere on its shoreless tide, Rob. Morris is at rest. The purple of the twilight, and the beauty of the stars, softly blending, touch the face of him that's dead. Touch and kiss the pallid lips of him that's dead.

Across the midnight of the ages, he flashed a a torch of Light, and in the sands of Egypt sought for Truth.

At the cradle of the craft he bowed his head, and in tradition's wondrous web he traced our way.

In the dreamless sleep that wraps him now, we consign him to the kind embrace of earth. On the coffin place the emblems of his craft, and in silence let him sleep among the hills.

HYMN TO THE CREATOR. The winds that career o'er the bosom of ocean, The shadows that curtain the face of the sky, [motion, The stars in their beauty, the worlds in their Proclaim their Creator - our Father on

high.

The mountains are Thine in their mystical splendor, [Thy hand.

The dawn of the morning springs fresh from The night follows on, ever eager to render Devotion and praise, at Thy holy command. The lance of the storm, at Thy order is broken, The lightnings are chained to their home in the clouds, [token, The phantoms of air, with the ills they beReturn, at Thy word, to the mist of their shrouds.

The evening's soft beam, and the midnight's deep beauty,

Awaken the soul from its slumber of death: All doubts disappear; I remember but duty; Conviction sweeps on like the hurricane's

breath.

O let me adore Thee, thou God of creation! Let me turn to Thy love like a star to the sea,

O let me declare my eternal salvation!

And bow in devotion and homage to Thee.

A PRAYER. Bow down thine ear, O Lord, and hear; For I am poor, and need Thee. Preserve my soul from earthly dole, And toward Thy mercy lead me. And let my voice in praise rejoice, Unite my heart to fear Thee; Teach me Thy way, that night and day, Thy mercy may be near me.

MRS. L. A. FOLSOM.

BORN: MILFORD, ME., JULY 23, 1844. THIS lady is engaged as a local reporter for various newspapers. But she loves to write verse, and contributes poems from time to

MRS. L. A. FOLSOM. time to the Portland Transcript and other publications. She was married in 1864 to Frank W. Folsom, and still resides in her native state at Old Town.

NATURE'S WARDROBE. The loveliest vesture of exquisite hue, Dainty of pattern and texture, too,

Dame Nature dons at will;

Her garments are many, surpassingly fair; And which most enhances her beauty rare, I'm at a loss to tell.

Her robe of the springtime is delicate green, 'Broidered with dewdrops' silvery sheen, And flecked with violets blue;

Crocuses golden and snowdrops white, Are caught in its folds, where primroses bright

And sweet birds nestle, too.

Gorgeous and gay is her summer dress,
Replete in its own fair loveliness;

And heavy with odors sweet;
Roses whose petals blush crimson and red,
Lie on her bosom and circle her head,

While blossoms spring up 'neath her feet. Vividly bright her autumnal attire, Flashing with color like tongues of fire,

Richer than princess e'er knew;

Her robes trail along with a rustling sound,
And bright is her pathway, scattered around
With leaves of rainbow hue.

Her dress of winter is purest white,
Bridal emblem, no colors bright

E'er mar its chastity rare;

"Tis wrought with filmy frost-lace white, Intermingled with crystals that quiver with light,

And diamonds gleam in her hair.

TWO HANDS.

One was rough, and scarred with toiling, Brown and seared as with fierce heat;

Yet, the memory of its clasping,

Lingers like a perfume sweet.

Fair as rose-leaf tints, the other-
Or as sea-shells by the sea,
And its tender touch like snowflakes,
Comes in sweetness back to me.

One in helpfulness was mighty,
Shielding me from tempests wild;
But the other, in its weakness,
Nestled like a trusting child.

Which I loved the best, I know not;

But, through all life's ebb and flow, One gave strength and hope- the other, Sweetest comfort here below.

HEART REST.

Oh, heart, that since my natal day

Has ceaseless throbbed for long, long years, Sometimes tumultuous with thy joy, Then, keeping time to failing tears. Ever in rhythmic measures fall

Thy firm pulsations night and day, And e'en when sleep my eyelids close, Still thou dost hold thy gentle sway. All things in nature find repose; The birds fly home at set of sun, All seek sweet rest when night comes on, But, heart, thy work seems never done. Sometime, somewhere, thou, too, shalt rest, Yet not while life enthralls you fast; Wait, heart, full soon 'neath daisies white Thou shalt find sweetest rest- at last.

DUVAL PORTER.

BORN: APPOMATOX CO., VA., JULY 29, 1844. MR. PORTER has written a work entitled Men, Places and Things, which he hopes to place on the market at an early date. The poems of this writer have appeared in the

Waverly Magazine and the periodical press generally. Mr. Porter was married to Miss Bettie S. Younger in 1875, and still resides in his native state at Cascade, where he follows profession of teaching.

THE STORM.

The night was dark, the sky was black
With tempests, waves were giving back
The whispers of the viewless wind.
The watchful petrel sought to find
A refuge where her fragile form
May shun the fury of the storm.
Who ever hath at midnight stood
By window, looking to the wood,
And watch'd of all, sublimest sight,
A tempest gath'ring in the night,
Hath seen, when lurid lightning broke,
The figure of the gnarled oak
Of verdure stript, bereft of bark,
Its giant limbs, white, stiff and stark,
Outstretch'd as if to supplicate
The god of storms to spare it yet.
The lofty poplar's stately head
Moves nervously as if the dread

Of sudden ruin lurk'd apace,
To hurl it from its rooted place.
With sudden scream the startled bird
Flies wildly from its nest; the herd
Of lowing kine with tail distent,
Around the compass'd fold lament;
The snorting steed the scene excites
To use his heels in circling flights-
Now, suddenly, when all is still,
Except the murmur of the rill,
Disputing with opposing stone
That's block'd its way for ages gone
To boundless ocean- till a flash
Of blazing lightning with the crash
Of loudest thunder seems to shake
The pillars of this globe opaque;
Then pours the fiercely driv'n rain
Like pebbles rattling 'gainst the pane,
Whilst flapping blinds as swift they veer
On rusty hinges fright the ear
With sudden knocks, as if they were
Flung madly with the storm-king's might
At him who dares look on the sight.
A moment more the windy hell
Is at its height. Sulphurous smell
Impregns the air as if the cave
Of hell itself the odor gave.

A flash! behold the gnarled oak
Is riven by the lightning's stroke,
While the rolling thunder shakes
The solid earth itself, and makes
Cups click as if a drunkard's ghost
Were striking them, proposing toast.
An hour past, and all is still
Except the roaring of the rill,
Evincing anger or surprise
Or joy at its sudden rise,
And rolls exultingly along,
And vents its joy in its song.
The massive clouds are pil'd away,
But still the zigzag lightnings play
In sportive shapes upon their breast,
Till finally they sink to rest.
Then star by star peeps out to look,
Abash'd on scenes their light forsook.
Pale Luna brightly shines apace,
As if the rain had washed her face;
The air is redolent with sweets
Of batter'd roses, whose retreats
The ruthless storm-king swept among,
And from their fragile tendrils wrung
The lily pale from off its stem,

As tho' to deck his diadem,

Torn Nature smoothes her wrinkled brow And silence reigns supremely now.

THE CONFEDERATE SOLDIER. While others sing'of Grecian Isles, In strains that every heart beguiles, How warriors fought and cities fell,

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