And is known among men as the song of the

spheres.

Yet a lyric as grand you may see in the night, When auroras are spanning the archway of heaven,

And dancingly quivering in the raylets of light

As if the north fields to the flame God were

given,

And too when the storm-clouds have darkened the scene,

And the wind drives them hurling in black

est of green,

And the brow of the night on its fillet of gray Is dazzled by flashes of lightning in play. Did you think Him a poet, the teacher sublime,

Of all of earth's poets, and those who shall

be?

The Creator of worlds and the founder of

time?

That His lyrics comprise both the land and

the sea?

That His songs of the universe swell and prolong,

Attracting all spheres into harmonious song?

And that only can man as a poet be known When he gathers his songs from that harmonic zone?

HARRIETTE G. PENNELL.

BORN: BRUNSWICK, ME.

THE productions of Miss Pennell have been published in the Boston Transcript, Budget, Cottage Hearth and other prominent literary publications. She resides in the old historic town of Salem, Mass., where she is well known and admired. Miss Pennell is represented in the Poets of Maine.

THE ORIOLE.

Hark, 'tis the oriole's song,

Sweet, worshipful, deep in delight; There's a spell divine in the radiant voice, Outbreaking from morn till night!

O sweet in the flush of dawn

Comes the golden melody;

And for lonely shadows no place is found
In the message he sings to me!

Then the voice like a spirit floats

And breathes on the charmed air; Till the long spring days more blissful seem, And the sunny world more fair.

O creatures of life and beauty!

O voice divine and dear!

We know when we hear thy sweet notes ring,

That the perfect summer's near!

MRS. FRANCES KNAPP. and children in Spartansburgh, Pa. Her poems have appeared in the local press generally. OUR MOTHERS.

Do the children of to-day

Love and reverence their mother?
Do they think the love she gives them
Could be given by another?

If they loved their mother truly
Could they have that look of scorn?
Could their lips frame cruel speeches
At noonday night and morn?
Ah, dear children, little think you
Of the hearts you now are breaking;
Of the misery and sorrow

That for mothers you are making.
Kind words and loving glances
For our mothers every day.
Will dispel the gloom and sadness,
And brighten all their way.
Then while mothers still are with us,
Let us love them more and more;
Help them bear their burdens daily,
Till with us they are no more.
Then for us they will be waiting,
Over on the other shore;
And with joy they will greet us,
When our trials here are o'er.

793

HENRY ED. NOTHOM B.

BORN: ROCKFORD, ILL., OCT. 10, 1865.

IN 1887 Mr. Nothomb graduated from the Iowa state normal school at Cedar Falls, with the degrees of bachelor of science and bachelor of didactics. He was at once granted his state certificate, and assumed principalship of schools in one of the towns of his native

HENRY ED. NOTHOMB.

state. Prof. Nothomb subsequently instructed in rhetoric, literature and oratory in the Iowa institutes, and is now filling a good position in the schools of western Illinois. Elected alumnal poet of the Iowa state normal school in 1887, he has since that time gained quite a reputation as a prominent poet and writer.

AT REST.

What mean these chiseled words, "At Rest,"
Upon the marble pure and white?
What wearied mourners are addressed,
What loving hand the words did write?
O, winds that sigh above the dead,
O, flowers that softly bow the head,
O, leaves that rustle 'neath my tread,
What mean these words, "At Rest?"

.. They mean, Life's stormy voyage o'er,
And anchored safe the storm-tossed soul,
They mean that death can come no more,
No more can tyrant sin control.

They mean that now, life's danger past,
The soul has found its home at last,
Secure from tempest and from blast,
Commingling with the Blest."

Ah! can it be this simple phrase,

Engraved with earnest Christian zeal,
A solace to the heart conveys

Like mystic inspiration real?
And yet it does. To countless hearts
This simple phrase its faith imparts,-
Pure messenger with heavenly darts,
Glad sign of lasting Rest.

"At Rest,"-king, emperor and pope,
Philosopher and hero brave,

"At Rest," the young with ardent hope: In sepulchre and briny grave.

All hearts must feel the icy blow

Of Death's cold hand, all mortal's foe,
And homes and nations sure must know
The sacred words, "At Rest."

Full well their meaning I have learned,
Imparted to the troubled soul,

Full well the deeper thought discerned
Where darkest waves of sorrow roll.

Through summer's bloom and winter's snow,

While countless ages come and go,

The dead sleep on, nor sorrow know,

Eternal is their rest.

How like a light before concealed,
Death's halo flashes o'er the mind,
While Faith and Hope are both revealed
And troubled souls become resigned.
For in the new light we can see
The grandeur of eternity,
The hallowing transcendency
Of faithful souls At Rest."

THE KING AND THE BEGGAR. Though the night was dark and the wintry blast swept widely o'er land and sea, And the leafless trees whose branches tossed like giants, bold and free, Stood bleak and bare in the fields alone, and shook like a mountain reed,

While the darkened clouds hung lower still; and the mad winds shrieked in their speed; Though the ocean's waves were lashed to foam, and echoed a hollow roar

As they madly leaped in their furious course, and dashed on the rocky shore,Yet the city was lighted, and voices gay could be heard in the halls within, And the distant tread of a mighty host sounds clear through the stormy din.

The streets are crowded, the jostling throng moves on toward the city's gates, And there in the cold and furious storm, as a unit it patiently waits,

Far out on the rough and rugged road, that winds through the forest bare,

A wandering child, a beggar maid, with form and features fair,

Tramps on through the snows that quickly drift in each winding path and lane, And with failing strength endeavors thus to follow the mighty train.

The way is long and the night is dark, and her courage is failing fast,

But with efforts renewed she pushes to the city's gates at last.

The sentinels stand by their posts alone, and frown on the wanderer fair,

The gates are closed for the night," they say, "none others must enter there." "But oh," plead the little shivering waif, as she shrank from the awful storm,

I fear the darkness,- the fields are cold, while the city is light and warm, Pray, sir, may I enter?"- the quivering lip her silent doubts betrayed,

Our King gave orders," the leader said, "his orders must be obeyed."

Thus out in the blinding storms of night with her puny strength she went, While the wintry winds through the forest moaned, and the tree-tops swayed and bent.

Alone in the chilling storms of night with no protection near,

To wander far from the homes of men with their hearths and homelike cheer, Far, far from the home she once had known ere her life was a fatal blight, And the cruel hearts of unyielding men had doomed her to wander at night; Far, far from the home she once had loved ere the curse of the demon, Drink,

Had left her to battle the world alone or under its influence sink.

Down in the snows the Beggar knelt and with fingers benumbed and bare, She clasped her hands as she used to do when she knelt with her mother at prayer: "Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name,"

The pale lips quivered, her voice grew weak, and tears to the blue eyes came,Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done,”- - no more could the pale lips say,

But there in her winding sheet of snow, like an angel, pure, she lay.

The sun rose clear on the scene next morn, and they found her frozen there, Her tattered mantle around her drawn, and her hands still clasped in prayer, And they made her a grave in the pauper's field, in her tattered shroud she was laid,

And they buried her there without tears or prayer, she was only a Beggar Maid.' But with tolling bells they buried the King, who had died ere the feast was o'er, And they crowded mournfully round his bier to kiss the sword that he wore; And his tomb was decked with the fairest flowers, from the sunny lands afar, While they spoke of the laurels he had won in the heats of a cruel war.

Lo! the scenes have changed, and a vision grand presents itself to view:

A peaceful lane with flowers strewn, sparkling like a diamond dew,

And a gate of pearls on its hinges hangs,hinges of purest gold,

While the sweetest music is heard afar,-too sweet for earth to behold.

Down the broad valley of Peace and Light two wanderers seem to have strayed, And they straightway seek the gates of pearl, - the King and the Beggar Maid; The King with his firm, majestic tread, the Maid in her tattered gown

Walk side by side in the quiet land that leads to the golden town.

The King knocks loudly at the gates, but unheeded he turns away,

While an angel in radiant robes of light, beckons the Beggar to stay. No longer the gates against her close, but the portals are opened wide,

On a roseate cloud she drifts away with the angel at her side,

Her tattered gown is now exchanged for a garment of spotless white, While a golden crown adorns her head, sparkling with diamonds bright, A harp of the purest and finest gold sends forth its notes so rare,

And I know by her sweet, celestial look that the place must be Heaven there.

795

ROBERT WHITTET.

BORN: PERTH, SCOTLAND, 1829.

Ar an early age Robert learned the printing trade, and engaged in business for himself in his native town. In 1869 he purchased a plantation of some four hundred acres in Virginia, close by the old city of Williamsburg, but the venture proved a disaster and he retreated to his old occupation in the city

ROBERT WHITTET.

of Richmond, where he is now a member of the printing and publishing house of Whittet & Shepperson. Mr. Whittet is possessed of poetical gifts of the highest order, and he owns an unquestionable right to the title of a true poet. In 1854 he married Miss Jane Aitchison, to whose self-denying virtues he dedicated The Brighter Side of Suffering, published in 1882, a superb volume of poems covering a wide range of subjects.

A PRELUDE.

One linnet's note the more or less
Within the wildwood's minstrelsy,
Can neither raise nor aught depress
The sense of joyous revelry.
And yet each linnet from the spray
His swelling notes melodious flings,
And pipes his own sweet roundelay
Heedless how another sings.
He has a song 'tis his to sing,
And that he sings right earnestly,

And waiteth not for anything

To urge his heart to minstrelsy.
The skylark sings where bliss belongs,
That song an ampler field be given;
Takes to the clouds his seraph songs-
Throws half to earth and half to heaven.
And some sweet songster, near alight
On thorny perch, amid the throng,
Gives to the passing heart delight,
And cheers it with a joyous song.
So are the songs that poets sing
Within secluded quiet retreat,
But single echoed notes, that bring
Their quota for a choir complete.
Each pipes his own peculiar strain,
On artful lute or simple reed,

And sings, and sings, and sings again,
To satisfy his own heart's need.
Yet may some raptured thought out-reach
Far, far the poet's dream above,

And some faint wavering heart beseech
To deeds of grace, and hope, and love.
To sing has given one heart employ,
And thus did end enough fulfill;

But if, resung, another's joy

Is more enlarged, 'twere better still.

And so, self-pleased, I give the song

That's kept my own past clear and bright,

If that, perchance, some other tongue

May lift the lilt, and find delight.

A LEGEND OF THE DAISY.

Long had sunk the light of day,
When, prostrate on the cold, green sod,
Within Gethsemane, there lay,
Disconsolate, the Son of God.
With bitter sighs His bosom heaved,

In sorrow's voice He cried aloud,
Till, torn with grief, His heart relieved
Itself with sweat of crimson blood.
Down from His quivering brow it fell,
A dropping stream upon the ground;
And long that spot could passers tell,
So bare amid the green around.
And autumn came, and spring-time's show-
ers,

And summer's zephyrs softly blew, Yet on that spot no other flowers

Save some sweet mountain daisies grew.
And as each raised its drooping head,
Its serrate fringe was crimson dyed:
Memorial of the tears He shed,

And of the hour to blood He sighed.
As in salvation's world-wide flow,
The heaven-inspired apostle band,
First to God's chosen people go,
And then abroad to every land;

So from that spot the daisy bears To all the world a message brief: The crimson of its fringe declares The story of the Savior's grief.

THE BRIGHTER SIDE OF SUFFERING. EXTRACTS.

Forgiveness!-grace benignant!- what were life

On earth without thine antidote to hate!
And heaven could offer but a barren bliss
That stayed thy cleansing of the darkened
past,

Or kept recorded unforgotten sins;

And in the vast Beyond, where no permit
To enter can be given thee, who may guage
The depths of life's eternal agony,
Because, through cycles of immensity,

No mind dare raise one thought of hope or thee?

Thou art a flower planted by Love's gracious hand

Within heaven's garden, and ere bursts its buds,

The same Hand plucks them, that Himself may bear

To earth, and let them blossom fuller there, And give their fragrance unto doubting hearts;

And men receive it as a proffered gift,
Smile in its hallowed joyousness of peace,
But yet forget to plant its scions anew,
That they themselves may have the flowers to
gift.

The chrysalis, in inert silence wrapped,
Shows not the golden-tinted wings within,
Until the summer's resurrecting power
Gives the freed prisoner unbounded flight;
And so, methinks, that when, in anxious
moods,

We speculate on life's uncertain range,-
The hazard of our daily walk - the loss,
The gain-so great to-day, so small to-mor

row

The hopes so bright that end so oft in blight,
The weariness and care, the grief and pain,
The poverty, the mourning, and the tears,
And at the last the coffin and the shroud,
The grassy hillock, and the churchyard's

rest,

Our minds should reason that there must be found

Some compensation for the sufferings borne Throughout life's journey,-some lasting

solace

Other than those fleeting hours can give,Some balm to heal the woundings, quell the

pain,

Some recompense to fill the voids of loss;

Life unto each is measured off and given,
The bounds all circumscribed and fitly set,
Not as the strength that animates the arm,
Nor as the nerve that steels the aspiring
heart;

But as the Master's first intent demands,
And his injected purpose has been gained:
So is the beauty of our lives enhanced
A thousand fold, because with God we work,
For God we labor;- His eternal will
Deputes the agent for his special part
In building up heaven's glory, and its King's:
And that accomplish'd, be it but to add
One atom to the architect's design,
Life is exhausted of its God-given aim;
And as the laborers when their task is done,
Receive the promised penny of reward,
Each one must pass, as night's dark shadows

close,

Into the Master's presence, and receiveWages enough!- His welcoming well done!"

EXTRACT.

For true it is, may we refine

The character by nature rude,Its evil make the heart to tine, Or cause it minister to good.