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And is known among men as the song of the
MRS. FRANCES KNAPP. spheres.
Born: FABIU'S, N.Y., 1854. Yet a lyric as grand you may see in the night, | This lady was married in 1871 to Edward When auroras are spanning the archway of
Knapp, and now resides with her husband 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 sub
lime, 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 pro
long, Attracting all spheres into harmonious
song? And that only can man as a poet be known When he gathers his songs from that har
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!
Comes the golden melody;
In the message he sings to me!
And breathes on the charmed air;
And the sunny world more fair.
0 voice divine and dear! We know when we hear thy sweet notes
ring, That the perfect summer's near!
Love and reverence their mother?
Could be given by another?
Could they have that look of scorn?
At noonday night and morn?
of the hearts you now are breaking: Of the misery and sorrow
That for mothers you are making.
For our mothers every day,
And brighten all their way.
Let us love them more and more;
Till with us they are no more.
Over on the other shore:
When our trials here are o'er.
HENRY ED. NOTHOMB.
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
They mean that now, life's danger past,
Commingling with the Blest."
Engraved with earnest Christian zeal,
Like mystic inspiration real?
Glad sign of lasting Rest.
Philosopher and hero brave,
In sepulchre and briny grave.
The sacred words, «At Rest."
Imparted to the troubled soul,
Where darkest waves of sorrow roll.
Eternal is their rest.
Death's halo flashes o'er the mind,
And troubled souls become resigned.
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 Ullinois. 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? 0, winds that sigh above the dead, O, flowers that softly bow the head, 0, 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.
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,
For their ruler, the king, comes home to-night
to dine in the palace grand, And the people are eager,- I know not why,
to be blessed by a royal band. Thus with regal splendors they hail their
chief, and guide him with many a
shout, While the city's gates on their hinges turn,
and the storm rages on without.
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.
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 bearths 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,
Lo! the scenes have changed, and a vision
grand presents itself to view: A peaceful lane with flowers strewn, spark
ling 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 un
heeded 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, spark
ling 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.
'Tis ever thus in the courts of men, the poor
must neglected go, While the rich are idly feasted and fed with
the pomp of a worldly show; But in those Heavenly courts above, where
virtues are arrayed, The grandest King has no higher rank tban
the humblest Beggar Maid.
BORN: PERTH, SCOTLAND, 1829. At 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
And waiteth not for anything
To urge his heart to minstrelsy.
That song an ampler field be given;
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.
On artful lute or simple reed,
To satisfy his own heart's need.
Far, far the poet's dream above,
To deeds of grace, and hope, and love.
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,
Disconsolate, the Son of God.
In sorrow's voice He cried aloud,
Itself with sweat of crimson blood.
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 sbed,
And of the hour to blood He sighed.
The heaven-inspired apostle band,
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.
His swelling rotes 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,
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.
And therefore are we but as sowers here,
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
Life flits like measured music day by day From instruments which half-trained players
play, With many notes that mar the symphony, Yet on the whole right pleasant harmony, In merry mood one would too fain employ The thrilling alto of hilarious joy; And in our toiling hours the world's refrain Lilts in the tenor's euphony of strain; And charity - life's sweetest lullabyBreathes forth its blessings as a melody; But 'tis life's sorrow – 'tis its suffering
brings The heart, that wondrous harp of thousand
strings," Its mellow bass -- the deep sonorous tone That softens all the parts to unison, And yields the sweetly plaintive minor note, That soothes the troubled soul, and helps to
float, Like Æolian murmurs on the summer air, One's thoughts to heavenly regions calm and
The chrysalis, in inert silence wrapped,
rowThe 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,
close, Into the Master's presence, and receiveWages enough!- His welcoming "Well done!"
The character by nature rude, Its evil make the heart to tine, Or cause it minister to good.