HARRIET P. SPOFFORD.

BORN: CALAIS, ME., APRIL 3, 1835.

In her youth Harriet was taken by her parents to Newburyport, Mass., which has ever since been her home. She received a good education, and at an early age contributed to the storypapers of Boston, earning small pay with a great deal of labor. Her first notable hit was a sparkling story of Parisian life, which appeared in 1859 in the Atlantic Monthly, under the title of In the Cellar; and from that day she was a welcome contributor, of both poetry and prose, to the chief periodicals of the country. A volume of poems appeared in 1882, and

Ballads About Authors in 1888, in addition to which she has written numerous prose works.

MOTHER MINE.

When by the ruddy fire I spelled
In one old volume and another,
Those ballads haunted by fair women,
One of them always seemed my mother.
In storied song she dwelt, where dwell

Strange things and sweet of eld and eerie,
The foam of Binnorie's bonny mill-dams,
The bowing birks, the wells o' Wearie.
All the Queen's Maries she did know,

The eldritch knight, the sisters seven, The lad that lay upon the Lomonds

And saw the perch play in Lochleven. Burd Helen had those great gray eyes, Their rays from shadowy lashes flinging; That smile the winsome bride of Yarrow Before her tears were set to singing. That mouth was just the mouth that kissed Sir Cradocke under the green wildwood; Fair Rosamond was tall as she was

In those fixed fancies of my childhood. And when she sang-ah, when she sang! Birds are less sweet, and flutes not clearer In ancient halls I sew the minstrel,

And shapes long dead arose fo hear her! Darlings of song I've heard since then,

But no such voice as hers was, swelling Like bell-notes on the winds of morning, All angelhood about it dwelling.

No more within those regions dim

Of rich romance my thoughts would place her, Her life itself is such a poem

She does not need old names to grace her. Long years have fled, but left her charm Smiling to see that years are fleeter, Those ballads are as sweet as ever, But she is infinitely sweeter.

For love, that shines through all her ways,

Hinders the stealthy hours from duty,

A soul divinely self-forgetful

Has come to blossom in her beauty.

While the low brow, the silver curl,
The twilight glance, the perfect features,
The rose upon a creamy pallor,

Make her the loveliest of creatures.
Now with the glow that on the face

Like moonlight on a flower has found her, With the tone's thrill, a faint remoteness, Half like a halo hangs around her. Half like a halo? Nay, indeed,

I never saw a picture paintedSuch holy work the years have rendered So like a woman that is sainted.

COL. THOMAS W. HIGGINSON.

BORN: CAMBRIDGE, MASS., DEC. 22, 183. THIS great anti-slavist, minister, soldier, and author has had a varied career. He is an earnest advocate of woman suffrage and of the higher education for both sexes. He has contributed largely to current literature, and is the author of a score or more volumes of prose, besides editing several large and important works. Col. Higginson was also a member of the Massachusetts legislature in 1880 and 1881, serving as chief of staff to the governor at the same time; and in 1881-83 was a member of the state board of education.

DECORATION.

MANIBUS DATE LILIA PLENIS.

Mid the flower-wreathed tombs I stand Bearing lilies in my hand.

Comrades! in what soldier-grave

Sleeps the bravest of the brave?

Is it he who sank to rest

With his colors round his breast?
Friendship makes his tomb a shrine;
Garlands veil it; ask not mine.

One low grave, yon trees beneath,
Bears no roses, wears no wreath:
Yet no heart more high and warm
Ever dared the battle-storm;
Never gleamed a prouder eye
In the front of victory,

Never foot had firmer tread
On the field where hope lay dead,
Than are hid within this tomb,
Where the untended grasses bloom;
And no stone, with feign'd distress,
Mocks the sacred loneliness.

Youth and beauty, dauntless will,
Dreams that life could ne'er fulfill,

Here lie buried; here in peace

Wrongs and woes have found release.

Turning from my comrades' eyes,
Kneeling where a woman lies,

I strew lilies on the grave

Of the bravest of the brave.

MARGARET MCRAE LACKEY.

BORN: COPIAH CO., MISS., OCT. 24, 1858. THE poems of Miss Lackey have appeared in the New Orleans Picayune, Southern Cultivator and the periodical press generally.

MARGARET M'RAE LACKEY.

She follows the profession of teaching, and resides in her native state at Crystal Springs. Miss Lackey hopes soon to issue a volume.

EVEN THIS WILL PASS AWAY. Of all the proverbs quaint and sweet, That burdened souls so often greet,

As some wise voice from ancient clay, There sure is none in whose belief, The worn heart finds such sweet relief, As.. Even this will pass away!" When weary hands from early dawn Till lengthening eve must labor on, And know not surcease day by day; How gladly comes the sweet refrain, That echoes o'er and o'er again,

.. This, even this, will pass away." When burdens that are hard to bear Would sink the soul 'neath black Despair, And whitening lips refuse to pray; Faith's lovely face e'en then will glow, And sweet her voice that whispers low, .. But even this will pass away." When earth to earth and dust to dust Is read above our heart's best trust,

And we in anguish turn away: The bitter cup less bitter seems,

When through its dregs the bright truth gleams,

That even this will pass away.

Yea, even this! With hearts bowed down
We stand before the new-made mound,

And long to greet the coming day,
When weary feet have found a rest;
When hands are folded o'er the breast;
And all life's woes have passed away.

And sought the shade before the sun went

When tho sun goes down,

And crimson glory floods the western skies,
And veils th' eternal hills in beauty's guise,
I wonder if this glad, entrancing light
Will fill my earth-worn soul with such delight,
That I'll forget the day was long and drear,
Forget each blasted hope, each idle fear,
That saddened life before the sun went down.

When the sun goes down,

I think I will not sigh because the day
Had more of Winter's chill than smiles of
May;

Because 'twas crowded full of weary toil,
And griefs that made the aching heart recoil;
Because so many blinding tears were shed,
Above low mounds which held my cherished
dead,

Who left me lonely ere the sun went down.

When the sun goes down,

I think the twilight rest will be so sweet,
Which greets the tired heart, the restless feet,
That I will gladly fold these weary hands,
And thinking naught of this past day's de-
mands,
[morn,
Will gaze enraptured toward that coming
To which my longing soul shall soon be borne,
And his eternal sun shall ne'er go down.

They do not flash, her eyes,
But they sparkle and shine,
Reflecting the kindly light
Of a soul divine;
I wish

I have often wished-
Their dark orbs were mine.

Mine to look into- and

Mine, to have love express.

With, oh! such a wealth and power

Of deep tenderness:

With virtue to cheer, I know

And comfort and bless.

Better than words they speak

Out what the heart would say, Bidding me wait and hope

Till another day

When clouds which threaten low

Have all cleared away.

THE EBB AND FLOW.

"Tis an ebb and a flow

Of the ocean wide,

EDWARD S. GOODHUE. that city, besides contributing to the Youth's Companion, New York Witness, St. Louis Magazine and the periodical press' generally. Mr. Goodhue is now attending the Rush Medical College of Chicago. He was married in 1889 to Lulu May Rose, a Chicago young lady who is also studying medicine. The earlier poems of Mr. Goodhue were collected and published in 1888 under the title of Verses from the Valley; he has also other books in preparation.

MIDNIGHT.

'Tis midnight and no sleep,
No sleep, comes to my eyes;
Long have I lain awake
Watching the skies.

Watching vague waves of cloud,
Moving like ghosts of night
Over the moon's pale face,
Veiling her light.

MRS. EMMELINE B. WELLS.

BORN: PETERSHAM, MASS., FEB. 29, 1828. THIS lady has been connected with the editorial staff of the Woman's Exponent since 1875, and has been the sole editor and publisher since 1877. She has written verses from her

MRS. EMMELINE BLANCHE WELLS. childhood, and will at some future time publish them in book-form. Mrs. Wells has attended conventions of women in Washington and other places; presented memorials to congress; called upon presidents and senators and members of the House in the interests of Utah, in which state she resides at Salt Lake City.

AT EVENING.

How softly fall the evening shadows pale, Golden and purple sunsets blend and fade; Night robes earth quietly with mantling veil, And peace and rest the gentle hour pervade.

Great nature soothing with her potent power, Breathes to the world-worn heart her sympathy;

And 'mid the tranquil of such spell-bound hour,

The mem'ries of the past steal tenderly. Athwart the scene the moon with golden trail As erst with pitying glance and mellowed

light,

Sweeps thro' the empty space with steady

sail,

And floods with beauty the enchanted night. It is the hour for sweet and tender thought And whisperings of the life that is to be,And Faith and Trust with holy impulse fraught,

Speak to the soul in nature's poetry, Unconscious of ourselves we sink to sleep And bright-robed beings round our couches

stray,

In sacred stillness holy vigils keep,

And night assumes the sceptre of her sway.

THE DEAR OLD GARDEN.

My dear old garden still I cail it mine;

And mine it is, for in its grateful shade Of ev'ry tree, and shrub and flow ring vine, My children and my children's children

play'd.

'Round these my aching heart instinctive

clings,

And they to me are sweet and tender things. Under those trees I've sauntered to and fro, In search of hidden gems of precious

thought,

Perchance some wayward fancies all aglow Have been in chains of measur'd rhythm

caught,

For rustling leaves, and sighing boughs have stirred

The depths of love, no living voice hath heard.

And here young lovers, plighted vows have given,

And sealed them with the first fond lingering kiss

That hallows love, and makes earth seem a heav'n,

A sweet enchanted dream of rapt'rous bliss When two pure hearts, in confidence and truth,

Unite their joys and hopes in early youth. These trees and shrubs, and ev'ry bush and vine,

We've watched from tiniest seed and stem; Why then should I not always call them mine?

For in my heart of hearts I treasure them. No matter how neglected now they be They were a part of my home life to me. Yes, I remember sitting there so well, With baby in my arms and children 'round; And a sweet peace hung o'er me like a spell, While the white blossoms fluttered to the

ground;

For the young apple trees were just in bloom And we were breathing in their sweet per

fume.

806

O, how the childish voices loud and clear, Rang out in laughter and in merry song; No wonder that to me the place is dear, To which so many memories belong; O, would those days but come to me again "Twould ease my heart of all this racking pain.

O, little ones, 'mong the long tangled grass, Where buttercups and clover nestled down; Or like a shadow flitting as you pass,

To gather hollyhocks in silken gown, Or pull the morning glories from the vine Which gaily 'round the fav'rite tree entwine.

And honey suckles fragrant were and fair, And on them humming birds swung to and fro,

But something fairer, sweeter still was there: A little maiden, singing soft and low;

O, that melodious voice we hear no more, Save in our dreams, it echoes o'er and o'er. My garden! when the world was dark and cold, [way;

And troubles gathered thickly round my I wander'd there my feelings to unfold, 'Twas there I knelt upon the ground to

pray.

In that old garden thro' the maze of years I scan life's pages blur'd with mists of tears.

MEMORY OF THE SEA.

In the midnight hour, a memory Swept like music o'er my soul

As I stood in silent reverie,

Where the surging billows roll; Minor music, sad and sorrowing, Full of trembling, full of tears, Ever like the ocean's murmuring, Bringing back the tide of years. Telling of the long forgotten

In the cycles of the past,

Of the nations crushed and broken
In the world's great holocaust.

As I listened so entrancing

Was the music of the sea;

That I fancied mermaids dancing
To the midnight minstrelsy;
And a thousand harp-strings quivering,
Sobbing in the midnight sea:

And my broken heart-strings shivering
As sad memories came to me.
Had I caught the inspiration

Of the music deep and strong

That had moved my soul's wild passion,
Was it but a syren's song?

O, such music, weird and mournful,
As the night-wind swept along,
And the shattered notes so painful,
Making discord in the song.

How far off the dreamy vision
That these memories brought to me,
As I strained my ear to listen

To the murmuring in the sea.
Far down where the sea weeds whisper
To the corals and the shells;
But they keep the secret ever,

Roar or echo never tells. But the human heart's emotion, Answers to the sad refrain, And the ceaseless moan of ocean, Brings a grandeur fraught with pain. While the wild waves in commotion, Sweeping out unto the shore; Bounding billows, restless ocean, Echoing for evermore.

And the ever constant beating

'Gainst the rocks that hemm'd the sea, Where the winds in fury meeting, Dashed them backward ruthlessly. So our human hopes are driven, Recklessly tossed to and fro, And our strongest ties are riven Rent asunder by a blow. Ever heaves the restless ocean, With its hidden mystery, Sleeping in its surging bosom, Until time shall cease to be.

BEAUTIES OF NATURE.
EXTRACT.

Down in the meadows, where the cowslips

spring,

And the sweet clover breath is in the air, There where the thrush and bluebird sweetly

sing,

Dame Nature in her robes so wondrous fair, Holds her communion with the regal

night,

And blushes in the dawn of early light. What picture hath the artist ever drawn That could compare in loveliness and grace With nature in her rudest, wildest form, No matter in what climate, time or place, So skillfully is ev'ry figure wrought, So delicate with feeling is it fraught. In grove, and field, and vale, in forest glade, On snowy heights, where man may scarcely

tread,

On flow'r, or shrub, and ev'ry glassy blade
That lifts from earth its tiny, modest head,
In coral reef, or sea beach shining sand,
We see the seal of an Almighty hand.

I cannot tell how greatly I delight
In all the beauties of the earth and heaven;
How ardently I reverence the light

Which our Father has so wisely given;

The sun and moon, and all the stars that shine

With the effulgence of a power divine.