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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 story. papers 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.

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, indeerl,

I never saw a picture painted Such holy work the years have rendered

So like a woman that is sainted.

COL. THOMAS W. HIGGINSON,

Born: CAMBRIDGE, MASS., DEC. 22, 1833. 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.

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 Bionorie'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 saw the minstrel,

Ånd 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.

DECORATION. MANIBUS DATE LILLA 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.

MA RGA RE T MCRA E LACK EY. ]

And we in anguish turn away:

The bitter cup less bitter seems, BORN: COPIAH Co., Miss., OCT. 24, 1858.

When through its dregs the bright truth The poems of Miss Lackey have appeared in

gleams,
the New Orleans Picayune, Southern Culti That even this will pass away.
vator and the periodical press generally.

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.

[graphic]

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.

WHEN THE SUN GOES DOWN.

When the sun goes down,
And lengthening shadows round me fall,
And night enwraps the world in its dark pall,
I wonder if I'll sit at close of day
And backward glance along the dreary way,
And count with blinding tears its anguished
woe,

[blow And mark the spots where adverse winds did And storms did lash me ere the sun went

down.

When the sun goes down,
I wonder if I'll weep o'er graves we made,
O'er brightest hopes so dear within them laid;
O'er friends who left me e'en at morning's

dawn,
To bear the burden of the day alone,
O'er others who beside me fainting fell,
When naught could noontide's scorching heat
dispel,

[down, 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 l'il 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

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 tbis, 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,

EDWARD S. GOODHUE.

BORN: CANADA, SEPT. 29, 1861. MR. GOODHCE has received a good education. For a year he lectured in the state of New York, and in 1883 edited the Dawn, but the following year went to California to regain his health. Since that time he has resided in Riverside, and has been connected with several of the daily and weekly publications of

How do they drift and drift

Onward so far away, Going no whitherward,

Where can they stray? Large grows my vision now,

Nothing but sky I seeNothing but clouds that pass

On silently.

EVENA.
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.

[graphic][merged small][merged small]

THE EBB AND FLOW. 'Tis an ebb and a flow Of the ocean wide, Of the tireless tide. It is coming and going the long hours thro' Rushing along in its beaten track, Onward and upward and forward and back, To its paths in the rocks and the sand, Here and on every band. What it brings it will take away, What it takes it will give again Even as rain clouds give the rain Some day. If we only knew, And we all may know, This life of ours is an ebb and a flow, of days and of years, Of joy and of woe. And, like the tide that breaks on the rocks And throws in the air its briny spray, Is the tide of our life which bears along Toward the ragged rocks of ill and of wrong, That cast through our years Their spray of tears. By our Tide Must we all abide; What it brings it will take away What it takes it will give again All but the woe and the pain – Some day.

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

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.

[graphic][merged small][merged small]

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 cbildren'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 linger

ing 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.

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 per

vade. Great nature soothing with her potent power, Breathes to the world-worn heart her sym

pathy; And 'mid the tranquil of such spell-bound

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

light,

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. 0, 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 en

twine. 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 bear no more,

Save in our dreams, it echoes o'er and o'er. My garden! when the world was dark and

cold, 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.

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.

(way;

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? 0, such music, weird and mournful,

As the night-wind swept along, And the sbattered notes so painful, Making discord in the song.

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.

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