812

JOHN A. MILLER.

BORN: CLEVERSBURGH, PA., Nov. 23, 1832. MR. MILLER follows the occupation of a boot and shoemaker in his native town. He was married in 1851 to Miss Jane Cook. He has

been a teacher, editor, and was a soldier in the army. The productions of Mr. Miller have appeared quite extensively in the press.

LINES ON A BROTHER.

When war notes sounded through the land,
And loyal sons were called to rise;
To go and fight for freedom's home-
The purest land beneath the skies.
He girded on his armor bright,

And giving friends the parting hand;
He hastened to Potomac's side,

To take for freedom's cause a stand.
Alas! it grieved his heart full sore,
On leaving home to war to go:
Because he thought some fatal ball
Might pierce and lay his body low.
Be as it may though he replied,

I'd rather meet a warrior's grave;
Than to my country be untrue,

Or not be ranked among the brave.

He brief epistles often wrote,

While marching on to meet the foe; With all the scenes and toils of march, Homeward his thoughts seemed most to flow.

Accounts of twelve days' march he gave,
And all the toils he freely bore;
Though every one the impress gave,
I'll be with friends on earth no more.
For when I would my hopes revive.
A voice was near me, whispering by:
The fate alas! for which I'm born,
Was on the battlefield to die.
Just four weeks' time from first he left,
Down where Antietam's waters flow;
The battle raged with deadly strife,

A ball there laid his body low.

No downy couch on which to rest,
Or pillow soft to lay his head;

Nor could a friend there hear him cry,

Or stand around his dying bed.

No sister near to fan his brow,

Or tears of grief o'er him to pour: No voice but rattling musketry,

The clashing steel and cannon's roar. Long as that flag floats on the breeze, Or bright Antietam's waters flow: Be this the thought to dearest hearts, He nobly went to meet the foe. A monument, in honor reared, Inscribed thereon in memory, Far down, near by, Antietam's side: He died to save, our country free."

ISAAC W. UNDERWOOD. BORN: FRANKLIN CO., VA., MAY 23, 1835. MR. UNDERWOOD has contributed quite a few poems, chiefly religious, to the local press. He was married in 1859 and follows the occupation of a farmer in Patrick county, Va.

THE FIRST DAWN OF DAY. How beautiful the first dawn of day That shone in o'er the face of the deep, When the first rising sun shed a ray Of light o'er the watery sheet. But more beautiful still was the morn When the earth loomed up into space, When the hills and mountains were born, And the valleys and rivers found place. Though grand indeed was the thought Of the creation of man at the first, From whence his being was naught Till created a being from the dust. We are lost for language to portray Or the greatness of God to declare, When we think of his mighty decree That placed this earth in the air. O, then to whom can we go for relief Amid the terrors that beset us in life, Or who can we call on in grief

But the being who gives us this life.

813

MRS. FRANCES L. MACE.

BORN: ORONO, ME., JAN. 15, 1836.

THE poems of this lady have appeared in the Century, Atlantic, Lippincott's, Harper's and the leading magazines of America. In 1884 appeared a volume of over two hundred pages from her pen, entitled Legends, Lyrics and Sonnets; and in 1888, Under Pine and Palm, a magnificient volume of her collected poems.

MRS. FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE. She was married in 1855 to Benjamin H. Mace, a prominent lawyer and scholar. Mrs. Mace lives at San Jose, under the smiling skies of California. At the age of eighteen she wrote her celebrated hymn, Only Waiting, which was copied through the length and breadth of the land. Mrs. Mace is a handsome, stately woman, with a truly artistic temperament, and has four children now living.

ONLY WAITING. Only waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown, Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown; Till the night of earth is faded

From this heart once full of day, Till the dawn of Heaven is breaking Through the twilight soft and gray. Only waiting till the reapers

Have the last sheaf gathered home, For the summer-time hath faded

And the autumn winds are come. Quickly, reapers, gather quickly The last ripe hours of my heart For the bloom of life is withered, And I hasten to depart. Only waiting till the angels

Open wide the mystic gate,
At whose feet I long have lingered,
Weary, poor, and desolate.
Even now I hear their footsteps

And their voices far away:
If they call me I am waiting,-
Only waiting to obey.
Only waiting till the shadows
Are a little longer grown,
Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown; Then from out the folded darkness Holy, deathless stars shall rise, By whose light my soul will gladly Wing her passage to the skies.

VIOLETS.

I know a spot where woods are green,
And all the dim, delicious June
A brook flows fast the boughs between
And trills an eager, joyous tune.

In clear unbroken melody

The brook sings and the birds reply:
...The violets - the violets!"

Upon the water's velvet edge

The purple blossoms breathe delight, Close nestled to the grassy sedge

As sweet as dawn, as dark as night.
O brook and branches, far away,
My heart keeps time with you to-day!
.. The violets- the violets!"

I sometimes dream that when at last
My life is done with fading things,
Again will blossom forth the past
To which my memory fondest clings.
That some fair star has kept for me,
Fresh blooming still by brook and tree,
The violets- the violets!"

EBB AND FLOW.

My river! Thou art like the poet's soul,
Where tides of song perpetual ebb and flow.
Like thine the current of his life runs low
At times, his visions suffer loss and dole,
And sunken griefs break through the water's
shoal.

Then while despair is tossing to and fro
His stranded hope, a breath begins to blow
From the great sea! With rising swell and roll
The waves of inspiration lift and float

His being into broad and full expanse. Now rocks his fancy like an airy boat

On wreathed billows; his impassioned giance Little of cloud or reef or wreck will note,

On the high tide of song in blissful trance.

LOTUS-EATING.

These perfect days were never meant For toil of hand or brain,

But for such measureless content

As heeds no loss nor gain;

Close held to Nature's flowery breast
In deep midsummer rest.
Within this woodland shade I feel
The life of wind and tree;

Soft odors, tremulous boughs reveal
Unuttered ecstasy;

The wild bird's drowsy warble seems
My own voice heard in dreams!
And yonder azure mountain brow
Against the opal sky,

The river's cool, melodious flow,
The pine-tree's pensive sigh,
Each utters forth my inmost mood
Of blissful solitude.

That ever-daring deeds were done,
Or fiery flags unfurled,
Is like a tale of glory won

In some primeval world,
Where under skies of angry hue
Not yet the lotus grew!

O world, to-day in vain you hold
The glittering branch of palm;
The lotus hath a flower of gold,

A fruit of heavenly balm,
And underneath the greenwood tree
Are flower and fruit for me.

THE RAINBOW.

Bridge of enchantment! for a moment hung Between the tears of earth and smiles of

heaven,

Surely the sheen of jasper, sapphire, gold,
Flashes and burns along thy colors seven,
And to the lifted heart, the beaming eye,
Reveals the splendor of the upper sky.
Whether as Northmen dream, the hero's soul
Enters its rest across thy brilliant height;
Or, as the more melodious Greek hath told,
Iris descends with message of delight;
Or in the silence beautiful is heard
The still, small whisper of the Hebrew Word;
Welcome forever to a stormy world,

Dear in each sign and symbol of the past
As of the future; for our Hope shall climb
Thy lustrous arch to realms unseen and vast;
Peace shall come down to us, and in thy light
God's finger still the golden Promise write!

THE ANGELUS.

Ring soft across the dying day,

Angelus!

Across the amber-tinted bay,

The meadow flushed with sunset ray, Ring out and float and melt away,

Angelus.

The day of toil seems long ago,

Angelus!

While through the deepening vesper glow,
Far up where holy lilies blow,

Thy beckoning bell-notes rise and flow,
Angelus.

Through dazzling curtains of the west,
Angelus,

We see a shrine in roses dressed,
And lifted high, in vision blest,
Our every heart-throb is confessed,
Angelus!

Oh, has an angel touched the bell,
Angelus?

For now upon its parting swell
All sorrow seems to sing Farewell;
There falls a peace no words can tell,
Angelus!

ECHO LAKE.

In sunset beauty lies the lake,

A limpid, lustrous splendor! The mists which wrapped the mountain break, And Storm Cliff's rugged outlines take

An aspect warm and tender.

Now listen! for a spirit dwells
High in these mountain nooks and dells.
Echo!
Echo!

Hail to thee! Hail to thee!

Sad Echo, mocked of all her kind,
Here haunts the fleeting summer,
And sends her voice upon the wind,
Still hoping long-lost love to find
In every transient comer.
Not where 'mid silver beeches shines
The lake's pellucid fountain,
But high o'er tangled shrubs and vines
She dwells amid the spectral pines,

The spectre of the mountain.
Float nearer still and drop the oar,
Here where the lilies glisten;

O Echo, we return no more:
For us beyond the island shore
True love doth long and listen.
Thou grievest not, nor dost rejoice,
O wandering, solitary Voice!
Echo!
Farewell!

Echo! Farewell!

TEARS OF ISIS.

When Isis, by true mother love oppressed,
Held wounded Horus to her goddess breast,
Each tear that touched the sympathetic earth
To some rich, aromatic herb gave birth.
Such healing sprang from her celestial pain,
Mortals no longer seek relief in vain, [years,
For oft as spring awakes the slumbering
In wood and meadow blossom Isis' tears.

Western Authors' and Artists' Association, and is also a member of the staff of one of the city dailies at Leavenworth, Kansas.

A HEART'S SONG.

Oh! autumn rain, so quietly falling,
Alike some spirit softly calling,

In measured tones of scenes that were,
My heart in unison, now beating,
My thoughts the days now gone repeating,
Those happier days with love so fair.
Oh! life, why must ye change so grimly?
Or, will the future showing dimly,

Some sweeter recompense bestow?
Some solace for the heart-ache borne, love,
Some joys known in this life we live, love,
Ere to the seraph's land we go?

Soft falls the rain on dying leaves, dear,
Like a knell my aching heart must hear,
Of hopes that rest as dying leaves
But as those leaves fair blooms may cover,
So may I through life's gloom discover
The joy for which my spirit grieves.

So may thine arms some day entwine me,
Thy very soul as mine, mine with thee

WITHIN MY FATHER'S CARE.

Within my Father's care

Have I bestowed one flower;
From off my loving breast

'Twas plucked one dreadful hour.
Rebellion thrilled my being then
And grief, untold by voice, or pen.
At first I would not have it so;
Proud was my neck beneath its woe,
While flinching 'neath the rod.

She was my all; the first

The first sweet gift from heaven sent,
I murmured; Why, dear Lord,
Was this sweet bud lent,

Until mine arms had twined around
Her baby form; and love profound-
Sweet mother-love my heart had filled?
Why was it, dearest Lord, thus willed,
And I must give her up?"

But time with soft'ning touch
Hath soothed, not healed, the wound;
In faith, a solace sweet,

My saddened heart hath found.

And, Oh! how sweet by trust to feel She's safe with Christ, through woe or weal,

'Tis thus I make no half-way gift,
Nor have within the lute one rift,
To mar its perfect tone.

So sweetly faith has taught
This boundless trust in God.

I cannot murmur now,
But bow beneath the rod;
Nor could a doubt of Him imply
To ask her spirit from on high.
So in my heart I hold her there,
Through days and years, a memory fair,-
A presence, sweet and dear.

A VALENTINE.

To-day when even wood birds pair,

My thoughts, sweet girl, to thee incline, To me thou'rt all that's pure and fair, In thee, the graces all combine, And wilt thou be my Valentine? Say me not nay, I pray you, dear, My heart is drunken with the wine Of love for thee; I pray you hear And smile upon this love of mine; And wilt thou be my Valentine?

"Tis honest love I offer thee—

'Tis thine alone; thou art the shrine
Whereat I worship; pity me —
Accept my off'ring, nor decline
To be to-day, my Valentine.
A rosy blush creeps o'er thy face-
A modest glance- it is the sign
That life nor death, nor time nor space
Can part us; thou'rt forever mine,
Forevermore my Valentine.

DROUGHT.

Above the meadow quivering waves of heat,
Among the trees the locust listless sings,
Along the shores the waters idly beat,
The gull sails low to dip her snowy wings,
And the robin is singing for rain."
The sun with sullen face of brazen hue
Has frowned away his veil of cloud and
mist,

The naked sky, a scorched and faded blue,
Glares likes an angry beast of prey; but list!
The robin is singing for rain."
Within the wood the eager honey bee,
On tireless wing thro' all the burning hours,
Impatient searches leaf and plant and tree,
Nor finds her store among the withered flow-
ers,

And

the robin is singing for rain."

The copper-colored moon thro' dusky haze Makes the night weird with shadows dim and faint;

The lazy zephyr 'mid the dry grass plays-
While insects pipe a melancholy plaint,

And.. the robin is singing for rain."
By night, by day, beneath this torrid sky
Nature lies languishing in fevered dreams,
The dusty wayside weeds are brown and dry,

Your tears would flow, if I were dead,
And you would come with blossoms rare,
Their fragrance filling all the air;
You'd come and stand beside my bed,
And say kind words and pity me,
And wish I had not gone away;
You'd stand beside my bier and say
How good and true I used to be.
Breathless and cold, and on my face
The seal of death forever set,
You'd see, with sorrow and regret,
Forever more my vacant place,

And wonder how, when I was here,

You passed with such indifference by; Your heart would ache and you would sigh And wish that I again were here.

If I were dead my pictured face

Your valued things would be among, And all the songs that I had sung Amid your treasures hold a place; And looking back upon my life So filled with trials, you would see, Not what I was, but strove to be A conquering hero in the strife. If I were dead, you'd gently dwell On all the virtues I possessed, And say, ..Dear heart she is at rest, The work was bravely done and well." And fragrant flowers of rarest bloom You'd bring to deck that grassy spot, To prove I had not been forgot You'd lay your off'ring on my tomb. But oh! I pray you do not wait Till these sad eyes no longer see, To bring your offerings sweet to me; But bring them ere it be too late. For what to me will be your flowers, Your tender words and sorrowing sighs, Your falling tears and sad replies When I am safe in heavenly bowers? Give me to-day your kindly smile, The tender touch of friendly hand, That I may know and understand How you have loved me all the while. Give me a modest word of praise. Perchance 'twill rouse my fainting heart And make me better act my part

And fill with sunshine all my days.