822

THE MORNING SONG.

A few inquiring little chirps are heard
Before the morning carol of a bird,
Seeking assurance that the day's at hand
Before it bids its little throat expand;
And in the early morning well it may,-
'Tis always darkest just at break of day.
So, oft, the spirit in distress and gloom
Holds back its song in presence of the tomb;
It lacks assurance that the morning light
Is following closely on the shades of night;
And well it may, o'erspread by death's dark
wing,

But oh! the songs 't will in the morning sing.

THE DAISIES.

While wintry tempests coldly blow, And o'er the meadows sweep, Beneath the drifts of downy snow Unharmed the daisies sleep.

In sunless solitude they dwell

Through all the wintry hours, Till summer skies dissolve the spell And welcome forth the flowers. Oh! let me live, when tempests roll And rage around my path,

In such humility of soul

As to escape their wrath;

And let me like the daisies lie,
When done with mortal strife,
Believing that a fairer sky

Will wake my soul to life.

WOMAN'S LOVE.

Had I a harp by angels strung

To breathe the music of the skies; Had I the skill and power divine

To wake its grandest harmonies,

I'd strike it not to sounding fame,

Ah, no! but let its breathings prove, Though every chord should melt with flame, The tenderness of woman's love.

They know it not who pay their court

At beauty's shrine with heartless praise; They know it not who idly sport

With woman's smile in sorrow days; But when the clouds of summer lower, And man's frail bark is tempest-driven O'er life's dark sea, oh! then its power Is like the very strength of heaven.

In the depth of thy mind as a light shining there. [forsake thee, Should foes overpower thee, or loved ones Should troubles surround thee like clouds of the night

Stand firm through the storm-harm shall not overtake thee, [right. And remember this maxim: to do what is Let scoffers rebuke and let enemies chide thee, Let this be your shield in the bitterest strife: Inspired by the right let the envious deride thee; [life. Ever knowing no falsehood can stain a pure Walk not from the path where these lines

would direct thee

O'er thorns they will lead thee to fields fair and bright:

Omnipotent power shall surely protect thee Down life's rugged road, if you do what is

right.

A. H. STODDARD.

IN 1880 Mr. Stoddard, the farmer poet, published a neat volume entitled Miscellaneous

A. H. STODDARD.

Poems, which received high commendation from the press. Mr. Stoddard resides in Kalamazoo, Mich., where he is very popular.

ALBUM LINES.

We search beneath the ocean tide
For pearls of beauty rare,

We pierce the rugged mountain side,

For golden trinkets there.

We delve among Brazilian sands,
We cross the dangerous main,
Explore Golconda's diamond lands,
Their sparkling gems to gain.

With these the outward form is decked,
Admiring eyes to win;

But moral worth, and intellect,
Are brighter gems within.

THE FLIGHT OF TIME.

So silent is the flight of time,
That years will sometimes seem,

With all their varied changing scenes,
E'en as a fleeting dream.

It seems as 'twere but yesterday,
Since in my childish joy,

I joined my schoolmates in their play,

A wild and thoughtless boy.

A few brief years since that bright day, On hastening wing have fled;

And many of those schoolmates now
Are slumbering with the dead.
And pictures, that like rainbow beams
Were ranged in bright array,
Have vanished as unreal dreams,

In life's advancing day.

In view of this, my youthful friends,

In kindness I would say:

Life's happy morn will soon be past,

Enjoy it while you may.

TO ROSA.

There's dazzling beauty overhead
In evening's starry show,

There's beauty everywhere outspread

On this green earth below.

There's beauty in the circling bow

When sun and shower combine, There's beauty's in the crimson glow, That marks the day's decline.

There's beauty in the towering pine
That bends in lofty pride,

There's beauty in the creeping vine
That nestles by its side.

But star and bow, and tree and skies,
In beauty all combined,

May all be prized, but more we prize The beauty of the mind.

MY LITTLE GRAND-DAUGHTERS. Two little girls, with teeth like pearls, And cheeks like summer roses, With eyes of blue, or some such hue,

And funny little noses.

When combed with care, their flaxen hair
Is left in flowing tresses,-

But by the way it will not pay
To tell about their dresses:-
For girls are vain, 'tis very plain,
And if their dress we mention,
Would not their pride be gratified
By giving it attention?

These children play, in childish way,
With dolls and little dishes,-
Sometimes with hook, along the brook,
They catch the little fishes.

The names you'll find if so inclined,

Of Lucy, and of Lizzie,

If you will look in this my book,
When you are not too busy.

EXTRACT.

To lead a useful, honest life,

To gain an honest living,

And something more for weans and wife, And charitable giving.

MRS. L. E. BRANNOCK.

BORN: ENGLAND, MARCH 23, 1833. THIS lady was married in 1858 to J. P. Brannock, a college president at Marionsville, Mo. Mrs. Brannock is a teacher of music, painting and elocution, in which she has always

MRS. L. E. BRANNOCK.

met with great success. Her poems have appeared in the Ladies' Repository, Waverly Magazine, and the periodical press generally. Mrs. Brannock is the mother of six children, five of whom have grown to manhood and womanhood.

BE NOT WEARY.

Be not weary in well-doing," Words of toil and sorrow born In the sacred pulpit standing, Spake the pastor Sabbath morn. And he gave for our example, Christ the holy we adore. Weary, toiling, burdened, fainting 'Neath the heavy cross he bore. When he spake of Paul, enduring Scourge and prison, want and scorn, Still not wearied in well-doing, Though his flesh concealed a thorn. John, the patient, well beloved; 'Prisoned on lone Patmos' isle, Yet what wondrous visions thronging Came his darkness to beguile.

Then of holy blessed martyrs,

Who fell bleeding by the way; Yet their path illumined, brightened With the light of glory's ray. What are we that we should tremble 'Neath the crush of fortune's wheel? What are we that we should murmur At the crosses all must feel? Are we faint and heavy laden, Are we burdened by the way Seems our scourging past enduringDo deep shadows cloud our way? Are we weary in well-doing,

Is our Patmos dark with storm? Has hope left our gloomy prison Do our hearts conceal a thorn? Glorious visions beaming 'round us, Light the path in which we stray: Weary wanderers, all life's burdens Soon forever fall away:

Courage! Christian toiler, courage!

Brave endure, nor meekly yield,

Faithful, hopeful - trusting ever,

God your strength and Christ your shield.

GOD HELP US.

EXTRACT.

We bring you scentless, 'broidered flowers With hues more grave than gay, Wrought in fancies of the brain,

For these, your flowers of May. God helping us the while we try To 'dorn this well-worn theme, With threads if not of finest gold,

Or poet's loftiest dream.

At least with words whose strength may aid To bear the tide along,

Till all shall join this army true

And swell the victor's song.
..God help us" is our battle prayer;
How like a clarion shrill

Its pleading tones seem echoing far
O'er every vale and hill.

The words resound now low, now loud,
From mountains to the sea,

In east and west, in north and south,
Bound millions to free.

And hark! the strain with soft refrain,
Borne on the wind's low sigh,
Is rising from our grassy plain
And pealing through the sky.
Till angel tongues take up, renew
The pleading sweet refrain,

And send it through the vaults of heaven
Down to the earth again.
..God help us," is the widow's prayer
For humble daily bread,

The lonely orphans, 'round whose steps
Are treacherous pit-falls spread.

825

ALONZO L. RICE.

BORN: LITTLE BLUE RIVER, IND., JUNE 12,'67. THE poems of Mr. Rice have appeared in the Yankee Blade, Indianapolis Journal, and the | periodical press generally. Mr. Rice is known

ALONZO L. RICE.

as the Shelby county poet, and his productions have attracted quite a little attention in the world of literature, and he is undoubtedly making a name for himself. He is still a resident of his native place.

THE DESERTED MANSION.
Deserted mansion, fallen to decay,
The marble lion on thy gateway sleeps
Forevermore; the hawk upon thy arras
sweeps

On never-weary pinions, and the prey
Is toiling upward, from the fields away,

In hope of vain escape; in tangled deeps The weary,panting hound unchanging keeps The wounded stag forevermore at bay.

All is unchanged, but never on the hills, With dawning glimpses of the early morn, Is seen Diana's god, as deep he fills With rounded cheeks his loud and alien horn, Nor evermore along the sunset rills, Return the reapers with the sheaves of corn.

DEAR LOVE, COULD I HOPE. Dear love, could I hope in the future to know, The sun from the ocean of sorrow

Would rise in his splendor and pillow his glow On the bosom of cloudless to-morrow:

The rim of the bubbles

Gives token of troubles,

And over the waste of the threatening sky, The sabre of cranes on its former course doubles,

Uncertain and doubtful as whither to fly. The sun in his weakness has sunk in the sea, With clouds are his tributes remaining; The sheep are gone home, and the birds in the tree,

The owl in the turret's complaining;

And, in the dark thicket,

Anear, the lone cricket,

Forever is chirping and singing his tune; The sentry of sorrow, the citadel's picket, Awaiting the orb of the rounded, red moon.

The day has departed and calm is the night,
The elfins speed by on their rambles;
The glow-worms their lanterns have hung to
the sight,

On points of the grasses and brambles;
On pinions of leather,

Alone and together,

The bats are now winging in revel and rout; The owl in his bower sits wondering whether To dream or to waken the vale with a shout. The insects are harping, the dark colonnade Of the forest resounds to the revel; And, Dian's red orb for an hour delayed, Now gleams o'er the meadow's low level: And, thro' her dominions

On fluttering pinions,

The night-hawk is sailing in ominous dread, And over the valleys and marshes the minions Of darkness are trailing in mantles of red. My heart and affection turns ever to thee, And swerves like the needle's emotion; Unknowing the place where the fairest can be,

So fervent and deep the devotion:
A hope that abideth,
Whatever betideth,

Tho' dimmed like the glance of a glittering

star,

Is sought for the first, when the storm-cloud divideth

Outshining the rest of the circle by far.

ADIEU.

Out o'er the ocean of the morning blue,
The white sail lessens in the misty haze;
And, on the headlands, weary watchers
raise

Their hands against the sun and peering thro'
The intervening vapors, cry: Adieu

To thy delightful presence; 'mid the days The mem'ry of thy being sweetly stays, But grace and beauty fade away with you."

826

JACOB G. GROSSBERG.

BORN: RUSSIA, APRIL 10, 1870.

THE subject of this sketch emigrated with his parents to America in 1882, residing for a while in Cleveland and finally settled down in Chicago. Mr. Grossberg has received a good education, having studied Latin, French and

JACOB G. GROSSBERG.

German. In 1888 he entered the Chicago Union College of Law, and is a member of the class of '90. After graduating Mr. Grossberg hopes to attend a college of liberal arts. Since his youth he has written verse, and in 1889 published a pamphlet of Poems, which was favorably noticed by the press.

LOVE AND THE MUSE.
Now my pillow, tear-drenched nightly,
Is my throbbing temple's bath;
When a zephyr comes, that sprightly
Bears me off on scented breath
Green and fragrance balsam kindly
My heart's deep sore;-

Ne'er has mortal wandered blindly
In an Eden such before:

To the right each crystal glittered-
Every droplet of the lake;
To the left the chorus twittered,
Followed chanting in my wake;
Rainbow hues, more lovely tinted,
Of each flower-bed,

In best beauty vying, hinted

To my ease a couch soft-spread.
And a Nymph came to me smiling,
In all grace and beauty robed;
With me soft the hours beguiling,
My most tender passions probed.
Leading me through lawns sweet-scented
To her proud throne,

To me her domains presented-
Grandeurs, wonders, all her own!

At her bid spright fairies folded
Softest music on my soul,

'Fore my eyes mailed heroes molded,

Whose mien Virtue's graces stole. Then smiled on me, sweet, benignly,

Of these the queen:

"All here lovely, all divinely,

Mayst thou share, if so I mean."

Then did seize me one desire:
This, to woo the royal maid;
And when rose my scorned fire,

I with tresses golden played,

And to eyes the stars out-beaming,

My heart laid bare;

That my hours with dreams set teeming, For bright visions changed despair!

THE WEDDING SONG.

My sister! this thy wedding-day
To me is such sweet sorrow;
Though joyous, still my heart doth say,
I part with thee to-morrow.

Of faces first remembered dear
Thine 'tis I'm first to part with;
Of separations with those dear,

"Tis thee I'm doomed to start with!
Ye players! pour some pensive strain,-
To me it is the sweetest;
For soothing my heart's passing pain,
Your sadder note's the meetest.
O, why must happiness be bought
With years of separation!

Is there not joy without the thought
It has a termination?

But since such must be human joy
Let not my gloom restrain it;
Rejoice, my soul! do not destroy
Such gladness, when I gain it.
Forgive me, sister, pardon all,
This sadness of a moment!
Henceforth my spirits shall not fall
To gloom:- I have not so meant.
And though we part with aching heart,
'Tis for a happy future:-
Henceforward, though we're rent apart,
Still joined we're by love's suture.