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Awakes from its dream Lethean,
And echo's by-past times again. Alas! it seems so passing strange, That from the censer of those days, The incense should so widely range; And their perfume, thro' distant maze, Wake in each heart the mellow chimes, And fragrance of the by-past times.
So clear and free
There comes to me, Soft cadence of past melody;
As 'neath the trees,
I lie at ease, And listen to the whispering breeze.
Each regal note,
From silver throat, Of song-birds reach, near and remote;
Their happy mood
Seek to intrude,
Not far away
The new mown hay,
And glim’ring sheen,
O'er velvet green, Makes restful this enchanting scene.
MEMORIAL DAY. Tenderly strew over each grave to-day, The perfumed blossoms of balmy May. And the " nameless mounds” by stream or
lake, Bedeck them for mother's or sister's sake. What matters it now whether friend or foe, Lies mould'ring to dust in the tomb below. Spread sweet charity's mantle o'er the brave And cover with flowers each hero's grave. Known or unknown, Oh! how many to-day, Grieving, are wond'ring where their loved
ones lay; Weeping and wond'ring, they gladly would
know, If tribute to their's, some hand will bestow. Time and its changes should soften the heart, And sympathy lessen pale sorrow's dart, And tears should refresh the green on each
grave; Bright flowers shed their fragrance o'er the
brave, Think, some sad heart, that is far, far away; In gratitude deep would gladly repay, For the drop of a sigh, a bud or a tear, On the grave - unknown " to some one so
Think Mercy's Angel will hasten away,
While here and there
Sail cloud-ships fair, Sailing, sail by on waves of air,
Until they greet
The anchored fleet, Where azure skies and landscapes meet,
There vines o'er creep
Willows that weep,
On either hand
Its pearly sand,
0! calm, sweet June,
Thou hast o'er strewn,
No discord here,
To mar the ear,
This temple grand,
The Artist's hand, Perfection shows, at his command;
Oh! who would miss
A day like this?
Orink in, my soul,
The sweets that roll, From heaven's free, o'erflowing bowl;
Oh! heart of mine,
At Nature's shrine,
And the dew rests on the flowers,
So charm and cheer the passing hours; Hours, that seem to mne passing slow,
While a wakeful memory strays To you, and scenes of long ago, Recalling other summer days.
A JUNE DAY DREAM.
I drift away,
From toil and heat,
And dust retreat, Where fairer scenes my senses greet.
My footsteps seek
The highest peak, O'er looking lake and crystal creek;
Like yine-clad wall,
Of castled hall,
JOSEPH D. HERRON.
BORN: KIRTLAND, O., Nov. 4, 1853. MR. HERRON has a love for music, and Spring Song he set to music, which has been rendered by choruses of children in New York and
Paint with thy pencil the flowers fair,
JOSEPH D. HERRON. other cities. He has held but two positions in the ten years of bis ministry - assistant minister in Trinity Parish, New York; and Rector of Trinity church, New Castle.
SPRING. | Hall, hail, all hail ! į Tis the halcyon month of May, Hail, hail, all hail! "Tis nature's gala day, Ye nymphs of the mountain, Ye sprites of the fountain, That dance mid the leaflets green: Come out from your bowers, With garlands of flowers, And welcome your fairy queen. Hail! fairy of spring! Scatter thy flowers o'er hill and dale, While the breezes o'er them blow, And soft be thy touch in the woodland vale, Where the leafy tendrils of myrtle trail, And the sparkling fountains flow. Hail: beautiful queen! Deck with thy blossoms the branches bare, And thy golden smiles bestow;
FIRST. Oh! the winds of Annandale! The bracing winds of Annandale, Blowing and sweeping o'er hill and plain, Piling snow drifts in road and lane, Cracking the trees that are covered with ice, Till bending and swaying they snap ir a
trice. Cold are the winds of Annandale; But never a cheek is blanched and pale, That out of the house is wont to tarry, And brave the wind of January. January's bitter cold; But sprightly youth will scarce grow old, And pine away before its time, If, committing the so-called crime Of lingering out in the ice and snow, We make the days of the winter go. Oh! the hills of Annandale! The snow-clad hills of Annandale; Glittering white in the sun's bright rays, That shimmer and dance like a troop of fays; Placing a gem on each feathery fake, Till they look like stars on a frozen lake, Soon is heard on the frosty air, The shout of the coaster-Oh! sport most rare!
Little we heed how the buttons go,
The summer winds so wearily blow,
December floateth by;
As the moon in the cloudless sky.
Across the whitened plain;
Through the frost on the window pane.
Each heart is happy and gay;
Was born on Christmas day.
We welcome you soc9 more!
That came in the days of yore.
In language well
I've heard him tell
How oft at night
By fireside light
He tried to make,
His marks so straight, While the fire his head was burning;
Little thought he,
How hard 'twould be, The line to keep amid life's turning.
Is there one here
With marks so clear Written in life's copy-book
But would erase
From out its place Here a curve, and there a crook ?
MARY TURNER BEECH. In 1885 the subject of this sketch was married to Richard Beech, of Beechville, Ili. Mrs. Beech resides a part of her time at her old home in Stanton, Mich., and the rest she spends at her husband's home on the banks of the Mississippi river. She has two living children - a son, Roy, born in 1869; and a daughter, Jennie Augusta, who is now the wife of T. E. Powell, the publisher of the Montcalm Herald.
TO THE FIRST FLOWER OF SPRING. One simple flower - what joy it brings,
How welcome to the sight.
That brings such true delight.
It whisper's hope and peace; Its tender thoughts, like buds concealed, Love's sweetest incense breathes.
We find alloy,
Mixed with our joy,
To-day its cash,
Shadows of care
May silver the hair,
But the twilight of age
Holds many a page Which brings joy and peace to the heart.
Its not too late
To thank the Lord
For all the good Bestowed us from on high.
JESSIE F. O'DONNELL. · Against the night dew-drops," they said;
And tho little green balls of the daisies BORN: LOWVILLE, N. Y., JAN. 18, 1860.
Never stirred in their soft, grassy bed, Miss O'DONNELL has published a volume of
But sweetly the tall, fragrant lily
Uplifted her chalice of light,
And gladdened the fair summer night,
Leaned down from the trellises' height.
Smiled back at the roses' perfume,
Or shaking the hyacinth's perfume,
Close hiding her beautiful bloom.
And slowly uncovered her face,
With reverent, ineffable grace,
The sout of that wonderful place.
The Lord watched the flower unfold,
The last snowy petal had rolled,
And rich with the Master's breath,
The Night-Blooming Cereus saith;
And gathering her garments about her,
She yielded her sweetness to death. appeared in a number of the leading American periodicals. In person she is very slight,
Wherever a Cereus blossoms, and now resides in her native town.
'Tis said that the Master is nigh;
That he watches the glorious flower THE NIGHT-BLOOMING CEREUS. Uncurl the gold stamens that lie The indolent four o'clock ladies
In the petals that tremble with rapture, Had waked from their long, dreamy rest. And shut round his kiss when they die. But the sun-flower's golden-lashed blossoms
Had turned their brown eyes to the west, And the lilies grown suddenly weary,
EXTRACTS. Lay hushed on the river's cold breast.
Oh, the wondrous, glistening Easter, The blue-bells began a soft tinkle,
Shining in the morning light! The primroses opened their eyes;
Silently the world had blossomed And the grasses waved low where the fairies
Like a white rose in the night; Had stolen the violets' disguise;
Softly smiled the winter landscape And above, through the angels' vast gardens, To the sunbeams' glances bright. The stars blossomed out in the skies.
And who can blame the woman that she chose A voice from the lily-bells calling,
Life's wacınth and color, ere her first love Rang out on the even air clear:
burned .. () ye blossoms! awake, in the gardens!
To ashes? Hearts need hearts. And, oh! The Lord of the flowers cometh near!
God knows O awake! in the field and the woodland;
Dear love is sweet although but half returned. The Maker of blossoms is here!" The poppy just murmured: I'm sleepy!” Can you measure a bluebird's quivering And nodded her round drowsy head; [ters
flight? And the tulips had closed their bright shut-Or the speed of a homesick swallow ? —