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HIRAM THAYER. BORN: CAYUGA Co., N.Y., DEC. 23, 1818. LOCATING in Bradford, Ia., in 1860, Mr. Thayer er was elected justice of the peace the following year, which office he has held continuous
The birds sing sweet in sylvan grove, and
down the floral dale, But the sweetest bird in all the bower is An
nie of the vale. Her breath is like the morning, when wild
flowers deck the lea; Her very thoughts are sweet and pure as gen
tle zephyrs be; (the passing gale, The roses bloom in beauty bright, and scent But the fairest flower in all the glen, is An
nie of the vale.
TO MARCIA. Amid the green bowers And sweet-scented flowers, She floats like a fairy To spend the gay hours, While dewdrops are shining, A rosy wreath twining. And now with her singing The wild wood is ringing, As with a light heart Quickly homeward she's springing, Her rich treasures bringing And jetty locks flinging. With cheeks like the roses She came to me smiling — And gave me a garland The moments beguiling, And I loved the sweet maiden With rosy wreaths laden.
HIRAM THAYER. until the present time. He was also postmaster for over twenty-two years. His songs have been chiefly on political, patriotic and temperance subjects.
BONNIE ANNIE. Awake, O muse, inspire my lay, a truthful
tale I'll tell, Upon the Turkey's bonnie banks a lovely
maid doth dwell. Who trips as lightsome as the fawn upon its
native trail; They call her Gentle Annie, Gentle Annie of
Lovely to behold,
Sweet Annie of the vale.
the summer sea, Her voice so sweet and gentle, is like music
ΖΙΜΕΝΙΑ. There's a wail upon the waters, on the gentle breezes dying,
(more. For the beautiful Zimenia,sweet Zimenia is no From the bills the zephyrs sighing Echo back the plaint replying To the vale where she is lying, On the bright Jadagna shore. CHO.-Oh Zimenia, dear Zimenia, thou hast
• left us for a time, But we hope ere long to meet thee in
that brighter, fairer clime. In thy youth's enchanted morning, and when
sweet wild flowers were springing, And the lilies spread a carpet of bright blos
soms o'er the bay;
For the islands far away.
ever sweeter, In that land of light and gladness, where thy
tears are ever dry,
M. WALLACE. THE poems of Mr. Wallace have appeared in numerous newspapers, and certainly contain merit. He is at present living in Texas at Huntsville,
And finds a long-lost sainted daughter, Watching with the angel infant. Pleased, she gazes on their features, Gathering brightness on her own, Until celestial light's reflection Gives resemblance like to all. Departed friends will ne'er return From soul-improving joys of Heaven, Where maturity expands their powers And capacity o'erflows with pleasure.
DAISY M. HARRIS. BORN: CLAIBORNE CO., Miss., JULY 2, 186. TAE poems of this lady have appeared in the Memphis Appeal and several other publications. Miss Harris is associate editor of her father's paper, at Hattiesburg, Miss.
ON THE WING. While musing o'er the events of Time, A pleasing sense of things sublime Came o'er my thoughts in grand review, Of scenes, with interest, ever new. First I looked on childhood's life, With smiles of joy and tears of grief, And next the sports of early youth, With some deceit and much of truth. Then riper life, with heavy cares, And age, with all its weight of years, These every day affairs of man Strew quickly o'er the path of Time. But looking past this business life, Where love of gain makes constant strife, The aged come with trembling step, Life's weary journey nears its close. Anxious spirit, wrestling with delay, Longs for home, but here must stay And bear the cross till crown is given, And labor finds reward in Heaven. Where calm delights serenely roll, Or richer joys enthuse the soul, And happiness runs full and free From Time throughout eternity. Love, the sweetest passion of the soul, In Heaven enjoys supreme control, And soft, sweet light and fragrant air In rich refulgence waving there. But hark; what mean those childish raptures In the Lord's reception rooms; A cherub infant looking out, Hails a distant coming shout. Rising high o'er Heaven's headlands Comes a shining angel convoy, Bearing from the stream of death A rescued sinner saved by grace. When first they sight the plains of glory, Celestial beauty's dazzling splendor Thrills with joy the enraptured mother, Looking o'er the Heavenly mansions. In a window waits her nurslings, In flowing robes of Heavenly brightness, Waves starry crown and golden harp,This way mamma, here's the Savior. The Savior smiles a princely welcome To all the joys a Heaven may know, Mother from earth's low-lands coming, Finds life's lost darlings saved in Heaven. A mother's soul, enthused with love, In emotion lost she clasps her child,
OLD LETTERS. I was turning the leaves of a book, that had laid away so long
(song. They only lived in memory as a half-forgotton Some of the leaves were yellow, were faded
and stained with tears; Some were of snowy whiteness, free from all
doubts and fears. The book contained – only letters from
friends, some false, some true, Some filled with messages as sweet as violets dipped in dew;
(and sighs; But some of these old letters were full of sobs With longings and repinings for cloudless,
sunny skies. I found one dainty missive that wakened the
past from sleep, It touched so many heartstrings it made me
both laugh and weep. So I laid aside this - old time" book to seek a
more pleasant theme, Surely more recent writings were filled with
brighter dreams. There were ever so many letters from Agnes
and Ettie and Pearl, From Jennie, Ora, Lurline and Jda, all bonny
sweet-tempered girls; And Poca and Joe had written, Mag and Nannie
had penned sweet lines, And out from my package of letters shone a
ray of brighest sunshine. But off to themselves were bundles tied with
ribbons, red, white and blue, Written in bolder chirograpby, by the boys"
I had ever found true. They were pink-tinted, cream and gold filled
with eloquence and fun. Each line tells its own happy story, and I treas
ure them every one: Because, they were written by Walter, Forest,
Tom, Johnnie, Bob and Phil, And last, but by no means least, my stanch
friends, Frank and Will.
HERBERT M. SYLVESTER.
BORN: LOWELL, MASS., FEB. 20, 1840. AFTER practicing successfully the legal profession for thirteen years in Portland, Mr. Sylvester then removed his office to Boston. It was here he wrote his Prose Pastorals, wbich have been called by competent critics poems in prose. Although Mr. Sylvester has written numerous poems of beauty, he is best known as a prose writer.
RAIN MUSIC. Hear the welcome of the rain!
Twisting through its matted vines.
batter! Pitter, patter,
Full of softly drowsy lines,
or gray; its low, uneven scarp,
Outlined in sharp relief Against the sky, is roughly set
With pionacles that glow
Of centuries ago.
Wind-blown and bare, uprear
In the clear atmosphere;
Burst the deep golden floods
Their glory through the woods. Night comes; the Spirit of the Frost
His shuttle swifter plies "Twixt Nature's warp, and swifter weaves
For Earth its subtle guise;
Echo the dreary cry
Are Nature's lullaby.
Night sets her cordon-line
That weirdly burn and shine,
As lights that far at sea
THE GREAT SCHOOL-ROOM. Life finds its meaning in its scope,
As broad or na rrow as its aim,A poor, frail jest, if only hope
Or untaught hand may feed its flame. Dame Nature's school keeps open door,Her novice needs no less, no more, Where long apprenticeship of thought is gain Of stouter brawn and larger thrift of brain.
A LARK SONG.
The pasture maples stand
The meadow mists, like fleets
Betrays with rosy grace
The brown lark upward soars;
A shower of liquid tones,
To catch the wondrous strain,
MRS. MARY C. KELSEY.
BORN: LOGANSPORT, IND. This lady is the wife of J. S. Kelsey, M. D., and resides in Xenia, Ind. Mrs. Kelsey has a poetic style of her own, and has written poems occasionally from her girlhood, which have appeared from time to time in the local press. Mrs. Kelsey is the oldest daughter of Mrs. Julia M. Kautz of Cutler, Ind., who is represented elsewhere in this work.
A MUTE PROPHECY. Aslant the threshold of the West Stretches a sombre reef
In the years that are gone by.
’Neath the blue and laughing sky.
MRS. ELIZABETH 0. SMITH. Born: NORTH YARMOUTH, ME., ABOUT 1807, MRS. SMITH has long stood before the public as essayist, poet, novelist, lecturer and preacher. Not only her own boys but several of her grandchildren are poets. She hopes to publish her works at an early date.
UNATTAINED. Alone, we stand to solve the doubt Alone, to work salvation outCasting our helpless hands about. For human help - for human cheer Or only for a human tear Forgetting God is always near. The poet, in his highest flight, Sees ranged beyond him height o'er height, Visions, that mock his utmost might,And music borne by echo back Pines on a solitary track Till faint hearts sigh, alas, alack! And beauty, born of finest art, Slips from the sinner's hand apart, And leaves him aching at the heart. The fairest face hath never brought Its fairest look - the deepest thought Was never into language wrought. The quaint old litanies that fell From ancient Seers, great hearts impel – Impel to nobler deeds than poets tell. We live, we breathe, all unexpressed, Our holiest, noblest in the breast, Lie struggling in the wild unrest, Awaiting fbres that shall leap, And an exulting harvest reap In Death's emancipating sleep. Our onward lights eternal shine:Conquer'd by no unmanly pine, We, royal Amaranths, shall twine. The great God knocks upon the door, Ready to run our chalice o'er If but the heart will ask for more. If hungering with a latent sense, We know not, ask not how or whence, But take our consecration thence. The wine-press must alone be trod -The burning plowshare press'd unshod – There is no rock of help but God.
Behold the earth to-day, | Lapped in the glory of the autumn-time,
Robed in this bright array, Crimson and gold, russet and pearly rime!
Now comes the after-glow,
While iightly from below
Yea, earth is beautiful
Grateful the pensive lull
The cheery notes are still
And low, sweet anthem fall
(now or light winds warm from sunny south lands
Lifting the auburn tress
The gladsome spring is past,
0 Year! to thee, at last,
O Life! thy spring lies far In misty shades, half-bidden from my sight;
Thy summer glories are Far back 'mid bowers of beauty and delight.
O heart of mine! to thee
With wondering eyes I see
One backward glance, balt sad,
Then turn my gaze, half glad
Father, take Thou my hand,
Into the sunset land,
ELIZA ELLEN STARR MISS STARR has written several works, no tably Songs of a Life-Time, and Pilgrims and Shrines. This lady resides in Chicago, where she occasionally lectures on Art Literature at her Studio, 399 Huron St.
MRS. SARAH M. KIMBALL.
BORN: NEW BRUNSWICK, JUNE 25, 1833. IN 1884 appeared My Aunt Jeanette from the pen of this lady. She has written numerous short stories, and her poems have always been gladly received by the press.
EXTRACTS. Thou mindest me, by thy celestial dye, Of our most Virgin Lady's heavenly eye. Love strewed her couch with bloom;
Laid rose and pansy on ber breast; Who took so gently to that silent room
White poppies? Dear one, rest!