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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

the vale.
CHO.- Bonnie Annie, Gentle Annie,

Lovely to behold,
Her hair so fair in ringlets rare,
Hangs down in chains of gold.
I loved her for that gentle grace,
A charm that doth not fail;
O, happy day, when first I met

Sweet Annie of the vale.
Her eyes are bright as stars at night above

the summer sea, Her voice so sweet and gentle, is like music

unto me;

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;
While the choral songs were singing,
Heavenly joy to mortals bringing,
Thou hast left us and forever

For the islands far away.
Oh, Zimenia, dear Zimenia, may thy song be

ever sweeter, In that land of light and gladness, where thy

tears are ever dry,
Where we hope again to meet thee,
And with joy again to greet thee
On the Elysian Fields o'er yonder
We will meet thee by and by.

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.


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!

Patter, patter,

Tuneful chatter,
On the flashing fire-lit pane.
Hear the honeysuckle creak
As the winds its secrets seek,

Twisting through its matted vines.
And the windows how they rattle, bang, and

batter! Pitter, patter,

Dripping chatter,
Tripping down the shingled roof,
Filling up its liquid woof;
How the notes each other throng,
Making up their slumber-song,

Full of softly drowsy lines,
With their drip, and rush, and gush and clat-

Pitter, patter,
Dripping chatter,
Hear the night-tide of the rain!

or gray; its low, uneven scarp,

Outlined in sharp relief Against the sky, is roughly set

With pionacles that glow
Like Norom bega's mystery

Of centuries ago.
The hills, with ragged, rock-set domes,

Wind-blown and bare, uprear
Their brightly polished topaz walls,

In the clear atmosphere;
While o'er the cloud's thin, ragged rift

Burst the deep golden floods
Of Nature's alchemy, that sift

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;
And down the river-path the pines

Echo the dreary cry
Of winds whose dying cadences

Are Nature's lullaby.
In the crisp air of growing dusk

Night sets her cordon-line
Thick with groups of glittering stars,

That weirdly burn and shine,
And come and go, as silently

As lights that far at sea
Are sailed o'er restless tides, by hands
We cannot know or see.

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 mopkisb group in sober garb,

The pasture maples stand
Against the soft, gray sky.
The weather-cock wakes with the wind;

The meadow mists, like fleets
Of ghostly ships sail by.
Seaward, the ripples grow apace;
Morn, blushing like a girl,

Betrays with rosy grace
Her sun-god lover by her face.
From dewy nest and meadow bloom,

The brown lark upward soars;
His dusky-throated song
Falls, sparkling down, now faint, now clear-

A shower of liquid tones,
Strewn wood and field along,
Like drops of slanting, sunlit rain -
And breathless lies the earth

To catch the wondrous strain,
That woos the breaking day again.


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 sunny days of childhood,

In the years that are gone by.
Swiftly sped the golden hours

’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,
Like sunset splendors flushing orient skies,

While iightly from below
Soft floating folds of gauzy mists arise.

Yea, earth is beautiful
In vestments dyed so exquisitely fair;

Grateful the pensive lull
Of voices late upon the ambient air.

The cheery notes are still
Of harvest songs so gaily ringing here,

And low, sweet anthem fall
With slumbrous melody the attent ear.
Dear is the soft caress

(now or light winds warm from sunny south lands

Lifting the auburn tress
In playful coquetry from Nature's brow.

The gladsome spring is past,
And the full beauty of the summer-time;-

0 Year! to thee, at last,
Hath come the golden glory of thy prime!

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
Hath come thine Indian Summer, and to-day

With wondering eyes I see
Life's after-glow illumining my way!

One backward glance, balt sad,
I give the beautiful, the vanished past,

Then turn my gaze, half glad
That I have gained this summit grand at last.

Father, take Thou my hand,
And lead me down with gentle, loving care

Into the sunset land,
Life's restful vale, 'tis beautiful down there

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.


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!

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