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With joy its cup to fill.
That filled our hearts with joy,
Our earnest thoughts employ. The thrill of bush and wildwood
Where youthful fancy played; The flowery paths of childhood
That led through dells of shade Were changed to paths when lovers
In fondest passion dream, Of secret joys that hovers
Where love doth reign supreme, Recall the fondest token
By early childhood earned -The spell of years is broken
The sweets of knowledge learned.
WE HAVE A LITTLE BABY. We have a little baby
To cheer our hearth and home, To fill our hearts with gladness,
And cause us not to roam. Its eyes do glitter fondly —
In sweet affection shine; We see the image plainly
Of beauty most divine. They hold a hidden magic
In every look and stare, Compelling pure devotion,
Unceasing love and care. We have a little baby
Our leisure to employ; It drives away all sorrow
And fills our lives with joy. The clouds have southly drifted.
The sky is bright and clear, Then comes the tiny tendril
To draw our hearts so near; And like the gentle zephyr
That woos the morning sun, It brings to us the emblem
Of heaven here begun.
So sweet, so pure, so fair,
To drive away dull care.
Bedewed with winsome smiles, And 'neath its little dimples
We see its gleeful wiles. Just like the morning roses,
Just like the morning dove, It is a little blessing
To link our lives in love.
On the rose tinted flush of the scene,
And the beauty of springtide was green. When the future was shining with splendor,
Not a cloud in the dome of the sky: And the pathway of youth was made tender
Though the driftwinds of sorrow were nigh. I have gazed on the moontide of life,
On the midday of withering heat;
And the feverish brow of defeat.
That ascend to the zenith of fancy:
And I know that true Bliss is the aim. I have gazed on the ev'ning of life, .
On the sweetness of calm and repose;
And the grandeur that living bestows.
'Round the tottering frame of old age, And the echoes of night are fast calling
Mother Nature has turned the last page. I have gazed on the sunset at last,
On the vision of crimson and gold – When the shade tints of ev'ning are past,
Then the beauties of Dawn will unfold. I have gazed on the casket containing
The remains of a dear one who's gone, And the symphonies sweet are refraining, On the flight to the beauties beyond.
A DREAM OF CHILDHOOD.
My youthful days are gone,
Is past the gray of dawn.
So free from toil and care; Those years that gave full measure
To every joy full share; Bring back the golden beaming
Of childhood's hopes and fears, Bring back the silver gleaming
Of early gleeful years. Resound those notes of laughter
That echoed through the air, Bring back these long years after
The joys that now are rare; Bring back the eager yearning
For river dale and hill, Where childish hope was burning
EXTRACT. Charming the maiden that snatches a rose
To pin on a lover's breast; Grand is the passion the heart.only knows
When love is by love caressed.
HUBBARD M. SMITH, M. D. Dr. Smith also has two daughters living at
the old homestead. The Doctor is still activeBORN: WINCHESTER, KY., SEPT. 6, 1820.
ly engaged in the practice of medicine, being EARLY in life young Hubbard apprenticed
now the oldest of his confreres at Vincennes. himself to a saddler, and worked at that business until about twenty-one years of age. About this time he commenced the study of
SONNETS – CUPID'S PLEA. medicine, but did not practice until 1844. Two
Are matches made in heaven? Ah! no, not years later Mr. Smith married a friend of his
all; youth; settling in Vincennes, Indiana, in 1849,
For circumstance, and art, and mammon where he has since resided. He has ever since been engaged in the practice of his profession, Much of the pairing of the world, they who excepting about ten years in which he was
Mark not the fact are deaf to Cupid's call, engaged either in editing and publishing the
Yet, when, contrariwise, some people seek Vincennes Gazette or acting as postmaster.
The course of nature's plan to overthrow, Mr. Smith has filled many important posi
Success may follow for awhile; but woe And sorrow afterward dire vengeance wreak. A monitor presides within the breast
Of every mortal, as a living soul,
Of some congenial spirit to console
And nothing else its cravings will control.
day, Ere blighting sin the human race had
cursed The heavenly orbs their courses run, as first Through space they started in their trackless
way. So, in accord with laws divinely made, When left to freely choose, all creatures
mate, And not by accident, which some call fate, And thus, through love, is Nature's voice
That on Love's altar once was deified ?
The wedding bells with silver tongues may tions - including U.S. Pension Surgeon for
ring twelve years; and now fills the office of trustee Their merry chimes, the ear to charm and to the Presbyterian church and the univer
please, sity. His poetical compositions have been And riches bring with them luxurious ease; published in the leading periodicals of Amer But, ah, too oft they leave a poignant sting ica. Mr. Smith is a member of several Where naught but joy seemed only due; for medical societies, and has contributed prose
love to the medical press and associations. He Cannot be bought with gold; respect, at became one of the charter members of the
best, Western Writers' association of Indiana, and Is all that mammon gains by rich behest has read several poems before that body. His Affection pure it cannot buy or move. sons have become well known as men of abil Society, with artful charms may win ity - one as a United States Consul; another With dazzling rays, but all its glamor as a musical composer; a third son as a com
soon mercial traveler; and the fourth son is suc Wears off, as pleasures fade from gilded sin; cessfully practicing law in Dallas, Texas. | And even Fame the heart cannot attune,
When mated not by love, for naught within One answering chord sends back to prof
MATTHEW H. PETERS.
BORN: RHENISH BAVARIA, JUNE 6, 1843. M. H. PETERS, the author of the following thoroughly American sentiment is by birth a German; was brought to this country when a babe and bas grown up thoroughly imbued with the spirit of our institutions. He served
At the dawn of light,
To labor till
The bellows blow,
And the coals soon glow, Like the dazzling rays of the noon-day sun;
The huge sledge swings,
And the anvil rings
The sparks as bright,
As the meteor's light,
Whilst wreaths of smoke,
· From the burning coke, In beauteous columns rise on high.
List! list, the peal,
As on the steel
Like clashing swords,
When army hordes Contending meet in deadly fight.
Though on his brow
The sweat stands now, He heeds it not but toils away,
Since Heaven has said,
Man's daily bread
The world may sneer
And cast a leer,
But what cares he,
With a heart as free
'Tis not the shade
Of man, or trade, Which he labors at, that gives him worth;
But heart and mind,
Which stand behind,
No specters grim
Appear to him,
For in his mind
Sweet peace is shrined, And on his cheeks health's hue e'er glows.
As thus he toils,
Life's sad turmoils
For no thoughts resti
Within his breast,
THE GOLDEN RULE. I ask not for myself a right
Which I to others would deny; With all mankind I'd share the light Nor would I rule by force of might,
But on the Golden Rule rely. áll men have their paternity
In common with their fellow men; Equality, fraternity,
Should rule the heart and guide the pen. And when this hallowed rule prevail Tyrants, crowns and kings shall fail, And man and woman equal born Shall stand erect that glorious morn And recognize the right of each To liberty of thought and speech.
JOSEPH BERT SMILEY.
Borx: ANOKA, MINN., OCT. 8, 1864. WHEN two years of age his parents removed to Kalamazoo, Michigan, where he received his education, graduating at the high school with honor. The following year he entered the university of Michigan in the literary department, and received the degree of A. B. In 1885 be commenced newspaper work as city
That was quite a hig) old raven Mr. Poe has
told about. I kept thinking, thinking, thinking, as those
stars kept blinking, blinking, And the more I thought about it, I was more
and more in doubt; Edgar's logic knocked me out. And I found no explanation to that curious
situation Here's the lamp upon the table, and the raven
on the door, And the lamplight o'er him streaming threw
his shadow on the floor. Think of where the lamp was sitting and you
cannot help admitting 'Twas an awful crooked shadow to have ever
reached the floor. 'Twas a hump-backed, cross-eyed shadow if it
ever saw the floor. So I sought a clear solution to that shadow's
dire confusion, And my only strong conclusion was that Ed
gar had the snakes. I am sure he had been drinking and he must
have had the snakes. So perhaps the raven, sitting on the cornice,
never flitting, With its fiery eyes a burning into Edgar's
bosom core Was the whisky he'd been drinking just before
he fell to thinking Of his lovely lost Lenore.
It was bug-juice, evermore. Or perhaps the maiden, deeming such a fellow
too demeaning, Had preferred to share the fortunes of the
friends who'd gone before, And had perished, broken-hearted, as fair
maids have done before. Maybe he disgraced and slighted till she felt
her life was blighted And her lonely soul, benighted, wandered to a
fairer shore, Maybe Edgar's drinking killed her, as it has
killed girls before. It was benzine, evermore. Get most anybody frisky on a quart or two of
whiskey, And he'd think he saw some shadows, or some
ravens, or some floors, And the lamps would get befuddled, and the
shadows awful muddled, And he'd see one crazy raven perched on for
ty-'leven doors; And he wouldn't know a shutter from a dozen
lost Lenores. It is my profound opinion that if Poe had
kept dominion O'er his brains and o'er his reason, as they
used to be of yore,-
That if he had been less frisky and had guzzled
down less whiskey He'd have never seen that raven on the bust
above his door. Very likely that same evening be'd been on a
Would just cover their person with clothes; And in making home happy and cheerful
Would their beauty and graces employ, And would not try to dazzle creation
Like the beautiful Helen of Troy.
ALFRED H. MORRISON.
BORN IN ENGLAND, MARCH 2, 1843. ALFRED received a good education, having studied oriental languages, and also took the first prize at a military college. He has visited Australia, Cape, Celon, India, and in fact voyaged around the world. Mr. Morrison came to Canada in 1876, was there married ten years later, and is now professor of English in the Brantford institute. Prof. Morrison has published a book entitled The Art Gallery of the English Language.
HELEN OF TROY.
And they lived in contentment and peace In a quaint little Attican city
In the southwestern corner of Greece.
A son of King Priam, of Troy,
And a small fishing trip to enjoy.
And there came a large party of state,
And he waltzed with her there very late. Mrs. Helen looked awfully handsome
And she wore an exceeding low dress, With a large jewelled pin on the corsage,
And she flirted with Paris, we guess. Well, she waltzed so exceedingly lively
And she asked him to hold her so tight, And she leaned upon Paris so heavy
That his head soon began to be light; She was friendly and quite confidential,
As she waltzed with such exquisite grace, And her costume so naively suggestive,
Mr. Paris was clear off his base. Mrs. Helen was only in fashion.
She was trying to be at her best. In society's bright upper-ten dom
She would like to outshine all the rest. But this Paris, though just a mere dudelet
Was a stern and determined young boy, So he finally won Mrs. Helen
And she ran away with him to Troy. On his ear then arose Menalaus
And he purchased a large carving-knife And he called all his legions together
And he started out after his wife. To assist him came Mr. Achilles
That is Homer's ferocious old boy Mr. Hector, too, joined the procession,
Then began the renowned Siege of Troy. And for years raged the terrible battle
In bloodshed, and carnage and strife
And his beautiful, runaway wife.
And they slaughtered the Trojans in joy --All because of the immodest dressing
Of the beautiful Helen of Troy.
Would have probably never arose
The fairy bells of infant hours,
The drowsy-hood of dreams and flowers; The glamour of the cradled bliss,
The nectar of the mother's kiss! Time flies — the infant grows apace,
A cherub still in form and face. Time chimes upon the bells of years,
The silver bells of joyous youth, Persuasive peal that boyhood hears,
Sweet changes ring on trust and truth, The whitest light in mem'ry's ray,
The sunniest hour of friendship's day! Time flies – the peal is hushed for aye,
Trust, truth, and boyhood pass away. Time chimes upon the bells of years,
The golden bells of manhood's prime, A peal of mingled hopes and fears,
The crown'd king, the painted mime; The friends, the foemen in the strife,
The good attained, the baffled life! Time flies - The peal subsides amain,
Above the victor and the slain. Time chimes upon the bells of years,
The iron bells of life's decline, The peal comes muflled to the ears,
Across the shade, across the shine; The regal sun toward the west,
Flame mantled, seeks his crimson rest! Time flies -- the hour of night is tolled,
The world is worn and life is old. Time chimes upon the bells of years,
The spirit bells of life renewed, Beyond the mists the morning clears,
To show the Future rainbow-hued. The change is rung by deathless hands,
Beyond the finite shifting sands! Time flies -- but time and age are dead
And youth returns to reign instead.