ROBERT DUKE WEAR.

BORN: VERONA, MISS., FEB. 26, 1854. By profession Mr. Wear is a lawyer, and resides in Granbury, Texas. He was married in 1876 to Miss Cora Leeper. The poems of Mr. Wear have appeared quite extensively in the periodical press, and in 1885 published a volume of verse entitled Beauty, a romance from real life, together with other poems.

UNDER AN APPLE TREE.

Hist! listen! Hear the rolling, rumbling boom

Now sounding forth a nation's dreadful doom.

There comes from Sumpter's fiery mouth
A belching stream with lurid glare
That heats the land from north to south,
And heating, makes the nations stare.
Then four weary years
Of blood and of tears

Are spent in vain;

Our sons are slain.

'Mid sobs and cries

A nation dies.

Hark! listen! Hear the rolling, rumbling

boom

Now lifting forth a nation from its gloom. The storm has swept the nation wide; And now the sun is shining bright Beholds our heroes side by side,

And peace is sending forth her light.

Then two mighty men
Met with grand amen.
In meeting sad,

But greeting glad;

Then Grant met Lee

'Neath hist'ry's tree.

ALL ALONE.

When from life's dark, dreary pathway
All the light of hope has flown,
And we stumble on the stairway
With a sad and plaintiff moan-
"Tis worse when left alone.
And the soul is filled with sadness
As we reach the silent door,
And we miss the childish gladness
Of the happy days of yore-

"Tis hard when left alone.
In the evening, will we gather
With the little ones around
Where the sacred name of father
Is the all-enchanting sound?
Ah, no, we're left alone.
How we miss the childish prattle
And the infant's gentle tone;
Yea, the constant tattle, tattle

Of the children now is gone-
How sad to be alone.

When the soul is bowed in sorrow
After many toiling years,
When no sheen is on the morrow,
Then the soul is spent in tears.

O, God! we're all alone.
And the spirit sounding hollow
With its emptiness and pain,
Seems about inclined to follow
On the first departing train;
For now, we're all alone.
If the dark and silent reaper,
Seeking for a flower fair,
Should a sweet and tender creeper
From my very spirit tear,

"Twould leave me all alone. If I knew w'd meet forever In another world than this, Then I could thus bear to sever, And their sacred presence miss; But, 'tis sad to be alone.

HOME.

As the twilight lingers softly
On the fading rims of day,
Hear the toiling whisper gladly,

Plodding homeward on their way,
Home, sweet home! I'm going home.
As the noonday's sun is sinking

Like a bird with weary wing,
Seems to me the world is thinking
As the birdies sweetly sing,
Home, sweet home! I'm going home.
When the evening's blushing beauty
Crimsons all the earth around,
Then we hear the man of duty
With his weary echoes sound,

Home, sweet home! I'm going home.
When the brain is tired and weary
With the busy cares of life,
And the world is dark and dreary,
Man will sing in ev'ry strife,
Home, sweet home! I'm going home.
When the heart is sad with failing,
And the soul with anguish burns;
When the light of hope is paling,
Then the spirit always turns
Home, sweet home, no place like home.
And the children in their gladness,
Loit'ring on the verge of night,
Never feel a pang of sadness

As a vision comes in sight

Home, sweet home, they are going home.
Oh, the sweet and sacred treasure
Of our own domestic vine,
And its holy thoughts and pleasure

We will sing through coming time— Home, sweet home, no place like home.

MRS. LAURA GRICE PENUEL.

BORN: SOUTH CAROLINA. THIS lady is a widow, and has resided in Hearne, Texas, for the past ten years. For several years she assisted Dr. Royall as

But the stars above were marching,

And they shouted, "The victor's wreath?" And we longed to march with the legions, Heroic, and grand and strong,

That storm the castles of evil,

That scatter the ranks of wrong.

Now, we know not if gardens are sunny,
If blossoms and berries are sweet,
We dare not lay down our armour,
Or linger for resting feet.

And yet, in the glare of the conflict,
Remembering beauty and balm,
Not backward, but forward forever,
We look for refreshment and calm.

Dear God! ever gracious and tender,
The earth is thy footstool small,
But Heaven is the heart of Thy beauty,
Where we may recover all.

We know 'twill be wondrously lovely,
Dear Lord, could we only know,
That, there, we may cherish the roses,
And the lilies of long ago!

We leaned from the lattice at midnight, The roses blushed beneath,

Who died for.. Old England and the Policy of Gladstone."

DANSKE DANDRIDGE.

SHE commenced writing verses at the age of eight. Her first poem appeared in Godey's Lady's Book in 1885. Since that time she has published several volumes of poems, among which might be mentioned Joy and Other Poems. Many of her poems have also appeared in miscellaneous periodicals.

PLEASURE.

Alas! I have an ancient enemy,
Whose robes are tinsel, and her face a lie,
Men call her Pleasure, but I know her twin
Is Pain; their age, Remorse; their Shadow, Sin.

MOON.

We dart through the void:

We have cries, we have laughter: The phantom that haunts us

Comes silently after. This Ghost-lady follows,

Though none hear her tread; On, on, we are flying,

Still tracked by our Dead; By this white, awful Mystery, Haggard and dead.

DESIRE.

Come, dear Desire, and walk with me;
We'll gather sweets, and rob the bee;
Come, leave the dimness of your room,
We'll watch, how since the morning rain
The spider sitteth at her loom,

To weave her silken nets again.

I know a field where bluets blow
Like frost from fingers of the night,
And in a sheltered coppice grow
Arbutus trailers, blush and white.

THE RAINBOW.

We are akin, dear soul:

Akin as are the rainbow in the sky, The runnel on the knoll;

We are akin in spirit, you and I.

Ah! how serene and bright!
You stand with shining feet,

And lustrous arch complete

Of rounded life upon the cloudy height:
You catch the light of heaven and repeat
All its transcendent splendor in your face,
And beautify a place

With radiance of a glory and a grace.
Thus is your life, O soul!

But I am like the stream

That hurries down the knoll,

As changeful as a dream;

As restless and as wild

As an impatient child:

Yet thankful, dear, if in some tranquil space, I may reflect the radiance of your face.

MAURICE THOMPSON.

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ALTHOUGH Mr. Thompson is chiefly known through his prose, perhaps his best work is poetry. Songs of Fair Weather are fresh and breezy as a May morning; Between the Poppy and the Rose is a gem; and Ceres is also a very fine piece of versification. He has been a member of the Indiana legislature, and has lately resigned the office of State Geologist of Indiana.

POETRY.

He is a Poet strong and true

Who loves wild thyme and honey-dew;
And like a brown bee works and sings,
With morning freshness on his wings,
And a gold burden on his thighs,-
The pollen-dust of centuries!

A FLIGHT SHOT.

We were twin Brothers, tall and hale,
Glad wanderers over hill and dale.
We stood within the twilight shade
Of pines that rimmed a Southern glade,
He said: " Let's settle, if we can,
Which of us is the stronger man.
We'll try a flight shot, high and good,
Across the green glade toward the wood."
And so we bent in sheer delight

Our old yew bows with all our might.
Our long keen shafts, drawn to the head,
Were poised a moment ere they sped,
As we leaned back a breath of air
Mingled the brown locks of our hair.
We loosed. As one our bow-cords rang,
As one away our arrows sprang.
Away they sprang; the wind of June
Thrilled to their softly whistled tune.

We watched their flight, and saw them strike
Deep in the ground slantwise alike,

So far away that they might pass
For two thin straws of broom-sedge grass!
Then arm in arm we doubting went

To find whose shaft was farthest sent,
Each fearing in his loving heart
That brother's shaft had fallen short.
But who could tell by such a plan
Which of us was the stronger man?
There at the margin of the wood,
Side by side our arrows stood,

Their red cock-feathers wing and wing,
Their amber nocks still quivering,
Their points deep-planted where they fell
An inch apart and parallel!

We clasped each other's hands; said he,
..Twin champions of the world are we!"

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JAMES B. KENYON.

BORN: FRANKFORT, N. Y., APRIL 26, 1858. AFTER receiving a collegiate education he taught for three seasons in the common schools and at the age of twenty entered the ministry. He is highly esteemed at Watertown, N. Y., where he is now preaching. Mr. Kenyon has published four volumes of poetry. The Fallen and Other Poems, Out of the Shadows, Songs in All Seasons, and In Realms of Gold. He is a constant contributor to the leading periodicals.

ELUSION.

Ah, happy poet who may guess
The ever-changing loveliness,
The lightsome grace, the airy wiles
Wherewith coy nature masks her smiles,
And, stealing on her unaware,
Behold her when she is most fair!

IF IT WERE.

Love, that thou lov'st me not, too well I know, Yet shouldst thou look to-night on my dead face

For the last time on earth, and there shouldst trace

The silent meaning of a heavy woe,
Wouldst thou not feel a pang that it were so?
Would not regret within thy heart find place,
That thou didst stay the guerdon and the
grace

Thy lover so besought thee to bestow?
Wouldst thou not feel a want unknown before;
A something gone familiar grown so long?
A vanished light-a ship gone from the shore-
A presence past from out the world's great
throng?

O Love, wouldst thou not miss the voice of yore?

The song-bird flown, wouldst thou not miss the song?

VANISHED.

It was but yesterday I saw his sheep,

The while he led them up the height to feed, And heard him merely pipe upon his reed, And mock the echoes from yon rocky steep; 'Twas yesterday I found him fast asleep,

His flock forgot and wantoning in the mead, His pipe flung lightly by with idle heed, And shadows lying round him, cool and deep. But though I seek I shall not find him more, In dewy valley or on grassy height; I listen for his piping-it is o'er,

From out mine ears gone is the music quite There on the hill the sheep feed as before,

But Pan, alas, has vanished from my sight!

A ROMAN QUEEN.

Imperious on her ebon throne

She sits, a queen, in languid ease; Her lustrous locks are loosely blown

Back from her brow by some stray breeze Lost in that vast, bright hall or state, Where thronging suppliants fear and wait. A dreamy fragrance, fine and rare,

Of sandal, nard and precious gum,
With balmy sweetness fills the air,
And mingles with the incense from
A quaint and costly azure urn,
Where Indian spices ever burn.

A jeweled serpent, wrought in gold,
Coils round her white and naked arm;
Her purple tunic, backward rolled,
Reveals the full and regal charm
Of her fair neck, and ivory breast,
Half veiled beneath her broidered vest.
Her eyelids droop upon her eyes,

And curtained by the silken lash,
The smoldering fire that in them lies

Is scarcely seen, save when a flash,
Like that which light the polar snow,
Gleams from the dusky depths below.

Her proud, cold lips are lightly wreathed
In smiles, as if with high disdain
She scorns to show her hate is sheathed,
And that he sues not all in vain
For favors of her haughty will,
Or e'en love's rarer guerdon still.
He stands before her white and fierce:
His bosom with swift passion shakes:
His burning vision seeks to picrce

Her very soul; he pleads; he wakes
Within her heart a wild desire,
That flames and mounts like sudden fire.

A subtle glance, a whispered word,
A waving of her perfumed hand,
He feels his secret prayer is heard -
That she will know and understand:
The
queen is hid, and for a space
A love-swayed woman holds her place.

He bows, he leans toward the throne:
Her breath is warm upon his cheek;
She murmurs, and in every tone

He hears the love she dares not speak: What though the surging hundreds press? No eye shall see her swift caress.

Let him beware; he toys with fate;

False as the glittering serpent is On her white arm, her love to hate

Shall change eftsoons; then every kiss She gives him with her fickle breath Shall be surcharged with secret death.

MOODY CURRIER.

BORN: BOSCAWEN, N. H., APRIL 22, 1806. GRADUATING in 1834 with high honors from the Dartmouth college, this gentleman has since received from his alma mater the degree of LL.D. For a number of years he practiced law at Manchester, N. H., and since 1848 has

MOODY CURRIER.

been a prominent banker. Mr. Currier was the governor of his state in 1884 and 1885 and has filled many other prominent political positions. In 1881 a neat volume of poems appeared from the pen of this gentlemen, entitled Early Poems, which has had a wide sale and has received the enconiums of the press throughout the United States.

THE ADIEU.

Lady mine, I need not tell you
What the tears of anguish spoke,
When my fainting eyes beheld you,
As they gave the parting look.
In my bosom then were swelling
Feelings such as none can tell,
As, with tongue and heart unwilling,
Falt'ring sighed I, Fare thee well."
Not my native land forsaking,

Where my infant lot was cast,
Where a thousand scenes awaken
Thoughts of friends and pleasures past;
Not to green and sunny bowers,
Where my childish moments flew;
Not to pleasure, scenes, or flowers,
Weeping, sighed I that adieu.

No, 'twas not companions leaving;
No, 'twas not the sweets of home:
Which was in my bosom heaving,-
'Twas the thoughts of thee alone.
Could I leave thee, vainly striving
To conceal what sighs might tell?
Not without the keenest anguish,
Could I utter, .. Fare thee well."
HOPE.

Mary, the night may look black
With clouds, with tempest and storm;
But hope cheers the traveler's track,
With the speedy approaches of morn.
Mary, the shadows of woe

May threaten to burst on our head; But sweeter the transports shall flow, When the anguish of sorrow is fled. Mary, misfortune may spread,

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O'er the prospects of youth, its dark shroud; But hope in its brightness will shed

Its sweet beams of joy o'er the cloud.

Mary, th' affections of youth,

And the soft smile of friendship may die; But hope, like the fountains of truth, Flow down from regions on high.

Mary, though life, like a flower,

May wither and fade in its bloom; Hope points to a bright sunny bower, Through shadows that hang o'er the tomb.

IF I WERE A CHILD.

If I were a child I'd sport and play;
I'd rove through woods and fields;
I'd pluck the earliest flowers of May,
And drink the sweets they yield.
I'd sit by the side of the babbling brook,
As the zephyrs passed along;
I'd hide in the alders' shady nook,

And mock the red-breast's song.
I'd find where the painted rainbows rise,
And chase them from morn till noon:
By night I'd watch at the foot of the skies,
And catch the rising moon.

I'd seek where the sweetest wild flowers blow;
I'd find where the streamlets run: [grow,
In the meadows I'd find where the fox-gloves
The tall wild grass among.

I'd make me wings to fly in the air:
I'd rise at the break of day,

And catch the larks that were singing there;
And drive the hawks away.

I'd build me a boat, a jolly boat,
As light as the lightest feather;
And on the dancing waves I'd float
In the bright and sunny weather.
If I were a child how sweet 'twould be
To prattle and laugh and play;
Then at eve to be rocked on my mother's
And sleep my cares away.

[knee,