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still resides in Michigan at Weston. Mrs. Wyman has written more than one thousand poems, many of which have appeared in tim Detroit Free Press and other prominent journals.
In bitterness we murmured, ..Life is hard And death is better," was our anguished cry, But 'twas not, for God knoweth best; [see 'Twas his will that we should live to feel and The workings of his All-wise Providence. And we have seen it, yes; the great New
South,” Like Phenix hath from ashes had her birth And sitteth now in beauty, calm, serene, Of all earth's lands the fairest and the best. She loves the busy North, and he to her The kiss of peace hath given; forevermore One interest shall they have, one nation be. And I, with all the veterans that remain Of those who followed the grand hero, Lee, No longer cherish enmity 'gainst those Who with victorious Grant our flag received. And called us conquered. Now, instead, Our hands extended they have warmly
clasped And all, as brethren fond, one country love, One flag – the stars and stripes - all proudly wave,
[sung One God we serve - to him high praise be For all the wonders of His love and power.
A little while to rest;
Slowly in the west. Methought my sun is sinking
For I am growing old, And every night I'm nearer
The city paved with gold. The days to me grow shorter
As time flies swiftly on;
So fast they pass along.
Bright school days all are gone;
Have to their graves been borne.
MRS. SARAH E. WYMAN.
BORN: SHELBY, N. Y., Nov. 19, 1837. IN 1852 this lady removed to Michigan, where
BABY'S GONE TO SCHOOL.
My baby's gone to school.
My baby's gone to school.
To-day she went to school.
MRS. SARAH ELIZABETH WYMAN. she taught school for many years. She was married in 1859 to James M. Wyman, and
REV. MILO HOBART. BORN: OSWEGO Co., N.Y., DEC. 22, 1831. For thirty-five years Rev, Milo Hobart bos been a minister of the gospel, and has preached in ten states of the union, He was three years in the federal army in the 124th Regt.
For what she thinks, says or does, Is for happiness of those In the dear happy Home. Father goes to his daily toil, Nor from tasks does he recoil, Yields not though work is burdensome; In weather fair or in storm, Until night, from early morn, Toils to make a happy Home. Does joy, peace and health abound, And no bitter feelings found, As the years go and come: When parents with children vie, And children with parents try To keep pure the happy Home. When comes afriction's hour, And Sorrow's cup running o'er, Puts its touch upon some one; When each with the others vie, And all with their utmost try To show love in that Home.
What meaneth that bitter cry?
REV. MILO HOBART.
III. Vol. Inf., part of which time he was in the hospital department. Mr. Hobart was married in 1865 to Miss Mary Johnston, who died in 1889, and he now resides with his family in Rogers, Arkansas.
THE HOME. Live we in house of splendor, Or in the hut so slender, So to it, by right, we come; We haste to it when glad, We flee to it when sad, Because it is our Home.
Hark to the joyous cbatter
A creature of utter helplessness
The mother toils, plans, contrives, And with constant labor strives, Nor thinks her work burdensome:
DR. CYRUS A. BARTOL.
BORN: FREEPORT, ME., APRIL 30, 1813. At the expiration of his theological studies Mr. Bartol at once entered the ministry. In 1836 he was minister at large in Boston, and the following year settled at West Church,
Better than Cain or Abel brought
My firstlings from the ledgy field, I miss the punctual shrine I sought;
The altar sinks, the tomb is sealed. O faithless heart, the roses say,
As to his band the Master said, The soul in dust will never stay!
Have we not risen from the dead? Are there no pastures o'er my fence,
Clearings and groves I cannot spy? Far as may go this glassy sense,
Untraveled windeth still the sky. Each plant's ascension here below
Foreshows full paradise above: An upper spring for truth we sow,
A blossom from each grain of love.
HORTENSE CORA JACKSON. AT THE age of twenty Miss Jackson commenced to write for the press, since which time she has contributed extensively both prose and verse to current literature. Her father was a man of great literary ability, and for years was an editor and publisher.
Whose hands steal on to strike no bell, Wild roses once again appear,
Winsome as poets cannot tell. But where is she that loved these flowers,
For whom I plucked them every day? The dial numbers all her hours;
What is their charm, her bloom away? Do they not miss their steadfast friend?
Without her, on each lonely stem, Their fragrance to the breeze they lend,
Which with them sings her requiem. In vain does every leafy fold
My once fond sacrifice - put on Tints ruddier than virgin gold,
The sanctifying temple gone!
NARCISSA HARRISON. BORN: SHELBYVILLE, TENN., JULY 22, 1862. AFTER graduating at the Shelbyville Female Institute, Miss Narcissa Harrison entered the profession of teaching, and is now en
I fear me that dear human face
Shuts out the sight of one divine. When children play about my knees
Or lean their bright heads on my breast, Tell me, my heart, do I love these,
Or silent God, or Christ the best?
TWO MOTHERS. A wee bird cried within its nest, And lo, its mother heard;
[breast, With outstretched wings, and throbbing
Flew to her baby-bird.
And through a revel wild,
A woman danced, and smiled.
NARCISSA HARRISON. gaged in educational work at the Female College of Waco, Texas. The poenis of this lady have appeared in many of the best college papers, and the press of Texas and the South.
HER ANCESTRY. A slender figure, draped in white, Within an old-time garden stood; Among the other flowers bright She smiled — this flower of maidenlood. Her lissome figure bent and swayed, Like wind-blown lilies growing there. As much a lily as a maid She seemed; as sweet, as frail, as fair. Her eyes, that knew no tearful mist, Held just a lily's share of dew. Her fragrant lips, by zephyrs kissed, Had all a lily's breath I knew. And like the flowers, drooping down, That each the sunlight's touch might share, Her shy, bent head wore, too, its crown The golden glory of her hair. And had I not been half afraid – Afraid of sacred faiths undone, I might have thought that this white maid Was once a lily in the sun. And then the light thought fluttered on In spite of creed, that fancy biurs: How many lilies dead and gone Had made that flower face of hers? How many stamens' dusty gold Had helped to gild each waving tress? How many trembling buds of old Had shaped her breathing loveliness? And in her eyes — could I not find Their dew-draughts, saved for such as she? Had not their slender stems entwined To make her figure's symmetry? And Mother Eve, forgive, I pray; This sight all former lore belied; The maiden, I saw yesterday, Was but a lily glorified. And, Darwin, you are hardly fair, And just, to such an one as she Or will you, sir, with me declare The lilies are her ancestry.
Christ says to each: Give me thy heart;" I cannot lean upon God's breast,
The Christ and I are far apart. If I could only touch His hand,
Or in the night-time hear a tone, If it were given me to stand
And see my God upon His throne. Ah then, indeed, there might be born
Love large enough to meet His will; Yet though I watch until the morn,
The night is empty and is still. But human hands are very near,
And living human lips and eyes, The tender earth-tones, that I hear,
Make me forget the silent skies. When I am clasped in close embrace,
When loving eyes look into mine,
MAGGIE D. WILLIAMS,
BORN: ABBIEVILLE, Ky., OCT. 8, 1863. FOR many years Miss Williams has contributed tine prose articles to the local press, and also many gems of poetry. She follows the profession of teaching, and resides in her
Tho' I stand 'neath the shadows of grief
Or drink deep of pleasures wine. I want somebody dear to love me,
Somebody noble and kind,
I am seeking yet to find.
The dearest hope that has fled,
To the brightness overhead; That's leading me upward and onward
Through the dark mists of despair To that place of the good and beautiful,
Where the hidden treasures are.
MY ISLAND GRAVES.
I watch, and weep, and dream;
Save the one that silently bears me,
On a fair, still autumn day,
The love of my heart, true and brave-
In the anguish of a boundless woe,
When its truest, best love died,
To lay in a new-made grave,
For they drooped when dear love died,
Plows the mystic, billowy waves;
Pleasure's song nur duty's wail,
The fragments of wasted years? -
From the keel of my phantom boat,
MAGGIE D. WILLIAMS. native state at Livermore. Her poems have appeared in the Hartford Herald, Kentucky Register, Constitution, Southerner, News World, and various other publications.
WHAT I WANT.
Something in nature to cheer
And dreariness is everywhere.
To hang ever on my way;
Midst dull November's gray.
Instead of vanished dreams,
Of life's meandering streams.
And kind, loving hands to take
That life's grivmest duties make. I want to find some true, steadfast hearts
To beat in concert with mine,
EXTRACT. Never again will my heart find rest From the vain longings, long suppressed; Oh, never again can my life unfold Richer treasures by far than gold, And never again can I bear to hear The pleasant fancies once so dear, And never again at the sun's decline Will I dream of pleasures to be mineWhen the king of day again shall rise And glorify both earth and skies.