116

ALEXANDER J. FARROW.

BORN: ORANGEBURG, KY., JAN. 3, 1843. THE poems of Mr. Farrow have appeared quite extensively in the local press. He was married in 1865 to Sarah C. Ramsay, and now

ALEXANDER JAMES FARROW.

resides on a farm in Putnam county, Ind. After graduating at a college in Missouri, Mr. Farrow taught school for some time in the city of St. Joseph and other places.

WOMAN.

Heavenly muse! my mind inspire,
And fill me with poetic fire;
Direct my hand the lyre to string,
Of lovely woman, goddess sing.
God made man in Eden's bowers,
To walk amid the fairest flowers;
But looking from His golden throne,
He saw that Adam was alone.
He laid him down in sweet repose,
And made his eyes in slumber close;
But when the drowsy god had fled,
He heard a light and fairy tread.
He started up, and looking 'round,
Beheld the sight that made the sound
So lovely, pleasing was the sight,
He thought it was an angel bright.
There gentle Eve before him stood,
In all the grace of womanhood-
He saw her fair and faultless form,
And felt his breast with transport warm.
She turned to fly in wild affright,--
For man was terror to her sight;

But vain it was from him to part:
He clasped her to his beating heart.
Oh man! how good was God to send,
Fair Eve to be thy bosom friend!
To share thy joys, thy sorrows know,
To soothe thy soul in grief or woe.
Though mighty oceans, deep blue seas,
Towering mountains, waving trees,
Diversify this mundane sphere,

All would be drear, but thou art here.

The placid lake, the silver stream,

Where wandering poets love to dream;

The shady dell, the winding vale

Where fragrance sweet the flowers exhale;
The golden sands the streamlet laves,
Refulgent gems in ocean's caves,
Could only empty pleasure give,
If man were doomed alone to live.
O woman! gentle as the dove,
"Tis thee we honor, thee we love;
Our infant years have been thy care,
And at thy knees we knelt in prayer.
A mother! sacred be that name,
Far sweeter than the voice of fame;
Can her dear image e'er depart,
Long as life's current thrills the heart?
No! far within the heart's deep cells,
Her cherished image ever dwells:
Her guardian spirit hovers 'round,
When slumber holds all nature bound.
When death has thrown his flaming dart,
And stopped the current of her heart,
Her sacred memory lingers near
And claims the tribute of a tear.

A mother's love, how deep! how true!
Pure as the crystal drop of dew;
It penetrates the dungeon's gloom,
And fondly lingers 'round the tomb.
The wretch that on the scaffold stands
With human blood upon his hands,
Feels, while his fleeting life remains,
A mother's love he still retains.
No crime that stains fair nature's face,
No damning deed of dire disgrace
That cries aloud to heaven above,
Can alienate a mother's love.
When stretched upon his dying bed,
And death his flaming dart hath sped,
To lay the fond loved husband low,
Who can depict his consort's woe.
Away, ye senseless knaves! for shame,
Who speak so lightly of her name;
Her name should make your bosom thrill,
Till death your throbbing hearts shall still.
This world would be a gloomy place-
This life would be a dreary waste-
Yea, heaven itself would be a hell,
If woman ceased with us to dwell.

MRS. JESSIE W. MANNING. BORN: MOUNT PLEASANT, IOWA, OCT. 26, 1855. JESSIE made verses in her childhood; was fairly studious as a little girl; and music was a passion with her. Graduating in 1874, she became enthusiastic in science and literature. She made up her mind to adopt the lecture platform as a profession, and lectured throughout the western states on literary subjects and on temperance for five years, when she was married to Mr. Eli Manning, a

MRS. JESSIE W. MANNING. merchant of Chariton. Mrs. Manning never regretted her abandonment of the platform, content in the seclusion of home with husband and children. She has written a long poem entitled The Passion of Life, which has earned her favorable notice. Mrs. Manning writes critical essays and reviews for the press. She also has another long poem completed, which will soon be published.

TO THE SPIRIT OF YOUTH.
Why art thou sobbing low-
Wherefore thy weary woe-

Whence comes this pain that through thy fair life quivers ?

Joy sits at thy right hand;
Love waits for thy command;

Carest thou that bitter wind rare blossoms

shivers ?

See what a glory falls

Through the moon's fairy walls;

117

Now shows the pageant fair of the world's splendor:

Ah! not thy fairest dream

Rarer than this could seem

Life looking futureward, smiles sweet and tender.

Why then, thy sad regret?

Why art thou weeping yet?

Why waiting desolate, gladness untasted?
Cease now thy wailing cry,

Hush now thy sobbing sigh

Else might the sweetness of thy fate be wasted.

Nay! nay! the secret comes

Which all the burden seems

Of the world's woe and tears, counted and

singled.

This the sad lesson taught

This, with its dreams fraught,

Life's joy is bitter sweet, foul and fair mingled.

THE GLAMOUR OF YOUTH. What is so fair, so fair

In all this world of care

So fair as youth?

Youth with its rhyme and chime,

Faith in grand things sublime,

Hope for great deeds in time,
Yearnings for truth.

Ah, how the golden haze
Flushes the fleeting days!
Dreams and romance
Flood with a grace divine
All common things or fine;
Turn water into wine-

Walk into dance.

Nature's sweet grace is wrought
On every ardent thought,
Impulse and aim.

Not yet has caution chilled --
Not yet has passion thrilled
Not yet despair has filled

Youth's heart of flame;
Pulsing with prescient beat
To the advancing feet
Of life's events;
Eager for strife to come-
Forecasting triumph's sun-
Knowing no fear to numb
Youth's sanguine sense.
All promise molded there,
Folded in youth so fair-
Youth in its purity.
What will the sequel tell?
Will it prove ill or well?
How will the promise swell
In the futurity?

ELLA A. GILES.

BORN IN WISCONSIN, FEB. 2, 1851. MISS GILES has already written and published several works, including Bachelor Ben, Out From the Shadows, and Maiden Rachel. Her poems and sketches have appeared in the leading periodicals, and have been widely

ELLA A. GILES.

copied by the western local press. Miss Giles is rather tall, slender, and a decided brunette. She now resides in Madison, Wisconsin, with her father, engaged in housekeeping and literary work.

DEFEAT.

I know thee not! Alas for those

To whom thou canst thy form disclose.
Oft I discern fiend-shapes afar
In dim outlines, but lo, a star
Shines also from black space; a friend,
Disguised as foe, fierce storm-clouds send.
My will hath taught me how to gain
Profit from loss, pleasure from pain.
Will is supreme! Grim specters rise
No more when I have missed a prize.
I fear no foes but those within,
My soul dreads no defeat but sin.
And what sin is I can decide
For self alone, I am my guide.
Success in myself at any cost,
Attain I that and naught is lost.

BEGONE SUSPENSE.

Thou wretched, haggard, tottering dame!
Exile from Hades! without name
Save such as in thy changeful moods
Thou givest thyself; thy form obtrudes
Its ugly shape into the mind
And hungers there with looks unkind
When men dare dream of being blest
With Hope; that less exacting guest
Of whom thou jealous art whene'er
Thou see'st her timidly draw near.
Begone, Suspense, from hearts that ache
With dim forebodings! Better break
'Neath one fell blow of certainty
Than meet thy cruel, treacherous eye
Which nothing tells, yet doth suggest
Ills that elude the keenest quest.
Begone forever, evil hag!

When thou'rt away no more will lag
Life's weary hours; with swifter pace
Time's feet will run their destined race.

OH, YE BEAUTEOUS HILLS OF
FRANKFORT.

Oh, ye beauteous hills of Frankfort,
Wist ye why to-day we sigh?
Gentle hills that sit and listen
To the tender, leaning sky;
Shadowed hills, enlaced with sunshine,
Mist-embosomed, silence-clad,---
Do ye feel our yearning homage;
Know why we no more are glad?
"Tis because, amid your forests,

44

In the hush of Arnold's wold,"
Walks a bard who speaks your language,-

One to whom ye oft have told
Secrets of transcendent sadness,
Which so freely forth he breathes
That he low-rebukes our rapture,
And to us your sigh bequeaths.
Oh, wild-tangled wold, soul-wooing,
Stretched in smiling, careless grace
'Neath the arch of clouds far distant,
But for him, upon your face
We could only read a story

Fraught with radiant joy's deep thrills;
But he lives, and he your voice is,--
Your own voice, ye once-mute hills!
Griefs vicarious does he suffer,

Till your strength is the world's gain;
Happy hills? Nay, mounts transfigured
By the poet's steadfast pain.

FORGIVENESS. Forgiveness is the fragrance, rare and sweet, That flowers yield when trampled on by feet That reckless tread the tender, teeming earth; For blossoms crushed and bleeding yet give

birth

To pardon's perfume; from the stern decrees Of unforgiveness, Nature ever flees.

HJALMER H. BOYESEN.

BORN IN NORWAY, SEPT. 23, 1848.

IN 1868 Mr. Boyesen came to America, and the following year he became editor of the Fremad, a Scandinavian paper published in Chicago. He has since been professor of German in Cornell and Columbia universities. The contributions of this author to the periodicals of the day soon attracted attention, and he became popular as a story-teller in prose and verse. He is one of the founders of the Author's club in New York City. Many of his books and short stories have been translated into German, Norwegian, and at least one of them into Russian.

EGIL SCALD'S LAMENT. Strangely, son, thou starest;

And thy sight is sunken;

Still thou art and silent,

As with slumber drunken: Lo, thy lips are livid;

Loud erewhile their laughter! Shall I vainly listen

For thy voice hereafter? Dumb thou art, and dampness In dark drops descending For thy brow is breaking,

With thy bright beard blending. Foam-flakes fleck thy forehead; Fixed thine eyes and frigid;

And thy mighty frame is

Faint with frost and rigid.

Swift spreads slumber's shadow!
Speak ere strength forsake thee!

Woe! my witless wailing

Never more will wake thee! Dead thou art, my darling;

Long the night before thee. Thou hast left thy father Lonely to deplore thee.

Bodvar! best beloved!

Of bold sons the boldest!

In thy helpless hand my

Life's snapped thread thou holdest. Swordless Death has sought thee Mid the sea-weeds swelling;

Fain thy father follows

Thee to Hela's dwelling.

For thy birth's bright hour

Blessings bloomed around thee:

Fast about my heart-roots

Wound, each fresh year found thee;

On thy brave young boy-face
Glad my sight would linger,
As thou fed'st me lightiy
With thy baby finger.

Oft I stood in spirit,

By strong sons surrounded; Whose sonorous saga

Through my soul resounded; Saw their fearless phalanx

Fame and fortune gather,Safe within their shield burgh I, their happy father! Saw them swords unsheathing; Heard their armors' rattle; Saw them storming, shouting With the joy of battle: Bodvar foremost fighting,

Fair and fierce and glorious, And his falchion flashing In his path victorious.

119

IF THE ROSE COULD SPEAK.
Within the rose I found a trembling tear,
Close curtained in a gloom of crimson night
By tender petals from the outer light.

I plucked the flower and held it to my ear,
And thought within its fervid breast to hear
A smothered heart-beat throbbing soft and low.
I heard its busy life-blood gently flow,
Now far away and now so strangely near.
Ah, thought I, if these silent lips of flame
Could be unsealed and fling into the air
Their woe, their passion, and in speech proclaim
Their warm intoxication of despair;-
Then would I give the rose into thy hand;
Thou couldst its voice, beloved, not withstand.