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WILLIAM HENRY H. HINDS.
BORN: West MILAN, N. H., JAN. 20, 1821. MR. HINDs is a dentist by profession; he has written Poems for over half a century, which have appeared in the leading periodicals of
News of Nature's springing, Into new life again. We love your song out-pouring, While northward you are soaring, And Nature's God adoring, In musical refrain. Welcome, robin red-breast,In pretty crimson vest, And coat of ash, you're dressed, Of all spring birds, loved best. For 'twas dear .. Cock Robin " Set our young heart throbbing, band our bosom sobbing, As on parental knee, We sat, and saw in sorrow, The .. cruel, cruel sparrow, With bow and blood-stained arrow," And him dead, under the tree. Welcome, sweet merry lark, All Nature seems to hark, For thy morning songs, that mark, "Twixt the dawning and the dark. Welcome, Bob o' Lincoln, We hear you now, we think, on Some quiet river's brink, on A water-willow bow. You're a jolly fellow, Dressed in black and yellow, And your voice's so mellow, We seem to hear you now. Yes, you're looking down, With such a comical frown, Now you're bobbing round Just like a feathered clown. Welcome, twittering swallow, Scarce our eyes can follow, As o'er hill and hollow, You're flitting everywhere. You are such happy creatures, You seem like winged preachers, Sent from Heaven, to teach us Of God's loving care. Then welcome, birds of spring, Ye make our hearts to sing, And praise our Heavenly King, “Who giveth each good thing." Ye bring us joy and gladness, And drive away our sadness, Ye free our hearts of badness, With your innocence and song. God bless you happy singers, For while your sweet note lingers, It still shall serve to bring us To Heaven's happy throng.
WILLIAM HENRY H. HINDS. the East. Capt. Hinds passed through the war of the rebellion. He has a family of three, and now resides in Kennebunkport, Maine.
WELCOME, SWEET BIRDS OF SPRING.
Welcome, sweet birds of spring, -
When their neighbors sought the shore,
They saw on the beach
Almost within reach
And along the strand
On every hand
Those sailors so true,
That Kennebunk crew
Their spirits now free,
On a stormless sea
And cables of love
Fast anchored above,
THE WRECK OF THE ISADORE.
People still show,
When the tide is low,
On that fearful night,
Near no beacon light, 'Mid the breakers' crash and roar.
The Heavenly spheres
Since one day at noon,
When there was no moon, She left the Kennebunk bay.
The captain said
As he went ahead,
Tho' the winds and wave
Might storm and might rave, His ship should be on her way."
The clouds shut down
With a seeming frown, That told of a coming storm;
And the south winds blew
As lost to their view, Were their homes so snug and warm.
The wind shifts east
And the briny yeast
The ship with full sail
Is caught in the gale,
No one can go
For the blinding snow Up aloft to reet the sail;
And the surging dec p
Seems ever to leap
In vain they shout
And try to about”
It is · pitchy dark"
And there's not a spark
With sails all rent
The . Isadore" went Straight on to the rocky reef,
Where no arm can save
From a watery grave, And no life boat give relief.
O the anguish then
Of those fifteen men,
That they there must die
With kind friends so nigh,
At early dawn
WONDERFUL, BEAUTIFUL WORLD. Wonderful, beautiful world is this, Tho' little understood; Yet brimming full of joy and bliss For each one's highest good. 0, wonderful, beautiful world, How happy man will be When all its wonders are unfurled Their beauties he can see. 0, wonderful, beautiful world God speed the glorious day When error from Truth's throne is hurled, And Truth shall hold full sway. When man himself shall understand His body and his mind; .. The proper study of mankind is man," The greatest good to find. He is God's temple, where he dwells, - A house not made with hands," And in his inmost heart there wells A wish God understands. A wish to know whence, what and where," And all about his kind; A wish to search earth, ocean, air, Their unknown source to find. To know the whence, the why and wherefore, Of everything around To know of what had gone before Man here on earth was found. Of wonderful worlds on worlds still sought, Beyond man's utmost ken; Beyond man's utmost reach of thought, His power of speech or pen. Of wonderful worlds, of beings, too, Too small for human sight, Except as they are brought to view By microscopic light. Wonderful, beautiful world is this, Yet chills our blood to tell, Tho' brimming full of joy and bliss, Man makes himself the hell.
JACOB P.PRICKETT. Of Time's relentless sea, to that sweet realm
The Fairyland of childhood's happy days. MR. PRICKETT is editor of the Albion New
He, dreaming, sits upon the hilltop's once Era of his native state. He has written for
Familiar brow, where stands the old log home;
Poetio fire and ardor sweetly thrill
His being, and the inspiration, felt the press for the past twenty-five years, and By artists who to canvas have transferred his poems have appeared from time to time Their golden glow'd conceptions rare and in the leading periodicals.
Fills mind and soul, and he an artist is. (pure,
The inspiration of his magic touch,
To spotless canvas the loved picture gives. An old man dreaming sits. His streaming The rude, log home; the gently sloping hill; locks
The pebble-bottom'd brooklet at its base; Are whiten'd by the flecks of foaming spray, 11. now'r-decked meadow with its gilded rim From off the crested waves of passing years, Of silv'ry waters, and the grand old trees, That ebb and flow on Time's tempest'ous sea, Deep in whose shadow's heard the river's flow. Whose waters separate the Fairy Land Ah, sweet the picture, and so true complete, Of far-off Childhood from life's Sunset Land. 'Twas Art with Nature vieing; but just then The murm'ring breezes softly whisper as The Master Artist of the Universe, They gently blow from off that distant shore With rainbow tints, and sunsets' golden glow Of life's sweet Springtime Land, and, blend- And mellow'd hues, touch'd topmost branches ing with
[hand The sad, sweet music of the murm'ring sea, The grand old forest trees. Then with the The long forgotten songs of childhood sing Of inspiration, quick the golden hues In silv'ry cadence, soft, and sweet and low, To canvas were transferred. And as he gazed And lull, with golden symphonies from chords Admiringly upon his work, a hand Of mem'ries long forgot, the wearied brain, Upon each shoulder then was gently laid; And heart, and soul, to dreamland's sweet re Two soft and dimpled arms stole lovingly pose.
About his neck, and bending o'er him then, And by the rose-wing'd messengers of sleep, with face and form angelic and divine, And through the mystic mazes of dreamland, Was his soul's idol, who, with holy kiss, (true. He back transported was across the gulf Sealed her pure heart's devotion deep and
MRS. CLARA D. DAVIDSON.
BORN: CON, ILL., Nov. 30, 1851. HAVING taught school about five years, Clara subsequently edited a woman's department in a number of lowa publications. In 1870 she married George M. Davidson, who is a lawyer by profession. Mrs. Davidson has a
I watch the light-kissed waters move,
I watch the shadows'even slant.
In a chaotic mass of sand;
Gives us a vision of near land.
By a deceit of vision. So
Bounded by things we cannot know.
Her footsteps lead,
My feet would bleed;
By feet more brave,-"
Is but a slave.
Or had the timid Spring, so late uncrowned,
Burst from her wintry silence at a bound,
Harmony wakes in music's worshiper?
For O my heart beat lightly on that day, son who has nearly reached manhood. She
Though shadows gathered close about my wrote and published verses at an early age,
way. which have appeared from time to time in the I said, “Whatever gift fate has denied, Yankee Blade, Waverly Magazine, Cincinnati The trees are tall, the sky is blue and wide. Enquirer, Woman's Journal, and a score of The sunshine glitters on the ice-bound brook other equally prominent journals.
And sparkles on the snow-heights a I look;
And everything for beauty is for me.
For me — for all! O beauteous, bounteous A sweep of woodland on the shore,
earth, A glow of moonshine on the bar;
What new delights do ye each day bring A light-rimmed cloudlet leaning o'er
forth! Waters that mirror every star.
Not thine the blame if in these lives of ours
Our rising tears shut out the bloom of flowers. O brightly, marvelously blue The sky about the low-hung moon,
WHAT IS ETERNITY?
An ever outward-stretching sea,
Shoreless and boundless, strong and free, A swish of waves against the boat,
A vast, self-singing hymn;
Whose rhythm the circling ages keep, An owl's wild, melancholy note,
Whose music, mighty, strong and deep A fisherman's exultant song.
Husheth æons of time to sleep, These are the sounds that rise above
And, laying one away to rest The flowing river's changeless chant. Cradles another on its breast.