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MRS. CONSTANCE RUNCIE. She held within her graceful hands
Bors: INDIANAPOLIS, IND., JAN. 15, 1836.

Her hat, which, hanging down,

Broke, with its strings of ribbon bright, CONSTANCE studied in Germany for six years, The dead black of her gown. and upon her return to America, at the age of twenty-five, she was married to the Rev.

She was a picture standing there,

Altho' she did not know it, James Runcie, D. D. Mrs. Runcie has led a life of wonderful mental activity, and at an

My love, with earnest, truthful brow,

My dreamer and my poet. early age began to compose music. Her great

I would have fallen at her feet,

I could have worshiped there,
So graceful in her flowing robes,

But that I did not dare.
I in my very soul and heart,

Would paint her if I could,
As coming through the door that night
We saw her as she stood.

BROKEN FRIENDSHIP.
I send no greeting: I do not even feel
Your name forgotten when in prayer I kneel.
You came into my life and passed away,
A troubled dream which flies before the day.
You ask too much.

There comes, at last, an end
Of what one ought to suffer for a friend.
It then becomes ignoble – self-abase, -
Not sacrifice – pure – boly – full of grace.
I suffered much where now I cannot feel;
I do not still pretend a friendly zeal
In what you do – or are – or where you go;
A calm indifference is all I know.
I am not angry even, nor doth there burn
Resentment in my heart! -- No!

You must learn
How wholly I forgive and can forget.
The sun, upon two friends,

Hath simply set.
MRS. CONSTANCE FAUNT LE ROY RUNCIE.
est success in prose literature was Divinely

THIS WOULD I DO. Led, a work which attained a wide popularity, If I were a rose, and was repeatedly quoted from by press and

This would I do: pulpit. In 1888 Poems Dramatic and Lyric ap- I would lie upon the white neck of her I love, peared, which met with still more gratifying

And let my life go out upon the fragrance success. In person Mrs. Constance Faunt

Of her breath. LeRoy Runcie is very petite.

If I were a star,

This would I do:
MEMORY'S PICTURE.

I would look deep down into her eyes,
My love came through the door, and lo!

Into the eyes I love, and learn there

How to shine.
Her very form and face,
So purely simple, seemed to glow

If I were a truth strong as the Eternal One,
With new, peculiar grace.

This would I do:
Her dress was black, and made of gauze,

I would live in her heart, in the heart
Which veiled but did not hide

I know so well, and
Her perfect arms, so softly white,

Be at home.
They with the lily vied.

If I were a sin,

This would I do: The crimson flowers at her throat

I would fly far away, and tho' her soft hand Were all the jewels worn,

In pity was stretched out, I would not stay, Except her eyes, which shone above

but fly, With light that was love-born.

And leave her pure!

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JAMES H. ASHABRANNER.

BORN: NEW ALBANY, IND., DEC. 31, 1861. BROUGAT up on a farm, at eighteen years of age James was apprenticed for one year to the blacksmith's trade, subsequently teaching school for about five years. He was then

The vows that made the parting sweet,

On memory's tablet yield their place
To words of love and smiles that meet

Reflection in a fairer face.
And love that we regard as true

Leaps into flame, and then expires,
Or bursts from other vents anew,

Relit by flames from other fires.
And yet I deem it well, that such

Is life and all that it contains;
For memory comes with softened touch

And brings to mind our lessened pains.
And oh, the past! the silent past!

What shudders seize the maddened brain,
When scarce we dare to think, at last

The past might come to light again.
For deeply buried in the dust,

Are secrets that we fain would keep.
Their tombs we guard with sacred trust

Till we, with them, lie down to sleep.

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SONG OF SUMMER TIME.
The fields are bright with the golden grain,

That waves in the subtile breeze;
The partridge calls in his loud refrain,

To his mate from the apple-trees.
Sweet and low is the hum of bees,

And the hum of the reaper's tune,
JAMES H. ASHABRANNER.

As, one by one, they bind the sheaves elected assistant secretary of the Y. M. C. A.,

Beneath the skies of June. and is now city librarian of the public library in his native town. His poems have appeared Deep in the shade of the beechen grove, from time to time in the Current, Toledo

Where the sun and the shadows play, Blade, and other periodicals.

The oriole swings with his mated love,

And blends his tuneful lay.
MUTABILITY.

Silent and grand with a lurid glow,
How soon the joys which we have known,

Behind the hills the west, The treasures of our greener years,

The chariot of Sol is sinking low,
Become with moss and rust o'ergrown,

And bids the harvester rest.
Till scarce the sculptured name appears.
The relics of the past, though'few,

AMOR FATUM VINCIT.
Neglected lie within the heart;

I witnessed, last nigbt, in a vision, The weeds of time conceal their hue,

Two pathways Yrom opposite coves, Or but reveal the tints in part.

Converge in the regions elysian,

And wend through celestial groves. The plaything of the prattling boy

As one single pathway they wandered, Is all the world to him to-day;

Like rivers that flow to the main, To-morrow brings another toy,

But while in my vision I pondered, For which he flings the old away.

I saw them diverging again. But not alone to infant mind

And widely asunder they tended, But to the gray-haired children too,

As fashioned by destiny's might, A toy appears of fair design,

But in the dark valley they blended Until replaced by something new.

And entered the realms of light. And friends to whom we said, adieu,

Oh, loving hearts here disunited, And wept to clasp the parting hand

Look up through your anguish and tears, Fade from the memory, like the hue

For love now so cruelly blighted, Of words engraven on the sand.

Will bloom through eternity's years.

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ELLA S. JOHNSON. This lady is a resident of Houston, Texas, where she is well and favorably known by her many admirers. She has written poetry quite extensively for the periodical press, and

A DREAM POEM.

WHITE VIOLET. Thou small, exquisite flower, Dying on my heart, Art thou of the universe A spirit, or a part? Thy fragrance is thy soul,O! breathe it into mine. That thought may be divine. Thy subtle odor thrills Me with intense delight; The day becomes a dream, A memory the night. Thou hast entranced me quite; Thy sweet escaping soul Hath mine in its control. Now far, now near, it floats, The voice that haunts my dreams, Tender as winds that stirAt midnight lonely streams; All wildly, sadly sweet; So fond and kind, so low, And faint with happy woe. My own, my own, it breathes, And dies upon the air; My pulses thrill to life Sweet is love's answered prayer – 0! most divinely sweet! A spirit haunts the hour, Thou wan, exquisite flower.

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PERDITA IN DEO. In a dim and haunted forest

By a dark and silent lake, Where the coral-hued flamingos

Come at eve their thirst to slake; Where the blue-bird prinks its feathers

In the silence and the dark, And the vivid red-bird flutters

Through the branches like a spark. Sleeps my child-wife wee Perdita,

Underneath the moss and ferns, With the int trees above her,

Where the wind at midnight yearns. In the evening, in the dark night,

Evermore my heart returns To this dim and mystic forest,

With its mosses and its ferns. Hermit-like I rove its vastness,

From the twilight till the dawn, There's a new face in the city

From the sky a star is gone.

THE WOUNDED BIRD. Upon the greenwood tree apart

I sang for thee my sweetest song; Thy arrow almost struck my heart;

I fell the withered leaves among. Why hast thou shot the little bird

That sang its sweetest song to thee? Oh, when my heart by love was stirred,

That love burst forth in melody. My little heart was full of love;

God's sunshine kept it strong and warm. Oh, how couldst thou so cruel prove?

I never did thee any harm.
No more across the bright blue sky

With bounding heart I'll speed my way: No more my little mate and I

Will watch the breaking of the day. The speckled eggs within my nest

Oh, long ere this are cold - stone cold. More painful grows my wounded breast,

And blood is on my plumes of gold. Is that my wild mate's note I hear

Within the leafy tree close by?
My cry it heard and has flown near

Only, alas! to see me die.
Why hast thou shot the little bird

That sang its sweetest song for thee? Oh, when my heart by love was stirred?

That love burst into melody!

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LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

145

HELEN LEE CAREY. BORN: IPSWICH, MASS., SEPTEMBER, 1857. At the age of twenty Miss Carey became a school teacher. The first poem of this lady appeared in the Cottage Hearth when she

The river's gleaming stream of steel,
Whose fringe of ice the waves conceal
That echo back our sleigh-bells' peal.
Here stands a quiet farm-house; there
A stretch of glistening fields lies bare;
Here thickets, robed in white array,
Climb the steep banks, and sharply lay
Dark shadows o'er our rapid way.
The shaken trees their crystals fling,
That shatter with an airy ring:
And hark! a mocking ripple swells
From where the covered streamlet wells
And tinkles througb its icy cells.
Away again! yon pine-trees tall
Close round us a mysterious wall;
Through their great harps the solemn moan
Of winds is sweeping, long and lone,
In melancholy minor tone.
Away through spicy forests, hung
With mantles by the storm-winds flung,
From out whose solitude the sigh
of breezes brings some weird, wild cry,
To scare us as we glimmer by.
Ah, see! the watch-fire on the lake,
Where merry skaters pleasure take!
Their voices, as we onward go,
Die to a light cadenza low,
As sounds through dreams of music flow.
The prospect widens; on before
Stretches the broad lake's dazzling floor;
And far, where pearly vapors rise.
Shine through a mist the peaceful skiez
And azure hills of paradise.
The distance shuts like wings behind;
Before, it opens silver-lined;
The angel of the radiant night
Leads ever on before our flight,
And past us stream its robes of light.

HELEN LEE CAREY.

was eighteen years of age, and since that time they have appeared in the Boston Transcript. Youth's Companion and many other periodicals of equal prominence. Miss Carey is still a resident of her native state at Malden.

SLEIGHING. Here are we nestled, warm and snug, Within the cutter's perfumed rug, And swiftly o'er the light road skim Toward the hills that far and dim Lie on the cold horizon's rim. Away, away! the snow is white, The air is clear, the moon is bright, To backward glance the village spires, Tipped with their pale up-pointing fires, Fade as a holy thought expires. Away! to-night our company The spirits of the frost shall be; We'll chase the flying bells whose play On moonlit meadows far away Is softened to a murmur gay. Away through villages that lie Like silver jewels, gliding by

EXOTICS. Thou! I love thee! cool, dim green and car

mine, Creamy, pure white and frail pink deep

'ning down Rare mingling forms and perfumed colors

mingling O sweetest soundless music that can drown All feelings save this longing thou dost wake Toward – I know not what!, Art thou a

key To ope the door of the mysterious Life

Whose fire leaps into my heart through thee? Ah! now I know the secret of thy power!

Poem of Nature! the Promethean flame The infinite Thought breathes in thy perfect

beauty, And writes on thee the glory of a name.

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