OLIVER W. BARNARD.

BORN: ECONOMY, IND., AUG. 4, 1828.

THE poems of Mr. Barnard have appeared from time to time, during the past decade, in many prominent newspapers, especially in

Here they cool the keen desire,
There they burn with fiercest fire
Some they raise to a dizzy height -
Some they plunge in abysmal night,
Some they bear on beds of ease ---
Some they scourge with dire disease,
Some they load with foulest shame ---
Some they crown with glorious fame;
Some they hide in polar snows,
Some they soothe with sweet repose;
Some they rest on fruitful soil,
Some they curse with constant toil;

Some they bless with peaceful life;

OLIVER W. BARNARD.

the states of New York and Illinois. He is at present engaged in farming at Manteno, Ill. Mr. Barnard is of large stature, and is a very pleasant and intellectual gentleman.

MOMENTS.

How the moments come and go!
Bright with joy, or black with woe,
Speeding on with tireless wing,
Life or death to all they bring --
To the wretched and the blest
Dark despair, or sweetest rest --
Through the sunshine, through the dark,
Moving like the lightning's spark -
Through the cottage of the poor -
Through the rich man's palace door;
To the living and the dying-
Swiftly on they're ever flying ---
Here they plunge a soul in night,
There another's borne to light ---
Here is born a household wonder,
There a household burst asunder ---
Here they spread the earth with grain,
There their gift is want and pain ---
Here they kiss the new-born child,
There they hiss with frenzy wild

And all the world was like a morn in May,
So fresh and sweet with odors of the spring-
The beams of morn shone bright upon the
hills
[hope,

And life's young day was glowing fresh with
Ere care had dulled the pulses of my heart.
Thence turning to the golden West, my gaze
I fix upon the setting sun of life -
Beholding now the grandeur that appears,
And casts a softer radiance o'er the scene;
The heat and burden now of midday past,
Ambition's flame has burned itself away,
And breezes cool from o'er the western seas
Pass calmly by and fan the faded cheek;
And when the sun has dropped into the sea,
And left a golden radiance on the sky;
Then hope, elate, doth fix his steadfast gaze
Intently on the far horizon's brim.
His wont to pierce the intervening space, [life,
Whence far has gone the source of light and
But no reward returns to bless the sight;
Yet, on the evening air is heard a voice
That falls upon the inner ear so sweet,

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Across that bourne whence Avon's bard has said, Once passed,

No trav'ler yet has e'er re

turned." And soothes away the bitter pangs of doubt, And satisfies the longing of the soul

Then high upon the mountain top of life
It comes again far sweeter than at first,
Unfolding all the beauties that are found,
Wherein the hope of childhood fresh and
strong,

Combined with wisdom's golden ray, serene,
Gives life fruition, full for hopes deferred,
And like the rising sun gives light and
warmth

To all the world, awakened fresh from sleep; And thus my soul's refreshed with hope sublime,

While calmly treading life's uneven way.

MRS. ANNA R. HENDERSON.

BORN: CHERAW, S. C., JULY 1, 1853. AFTER leaving school Anna traveled with her parents in South America, living over a year on a coffee plantation near Rio Janeiro, Brazil. After returning to the United States, several years of her life were spent in Marietta, Ohio; finally locating in Williamstown, W. Va., she was there married in 1878, and is still a resident of that place. Her poems have found their way in various periodicals, and for the past few years she has been a constant contributor to Wide Awake, Pansy, Little Men and Women, and others. In person she is tall and slender with dark brown eyes and hair.

BLOSSOMS.

When first the springtime's fair array

In Northern lands I saw around me, An apple tree, a great bouquet,

With showers of blushing petals crowned me. I shook them lightly from my brow;

"Your charms," I said, can never please me, Weary with winter's cold and snow,

No Northern pleasure can appease me.

I hardly see, I cannot prize

The beauty which each bloom discloses; For, O, my heart is all in love

With orange flowers and Southern roses. Yea more, methinks I shall not find

Room in my heart for Northern faces,
So closely are its tendrils twined
Round far-off friends with Southern graces."
Successive years 'neath Northern skies

Far absent from my native bowers,
Have weakened not those blessed ties
That bind me to the land of flowers.
Yet am I changed, when blossoms fall,
I greet them with as true a blessing,
As those which crowned me at the call,
Of coating South winds soft caressing.

My stubborn heart has larger grown,

And has a thousand sacred places, Where Love shall evermore enthrone, Most fondly cherished Northern faces. With earnest love I gladly clasp

The palm where Northern firmness lingers, But reach my other hand to grasp

The precious warmth of Southern fingers. The songs I sing shall breathe a strain

In praise of Northern vales and mountains, But evermore the sweet refrain Shall be of Southern palms and fountains; And for the flowers I love the most

Their beauty in my heart enshrining; With apple blossoms of the North Shall Southern orange blooms be twining.

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MINNIE C. BALLARD.

BORN: TROY, PA., 1852.

THE first poem of this writer appeared in the New York Evening Post about 1873. Since that time she has contributed to the Philadelphia Times, Cincinnati Enquirer, Louis

MINNIE C, BALLARD. ville Courier-Journal, Godey's Lady's Book, Peterson's Magazine, St. Louis Magazine and numerous other periodicals of equal prominence. Miss Ballard still resides in her native city. In person she is a little below the aver age height, with light-brown hair and darkblue eyes.

SO MANY SHIPS.
So many ships sail on the main,
So many ships come home again.
But one ship lost no more for me
Shall any ship sail on the sea.
With it lie buried all my pearls,
My stock of hope and joy and love.
No richer freight the seaweed curls,
Or waves of ocean dash above.

SANCTITY.

They say beneath the ocean's breast
There is a place of perfect calm,

Where winds and storms dare not molest
The sea-folks safe from harm.

They say within the rude cyclone

There is a place revolving not;

They say the fiercest flame must own

One cool, unburning spot.

So in the human heart should be

A place where cares may not intrude; Where peace and love secure and free, Maintain sweet solitude.

In best beauty vying, hinted

To my ease a couch soft-spread.
And a Nymph came to me smiling,
In all grace and beauty robed;
With me soft the hours beguiling,
My most tender passions probed.
Leading me through lawns sweet-scented
To her proud throne,

To me her domains presented -
Grandeurs, wonders, all her own!

At her bid spright fairies folded
Softest music on my soul,

'Fore my eyes mailed heroes molded,
Whose mien Virtue's graces stole.
Then smiled on me, sweet, benignly,

Of these the queen:

"All here lovely, all divinely,

Mayst thou share, if so I mean."

Then did seize me one desire:

This, to woo the royal maid;

And when rose my scorned fire,

I with tresses golden played,

And to eyes the stars out-beaming,

My heart laid bare;

That my hours with dreams set teeming, For bright visions changed despair!

THE WEDDING SONG.

My sister! this thy wedding-day
To me is such sweet sorrow;
Though joyous, still my heart doth say,
I part with thee to-morrow.

Of faces first remembered dear
Thine 'tis I'm first to part with;
Of separations with those near,

'Tis thee I'm doomed to start with!
Ye players! pour some pensive strain,-
To me it is the sweetest;
For soothing my heart's passing pain,
Your sadder note's the meetest.

O, why must happiness be bought
With years of separation!

Is there not joy without the thought
It has a termination?

But since such must be human joy
Let not my gloom restrain it;
Rejoice, my soul! do not destroy
Such gladness, when I gain it.
Forgive me, sister, pardon all,

This sadness of a moment!
Henceforth my spirits shall not fall
To gloom:- I have not so meant.
And though we part with aching heart,
'Tis for a happy future;-
Henceforward, though we're rent apart,
Still joined we're by love's suture.

WILL WALLACE HARNEY.

BORN: BLOOMINGTON, IND., JUNE 20, 1831. FIVE years Mr. Harney taught school, meanwhile studying law and graduating in 1855. He next was principal of the Louisville high school, and for two years professor in the Kentucky normal school at Lexington. Mr. Harney was married in 1868, but lost his wife two years later. For nine years he was

WILL WALLACE HARNEY. editor of the Louisville Democrat. In 1869 Mr. Harney removed to Florida, and now resides at Pinecastle, varying his agricultural activity with occasional literary work. In addition to his poetical productions, he has written several stories: Who Won the Pretty Widow, appeared in the Atlantic Monthly. The poems of Mr. Harney have appeared in the most prominent publications, and he is ranked among the best poets of America.

THE STAB.

On the road, the lonely road,

Under the cold, white moon, Under the ragged trees he strode:

He whistled, and shifted his heavy load,-
Whistled a foolish tune.

There was a step timed with his own,
A figure that stooped and bowed;

A cold, white blade that gleamed and shone
Like a splinter of daylight downward

thrown,

And the moon went behind a cloud. But the moon came out so broad and good The barn cock woke and crowed; Then roughed his feathers in drowsy mood, And the brown owl called to his mate in the wood

That a dead man lay in the road.

MIDNIGHT.

The rain floats off; a crescent moon
Holds in its cup a round of dusk,
Like palm buds, in the month of June,
Half breaking from its vernal husk;
While breathes a low, sweet undertone,
Like brooks that grieve through beds of

fern;

As if by curve and pebble stone

The moon had spilled her silver urn.

Night blooming agave's part the sheaf, To catch the light distilled in showers, Till overflowing cup and leaf

The cluster breaks in midnight flowers;
Like merchants breaking kids of nard
And jars of olives, desert born,
Pineapples burst a prickly shard,
And show the seeds of fragrant corn.
Like Hebrew maids, the citrons hoid,
Their pitchers to the vapor spring,
And fill the hollow rind of gold,

With midnight's musky offering;
So once, I think, earth knew her Lord,
In lands like these of palm and vine.
When midnight knew the sweet accord
That turns the water into wine.

THE PHANTOM TRAIN.

In the dead of the night, the dead of the night

There's a sound along the rails, The creaking of a whirling crank

Like the flapping of iron flails.

With the long, low roll that heralds a storm,
Over sunburnt fields of grain;

With the sullen roar of rain in the wood
Comes the Invisible Train.

It stops nor stands by station or town,
But sweeps in its viewless flight
To a city whose beautiful walls are hewn
From splendid quarries of light.
Unseen from the silent land, it comes
Where the mist lies low and deep,

In the beating pulses like rolling drums,
While the passengers wake or sleep.
And dream till the morning white and cold
Comes out of the shining east,

And wakens the Lazarus sleep of night
With a touch, as of God's High Priest.