171

ALONZO L. RICE.

BORN: LITTLE BLUE RIVER, IND., JUNE 12,'67. THE poems of Mr. Rice have appeared in the Yankee Blade, Indianapolis Journal, and the periodical press generally. Mr. Rice is known

as the Shelby county poet, and his productions have attracted quite a little attention in the world of literature, and he is undoubtedly making a name for himself. He is still a resident of his native place.

THE DESERTED MANSION. Deserted mansion, fallen to decay,

The marble lion on thy gateway sleeps
Serene; the hawk upon thy arras
sweeps

On never-weary pinions, and the prey
Is toiling upward, from the fields away,

In hope of vain escape; in tangled deeps The weary,panting hound unchanging keeps The wounded stag forevermore at bay.

All is unchanged, but never on the hills, With dawning glimpses of the early morn, Is seen Diana's god, as deep he fills With rounded cheeks his loud and alien horn, Nor evermore along the sunset rills, Return the reapers with the sheaves of corn.

DEAR LOVE, COULD I HOPE. Dear love, could I hope in the future to know, The sun from the ocean of sorrow

Would rise in his splendor and pillow his glow On the bosom of cloudless to-morrow:

The rim of the bubbles

Gives token of troubles,

And over the waste of the threatening sky, The sabre of cranes on its former course doubles,

Uncertain and doubtful as whither to fly. The sun in his weakness has sunk in the sea, With clouds are his tributes remaining; The sheep are gone home, and the birds in the tree,

The owl in the turret's complaining;

And, in the dark thicket,

Anear, the lone cricket,

Forever is chirping and singing his tune; The sentry of sorrow, the citadel's picket, Awaiting the orb of the rounded, red moon.

The day has departed and calm is the night,
The elfins speed by on their rambles:
The glow-worms their lanterns have hung to
the sight,

On points of the grasses and brambles;
On pinions of leather,

Alone and together,

The bats are now winging in revel and rout: The owl in his bower sits wondering whether To dream or to waken the vale with a shout. The insects are harping, the dark colonnade Of the forest resounds to the revel; And, Dian's red orb for an hour delayed, Now gleams o'er the meadow's low level: And, thro' her dominions

On fluttering pinions,

And over the valleys and marshes the minions
The night-hawk is sailing in ominous dread,
Of darkness are trailing in mantles of red.
My heart and affection turns ever to thee,
And swerves like the needle's emotion;
Unknowing the place where the fairest can
be,

So fervent and deep the devotion:
A hope that abideth,
Whatever betideth,

Tho' dimmed like the glance of a glittering

star,

Is sought for the first, when the storm-cloud divideth

Outshining the rest of the circle by far.

ADIEU.

Out o'er the ocean of the morning blue,
The white sail lessens in the misty haze;
And, on the headlands, weary watchers
raise

Their hands against the sun and peering thro'
The intervening vapors, cry: "Adieu

To thy delightful presence; 'mid the days The mem'ry of thy being sweetly stays, But grace and beauty fade away with you."

172

ISAAC MCLELLAN.

BORN: PORTLAND, ME., MAY 21, 1806. SEVERAL volumes of poems have appeared from the pen of this writer. Three were published in Boston, entitled Fall of the Indian, The Year, and Mount Auburn. In 1886 he pub

On the gray horizon's verge

Thou dost even now descry Some lone bark with shatter'd mast, Bulwarks swept, and ragged sail, Fighting with the ocean-blast, Lost in shipwreck and in gale. Restless, roving, lonely bird,

Wanderer of the pathless seas, Now where tropic woods are stirr'd, Now where floating icebergs freeze; Seldom doth the solid shore

See thy wings expand no more.

Sea-bird, skimmer of the waves,
Whither doth thy journey tend?
Is it to some southern shore,

Where the meadow-rushes bend, Where the orange-blossoms blow, Where the aloe and the palm Flourish, and magnolias glow, Filling all the air with balm? Rather is thy pilgrim wing

Fleeting to some northern bar, Where the rocky reef juts out, And the sand-beach stretches far? There in hot and silvery sand All thy pearly eggs to lay, There to teach thy little brood O'er the tumbling surf to play. Hap'ly sailing o'er the brine, Painted 'gainst a lurid sky,

ON LONG ISLAND SOUND.

I wander daily by thy shore,

Thy rocky shore, Long Island Sound, And in my little boat explore

The secrets of thy depths profound.

I trace the great brown rocks far down,
O'er which the salt tides ebb and flow,
Encrusted with their rugged shells,

Rocks where the ribbon'd seaweeds grow;

And there the glancing fish I view,
The weakfish and the dusky bass:
The bergalls and the blackfish schools,
And silvery porgees as they pass.
Fast-anchor'd in my swinging boat,
The welcome nibble to await,
I feel the sheepshead at the line,
The sea-bass tugging at the bait;
And as I gaze across the wave

I see the shining sturgeon leap,
Springing in air with sudden flash,

Then splashing, plunging to the deep;
I see the porpoise schools sweep by,
In sportive gambolings at their play,
Puffing and snorting as they rise,
Wheeling and tumbling on their way:
And never wearied in my gaze

As o'er the blue expanse it roams,
Viewing the endless billows roll,
White-crested with the yeasty foams.

THE SHOT AT THE START. The sun had tipt the horizon's edge, Launching in air a shaft of gold, Across the stream, athwart the sedge, And where the rippling currents roll'd: A boat was pushing from the shore, A fowler's heart beat high with glee, Yet ere the boatman touch'd an oar, To reach the wooded island near, An early flock, on rushing wing, Flew o'er the stream's pellucid face; When sudden report did ring,

And ceas'd a wild duck from the race. The artist hath depicted well Tha Starting Shot," and what befell.

BIRCH ARNOLD.

BORN: DELAVAN, WIS.

BIRCH ARNOLD is the author of Until the Day Break, an essentially American novel, which has been very favorably received. Her poems have appeared in the leading periodicals of

BIRCH ARNOLD.

America. This lady is a gifted conversationalist, a graceful elocutionist, and ably renders selections from her writings in a very pleasing manner. She now resides in Armada, Michigan.

FORGETFULNESS.

If, in the viewless haunts of time,
Some gift of fortune, treasured there
In garnered fullness, might be mine,
In answer to entreating prayer,
I scarce could claim a boon to bless,
To equal thine - Forgetfulness!
A haunting shadow sups with me,
To greet the morning's glad surprise,
With only sense of misery

And bitter meaning in it's eyes;
Alas! I cannot seek redress

Except in thee - Forgetfulness!
The summer suns may rise and set,
And blossomed fragrance fill the air,

I see thro' tears, nor can forget
That ever hovering wraith of care;

Though sorrow makes the sunshine less, They're one with thee, Forgetfulness! Each heart must know its day of grief, All earthly things must fade and die, Remembrance brings perchance relief,

Or bitterness of tear and sigh: For me, no other boon can bless Alike to thee,- Forgetfulness!

THE ROUND OF BLUE.

Oh, Maude, sweet Maude, with your golden hair,

Your witching eyes, and your winsome air-
Do you know the mischievous things you do,
Crocheting the endless round of blue?

I have watched your taper fingers, white-
Now in, now out, now left, now right,
As the glittering needle willing flew,
Crocheting the endless round of blue.

At first my eyes you sought to chain
To the tangled threads of your azure skein;
At length, I think, you bolder grew,
Crocheting the endless round of blue.
For over my heart that tangled thread,
Over my eyes, and over my head,
In a filmy chain, you deftly threw,
Crocheting the endless round of blue.

I do not ask, sweet Maude, to be
From the pretty prison e'er set free;
I know full well there are jailers few
Like the one crocheting the round of blue.

If the fairy chain is woven strong,
To hold me fast, and hold me long-
Then, Maude, weave on, if this be true;
Weave ever on the round of blue.

A WIND-BLOWN SOUL. The deepest pang of hell?

"Tis this remembering
In present griefs, the joys of yesterday."
Aye, look upon me while I linger
Behind the prison bars of sin!

I can no longer bear in silence,
Or shut the burning truth within.

I saw it speak in eye and gesture,
Tho' dead upon my lips it lay,
Until It burst its bonds asunder,

And found my soul the potter's clay.
That kiss! Oh, angels in yon heaven,
Is yours a dearer joy than mine?
Upon my throbbing lips it lingers,

And maddens me with love's strong wine. And no remorse! Ah, Jesu! shrive me! A dagger stroke my broken vowBut deeper still lives unforgotten

The love I had and might have now.

175

REV. JOHN WESLEY ADAMS.

BORN: MAY 23, 1832.

THIS gentleman is a lineal descendant of the presidents of that name. In 1858 he joined the New Hampshire Conference of the M. E. church, and has held pastorates in Rye, Derry, So. Newmarket, No. Salem, E. Canaan,

REV. JOHN WESLEY ADAMS. Winchester, Gt. Falls-High St., Tilton, Newport, Exeter, Keene, and in 1889 he took a year's rest at Chelsea, Mass., where he is still located. For several years Rev. J. W. Adams has been president of the trustees of the Conference Seminary and Female College.

OUR BABY.

Though babies count up by the million,
And all of them fit for the show,
Yet ours beats the sum total billion,
Because she is our baby, you know.
Her ringlets! O, their like never can be,
They all of them curl just so:
You ought not to smile at my fancy,
Because she's our baby, you know.
Her complexion out-rivals the fairest;
The cheeks have an angelic glow;
The dimples that fleck them the rarest,
Because she's our baby, you know.
Transcendant expression and lustre,
And clear as the waters that flow,

Are the eyes with which heaven hath blessed her,

Because she's our baby, you know.

Her lips are like lilacs in blossom,

And the nectar with which they o'erflow Is sweeter than hive-stores in autumn, Because she's our baby, you know

Her laughter is seraph-like music

Wafted through the dear home here below, And her sayings more sage than the Delphic, Because she's our baby, you know,

She's a darling, a picture, a pet,

A cherub from the crown to the toe; She has ne'er found her equal as yet, Because she's our baby, you know.

DEDICATION OF HEDDING CHAUTAU-
QUA HALL

Chautauqua hall! The People's College,
Now offers to the million knowledge,

True Science, joined with classic lore,
For all doth open wide the door.
Chautauqua hall, all hail to thee,
The plebeian's university,

Where maid and matron, son and sire,
A broader culture may acquire!

To-day we enter and possess

This Temple in the wilderness.

Now with the sainted Hedding's name,

We humbly, solemly proclaim
That it is herewith blest, baptized;
And thus may it be recognized.

Translated and regenerate,
This building we now dedicate
To God, for worship and for praise-
To man, that he may learn God's ways-
To science, as by God revealed -
To nature, now a book unsealed -
To preaching of the sacred Word -
To teaching what may be inferred
From all the Great Revealer writes,
Or by his Spirit's voice indites.

And may this good work so prevail
That its good fruit shall never fail!
"Tis not too much to hope and pray
That, when we all have passed away,
Our children's children here shall crown
This alma mater as their own.

From henceforth this shall be a shrine-
A Mecca, hallowed and divine-
A fount of light, and life, and love-
A helper to the heaven above,

God bless this place, this work, this day:
So mote it be, let all now say!