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CHARLES CHASE LORD. Bors: South BERWICK, ME., JULY 7, 1841. AFTER receiving his education Charles devoted himself to the christian ministry, but not finding that vocation congenial, he has mainly given his time to journalistic and literary pursuits. The poems from the pen of this writer cover a wide range of subjects, and bave received recognition in the leading periodicals of America. Mr. Lord has for many years resided at Hopkinton, N. H., where he is now engaged in compiling a local history.
With her bell so sweetly sounding,
Stops beside the mimic sea; Stops awhile the waters quaffing
With her soft and velvet lips, Waves around her feet are laughing,
While she in their coolness dips. Then she lows her obligation
To the waters and their queen,
Faintly dies far o'er the green.
From the ferns within the glade,
Croak their mighty serenade. Serenade the lily sleeping
On the bosom of the lake. While the stars their watch are keeping
With bright eyes all wide awake. Thus upon the pearly lakelet
Passing days in love and sport, Sheltered in by many a brakelet,
Dwell the Lily and her court. They in every thought are loyal
To their dainty, snowy queen She well titted for the royal
Rule o'er such a fairy scene. Egypt's lovely star-eyed daughter,
When her scented silken sails Flashed on Cydnus' glowing water,
Breathing perfome on the gales,
In thy purity and grace;
Which we in her history trace.
With his palaces and gold,
With his riches still untold.
Brought in ships across the sea,
Never was arrayed like thee. All his pomp and all his splendor
Only nourished human pride, Thou in lowliness art grander
Rocked upon the gleaming tide, For thy robe of snowy whiteness
Was the work of God's own loom, Dewdrops form thy crown of brightness,
And thy breath is rare perfume. Then if God so clothe the Lily
Blooming in the forest wild,
E'en forget his humble child;
He, with His all seeing eye,
From his throne beyond the sky.
UNDER THE STARS, Look up, sweet friend, the silent orbs behold, The restless eyes that watched in other
years Each mortal step, and to sages told
The secret end, of anxious hopes and fears. Day droops in shadows, but the faithful night
Leyes Smiles on the sleeping world and lures our With cheerful gleams of ever present light,
Like life that tastes of death but never dies, Thought glooms for fate, but love's bright
star imparts A message like the mystic word of old; Above earth's dark, it beams to tell our
hearts, Ye beat through time and change and ne'er
My soul ignores the gloomy vast,
My other self long since has passed. Though bright, warm fields of leaf and bloom,
And fruitage under happy skies, My other self, in amplest room,
E'er on some thankful mission flies.
And pain its wounded heart restore,
A bird within the wood sings willow!" And my heart for a song is sad in me,
And my soul tossed like a billow. I sit beside the restless sea,
The bird within the wood sings .. willow!" But my heart for the song is glad in me,
And my soul swims like the billow. I șit beside the restless sea.
A bird within the wood sings - willow!" O my heart for a song is changed in me,
And my soul shifts like a billow!
GEORGE B. GRIFFITH. BORN: NEWBURYPORT, Mass., FEB. 28, 1841. As the editor and compiler of The Poets of Maine, George Bancroft Griffith has become well known. He has written some beautiful poems that have received publication in
Dawn's royal robe shall trailing splendors
lend, And flaming leaves their golden glory show, And light ineffable around thy forehead
blend; Thy startling beauty free Forever more shall be, Wbile silver fountains sing far, far below. Nor tell me, worldling, that yon granite face, Patterned by God, shall crumble from its
place That figure spanned by Eden's dazzling light! Worshiped with awe by earliest unknown
race, When spring's first breath was blown Where holy flowers shone, And starry lamps were hung o'er Chaos'
night! Molded mute offspring from the solid rock, Man's art with rugged grandeur e'er to mock; With pulseless heart, yet speaking evermore Of peace, of perfect rest; Soothing each troubled breast While light in satin sandals hovers o'er.
GEORGE B. GRIFFITH. Youth's Companion, St. Nicholas, and other equally prominent journals. He is now en. gaged on a new work, The Poets of Massachusetts, which will be published in 1890.
INDIAN SUMMER Though gathered are the sheaves, Still glow the crimson leaves By many a stream, my darling; and the sun, Where the waves are all a-quiver, Shows a pathway o'er the river, When the dapple shades remind us day is
done. Hark! robin's flute is heard, Though no other summer bird Dares to linger, Bessie, darling, by the pool; What care we though the rose Nor the lily longer blows, And the dreamy noontide hour is growing
cool; The shimmering meadow, still, The woodland and the hill, Have charms that woo us, darling, none the
less; And till sudden change and spell Blight the shrines we love so well, Will the after summer soothe us, cheer and
LILACS. Begemmed with April rain They nodded in the lane, The fragrant, purple clusters, the lilacs loved
of yore; With gentle touch again They tap the window pane, Those sprays that waved so gracefully beside
our cottage door!
OUR PUREST JOYS. Our joys may oft be tender shadows
That grief alone had power to cast, Yet shine, as shine in summer meadows, The bright drops when the cloud has past.
THE SPHINX OF THE WHITE HILLS. Nature's grand sphinx art thou, O man of
stone, With face colossal gazing from thy throne; Not as the fabled monster stern and cold, Though in wild majesty thou reign'st alone, But set in splendid spheres or flame when morn appears, Sublime for aye, unrivaled and world-old! No iron circlet shall thy brow offend,
SELF SACRIFICE. The coral worker but an atom gave
To help uprear the pile he ne'er could see, But now it stands above the top-most wave,
He has a part in temples yet to be!
LOCAL AND NATIONAL l’OETS OF AMERICA.
BORN: ENGLAND, JAN. 17, 1822. SETTLING in Penpsylvania in 1849, Mr. Parker in 1864 went to Mahanoy City, editing Anthracite Monitor, the organ of the miner's and laborer's association of Pennsylvania. In 1872 he bought the Mahanoy Valley Record, which he
Than live by rapine fraud or guile. Thou'rt useful to the world, and thou Can'st well afford to lift thy brow. Hold up your head!- move boldly on,
To right or left-turn not aside; Keep honor's beauteous path and shun
The devious ways of worldly pride; Then those who may thy actions scan Will say: "Behold an honest man!"
Their lowering clouds so dark and drear; How sweet it is to feel – to know,
That friendly hearts are beating near, That friendly smiles, amid the gloom, Shines forth the darkness to illume. How sweet to know that other tears
Are mixed with ours — that other eyes Are moist with sympathetic cares;
That friendly breast will heave with sighs When ours pulsate with pain or grief, And share the load or give relief. Friendship! thy genial smile doth throw
A beauteous radiance o'er life's path; Makes pleasures greater, lighteps woe,
And gilds the dreary hour of death With heavenly beams that softly shed Their light around our dying bed.
JOHN PARKER. published as a weekly paper until 1877, when it was changed into a tri-weekly, of which he is still the sole publisher and proprietor. Mr. Parker has taken an active part in all labor movements, and served four years in the Pennsylvania senate, from 1878 to 1882.
HOLD UP YOUR HEAD. Hold up your head! what need to cower?
Hold up your face to view the sun; For tho' your worldly wealth be poor,
You've got the glorious form of man. Let that not bend, but proud and high, Erect your head toward the sky. Hold up your head! that gaudy thing
With all its gorgeous pomp and show; That bears the tarnished name of king;
To which base slaves bow down so low. Without the toys that gild it now, Is only flesh and blood like you. Hold up your head! 'tis no disgrace
To show a visage marked with toil; Far better sweat-drops wet thy face
'Neath the old oak tree; Little, laughing fairies,
Ever blithe and gay,
Fritter life away.
That hang upon the flowers;
In the shady bowers; And when smiling morning
Sends the night away, Deep among the rose leaves,
Sleeping through the day. Happy, sportive creatures,
Free from every care; Life to them is joyousness,
Ever bright and fair. Oh, to be a fairy!
Frolicksome and gay, Underneath the moonbeams Dancing life away.
JESSIE LOVE. Oh, sweet art thou my Jessie Love,
As flowers that grow in May; As birds that sing at early dawn
Upon the pearly spray:
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
EDMUND C. STEDMAN.
BORN: HARTFORD, Conn., OCT. 8, 1833 IN 1849 he entered Yale coilege. Two years later he received first prize for his poem of Westminister Abbey. He edited various newspapers and contributed to Vanity Fair, Putnam's Monthly, Harper's Magazine, and other periodicals.
The writings from his pen during the last quarter of a century have been numerous. In 1884 a Household Edition of his poems was published. Mr. Stedman is now engaged in editing a Library of American Literature, to be completed in ten volumes, balf of which have already appeared.
In the one hand still left,-- and the reins in
his teeth! He laughed like a boy when the holidays
heighten, But a soldier's glance shot from his visor be
neath. Up came the reserves to the mellay infernal, Asking where to go in,- through the clear
ing or pine? 0, anywhere! Forward! "Tis all the same,
Colonel : You'll find lovely fighting along the whole
line!" 0, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, That hid him from sight of bis brave men
and tried! Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the
wbite lily, The flower of our knighthood, the whole
army's pridel Yet we dream that he still,- in that shadowy
region Where the dead form their ranks at the wan
drummer's sign, Rides on, as of old, down the length of his le
gion, And the word still is Forward! along the
Thou art mine. I have made thee mine own,
Henceforth we are mingled forever: But in vain, all in vain I endeavor, Though round thee my garlands are thrown And thou yieldest thy lips and thy zone, To master the spell that alone
My hold on thy being sever.
THE WORLD WELL LOST. That year? Yes, doubtless I remember still, Though why take count of every wind that
blows! 'Twas plain, men said, that Fortune used me
- the self-same year I met with Rose.
KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES. So that soldierly legend is still on its journey,
The story of Kearny who knew not to yield!' 'Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry,
and Birney, Against twenty thousand he rallied the field. Where the red volleys poured, where the clam
or rose highest, Where the dead lay in clumps through the
dwarf oak and pine, Where the aim from the thicket was surest and
nighest,No charge like Phil Kearny's along the whole
line. When the battle went ill, and the bravest were
solemn, Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still
held our ground, He rode down the length of the withering
column, And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a
bound: He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the
powder,-His sword waved us on, and we answered the
sign: Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh
rang the louder, . There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the
whole line!" How be strode his brown steed! How we saw
his blade brighten
Crops failed; wealth took a flight; house, trea
sure, land, Slipped from my hold - thus Plenty comes
and goes. One friend I had, but he too loosened his hand
Or was it I? the year I met with Rose. There was a war, methinks; some rumor, too,
Of famine, pestilence, fire, deluge, snows; Things went awry. My rivals, straight in view,
Throve, spite of all; but 1,- I met with Rose!
That year my white-faced Alma pined and died: Some trouble vexed her quiet heart, -- who
knows? Not I, who scarcely missed her from my side,
Or aught else gone, the year I met with Rose.
Was there no more? Yes, that year life began: All life before a dream, false joys, light
woes, All after-life compressed within the span
Of that one year,- the year I met with Rose!