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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,
Till the tintinnabulation

Faintly dies far o'er the green.
As the evening shades grow longer,

From the ferns within the glade,
Frogs, with voices sounding stronger

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,
Might have envied thee, sweet Hower,

In thy purity and grace;
Thou might'st smile at all the power

Which we in her history trace.
Solomon in all bis glory,

With his palaces and gold,
Famous in Judea's story,

With his riches still untold.
With his robes of glowing carmine,

Brought in ships across the sea,
With his purple and his ermine

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,
Nerer in Alis goodness will He

E'en forget his humble child;
But through all life's devious mazes,

He, with His all seeing eye,
Guards us 'round as down He gazes,

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

grow cold.

Though earth is dark, and cold, and bare,

My soul ignores the gloomy vast,
For far beyond the haunts of care,

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.
So grief with hope will now abide,

And pain its wounded heart restore,
Till ruthless time and sense divide
My other self and me no more.

I sit beside the restless sea.--

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!

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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!





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!"


When worldly sorrows o'er us throw

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

In the silvery moonlight

Sporting merrily,
Dancing on the green sward

'Neath the old oak tree; Little, laughing fairies,

Ever blithe and gay,
Reveling through the midnight

Fritter life away.
Drinking from the dewdrops

That hang upon the flowers;
Swinging on the green leaves,

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:




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

whole line.

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

That year

- 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!

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