436

I'd have you her engagement break,
Let base dishonor your name share,
I'd suffer pain no tongue could tell,
My heart with anguish overflow,
My life-blood break its prison cell
And make a crimson flood for you.
Go back to your fair Isabelle,
Forget the wild girl in the deil."
One sad reproachful look she gave
Him as she slowly turned to leave.
A stinging pain shot to his heart
And pierced it like a quivering dart.

His countenance was flushed with shame
To join dishonor with his name.
"Please, Lilly, do not leave me so,
Your virtues I more highly prize
On hearing what you've said.

Remember me

Your sincere friend
Belle Morton.
..Will, another star

Shall guide my future, brighter far
Than any I have ever known
Save one, and that from heaven shone.
This letter has revealed to me

Your noble heart, and that it's free.

So if on me, unworthy me,
You would its tenderness bestow,
I'll gladly give my heart to thee,-
You'll gently care for it I know."
Again he clasped her to his breast
And joyous rapturous kisses pressed
To her sweet lips upturned to his
As if to seal eternal bliss.
While standing thus in close embrace,
Her face upturned to meet his face,
Some power seemed to bear away

Her mind in which bright visions play,

A stately mansion on a hill

In which were dwelling her and Will.
Rich paintings on the frescoed wall,
Lace drapery and curtains fall,
The rustling silk, the marble floors,
While servants came at her command,
Their footsteps heard on every hand
Resounding through the corridors.
The mist float from before her eyes,
"Twas but a dream of paradise.
Their future sealed their homeward way
They step with hearts so light and gay.

MRS. ANSELINA E. DWYER. BORN: ENGLAND, OCT. 7, 1846.

A FEW of the poems of this lady have appeared in the Transcript of Lynn, Mass., in which city she now resides.

MY WINDOW GARDEN.

A tiny garden I possess,

Hid in a window's deep recess;
Grateful beneath the sun's caress
Expands its leafy loveliness.

And when the sun lights up the green,
And quivering shadows play between,
The blossoms on my ivy screen
Like dewdrops glisten in its sheen.
My stately calla pearly crowned,-

No queenlier flower e'er was found-
And lesser beauties grouped around
Rare fragrance, sweet, shed o'er the mound.

A symbol in the passion vine

I see, transfixed the Man Divine,

The whips, the nails, the cords that twine
Around his limbs, the halo's shine.

And here in emerald velvet dressed
Geraniums lift their scarlet crest;
Pinks, fuschias, lilies 'mong the rest,
And soulful pansies-loved the best.
No florists' skill I boast, or know
The names which science doth bestow;
But knowledge greater far they show;
God's loving care to all below.

THE POETRY OF THE SOUL. "Tis not confined to bards alone, The poetry of the soul; It is a great and glorious theme Which few men can control. It is a pure and virtuous life, High-minded, true, sincere, Which makes the soul so beautiful, And life so happy here.

Sweet are the songs that poets sing

When the muses them control; But really nothing can compare With the poetry of the soul.

SAMUEL W. GOLDBERG.

BORN IN RUSSIA, MAY 1, 1858.

THE poems of Mr. Goldberg have appeared in many of the leading American publications. In person he is a little above the average height and weight, and is of good stature,

SAMUEL W. GOLDBERG.

with brown hair and eyes. Mr. Goldberg is a book-keeper by profession, and now resides at Dallas, Texas. The poems of this writer have generally appeared under the nom de plume of Schirhaschirim.

TWO SHOULDERS AT THE WHEEL. Should you meet a troubled brother, Then a kindred spirit feel; Heavy burdens might be lifted

With two shoulders at the wheel. Let him know you take an interest, "Twill not take him long to see Whether you're a true well-wisher Or a shamming Pharisee.

And the time might not be distant

When you'll lack both strength and zeal
When perhaps you would be grateful
For one extra at your wheel.

Do not turn your back upon him,
Do not coolly walk away,

Just because you think you're made of
Some superior sort of clay.

When we come to think about it

As sometimes we mortals mustThere is nothing very striking

In the finest kind of dust! More than that, we cannot claim it; "Tis but lent to us on trust, And, pray, what is there to boast of In ashes, clay, or dust?

NIGHT AND MORN. Night, and a clouded moon, With a dark and stormy sky'; While the eyes that are watching

Are wet with tears,

And the bosom is weary

With unknown fears,

And heaving with deep, sad sighs.

Morn, and a smiling sky,

A dawning fair and sweet;

While the tears that are falling

Are chased away,

And glances as bright

As this gladsome day, In unison fondly meet.

Such are our lives, dear, A night and a day; And love ever chases The clouds away.

ENVY.

437

In life's fair paradise there lurks a snake, Envy its name. The nobler, more sublime An act, the easier it doth envy wake;

And envy, wakened once, wakes for all time. Green-eyed and pale, it poisons every pleasure, It hates good-doing and humanity's creed, And wages war with its heart's dearest treas

ure,

Good will, which bids him help his neighbor's need.

INGRATITUDE. There was a peasant found a frozen snake, And, with a sweet simplicity sublime, He placed it by the fire, that it might wake To thoughts of comfort, for 'twas wintertime.

The snake began to writhe and curl with pleasure,

And, in accordance with its snakish creed, It turned around (the fascinating treasure!) And stung its too-confiding Friend in need!"

CHILDHOOD.

In our childhood's springtime,
Basking in the glade,
How we listened to the chime
Which the sweet bells made!
Childhood, happy childhood!
Days that swiftly go!

438

HENRY M. DOWNING.

BORN: BOSTON, MASS., SEPT. 7, 1852.

AT the age of fourteen Henry went to sea and made three voyages to India, and next joined a steamship running from 'Frisco to Panama. For a time he was in the Indian service. For several years Mr. Downing was the marine

HENRY MARLTON DOWNING.

editor of the Boston Daily Post, and is now engaged in special work on the Boston Globe. He has written principally stories, and both his prose and verse have appeared in the leading publications of America. Mr. Downing was married in 1873 to Miss Sarah Thayer.

A BABY'S SHOE.

The wind was cold, the night was dark,
The ice made thick and fast,

A bark drew near the rugged rocks
Before the wintry blast.

The craft unpeopled, saving one,

And he at the helm lashed,

His beard was iced, and his frame was chilled,

By the spray that o'er him dashed.

The noble ship pursued her course,
Approaching fast her doom,
But still that single soul remained
Enshrouded in the gloom.

He recked not of the solitude,

Nor felt the dashing spray,

For while his hand was on the wheel,
His heart was far away.

He saw a little cottage home,
A picture pure and fair,
An infant's cot, a sailor's wife,
Upon her knees in prayer.

A smile broke o'er his freezing face,
His hand his bosom sought,
And tenderly, with wiser care,
Some treasure forth he brought.
He pressed it fondly to his lips,
His lips so pale and cold,

And tears gushed from his eyes, which froze,
As down his cheeks they rolled.

A mighty wave! A sudden shock!

She strikes - and all is o'er;

The noble vessel lies a wreck,
Upon the rocky shore.

The sun climbed up the eastern arch,
And shone with baleful glare,

And tranquilly looked down upon
The desolation there.

Among the weed the bodies lay

A cold and icy bed,

And on each frozen face was stamped

Death's horror and its dread

Save one - a smile was on his lips,

Damp with death's clammy dew,

And in his rigid hand was clasped,
A little baby's shoe.

H. DWIGHT BENJAMIN. BORN: HAMPSHIRE CO., MASS., DEC. 18, 1824. THE poems of Mr. Benjamin have appeared in the Rochester Advent Harbinger, Portsmouth Republican and other papers. Mr. Benjamin occasionally preaches, but is by occupation a farmer. He resides at Lucasville,O. THE RIGHT WAY.

Be true to all, and ever true;
Pay what you owe when it is due,
Sing. Psalms and Hymns," and songs, a few,
To cheer you o'er the river.

CHO.-Oh! sing and pray and happy be,

44

From death we all shall soon be free, Then free from sin forever be, And free from death forever. As you would have all do to you, So do to them, for God is true; Your ways be fair, your words be few, God loves the cheerful giver." Thus on your way both sing and pray; Do good, not bad, from day to day, And sin, no never, never". nay,”. Then sin, no never, never. Then when you die most happy be,If pain afflict you'll soon be free; Then free from sin, forever free,Then free from death forever.

MRS. R. N. HEBBARD. BORN: DEERFIELD, N.Y., SEPT. 19, 1836. AFTER receiving her education, this lady taught school in Deerfield, Marcy, Whitestown and Utica, and also at St. Joseph, Mo. The poems of Mrs. Hebbard have received publication in the Boston Waverly Magazine and

For myriad obstacles strangely new
Reach forward on every hand.
Alas! what a sad fruition they sigh,
For effort so earnest and true;
Its ice-bound brink we shall never draw nigh

Or sail on its boundless blue.

A throng of adventurers, timid and bold,
Yet with purpose alike are we,

Amid life's barriers and icebergs cold,
In search of the open sea.

Though glaciers of doubt tower over us steep

And ills like a current may roll,

From fragment to fragment for footing we

In hopes we are nearing the goal.

Now clambering summits, assured from some

We shall gaze on that silvery sheen;

Alas! each disclose through Time's polar

The barriers that still intervene.

Strange concourse! our beacon, one mystical

Even Hope, how delusive its light,

Its rays give a parallax greater by far

Than each orb in the blue vault of night.

Her vistas still widen with each advance,

Yet when for the goal do we sigh,

And from some high cliff of Ambition per

Its far distant azure descry.

We find it is flecked with some fragments still
That float ever on with its tide,
Defying each resolute human will

That over its water would glide.

Oh! why so strive in a race, all so vain?
It is folly for you and for me,
For never while here on this earthly plane
Shall we sail on this Open Sea.

TO-DAY'S DUTIES.

EXTRACT.

Though others would move with the many,
Fear not to be found with the few;
Nor court the approval of any,

Save the thoughtful, the earnest and true.
Have a well-defined cause for opinions,
Nor let gold cast its glittering veil;
Truth's balance, trust not to its minions,
Judge yourself of the poise on its scale.
Though new obstacles round you may cluster,
Let your standard ne'er trail in the dust;
Give the cause you espouse a new lustre,
By your patient adherence, and trust.
Duty's call transfer ne'er to your neighbor,
Nor adjudge that your cause may be lost;
In the great moral vineyard of labor,
A unit may count as a host.

440

MRS. BERTA W. BOWEN.

BORN: VICTORIA, TEX., SEPT. 28, 1854. IN 1874 this lady was married to Walter C. Bowen, at that time editor of a weekly paIn 1883 Mr. per published at Oakville, Texas. Bowen and his wife established the Cotulla Ledger, which they still own and control.

MRS. BERTA W. BOWEN. Since 1879 Mrs. Bowen has written both prose and verse for different papers and magazines, which have always been favorably received. Mrs. Bowen has a family of four boys, and consequently has led a busy life. This lady is of medium height, with dark-brown hair and dark amber gray eyes, and is possessed of a spirit full of pride and determination.

LOST AT SEA.

Life's day hath lost its golden glow,
Adown life's west the sun is low,
And soon into the great unknown,
My spirit barque must drift alone.
It is not age-age is not all,

Griefs blighting snow as heavy fall,
And touched by sorrow's icy breath,
Life's flow'ret withers oft in death.
I stand upon the wondrous strand,
Laved by the tide of vanished years,
With aching heart and outstretched hands,
With crying strong and bitter tears.

I plead unto the voiceless main,

To bring my treasures back again,

With white sails spread, I sent my fleet,

To bring me happiness complete. All, all were lost upon the main,

And prayer and tear alike are vain! And some went down 'neath fairest sky, And many fathoms deep they lie. Some knew a darker, fiercer death, Tossed on the waves by tempests' breath, Until the masts and sails all worn,

They on the cruel reefs were driven. And one-the fairest of the fleet, Laden with youth and hope and love, I sent the sky was fair above,

And bright the sparkling waters 'neath. O, coward heart, be brave, I cried, No ill can this strong ship betide, But scarcely had it sailed away Before a cloud o'ercast the day.

I saw the angry tempest rise,

And lightnings flash along the skies, Then soon the muttering thunder rolled, That danger to my ship foretold. And soon the billows, wild and dark, Assailed my fair love-freighted bark, But scorning Neptune's proffered grave, It triumphed long o'er wind and wave. At last upon a rock 'twas cast

O, heart! thy greatest loss is past! No other canst thou ever know

With half its bitterness and woe. Oh! sea, I cry, oh, cruel sea!

Return my treasures unto me! The hissing waters mock my moan,

As on the strand the wrecks are strewn.

So standing by life's troubled main,
I watch and wait but all in vain,
No white sail flutters o'er the sea,

To herald a coming ship to me.
Peace, peace! be still, O heart of mine!
Sorrow and loss were ever thine,
Soon will life's troubled dream be o'er,
And thou shalt seek another shore,
Where wreck and loss are known no more.