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I a child again am kneeling

In the splendor of thy light. O ye tinkling, foam-white fountains,

Bathe me in your silver spray! On yon heights of sunset mountains,

O ye elfin harpists! play; Bid me enter at the portal,

Life is dreary, filled with pain, For the youth that seemed immortal

Thrills no more the pulse and brain. Araluen! child of laughter,

Would that life were young to me; Filled with dreams of some hereafter,

Bright, and beautiful, and free! Evermore with thee to ponder,

By the river's ceaseless flow; Evermore with thee to wander,

Where the tangled roses grow. While the cricket in the thicket,

By the swiftly-flowing stream, Guards for aye the golden wicket

To the fairy land of dream!

Low was the message that called him away,
Swift as the thought of a child in its play,
And in the grandeur of silence he lay

Dropped dead!
Only a heart whose pulsations are o'er,
Only a form that will journey no more,
Only a shade for the Stygian shore --

Dropped dead!
Ah! but the gaze of his wandering eyes,
Piercing the blue of the midsummer skies,
Looked where the Island of Mystery lies -

Dropped dead!
What did he whisper, O poet, to thee?
Joys of an infinite glory to be,
Dreams of a soul by the shadowless sea

Dropped dead!

O fairest maid of rarest days,

Pomona's child with golden tresses!
I loiter in thy sylvan ways,

My heart is warm with thy caresses. And o'er again, as in a dream,

I voice the words the spell is wreathing, As in the reeds beside the stream

Pandean pipes are lowly breathing. I think of one whose starry eyes, And laughter through the woodland ring

ing, And shy caresses, and tender sighs,

Attuned the poet's heart is singing. And like Ausonian king of old,

I listen to the wood-nymph's pleading, While this poor form of human mold

Plods sadly after fancy's leading. O river rippling to the sea,

Thy silver waters, softly stealing In shadowed beauty o'er the lea,

Awake the slumbrous chords of feeling. And on thy waves of rosy light,

Seen in my boyhood's happy vision, I'm drifting from the shores of night, To isles of rest in realms Elysian.

THE SENTINEL FLOWER. The Sentinel Flower, () com rades of old, If guarding your rest in its cuirass of gold! On fields where you fell in the heat of the

fray, So proud to the last of our standards so gay; And the ring of the challenge is kindly and

true, .. Halt! 't is the grave of a soldier you

view." Though strangers you are to the heralds of

fame, The halos of glory encircle each name; E'en princes may envy the bliss of your

dream, This lonely bivouac by the murmuring

stream; And the feathery blossoms that wave o'er

the tomb, Dispel by their splendor the shadows of


Aweary of conflict, and silent and lone,
The soldier will dream of the years that have

Of vows of devotion, and clasping of hands,
And pressure of lips in the far-away lands!
While the voices of dear ones, so tender and

low, Are borne op the winds of the lost Long Ago.

DROPPED DEAD. Stranger he was to the pitiless throng, Viewing his corpse as they bore him along. Heedless for aye of their laughter and song

Dropped dead!

Afar o'er the moonland, O comrades of yore, The bugles are sounding the battle once

more! My spirit is saddened, for soon I shall lie Alone and unknown, 'neath the midsummer

sky; But the Sentinel Flower my slumbers will

Halt! 't is the grave of a soldier you


JULIA H. THAYER. But raging hurricanes, in tumult hurled,

And blasting winds and tempests are her boast. Borx: KEESEVILLE, N. Y.

With thundering whir of ebon wings, from coast At the age of ten Julia H. Thayer removed To coast they fly, by might resistless whirled, with her parents to the state of Illinois, where Then in their central calm betimes are furled, she has since resided as pupil and teacher And rest content, for lo: a new-born host in her father's school, the Chicago Female Of stronger life and fresher bloom arise. College, at Morgan Park. She first published Even thus have all the greatest eras wrought her verses anonymously, but since 1870 until Those changes that have made our earth so the present time the productions of her pen,

wise, chiefly poetical, have appeared in various pa- Weak doubting heart receive the lesson taught: pers and periccicals under her own name. She Beyond each storm of grief a blessing lies, has received flattering inducements to write Becalmed within the center of God's thought.

Far from shore, where salt seas only

Hurl white storms of angry foam,
Stands an Island, bleak and lonely,

Banished from earth's sylvan home.
Not a blade of floweret tender

Nestles to its rocky breast
Through the warmth of summer splendor,

Into wakening life caressed.
But as pure as from the mountain

Where the sweetest waters start,
Lo! a sparkling crystal fountain

Gushes from its barren heart;
Fresh and clear, though all surrounded

By the briny waters wide,
Never once its laugh confounded

By the hostile, dashing tide;
Singing always with a spirit

Envying not the high-born spring;
Satisfied to just inherit

Dreams of wayside blossoming.
Canst thou recognize the presage,

O my heart, with better trust?

Canst thou read a heavenly message prose, but is most devoted to the muse.

On this tablet of the dust?

She is seen at her best in religious poems and sim God will bid a fount of gladness ple lyrics.

Spring from out thy rock-bound soul, Miss Thayer is somewhat below medium Free from every tone of sadness, height, has dark curling hair, regular features Though wild seas around thee roll. and gray eyes. Upon the third fiuger of her left hand is a plain gold ring-to her it is price

Thou shalt sing the same glad measures less, being the first piece of precious metal that

Caroled in earth's fairest bowers, sbe received for one of her poems. Miss Thay.

Though bereft of life's green pleasures er is not only a writer of lyrical poetry, but oc

And a world of dewy flowers.
casionally writes prose, and is also a fine mu-
sician. There is a conscientious fidelity in

Miss Thayer's work, and to her the glorious Meshes touched with the morning-mist,
West brings a laurel wreath that will not fade. Sheer enough for the ghosts of fairies;

Gossamer forms that the vapor kissed

To the verge of a dream as light as the air is; Oh not her gentle, silent agents most

Discs of pearl from the fences that swing; Doth Nature use to purify the world,

Glittering patches of veiling drawn over

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Meadow-grasses where night-damps cling;
Silvery drapings that frost the clover;
Thin transparencies seeking to screen
Deep, dark hollows, and clefts unsightly,
Where diamonds, thrilling with liquid sheen,
Tremble in nets that hold them lightly.
Lone and deserted each shining abode -
Splendor has driven the tenants away:
Gifts of such beauty seem illy bestowed
On ugly black spiders that live by prey.
Yet, after all, what is man himself
But just such an ogre, who loves to subsist
On his unwary brother, on plunder and pelf,
In this web of a world that hangs in the mist?

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Come, Pegasus, come," I go calling -

No whinnies send welcome reply: Instead comes an impish voice bawling:

• The help that you'll get's in your eye. Peg's put out to pasture – no lying

He told me to say, if you came, 'Twas rather too warm to be flying

Through regions no cooler than flame." “. I will walk to the top of the mountain,"

I cry, in the heat of despair:
One draught from the Castalian fountain

Will make fancy light as the air."
I reach, with much toiling, the summit,

And make for the spring that's near by,
When the wretched imp jeers:

You don't come it, The well of the Muses is dry. . They, skylarking Nine, with Apollo,

Are off to their summer resort, Nice, breezy Olympus, where follow

No mortals, whatever their sort." Indignant, abashed and scarce seeing,

I grope down the mountain again, My only consoling thought being

The gods are as idle as men.

Not on seas of wild commotion,

When the crazy tempest raves,
And the savage voice of Ocean

Challenges his clamoring caves Not on such the mirrored glory

Of the great protecting sky; Not a billow tells the story

In reflective sympathy. Even when, in broken spirit,

Waves but sigh along the shore Still their motion must inherit

Shattered, shifting lights -- no more. But, when every sound is muffled,

And repose, as calm as death, Rests upon a sea unruffled

By a faint, disturbing breath, Then the image of its glory

Answers all the watching sky; Humbled waves repeat the story

In adoring ecstacy.

AN APOLOGY. . Please send us some Thanksgiving verses,"

The editor writes in July,
While Sol's very hottest of curses

The mercury's passions defy.
I wipe the warm dews from my forehead,

And tear, like a poet, my hair,
And vow that, at least, it is horrid

To sit in this thrice-heated glare
And write up the pudding and turkey

And hearty cold-weathery things-
Bah! mental dyspepsia makes murky

My brain unprovided with wings. To the foot of Parnassus I wander

To borrow the famed winged steed, Full conscious that Mother Goose's gander

Is more apropos of my need.

Late at night I saw the Shepherd

Toiling slow along the hill,
Though the flock below were gathered

In the fold so warm and still. On His face I saw the anguish,

In His locks the drops of night, As He searched the misty valleys,

As He climbed the frosty hight. Just one tender lamb was missing

When He called them all by name;
While the others heard and followed,

This one only never came.
Oft his voice rang thro' the darkness

Of that long, long night of pain;
Oft He vainly paused to listen

For an answering tone again.
Far away the truant, sleeping

By the chasm of Despair,
Lay, unconscious of its danger,

Shivering in the mountain-air.
But at last the Shepherd found it-

Found it ere in sleep it diedTook it in His loving bosom,

And His soul was satisfied.


Then I saw the Eastern spaces

Part before a shining throng, And the golden dome of morning

Seemed to shatter into song.


BORN: PETERSHAM, MASS., FEB. 29, 1828. This lady has been connected with the editorial staff of the Woman's Exponent since 1875, and has been the sole editor and publisher since 1877. She has written verses from her

Sweeps thro' the empty space with steady

sail, And floods with beauty the enchanted night. It is the hour for sweet and tender thought

And whisperings of the life that is to be. And Faith and Trust with holy impulse

fraught, Speak to the soul in nature's poetry, Unconscious of ourselves we sink to sleep And bright-robed beings round our couches

stray, In sacred stillness holy vigils keep,

And night assumes the sceptre of her sway.

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THE DEAR OLD GARDEN. My dear old garden still I cail it mine;

And mine it is, for in its grateful shade Of ev'ry tree, and shrub and flow'ring vine, My children and my children's children

play'd. 'Round these my aching heart instinctive

clings, And they to me are sweet and tender things. Under those trees I've sauntered to and fro, In search of hidden gems of precious

thought, Perchance some wayward fancies all aglow Have been in chains of measur'd rhythm

caught, For rustling leaves, and sighing boughs have

stirred The depths of love, no living voice bath

heard. And bere young lovers, plighted vows have

given, And scaled them with the first fond linger

ing kiss That hallows love, and makes earth seem a

heav'n, A sweet enchanted dream of rapt'rous bliss When two pure hearts, in confidence and

truth, Unite their joys and hopes in early youth. These trees and shrubs, and ev'ry bush and

vine, We've watched from tiniest seed and stem; Why then should I not always call them

mine? For in my heart of hearts I treasure them. No matter how neglected now they be

They were a part of my home life to me. Yes, I remember sitting there so well,

With baby in my arms and children 'round; And a sweet peace hung o'er me like a spell, While the white blossoms fluttered to the

ground; For the young apple trees were just in bloom And we were breathing in their sweet per


How softly fall the evening shadows pale,

Golden and purple sunsets blend and fade; Night robes earth quietly with mantling veil, And peace and rest the gentle hour per

vade. Great nature soothing with her potent power, Breathes to the world-worn heart her sym

pathy; And 'mid the tranquil of such spell-bound

hour, The mem'ries of the past steal tenderly. Athwart the scene the moon with golden trail As erst with pitying glance and mellowed




0, how the childish voices loud and clear,

Rang out in laughter and in merry song; No wonder that to me the place is dear,

To which so many memories belong; 0, would those days but come to me again 'Twould ease my heart of all this racking

pain. O, little ones, 'mong the long tangled grass,

Where buttercups and clover nestled down; Or like a shadow flitting as you pass,

To gather hollyhocks in silken gown, Or pull the morning glories from the vine Which gaily 'round the fav'rite tree en

twine. And honey suckles fragrant were and fair, And on them humming birds swung to and

fro, But something fairer, sweeter still was there:

A little maiden, singing soft and iow;
O, that melodious voice we hear no more,

Save in our dreams, it echoes o'er and o'er. My garden! when the world was dark and cold,

(way; And troubles gathered thickly round my I wander'd there my feelings to unfold, 'Twas there I knelt upon the ground to

pray. In that old garden tbro' the maze of years I scan life's pages blur'd with mists of


How far off the dreamy vision

That these memories brought to me, As I strained my ear to listen

To the murmuring in the sea. Far down where the sea weeds whisper

To the corals and the shells;
But they keep the secret ever,

Roar or echo never tells.
But the human heart's emotion,

Answers to the sad refrain,
And the ceaseless moan of ocean,

Brings a grandeur fraught with pain. While the wild waves in commotion,

Sweeping out unto the shore;
Bounding billows, restless ocean,

Echoing for evermore.
And the ever constant beating

'Gainst the rocks that hemm'd the sea, Where the winds in fury meeting,

Dashed them backward ruthlessly.
So our human hopes are driven,

Recklessly tossed to and fro,
And our strongest ties are riven -

Rent asunder by a blow.
Ever heaves the restless ocean,

With its hidden mystery,
Sleeping in its surging bosom,

Until time shall cease to be.

MEMORY OF THE SEA. In the midnight hour, a memory

Swept like music o'er my soul As I stood in silent reverie,

Where the surging billows roll; Minor music, sad and sorrowing,

Full of trembling, full of tears, Ever like the ocean's murmuring,

Bringing back the tide of years. Telling of the long forgotten

In the cycles of the past, of the nations crusbed and broken

In the world's great holocaust.
As I listened so entrancing

Was the music of the sea;
That I fancied mermaids dancing

To the midnight minst relsy;
And a thousand harp-strings quivering,

Sobbing in the midnight sea: And my broken heart-strings shivering

As sad memories came to me. Had I caught the inspiration

Of the music deep and strong That had moved my soul's wild passion,

Was it but a syren's song? 0, such music, weird and mournful,

As the night-wind swept along, And the shattered notes so painful,

Making discord in the song.


EXTRACT. Down in the meadows, where the cowslips

spring, And the sweet clover breath is in the air, There where the thrush and bluebird sweetly

sing, Dame Nature in her robes so wondrous fair, Holds her communion with the regal

night, And blushes in the dawn of early light. What picture hath the artist ever drawn

That could compare in loveliness and grace With nature in her rudest, wildest form, No matter in what climate, time or place,

So skillfully is ev'ry figure wrought,

So delicate with feeling is it fraught. In grove, and field, and vale, in forest glade, On snowy heights, where man may scarcely

tread, On flow'r, or shrub, and ev'ry glassy blade That lifts from earth its tiny, modest head, In coral reef, or sea beach shining sand,

We see the seal of an Almighty hand. I cannot tell how greatly I delight

In all the beauties of the earth and heaven;
How ardently I reverence the light
Which our good Father has so wisely given;
The sun and moon, and all the stars that

With the effulgence of a power divine.

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