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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,
Pomona's child with golden tresses!
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,
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
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
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.
THE ISLAND SPRING.
Hurl white storms of angry foam,
Banished from earth's sylvan home.
Nestles to its rocky breast
Into wakening life caressed.
Where the sweetest waters start,
Gushes from its barren heart;
By the briny waters wide,
By the hostile, dashing tide;
Envying not the high-born spring;
Dreams of wayside blossoming.
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.
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
Meadow-grasses where night-damps cling;
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:
Will make fancy light as the air."
And make for the spring that's near by,
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.
When the crazy tempest raves,
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,
The mercury's passions defy.
And tear, like a poet, my hair,
To sit in this thrice-heated glare
And hearty cold-weathery things-
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.
Toiling slow along the hill,
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;
This one only never came.
Of that long, long night of pain;
For an answering tone again.
By the chasm of Despair,
Shivering in the mountain-air.
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.
MRS. EMMELINE B. WELLS.
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.
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
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
LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.
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;
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;
Roar or echo never tells.
Answers to the sad refrain,
Brings a grandeur fraught with pain. While the wild waves in commotion,
Sweeping out unto the shore;
Echoing for evermore.
'Gainst the rocks that hemm'd the sea, Where the winds in fury meeting,
Dashed them backward ruthlessly.
Recklessly tossed to and fro,
Rent asunder by a blow.
With its hidden mystery,
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.
Was the music of the sea;
To the midnight minst relsy;
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.
BEAUTIES OF NATURE.
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;