JOHN LAIGHT WINCE.

BORN: RAPPAHANNOCK CO., VA., DEC. 24, 1832. AT the age of nineteen Mr. Wince commenced to teach school, and in 1855 began writing for the press. Since that time he has written both prose and verse on a variety of themes, generally religious, which have been published in the religious and secular press. Mr. Wince was married in 1867 to Sarah Roxana Chaplin, who is represented in this work. Mr. Wince follows agricultural pursuits, occasionally preaches the gospel, and resides in Pierceton, Ind.

SIX THOUSAND YEARS.

Six thousand years the tide of sin

Has spread destruction far and wide;
Six thousand years the world has been,
To Satan's wicked cause allied.
From this dark age to Eden's prime,

The world has walked away from God;
Six thousand years of blood and crime,
Have cursed the earth and stained the sod.
Six thousand years! Ah, that will do!
To try the hateful rule of wrong;
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
The era of angelic song.

Then glory to our God on high;

Good will on earth and peace to men,
Will swell in song through earth and sky,
In sweeter strains, by far, than when
The shepherds watched their flocks by night,
And music sweet fell on their ears,
From choristers enrobed in light,
And trained amid the upper spheres.

CONTRASTED CREEDS.
We are not left alone to guess
Our pathway through this wilderness;
A light beneath and overhead,
Illumes the weary path we tread.
We ask no heathen Socrates,
About this self, that thinks and is;
A Darwin no sure answer brings,
To satisfy our questionings.

We know in truth, from whence we came,
Our mortal being's end and aim;
We learned it from a book we love,
Whose author sits enthroned above.
A book, which unbelieving sage
Styles legend of a childish age;
Imposture, which designing men,
Composed in distant ages, when
The sun of science had not shed
Its light upon the human head.
But our sure confidence is stayed,
On what the Hebrew prophets said.
We put the question --What of life?
Is it a vain and hopeless strife?

Its destiny, an endless sleep,
In oblivion, dark and deep?
From dust we came, to dust we turn;
But from the ashes of the urn,
A glorious form shall yet arise,
To bloom again in Paradise.
As pledge of this, our living head
Arose triumphant from the dead.
The thrilling fact that he arose,
Was testifled by friends and foes.
Then why reject the blessed hope,
Whose range of view has endless scope?
That, in the ages yet to be,

The good shall taste and hear and see,
The wondrous scenes of joy and bliss,
In a lovelier world than this?

To love indeed is happiness,
For love has power on earth to bless,
But only as it flows in deeds,
To meet the cry of human needs.
Be this the rule and this the test,
Then put the question Who loved best?
Both saint and infidel, I ween,
Would give reply - The Nazarene!
Against whose name no sin is set,
From Bethlehem to Olivet.
For here is love exemplified,
In life and in the death he died.
He satisfies our deepest quest,
Concerning the eternal rest;
And what the life beyond the tomb,
Beyond the silence and the gloom.
No solace in the skeptic's creed,
Can bind the wounded hearts that bleed;
Nor smooth the thorny way to death,
Down to the last expiring breath;
Nor comfort give to weeping friend,
Who shall above the dying bend:
Like word of Christ, so grand and sweet,
That death-dissevered friends shall meet,
Where painful partings come no more,
On Canaan's fair and deathless shore.

521

MRS. S. ROXANA WINCE. BORN: COLLAMER, IND., FEB 10, 1838. THIS lady is the daughter of Rev. S. A. Chaplin, now of Plymouth, Ind., who has gained quite a reputation as a poet, and is represented elsewhere in this work. She was married in 1867 to John Laight Wince, who has also been given a place in this work. Since 1857 Mrs. Wince has written poems quite extensively for the periodical press, which have been well and favorably received. Prior to her marriage she successfully taught school. The only child of Mrs. Wince died in infancy.

A SONG FOR THE HOUR. O let the surging seas grow calm, Dear countrymen of ours!

522

Sow wide the healing seeds of balm,

And plant the deathless flowers.
For tide of party-strife has long

Swept o'er our precious things;
Half hushed the tender words of song,
And stained her drooping wings.
And love and hope of ancient years
Are sinking 'neath her waves,
While dark ambition flings our seers
In bribery's nameless graves.
But vain we lift our anguished cry,
The sea will not be still;

No clay is there for blinded eye,
No chain for demon will!

When, country mine, shall man be found
With strength for these dark days,
Who, with our tangled skeins unwound,
Shall win our meed of praise?
Who, true and brave and heaven-taught,
Shall rule the hordes of wrong?
And turn to safer grooves of thought,
The swift pens of the strong?

EXPECTANT.

I sit by my window, and listen,

While the mists of the morning go by, To catch the first sound of his footsteps; To meet the bright glance of his eye:

And day after day, as the noontide

Is marked, on the sill of the door; -
While the tired men rest in the shadows,
And the little ones play on the floor.

I list for the sound of his chariot;
I wait for the light of his smile;
For the coming in glory of him,
Who tarrieth the little while.

I sit on the door-step at evening; -
A maiden is singing below;

I hear the sweet laughter of children,
And the rivulet's musical flow.
The night-birds are trilling the chorus
Of all the glad songs of the day,
And mingled with these are the voices
Of villagers far away:

But still in the beautiful gloaming,
My eyes are gazing afar,

To note the first glimpse of the rising
Of Bethlehem's magical star.
The star that advancing before him,

Shall herald the hope of the world; -
Ah, none but the watchers will see it;
The watchers with banners unfurled!
So I keep on the watch through the morning,
My heart all alert through the day;
Lest coming at noon-tide or midnight,
He find me unready and say:
Why not at thy post in the vineyard?
Thy garments are stained by thy sin!
Thou canst not to rapture of wedding,
With these my proved virgins come in!

Thou heard'st not my voice when I bade thee,
Go work at the forge or the plow; -
My bride is all stainless in beauty;

Unworthy, unworthy art thou!

So busy with clothing the needy,

The lamp freshly trimmed in my room,
I'm watching, and waiting, and working,
And training new hands to the loom,
And onward with watchers I'm marching,
While closer the foeman they press;
My armor all girded upon me,
And keeping my beautiful dress.

I wait for the glory of morning,
The change to unchangeable youth;
No doubt in my heart of the issue,
Firm-bound to fair duty and truth;
For the Lord holds the life of His children;
Not the rack nor the flame can destroy;
Nor danger, nor terror may move them,
In light of eternity's joy.

So I sit by my window and listen,

While the mists of the morning go by,
To catch the first sound of His footsteps,
To meet the bright glance of His eye.
And still in the beautiful gloaming,
My eyes are gazing afar,

To note the first glimpse of the rising
Of Bethlehem's Magical Star.

Thy powers how concealed,
One would not think that little box
Had so much unrevealed;

But let the artist's finger

Apply his skillful bow,

And then from off those tiny strings
Will majestic music flow.

They sit enraptured, all who hear-
The saddest heart is soothed,
And by thy mournful wailing chords
The lightest heart is moved.

The human voice can scarce excel

Thy notes so clear and varied,
One half believes when 'neath thy sound,
He's in the realm of fairies.

Could I from off those magic strings
Draw music pure and sweet,
My heart would bound with silent pride,
My soul's desire complete.

Now with pride I look upon thee

Simple box, and bow, and string,
Join the thousands to admire thee,
For of all instruments thou art king.

523

JOHN S. STEPHENSON.

BORN: PITTSBURG, PA., JAN. 1, 1839. FIRST attending the Andrew Freese's public school at Cleveland, Mr. Stephenson next attended a classical school in the same city. At eighteen years of age he commenced life as a school teacher. Mr. Stephenson next filled the position of deputy sheriff; then was ad

JOHN SUMMERFIELD STEPHENSON. mitted to practice law; later became local mail agent at Cleveland; and for some years was editor of the Cleveland Plain Dealer. Since 1879 Mr. Stephenson has been in the business of railroad construction. He has held various positions of trust, and has been president of the Fireman s Association. The poems of Mr. Stephenson have appeared in the Toledo Commercial and other papers of prominence. He is at present located at Elyria, Ohio.

LIFE.

The red sun sets and the bright day doth die, While night's gray shadows fall on land and

sea;

As the days pass and silent years go by,
They bear life on,- what shall its ending be?
O, fleeting life! how brief thy longest span
Like a dream or as the swift eagle's flight,
As shadows fade at sunset so dies man,
Like falling star lost in a rayless night
He sinks from mortal memory and sight.

When from the earthly form, the trembling breath

Departs, doth then our being end, in death?
Or doth the spirit live and speed its way
To home of peace, where shines eternal day?
When in the gloom our life-star shall have
set

Beneath the dark and troubled sea of time,
It soon will rise beyond and shining yet
Continue ever on its course sublime.

Man lives again, dread death is not the end;
The unencumbered spirit doth ascend
From mortal plane to a celestial birth

In higher life, 'mid grander spheres than

earth.

Each thinking, individual soul lives on
Forever-lives to know and to be known,
Unchanged in form and personality
Through endless ages that are yet to be;
As grain of sand to the vast ocean's shore,
Is time compared to life that is in store;
As drop of water to the mighty sea.
Death changeth not the love for good or ill,
They who are evil will be evil still:
If bound by earthly superstition's chain,
The ignorant, debased, and vile in mind,
Until enlightened, will in gloom remain,
And each pursue the course to which inclined.
They who love good, to greater good aspire;
And as the ages pass in onward flight,
Their powers expanding, ever soaring higher,
They reach in wisdom to unmeasured height;
From sphere to sphere they constantly ascend
Toward perfection, at the life dawn sought,
That will in distant centuries be wrought;
In that grand existence that hath no end;
We know not what their destiny may be,
What boundless stores of knowledge they
shall gain,

What views of joy and fadeless beauty see,
What changes pass, what eminence attain,
In gardens where God's flowers of wisdom
bloom,

Where there is no parting, and no dark gloom.

JOHN A. LOGAN.

Dark falls the night, in gloom the day hath fled;

As years have swiftly passed with silent tread;

Many a life of promise bright hath flown, Death's angel claimed the highest for his

own;

One history from the past, now rises to the view,

That time cannot efface, and centuries but re

new.

With noiseless step and bated breath

We enter the silent halls of death.

524

S. KINGSBURY WHITING.

BORN: WINTHROP, ME., FEB. 10, 1831. SINCE the age of twenty the poems of Mr. Whiting have appeared from time to time in He prominent newspapers and magazines. was married in 1856 to Mary E. Dow. Mr. Whiting is engaged in the real estate business

S. KINGSBURY WHITING.

at Kansas City, Mo. He taught school for many years in New England; conducted the musical department of Youth's Temperance Visitor, and for two years published the daily and weekly Herald. Mr. Whiting has published several musical works, including Crystal Spring, Pure Light, Music Without a Master, Church, School and Home. Mr. Whiting has conducted musical conventions over the entire west, and has contributed church music to many collections published since 1859.

THERE'S MANY A SLIP 'TWIXT CUP AND LIP.

There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip,"

Is a proverb both old and true;

But if you doubt for a minute, there's anything in it,

Let me tell you a thing or two!

Just take your own case, and with a good

honest face,

Tell me whom did you marry at last: [feature Was it the angelic creature, in form and in You courted, way back in the past?

fairy!

But you did'nt - and that is the rule.

So there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and lip In most that we do or wish;

And a bird in hand, young man, understand, Is worth two or three in the bush.

OLD MAN'S QUERY.

At what age does love begin

Our Cupid seek the heart to win?
Methinks your rosy lips reply-

"I can't tell you, if I try."

When does hoary love expire,

And silvery Age put out the fire?

My lips shall answer-old and wiseThough youth may pass, love never dies.

G. W. LYON.

THE poems of Mr. Lyon have appeared quite extensively in the periodical press. He has written enough poems to fill a fair-sized volume. Mr. Lyon is engaged in the subscription and publishing business at Cedar Rapids, Iowa.

PERENNIAL LIGHT.

If sometimes lone and sad, the heart,
And rayless night hangs o'er the soul,
If so bereaved, in mourning clad,
How weary hours like ages roll.
No smiling faces greet the sight,

Nor voices sweet entrance the ear,
E'en love seems but a broken plight,
And friendship cold with doubt and fear.
Obscure the rugged path of life

With valleys deep and mountains high,
Suggesting ceaseless toil and strife,
And groping thus to fall and die.
And yet, if we but view aright,

Above are fadeless starry skies,
And worlds revolve; upturn in flight,
From nadir forth to zenth rise.
As clouds and darkness drift away,
The heavens will open wide and blue,
And glorify with rising day,

Our journey on with raptures new.
So life may pass serene, secure,

Like ship through calm or shifting blast, With compass guiding straight and sure To heaven of peace and joy at last.