JOSEPH PEEPLES HART.

BORN: ARKADELPHIA, ARK., MAY 9, 1847. THE poems of Mr. Hart have been published extensively from time to time in the periodical press. He was married to Miss Lizzie Bell, and is still a resident of the place of his nativity. Personally Mr. Hart is a little below the

JOSEPH PEEPLES HART.

average height, robust, with hair a deep black and gray eyes. He was admitted to the bar in 1872. As a journalist he has had much experience, having established the Arkadelphia News, and edited the same prior to its sale and change of name to the Herald, which is still being successfully published.

THUS LIVE.

So live, that when the strife

Of this tempestuous life,

Like battle smoke has passed awayWhen bugle call

Shall summon all

To the God of battle's reveille,

Thou go not hence undone

As some dastard-craven one

Who, when the shock of battle came

Of standing firm, instead,
Recoiled, ignobly fled

With infamy covered, and shame!
But go thou then with tread

Of lofty heart and head,

All full of expectation,

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As one who inly knows,

He to the general goes

To reap a decoration.

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THE STAR OF MASONRY.
When first the gloomy monarch, Night,
Put on his crown of sparkling light,
Before the star of Bethlehem"
Enriched his lustrous diadem,
Which jewel flashed most brilliantly!
It was the star of Masonry!
What gem then sent its fiery ray

To lighten up the dark highway
That leads from earth to Heaven?
What gem was then in mercy given
To shine on till eternity?

It was the star of Masonry!

Whilst groping on in night profound,
In selfish folly's irksome round,
What beacon did I seek and find,
That ever after called to mind
Its grandeur and sublimity?
It was the star of Masonry!
What sought I when departed day
Before me left a rugged way:

And when my heart did quake with fear;
And when the scythe of Death flashed

near;

And when I called on Deity?

It was the star of Masonry!

What since the days of Solomon,

Have been the good man's mighty sun,

Dispensing in his pathway light

That showed him how to walk aright, And live in peace and harmony?

It was the star of Masonry!

As it has beamed from Time's gray morn,
On all the nations yet unborn,
What is it than shall ceaseless shine,
And shed on these its light divine,
Until appears eternity?

The star, the star of Masonry!

ALL HAIL TO THE FLAG.
In great Columbia's name
Thou flag of deathless fame-
Ensign of liberty,

And of the valiant free,
All hail, all hail to thee!

The red, the white and blue,

These blended and there grew
On clouded horizon,
At rising of his sun,

Freedom's bow, brightest one!

On this our own new world"
To breezes first unfurl'd-
Cynosure of all eyes-

That banner flaunts and flies,
A mistress in all skies!

MRS. M. S. CURTISS.

BORN: OSWEGO, N. Y., MAY 27, 1822.

THE poems of this lady have received publication in some of the leading periodicals of

MRS. M. S. CURTISS. America. Mrs. Curtiss now resides in the pleasant home of her son, E. A. Curtiss, on the banks of the Passaic river, at Woodside, Newark, N. J.

THE LADY OF ELGIN. Just yestermorn some strangers fair, Came to me; how they knew my name Or place, I know not-yet they're here, These harbingers of western fame: And such as I have now I give,

Of greeting, warm to those who tell, In many a column crowded full,

Of truths I love-oh, passing well! Who would not? wealth of shining ore, Delved for in many deeps of mind, And earnest thoughts, each one as pearls, In goodly setting, safe enshrined; Hail! Lady Elgin!" do you know

I deem you fortunate as fair, Uniting wealth of metal gold

With all the years that time may wear? Life's sands are not for all, always, Ticked off to any measured rhyme Of watch or verse, and so I deem This Lady Elgin," in good time,

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And favored well by those who hold

In charge the counting of life's sands: May these bring long years and success To crown her earnest heart and hands.

WHAT IS A POEM?

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Is it a richly wro't musical rhyme,
Wreathed with garlands from many a clime;
Woven in tissues of fairest dyes,
And bright as are cerulean skies?
Is it only an airy carol of song,
That like the rivulet dances along?

Time and step keeping with breezes gay
Thro' the long hours of the bright summer

day?

Ever blessed and bright be the beautiful wings,

That preside o'er all these beautiful things;
And long may rich madrigals from them all,
Enliven the heart homes of palace and hall.
But a real poem who shall define

In any song rhythm or measured line?
While all the earth, and the air and the skies,
Are abundant in poems of richest dyes.

Poems ever unwritten and unsung,
Are by life's wayside plenteous flung;
All beautiful too, and rich and grand,

As are pearl-freighted sea waves near the strand,

The deep, dense wood is a poem divine
Bounded and full in its every line:
And all undulations of flowery fields,
Vast realms and whole realms of poems yield.
There are life aims reaching out far away,
As the seareling fires of summer's sunray:
Thence lives are enriched with poems divine,
Symmetrically woven - every line.
There are ripening harvests from the seeds
Of noble charities and kindliest deeds;
These in Heaven's own good way and time,
Will be fashioned in living poems sublime.

THOUGHTS OF SPRING AT EVENING. Pale, pensive night with starry wing And dewy robe again is near! Sweet influence o'er the heart to fling Weary and way-worn ones to cheer; And yet night's shady, sable wing Can scarcely hide the glow on high; For 'tis the time of early spring,

When gorgeous colors drape the sky. The heavens now wear their loveliest tinge, And clearer is their deep, deep blue, And richer seems their golden fringe,

As nature's hand had rolled them near, And burnished bright those gems of night That thus so brilliantly they glow; While gladsome spring with tardy wing And timid step, comes faltering slow.

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Now hardy flowers, in woodland bowers, Awaken from their wintry dreams; And haste to greet that form so sweet,

For while the stars so brightly gleam, Soon lengthening days with milder rays, Will waken all the wildwood flowers To usher in the reign of spring, And beautify the balmy hours. Soon may be seen the velvet green, Earth's soft attire for lovely May, With here and there sweet violets rare Of rich perfume and colors gay. Then lovely spring, with roseate wing Will pause awhile and with us stay, Sadness and gloom make ample room, For one so beauteous, bright and gay. The evening's light, so placid, bright, As from celestial worlds it shone, Where spring supernal, ever vernal, Blooms and glows around the Throne!

MRS. OPHELIA COOK JONES.

BORN: BROWNSVILLE, MISS., FEB. 5, 1849. THIS lady now follows the occupation of teaching at Abbeville, Louisana. Her poems have appeared in Godey's Lady's Book and

MRS. OPHELIA COOK JONES. the periodical press generally. The poem, What My Lover Said, has been attributed to several poets of high standing, but Mrs. Jones is without doubt the author of it. She has written some beautiful poems.

WHAT MY LOVER SAID.

By the merest chance, in the twilight gloom,
In the orchard path he met me;

In the tall, wet grass, with its faint perfume,
And I tried to pass, but he made no room,
Oh I tried, but he would not let me.
So I stood and blushed till the grass grew red,
With my face bent down above it,

said

While he took my hand as he whispering [head (How the clover lifted each pink, sweet To listen to all that my lover said;

Oh, the clover in bloom, I love it!)

In the high, wet grass went the path to hide,
And the low, wet leaves hung over;
But I could not pass upon either side,
For I found myself, when I vainly tried,

In the arms of my steadfast lover.
And he held me there and he raised my head,
While he closed the path before me,
And he looked down into my eyes and said-
(How the leaves bent down from the boughs
To listen to all that my lover said, [o'er head,
Oh, the leaves hanging lowly o'er me!)
Had he moved aside but a little way,

I could surely then have passed him;
And he knew I never could wish to stay,
And would not have heard what he bad to say,
Could I only aside have cast him.

It was almost dark, and the moments sped,
And the searching night-wind found us,
But he drew me nearer and softly said
(How the pure, sweet wind grew still, instead,
To listen to all that my lover said;

Oh, the whispering wind around us!)

I am sure he knew when he held me fast,
That I must be all unwilling;

For I tried to go, and I would have passed,
As the night was come with its dew, at last,
And the sky with its stars was filling. [fled,
But he clasped me close when I would have
And he made me hear his story,

And his soul came out from his lips and said
(How the stars crept out where the white
To listen to all that my lover said; [moon led
Oh, the moon and the stars in glory!)

I know that the grass and the leaves will not

tell,

And I'm sure that the wind, precious rover, Will carry my secrets so safely and well That no being shall ever discover One word of the many that rapidly fell From the soul-speaking lips of my lover; And the moon and the stars that looked over Shall never reveal what a fairy-like spell [dell, They wove 'round about us that night in the In the path through the dew-laden clover, Nor echo the whispers that made my heart swell

As they fell from the lips of my lover.

MRS. MARGARET J. SWEAT.

BORN: PORTLAND, ME., Nov. 28, 1823. COMMENCING to write poetry at an early age the productions of this lady have appeared in the Galaxy, New Orleans Picayune aud other publications of note. She is also represented in Poets of Maine. In 1849 this lady was married to the Hon. L. D. M. Sweat. She visited

MRS. MARGARET J. M. SWEAT. Europe in 1859 and wrote letters to the Chris, tian Register. In 1859 she published her first book, Ethel's Love Life, and a few months later appeared Highways of Travel or a Summer in Europe. Mrs. Sweat traveled extensively in Europe in 1873-4 and again in 1887. Her writings include poems, essays, criticisms and sketches of travel in Egypt, Europe and America.

LOVE'S CALENDAR.

If time is measured by sensations,
And passions make us centuries old;
If sympathy creates relations,

To which the ties of blood are cold;
Then thou and I, though lately meeting
Have made the moments fly so fast,
That our two hearts, together beating,
Through years of love and life have passed.
Then do not wonder that I woo thee
With strangely rapid words and ways,
But let me, as a lover, sue thee

To count as years these few sweet days. Each hour has proved a month of pleasure, So, dearest, I have loved thee long;

Cease then by minutes life to measure, Love's calendar will prove thee wrong.

SWEETS TO THE SWEET. When blue eyes melt in liquid light

My bosom swells with languid pleasure; When black eyes gleam like stars at night

My pulses throb with quickened measure; And then, when gray ones flash and glow, And shed their radiant beams upon me, Why-on my word! - I scarcely know Which of these lovely orbs have won me. Redundant locks of raven hair

Beflt a heroine of story:

While auburn tresses floating fair
Bewilder with their golden glory;

And simple bands of shining brown
Suggest a Raffaelle's Madonna;

Which of these heads should wear a crown

I cannot tell, upon my honor!

That sylphlike girl with fragile form

Seems like an artist's fairest dreaming; This tropic beauty takes by storm,

And charms by being-not by seeming; Etheral saints to rapture wake me, And lift me to the upper regions; But earthly hours quickly take me Back to their own unholy legions. One day I kneel before a shrine And offer up a reverent duty: The next - if all the world were mine I'd give it to some naughty beauty. And till one woman shall combine

The varying charms of all the others, This changing fate must still be mine, To be first yours and then another's.

MRS. SARAH S. W. BENNETT.

BORN: WILSON'S MILLS, ME., JULY 12, 1838. THE poems of Mrs. Bennett have occasionally appeared in the Gorham Mountaineer, Oxford Democrat and the local press generally. She was married in 1869 and still resides in her native place.

HALCYON DAYS.

Oh! halcyon days! how brief in your brightness,

That lights the departing year to its tomb, The gleam of the snow-covered earth in its whiteness,

Is a symbol of the glory beyond its gloom. So ought the life that is rich in well doing, Whose days of strength in labor were passed,

With toil-hardened hands its duties pursuing,

Rest in sweet sunshine and peace at the

last.