The winter's breath of snow and sleet And loungers have resumed the street; The house she'll rummage through and through, The bed-rooms and the closets too; The bureaus, brackets, stands and cases, The parlor stove removed must be, And should he grumble at the cook, CAMP-FIRE ADDRESS. We bid you to night to a soldiers' collation, The hardtack and coffee before you are spread, The days when the rooster, aloft from his station, Sent down his shrill challenge for swift confiscation Are gone, or we'd offer you pot-pie instead. Time was when the voice of the chanticleer crowing, Was sweet to the soldier whose ears now are dull; The turkey's loud gobble would set his heart glowing; The bleat of the lampkin to him was a show ing That mutton was free-tho' they tariff'd the wool. The squawk of the goose and the quack of the duckling Were melody sweeter than timbrel or lute; The motherly porker's low grunt to her suckling, Whose squeak reach'd his when his knapsack unbuckling Has caused every gland of his mouth to dilute. But gone are the days of our grub confiscations; No longer to forage we turn from the track; Our marches have brought us to one of the stations Where we must content us with government rations, And swallow our coffee and nibble our tack. Alas for those days - they are ever reminding The soldier how swift from the mess-fire he fled, When the cook in a rage from the smoke that was blinding, Stopp'd stirring his beans or his bacon un winding, To fling both an oath and a club at his head. We miss too the cubical pieces of liver In half a canteen on the end of a stick, Well wash'd by the water from ditch or from river, And held to the fire with persistent endea vor, "Til cook'd to the semblance of miniature bricks. Ah! oft in the light of the camp-fire's gleaming, Enwrapped in his blanket, a log for his head, While gray-backs were friskily over him streaming, In blissful oblivion the soldier lay dreaming Of cookies and doughnuts and mother-made bread. But his dreamings of home and its knicknacks are ended, Realities now are his staple in life; No longer he sleeps in the fire-light extended, His slumbers, instead of by bad dreams attended Are seasoned by lectures or snores from his wife. LINES ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF A SOLDIER FRIEND. Friend of my youthful days! And art thou passed away. Is that bright smile that cheer'd me with its rays Now dimn'd for aye? Is that warm hand which erst 'twas mine to clasp Now seized by death's inexorable grasp? Are death's dark waves, submerging all earth's joys Now o'er thee roll'd? Is thy great soul from earthly thralls unbound? Has thy freed spirit gone where joys are found Of holier source-of depths still more pro found Than those which have thy mortal life controll'd? And is it ours to weep? To mourn thee gone from here? To bathe with tears the hallow'd shrine Yes, noble soul, thou'rt gone; Thine earthly joys are past; The dreaded bound, which mortals one by one Step o'er while earth shall last, Has been by thee in confidence o'er stepped- Their hearts with anguish torn, When I, a simple friend of thine, Author of life- of love! In justice thou dost deal; Direct our hopes to thy bright realms above For all our weal! Give us we pray, the strength to bear our woes; Mingle with love the terror of thy blows! Teach smitten mortals, while in anguish throes, Thy spirit's calm to feel! Beneath the chastening rod, Each tearful hour that here we spend; Each pang that doth the heart-strings rend; Each anguish cry to Heaven we send, Prepares for us the road! 683 That the blue And above, of the poems of this lady containing over four Oft; until my heart is certain SORROW. Little brooklet, in thy song Let the north wind still thy wave Let the west wind from his sheath All are love. FRAGMENTS. Within the hollow tree to-night In silence grave the great owl sits, With its tu-whoos" and its ..tu-hits!" The brooklet dashes! frowns the sky! Rocks madly 'neath the hurricane! GRACE HOLMES. BORN: WAYNE, MICH., JULY 18, 1866. THE poems of Miss Grace Holmes have appeared in Arthur's Home Magazine, St. Louis Magazine, and the local press generally. She O brilliant are the flowers soon to feel the touch of frost, And glorious the sunset sky that the full noon-day lost: And beautiful each countenance of the aged man and wife, Who sit within the doorway near the tranquil close of life. SUMMER. Summer, crowned with skies of azure, For thy glorious sky at sunset, For the nights fair, starlit heavens, For the fresh and dewy mornings, So we term thee Queen of Seasons. Summer, robed in all thy glory, Summer, wrapped in all thy splendor, Summer, bathed in all thy brightness, Why so call thee Queen of Season? For the meadows green with clover, For the hill tops touched with sunshine For the woodlands decked with blossoms, So we term thee Queen of Seasons. GRACE HOLMES. is studying shorthand and typewriting at St. Louis. Miss Holmes is very fond of literature, and her poems have already received favorable mention. A SUNSET. The fair day closes, calm and still, The red cloud quivers through the blue. trees, One breeze doth chase another breeze; O, ripened are the cornfields, and flaming are the leaves, And the breeze that stirs the mellow land is not a languid breeze; NATURE'S SECRETS. There's a secret with these rugged hills, whose slender tops are gray; There's a secret with the wild flowers that bloom along the way; There's a secret with the roaming clouds that change the changeful sky; A secret have the busy winds, that chant and moan and sigh. A secret has the moonlight, that touches land and sea, A secret is between the stars that blink at you and me. Ah the secrets! can you count them? so num erous are they! Ah the secrets! can you find them out? can you find them out, I say? I knew that some sweet secret 'twixt my garden flowers grew, But I said, "I know, I feel, it is not for me, or you." I felt there was a secret with the wond'rous, charming sea, But again I shook my head and said, "That secret's not for me." Yea, every where I turn my eyes on nature's living show, I feel there is a secret that 'tis not for me to know. LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. JOHN C. ROGERS, M. D. BORN: PERRY, ME., MARCH 26, 1835. THIS gentleman graduated at Harvard in 1863-4, receiving his diploma as a physician. During the civil war he served as assistant surgeon in one of the Massachusetts regiments. At the close of the war he commenced the practice of medicine in Brooklyn, but in 1866 he returned to Pembroke, where he has since resided practicing his profession. Dr. Rogers can read Latin, Greek, French and German, and is a great lover of poetry. His poems have appeared quite extensively in the periodical press. Dr. Rogers is well known and very popular in his native state. TWO PICTURES. Direful visions crowd my soul! Darkness shrouds my aching sight! Horror every sense control And bar me out from hope and light. Bathed in an unhallowed fire, See the Prince of Darkness stand; Round him builds the funeral pyre, That by sin and death is fanned. Lurid lightning pierce the gloom, Awful thunders loudly peal;Demons sound the general doom,From my soul the senses steal. 685 Death, the tyrant, reigns supreme; Dismal cries from wrecking pain Rush in madness o'er the earth. Sheets of lurid lightnings glow, Blast the shrinking, cowering form! Thunders peal; whilst fierce winds blow,And onward sweeps the maddening storm. All is darkness, deep, profound, Silence reigns through every sphere; Life is dead; no mortal sound Shall wake in death the startled ear. Lo! a light from out the gloom On a bright ethereal throne Borne through Heaven on angels' wings, Stands the Prince of Light, alone Save the choir that round Him sings. Death appalled before Him flies, Darkness shrinks in utter night; And the dead in myriads rise, Quickened by the effulgent light. Clothed in an eternal spring, Earth all radiant now appear; Through the groves the angels sing, Music soothes the raptured ear. Sorrow, care, disease and pain, Wan despair and sin have fled; They o'er earth no longer reign,They have perished, death is dead! ..God, the Omnipotent, shall reign," Floats upon the ambient air; ..Here His kingdom shall remain, Eternal as the ages are." Honor, adoration, praise, Sound triumphant through the skies; EXTRACT. I still enjoy the sounding lyre, I can compose a rhyme with ease, |