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For all your bloody fields proclaim

Ye must be born again."
Your task is greater now than when

Your fathers sailed away.
May Plymouth Rock be typical

Of what ye do today.
O may ye build a new Mayflower

To stem the world's rude shock,
Above the passions of the hour

On God's eternal rock.
0, for a faith that overcomes

A faith in God and right.
Then saints would put His armor on

And Christians would not fight.
0, for a Garrison to lead

This moral movement on,
(t'ntarnished by a selfish deed

Until the work is done.
To stand and wait for God to work,

Shows lack of common sense.
The lazy work their garden thus

And get no recompense.
Are all the virtues waiting for

Some great propelling power?
Are weeds and vice the only things

Not idle for an hour?
Men see this wrong from age to age,

This bloody, damning crime,
And say .. mysterious Providence,”

And idle pass their time.
O, sluggish soul arise and work

For truth and right to-day.
A holy purpose kept in view,

And God will show the way.
Your labor may be fruitless now,

You may not live to see
The victory of the Prince of peace.

But what is that to thee? *Written in 1880, when the theological, if not all lineal descendants of the Pilgrims, in their then late Council at St. Louis had chosen a committee of twenty-five to prepare a creed or interpretation of the Bible.

No titled men -- no useless forms

Within their building found; No unpaid toil, no clash of arms,

Ah, there is . holy ground."
Though men of peace they charged upon

The citadel of sin;
Moved by the Holy Spirit on,

They conquered foes within.
They make no compromise to gain

The world's admiring throng; Their record is without a stain

Of blood, or crime, or wrong. If Heaven is for those alone

Who have subdued the tares
The enemy of souls hath sown,

What great reward is theirs?
The warlike sects for dogmas fight,

And with the world unite;
Their morals in a rusty plight,

Their fighting weapons bright. The eagle's claws are on the dove

Since Adam's race begun; 0, Prince of Peace, O God of Love,

When will Thy will be done?

MRS. HARRIET T. TRACY.

Born: TURNER, ME., MARCH 7, 1817. The greater part of the life of this lady has been past in California, where she now resides at Sacramento. Her poems have appeared quite extensively in the periodical press.

THE QU'AKERS.
A sincere purpose to do right

Proceeding from within,
A walking by the Inward Light

Protects the soul from sin.
George Fox, the Friend, built on this

rock, The building stands secure; The only sect the world's rude shock

Has left unstained and pure. They sought the Heavenly Father's care,

No thronging crowds around; They bowed their heads in silent prayer,

And that is . holy ground."

TO MY BIRDS. Little Tam O'Shanter,

Oh, why cannot you sing A wee sweet little song

Before in comes the spring? The day is so gloomy,

And I am so sad, Oh sing me a song

To make my heart glad. Yes, when it comes spring

And my throat is all right, I will sing merry songs

From morning till night. And little brother Fred

Will join in my song, And other little birds

Will then come along And join in the chorus

As we hang by the tree, We will sing of our love

To the birds that cre free.

72

LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA.

MRS. JULIA M. KAUTZ.

BORN: BETHANY, N. Y., Nov. 16. 1825. GRADUATING at Le Roy, N. Y., in 1849, she took charge of the young ladies department in Logansport seminary. In 1850 she was married to the Rev. W. P. Kautz of the Pre

With wondrous skill upon my window pane Frost, all thy gambols and wild flights, has

traced; The sea, the shore, the ship by whirlwinds

chas'd; The glint and glow that follow after rain, Deep night, proclaim'd thy song and wild re

frain, While drifting snows our cosy homes embrac'd.

(chaste, Thou whisper'st in the pines in accents Of gentle sleep, and dreams of swelling

main. 0, West Wind! Tell to me of mountains old Whose brows are hid in clouds; whose sides

are bare, Why in their hearts are hid the shining gold, And sparkling gems, and mines of silver fair ? Why should we care for fame and wealth un

told ? Do whistling winds to us a message bear?

HARMONIES. The green has left the rustling corn, And dying leaves on winds are borne; Sweet songsters trill 'mid southern bowers.Sad echoes of their songs are ours. The blue has faded from the skies, The rosy dawn with springtime dies, Soft spicy breezes no more cheer: How like my life, the passing year. The lily's form, beneath the mould Creeps slowly down, transfixt and cold. Stern winter's blast her heart sweeps o'er With sullen plunge and ruthless roar. My grave shall be 'neath grassy sod, At rest my hands, my soul with God. Ah, me! at rest from carking cares, My peaceful bed the lily shares.

LAWS. Distilling the attar destroys the rose, Deal gently with others, for Jesus knows; By crushing the vintage we spoil the grapesTread softly the paths our Father shapes. Hearts cease their wild beating, and where is man ?

[can. Then wound not, and crush not because you The perfume of roses, in their own sphere Leaves blackened rose-petals damp mould

'ring here, The red wine which sparkles in limpid light, Leaves clusters of beauty no longer bright, The spirits of martyrs will soar on high, While their bruised bodies sore broken lie. Be kind to thy brother! God only knows The making and scenting the queenly rose, The growing and loading the fruitful vine, The tinting and blessing the ruby wine, The trials his children are wont to heed, His hand is beneath them in sorest need.

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THE WEST WIND. From golden orange groves, on fluttering

wings, Magnolia-scented, laden rich with balms, When Ev'ning whispers soft to waving

palms, Thy spirit comes and thro' the forest rings; The rey'rend oak his branches gaily flings, Forgetful of the dreamy ocean calms, Which Florida's soft air at eve embalms, Or gulf-stream's measur'd flow, the oreole

sings. Away upon the eastern shore in glee Thou risest; thy gay sprites at sunrise play With other sprites; and haste to meet the sea, 'Till rush, and roar, and cold from far away In icy fetters binds each swaying tree, The rippling stream, the lake where elfins

play.

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ALL IN FOUR LINES. Love's labor of life Is to live and let live; Life's labor of love To forget and forgive.

WILLIAM A. TAYLOR.

BORN: PERRY CO., O., APRIL 25, 1837. COMMENCING to write prose and verse at the age of fifteen, Mr. Taylor taught school at intervals for the following six years, at the same čime being editor and part proprietor of Perry County Democrat. At the age of twenty-one he was admitted to the bar, practiced law for four years in connection with editorial work, and was also state's attorney a part of the same time. He then became one of the editorial writers of the Cincinnati Enquirer. Mr. Taylor served in the army of the Potomac during the war, after the close of which he resumed editorial work on the Enquirer. He was chief editorial writer of the

THE CURSE OF GENIUS. ON A PORTRAIT OF T. D. JONES, SCULPTOR. The curse of Genius, Art and Worth

The crime of man against mankind Is the fierce struggle that besets

The friendless pioneers of Mind. Grim hunger turns the tempered steel

To lead, in many a brawny hand, That else had shorn away the wrong,

And purified the waiting land. Old Homer begging in the streets

Of seven cities, sang in vain; Each thrust him out of gilded gates

Ahunger forth the arid plain. Old Homer lying in his grave

A god was worshipped - turned to dust, And madly fought for, where his songs

Gained not the vagrant's dole of crust. This is life's curse - its crowning thorn

The ill to which the good is turned Men gild the lamp when life is gone,

Who never trimmed it while it burned; Pile granite over pulseless dust,

That died upon the cruel stones
Of hunger's threshold, while the trump

Of fame blared down his parting groans. Fame may be sweet, but bread-God's

name! Is sweeter than Parnassian rills, Where hungering genius droops and dies,

Amid the plenty of the hills. What though God paints the bended skies, And clothes the earth with song and

sheen, If he who copies dies athirst

Amid the glory of the scene! This is the curse of life – to live

At the sharp point of mortal strife, To find neglect more keen than scorn,

And death a bald burlesque of life. To fill a maus'leum's stately crypt, Blazoned with that which gave not

bread – The meed of life in mockery,

Heaped on the cold, unheeding dead.
Before her lay the unconquered waste.

Behind her, smiling by the sea,
Her virgin mother, proud and chaste,
Chanted the hymn of Liberty.

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Pittsburg Post for eight years subsequent to 1868. He next was employed successively on the New York Sun for two years; then on the New York World for a period; next was managing editor of the Pittsburg Telegraph for nearly two years; and then became editorial manager of Columbus Democrat and Times for several years. He is now again with the Cincinnati Enquirer as staff correspondent and general political writer. Mr. Taylor has declined a number of tempting positions, including a secretaryship of legation under President Cleveland, preferring journalism and literary work to political promotion.

WILLIAM M. PAXTON. BORN: WASHINGTON, KY., MARCH 2, 1819. EDUCATED for the law in his native town, he removed to Platte Co., Mo., where he still resides. In 1850 be removed to Platte City and spent twelve years in mercantile pursuits. Later he resumed the practice of law, and for twelve years prospered; but in 1872 he became hard of hearing, and it was necessary for him to give up his lucrative practice. Having,

And then she stole my house and farm;

It was, indeed, a shame, sir; She made them charming, bright and warm,

And even stole my name, sir. Upon the street I used to roam,

And nightly drink and play, sir; But now she's fixed so nice a home

That there I'm bound to stay, sir. She keeps the house too nice and neat,

And everything too clean, sir; And when she makes me wipe my feet

I think it very mean, sir. On rocking chairs I have to sit,

And back and forth I sway, sir; And when I'm forced to cough and spit,

A vase is in my way, sir. I am a prisoner every day,

With cords of love I'm tied, sir; In Susie's bonds I want to stay,

And with her I'll abide, sir; For Sue has pilfered everything.

And now she's stolen me, sir, But makes me happy as a king,

And wealthy, proud and free, sir.

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HOW ADAM DIVIDED PROPERTY WITH

EVE.
When man rebelled and was expelled

From Eden's vales and groves elysian,
He said to Eve, You now must leave;

But you shall have a fair division. So, as your half, I'll give the calf,

And keep the cow,whose milk I'm needing; The colt is thine,- the mare is mine; -

The calf and colt are broke to leading. . The lambs for thee,– the ewe's for me –

The wool is what I've set my heart on; I'll take the hug, and you the dog,

And these are all we've got to start on. With sweat of brow you'll have to plow,

And earn the bread that's so much needed; Now do not stay, but haste away,

For tears are vain and won't be heeded." The calf was brought,- the colt was caught,

And in Eve's arms the lamb was taken; With failing heart she made the start,

And seemed by God and man forsaken. She stopped to tell her last farewell,

In voice subdued and full of feeling When Tray, the dog, attacked the hog,

Who rushed to Eve, in terror squeeling. The cow and mare and ewe were there,

And heard while feeding at their manger; Of course they flew as mothers do,

To save their offspring when in danger. To Eve they clung, who held their young,

And as she went they followed after. Her tears were gone,- she hurried on,

And nearly split her sides with laughter.

THE ROGUISH GIRLS. The girls are dainty rogues, 'tis true,

And full of fun and art, sir; For when I first met cunning Sue

She sweetly stole my heart, sir; And when the parson came and tied

The pleasant nuptial band, sir, The crafty Sue stood by my side

And slyly stole my hand, sir.

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