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For all your bloody fields proclaim
Ye must be born again."
Your fathers sailed away.
Of what ye do today.
To stem the world's rude shock,
On God's eternal rock.
A faith in God and right.
And Christians would not fight.
This moral movement on,
Until the work is done.
Shows lack of common sense.
And get no recompense.
Some great propelling power?
Not idle for an hour?
This bloody, damning crime,
And idle pass their time.
For truth and right to-day.
And God will show the way.
You may not live to see
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."
The citadel of sin;
They conquered foes within.
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
What great reward is theirs?
And with the world unite;
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.
Proceeding from within,
Protects the soul from sin.
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.
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.
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
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 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.
Behind her, smiling by the sea,
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.
HOW ADAM DIVIDED PROPERTY WITH
From Eden's vales and groves elysian,
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.