« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
CHARLES CASE PARSONS. BORN: FLORENCE, OHIO, MARCH 17, 1820. The subject of this sketch was married in 1852, but is now a widower with a family of
The sons of wealth and power
Shall slumber in the grave,
Nor might nor wealth can save.
And yield their gasping breath,
And all are born in death.
And gain the gold we love,
And go so poor above.
A WORD TO THE BOYS.
For wheat and corn won't come amiss;
It will help make a happy home,
And money you will have to loan.
Leaves the farm in bad condition.
And go to work, be wide awake.
Your wealth will come from work and care, Say what is life with all its charms,
And, if faithful, you'll have a sbare;
And when you're laid away to rest,
You will be counted 'mong the best.
The spring of life is past,
With its budding hopes and fears; Nor triumph o'er the tomb.
And the autumn time is coming, 'Tis like the sun so bright,
With its weight of weary years.
All our joys and hopes are fading,
Our hearts are dimmed with care; Then sinking midst the night,
And youth's first dreams of gladness. His glory dies away.
Have perished darkly there.
When bliss was blooming near us,
In the heart's first burst of spring; Till lost in life's o'erflowing tide,
While many hopes could cheer us,
Life seemed a glorious thing.
Like the foam upon the river,
When the breeze goes rippling o'er; 'Tis light and fleeting as the air
Those hopes have fled forever,
To come to us no more.
CLARA PIERCE. BORN: WIER VILLAGE, MASS., SEPT. 5, 1859. In 1875 Clara removed with her parents to New Bedford, Mass., where she has resided ever since, with the exception of a year
Jordan's flood no more appalls us,
Undismayed we seek its tide; Straining eyes o'erlook the billows
Surging darkly at our side. For we only see the glory
Of the Land beyond the wave. What to us the sting of dying?
What the victory of the grave? Hark! The music throbs no longer,
Trembling hands and tear-wet eyes Pay their sweet and holy tribute,
As the liyma in silence dies.
A world that is all my own,
To the blue of the arching dome. Bright flowers in my pathway springing,
The song-bird's tuneful lay,
Glad all my joyous way.
In their marble basin dash:
Their brilliant colors flash. The waterfall swift leaping
Adown the rocky height, Is lost below in waters
Of sparkling beauty bright.
In majesty and pride
Becomes old ocean's bride.
Its crested head to heaven,
By lightning's flashes riven.
The very air I breathe,
And through my life to wreathe
That never shall depart,
To while the weary time,
With rude uncertain rhyme,
Whose praises shall I sing?
The fairies' magic ring?
TO MRS. FRANCES L. MACE. - Only waiting," sweet the cadence
of the faith-inspiring words, Like some low æolian measure,
Thrilling as the song of birds. Breathing hope in every sentence;
Throbbing pulses join the strain, Hearts bowed down with weight of anguish
Rise in rapture o'er their pain. . Only waiting till the shadows
Are a little longer grown;"
To our bright eternal home.
Of the promised land afar,
Rises up, as bar on bar,
Like a benediction down,
MRS, ANN E. MAINS.
BORN: SUTTON, VT., JUNE 7, 1840. This lady was married in 1863 to Geo. H. Mains, the publisher of the Wakeman Press, of which publication Mrs. Mains was for a number of years assistant editor. She has
A casket of jewels rare,
That no other brow may wear.
And mold their form to your will,
The Master wished them to fill.
Their radiance shall grow dim,
He gave you too for Him.
It may be later or soon,
And some before it is noon.
He recalls ere scarcely given,
In your mother-crown in heaven.
THE SONGS OUR MOTHERS SUNG.
In old times long ago,
In cadence soft and low.
That hushed us oft to rest,
In the fast fading west.
A sacred resting place,
In a close, fond embrace.
From out the dreamy past,
Our feet are treading fast. Where'er our weary heads may lie,
On thorny pillows pressed,
That hushed us oft to rest.
Your children love to hear,
May help sad hours to cheer.
Their feet from evil ways,
From home and happy days.
You oft have sung before;
We fain would hear once more.
Friends of my youth had fled away,
And all the dreams of yore Were but as idols made of clay,
Cherished by me no more.
Ambition that my bosom stirred
When youth was fair and bright, Down the dark corridors of time,
Had vanished from my sight.
And love long since had folded up
Her silken wings and fled; Now the last drop had Alled the cup,
For Hope, fair Hope was dead.
MRS. LIZZIE CLARK HARDY. All my heart with fervent love
Toward my neighbor growing.
Ah! to keep that blest command
Were the sweetest labor, and voluminous magazine and newspaper For with all my heart and soul writer, and her poems and sketches have
Do I love my neighbor!
They are telling me strange, sweet things,
And I dip my pen but I cannot write, keeper, and numerous other publications.
For the sweep of their silver wings. Many of her poems have been used as recita- Such beautiful poems and wordless psalms, tions in public, while others have been set Such sympbonies quaint and rare, to music. In 1871 she was married to Joseph Such glittering pinions and fragrant ms M. Hardy and is a resident of Red Cedar, Wis.
As are borne on the haunted air.
For the spirits are holding a revel to-night,
And I poise my pen but I cannot write.
ROSES RED AND MIGNONETTE.
Oftentimes a rare, sweet memory
Thrills me with a vague unrest,
As I watch the purple shadows
Drop from out the amber west;
And I wander to the garden,
With the night dew gleaming wet,
Roses red and mignonette.
In a fragrant, dewy cluster-
Just as in the long-ago
Dainty fingers often twined them,
With quaint words and laughter low -
Quaint, sweet words and girlish laughter,-
Golden gleams of sunny hair,
Star-white face-oh, memory rare!