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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

CHARLES CASE PARSONS.

four living children. He has written quite a few poems that have appeared from time to time in the local press.

LIFE.

Say what is life with all its charms, Its beauty and its glow;

Say ye who rest on pleasure's arms
Or drink the stream of woe?

'Tis like the fragrant rose of May
That withers in its bloom,
For beauty ne'er can shun decay
Nor triumph o'er the tomb.
'Tis like the sun so bright,

Cheers us through all the day,
Then sinking midst the night,
His glory dies away.

So man in all his gaudy pride,
With haughty steps moves on
Till lost in life's o'erflowing tide,
His flattering hopes are gone.
Life is a scene of toil and care,

Of pleasure mixed with pain, 'Tis light and fleeting as the air And all its joys are vain.

The sons of wealth and power
Shall slumber in the grave,
None can escape the fatal hour
Nor might nor wealth can save.
The needy with the rich must fall
And yield their gasping breath,
The silent grave is made for all,
And all are born in death.

Then why should we aspire to wealth

And gain the gold we love,

Since we must leave it all ourselves, And go so poor above.

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A WORD TO THE BOYS.
Wake up your thoughts, wake up your soul,
Survey this globe from pole to pole.
To what employment will you bow,
Pursue the arts, or hold the plow?

By a just and strict attention,
The plow appears a high invention;
Your wealth arises from the clod,
Your independence from your God.
Now if the plow supports the nation
And men of every rank and station;
Let high officials to farmers bow,
And never speak against the plow.
Let our young men please think of this,
For wheat and corn won't come amiss;
It will help make a happy home,
And money you will have to loan.
Too many seeking for position
Leaves the farm in bad condition.
I hope you'll see this great mistake
And go to work, be wide awake.

Your wealth will come from work and care,
And, if faithful, you'll have a share;
And when you're laid away to rest,
You will be counted 'mong the best.

EXTRACT.

The spring of life is past,

With its budding hopes and fears; And the autumn time is coming,

With its weight of weary years. All our joys and hopes are fading,

Our hearts are dimmed with care; And youth's first dreams of gladness Have perished darkly there. When bliss was blooming near us, In the heart's first burst of spring; While many hopes could cheer us,

Life seemed a glorious thing. Like the foam upon the river, When the breeze goes rippling o'er; 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

CLARA PIERCE.

spent in Florida for her health. Her poems have appeared in the Sunday School Herald of Dayton, Ohio, New Bedford Standard and Mercury, the Portland Transcript, Cottage Hearth and other publications.

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;"

E'er we hear the longed-for welcome
To our bright eternal home.
Even now we catch the radiance
Of the promised land afar,
And a sweet prophetic vision
Rises up, as bar on bar.

Falls the soft and plaintive music
Like a benediction down,
Till our every cross forgetting,
We perceive the waiting crown.

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 hymn in silence dies.

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FANCY'S VISIONS.

I live in a world of fancy,

A world that is all my own, From the emerald turf beneath me To the blue of the arching dome.

Bright flowers in my pathway springing,
The song-bird's tuneful lay,
The throb of the music ringing,
Glad all my joyous way.

The fountain's crystal waters
In their marble basin dash:
Each drop is a tiny rainbow-
Their brilliant colors flash.
The waterfall swift leaping
Adown the rocky height,
Is lost below in waters

Of sparkling beauty bright.
The stately river, sweeping
In majesty and pride
Through meadows green, and forests,
Becomes old ocean's bride.

The lofty mountain lifting

Its crested head to heaven,
Shook by the thunder's cannonade,

By lightning's flashes riven.
The clouds that float above me,

The very air I breathe,

Have power around my heart-strings,
And through my life to wreathe

Sweet thoughts and glowing visions,
That never shall depart,
Till death with icy fingers

Has chilled the throbbing heart.

EXTRACT.

I fain would grasp my idle pen
To while the weary time,
And hedge my wandering fancy in
With rude uncertain rhyme,
But what to-day shall be my theme?
Whose praises shall I sing?

The knights of Arthur's table round?
The fairies' magic ring?

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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

MRS. ANN E. MAINS.

written quite a few poems which have appeared in the periodical press, and still resides in Wakeman, Ohio, with her children. Mrs. Mains is very fond of flowers, of which she has quite a large variety.

DEAD HOPE.

I stood beside a silent bier,
Spread with a sable pall,
No other mourners gathered near
In the dim lighted hall.

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 filled the cup,
For Hope, fair Hope was dead.

CROWN JEWELS.

Unto your keeping, mother, is lent A casket of jewels rare,

To wreathe for your head a diadem, That no other brow may wear.

To your hand is given the task to shape,
And mold their form to your will,
Shape them to fit the place in your crown,
The Master wished them to fill.

Do well your task, lest in other years,

Their radiance shall grow dim,

And the Master shall take thy work in hand,

He gave you too for Him.

Sure He will ask them of you again,

It may be later or soon,

Some He may want at even-time,

And some before it is noon.

And some in the brightness of morning, He recalls ere scarcely given,

To place them, safe, for the tiny pearls, In your mother-crown in heaven.

THE SONGS OUR MOTHERS SUNG. The songs our mothers used to sing,

In old times long ago,

Down through the fleeting years will ring

In cadence soft and low.

We hear the soothing cradle hymn

That hushed us oft to rest,

When evening shadows gathered dim,

In the fast fading west.

Our head was pillowed on her breast,

A sacred resting place,

And round our form her arms were pressed, In a close, fond embrace.

What memories the songs bring back,

From out the dreamy past,

Shedding soft radiance on the track
Our feet are treading fast.
Where'er our weary heads may lie,
On thorny pillows pressed,
We hear in dreams the lullaby,
That hushed us oft to rest.

Then, mothers, sing the simple lays
Your children love to hear,
That they perchance, in other days
May help sad hours to cheer.
The songs may prove a bond to stay
Their feet from evil ways,
When they have wandered far away
From home and happy days.
Yes, mothers, sing the songs again
You oft have sung before;
The soothing, cheering, soft refrain
We fain would hear once more.

MRS. LIZZIE CLARK HARDY.

PORN: ST. LAWRENCE CO., N. Y. AT an early age this lady became a teacher and voluminous magazine and newspaper writer, and her poems and sketches have appeared in Frank Leslie's, Scribner's, Waverly, Chicago Tribune, Advance, House

MRS. LIZZIE CLARK HARDY.

keeper, and numerous other publications. Many of her poems have been used as recitations in public, while others have been set to music. In 1871 she was married to Joseph M. Hardy and is a resident of Red Cedar, Wis.

MY NEIGHBOR.

Love your neighbor as yourselfThus the Good Book readeth; And I glance across the way

At my neighbor Edith,

Who, with garden-hat and gloves,
Through the golden hours
Of the sunny summer-morn,
Flits among her flowers.

Love your neighbor as yourself -
Winsome, blue-eyed girlie,
Golden gleams of sunny hair,
Dimpled, pink and pearly.
As I lean upon the stile

And watch her at her labor,
How much better than myself
Do I love my neighbor?
Love your neighbor as yourself-
How devout I'm growing!

All my heart with fervent love

Toward my neighbor growing. Ah! to keep that blest command Were the sweetest labor, For with all my heart and soul Do I love my neighbor!

HAUNTED.

There are spirits abroad in the air to-night,
I can hear the sweep of their wings,
There's a weird gleam in the moonlight white
And a whisper of wonderful things.

You might think perhaps 'twas a summer breeze

That is murmuring such mystical rhymes; Through the quivering sprays of the linden

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trees,

Or the boughs of the sighing limes;

But I know it's the rustle of spirit wings. For I hear them whisper such wonderful

things.

There's a faint perfume in the air to-night That is borne from the Isle of Dreams,

On the glittering pinions and garments white That glint in the moonlit gleams.

You might say perhaps, 'twas the mignonette

In its nook by the garden wall;

Or the heliotrope with night dew wet,

Or the oleander's ball.

But I know it is wafted from fairy wings

For I hear them whisper such wonderful

things.

There are wonderful spirits abroad to-night,
They are telling me strange, sweet things,
And I dip my pen but I cannot write,
For the sweep of their silver wings.
Such beautiful poems and wordless psalms,
Such symphonies quaint and rare,
Such glittering pinions and fragrant balms
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,
Gathering-in a fragrant cluster-
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 lowQuaint, sweet words and girlish laughter,Golden gleams of sunny hair,

Lustrous eyes and drooping lashes,

Star-white face-oh, memory rare!

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