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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

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.


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 inyention;
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.
four living children. He has written quite a
few poems that have appeared from time to Too many seeking for position
time in the local press.

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, Say what is life with all its charms,

And, if faithful, you'll have a sbare;
Its beauty and its glow;

And when you're laid away to rest,
Say ye who rest on pleasure's arms

You will be counted 'mong the best.
Or drink the stream of woe?
'Tis like the fragrant rose of May

That withers in its bloom,

The spring of life is past,
For beauty ne'er can shun decay

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.
Cheers us through all the day,

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.
So man in all his gaudy pride,

When bliss was blooming near us,
With haughty steps moves on

In the heart's first burst of spring; Till lost in life's o'erflowing tide,

While many hopes could cheer us,
His flattering hopes are gone.

Life seemed a glorious thing.
Life is a scene of toil and care,

Like the foam upon the river,
Of pleasure mixed with pain,

When the breeze goes rippling o'er; 'Tis light and fleeting as the air

Those hopes have fled forever,
And all its joys are vain.

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.

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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.

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?

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 wasic

Like a benediction down,
Till our every cross forgetting,
We perceive the waiting crown.

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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

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.

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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.

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
At an early age this lady became a teacher

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!
appeared in Frank Leslie's, Scribner's, Wav-
erly, Chicago Tribune, Advance, House-

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

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

Or the boughs of the sighing limes;
But I know it's the rustle of spirit wings,
For I hear them whisper such wonderful

There's a faint perfume in the air to-night
Tbat 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

There are wonderful spirits abroad to-night,

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.
Love your neighbor as yourself -
Thus the Good Book readeth;

And I glance across the way

Oftentimes a rare, sweet memory
At my neighbor Edith,

Thrills me with a vague unrest,
Who, with garden-hat and gloves,

As I watch the purple shadows
Through the golden hours

Drop from out the amber west;
Of the sunny summer-morn,

And I wander to the garden,
Flits among her flowers.

With the night dew gleaming wet,
Love your neighbor as yourself - Gathering-in a fragrant cluster-
Winsome, blue-eyed girlie,

Roses red and mignonette.
Golden gleams of sunny hair,

In a fragrant, dewy cluster-
Dimpled, pink and pearly.

Just as in the long-ago
As I lean upon the stile

Dainty fingers often twined them,
And watch her at her labor,

With quaint words and laughter low -
How much better than myself

Quaint, sweet words and girlish laughter,-
Do I love my neighbor?

Golden gleams of sunny hair,
Love your neighbor as yourself - Lustrous eyes and drooping lashes,
How devout I'm growing!

Star-white face-oh, memory rare!

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