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 'Tis like the fragrant rose of May Cheers us through all the day, So man in all his gaudy pride, Of pleasure mixed with pain, 'Tis light and fleeting as the air And all its joys are vain. The sons of wealth and power 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. A WORD TO THE BOYS. By a just and strict attention, Your wealth will come from work and care, 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. Thrilling as the song of birds. Breathing hope in every sentence; Hearts bowed down with weight of anguish E'er we hear the longed-for welcome Falls the soft and plaintive music Jordan's flood no more appalls us, Of the Land beyond the wave. 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. 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 fountain's crystal waters Of sparkling beauty bright. The lofty mountain lifting Its crested head to heaven, By lightning's flashes riven. The very air I breathe, Have power around my heart-strings, Sweet thoughts and glowing visions, Has chilled the throbbing heart. EXTRACT. I fain would grasp my idle pen The knights of Arthur's table round? 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, Friends of my youth had fled away, 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 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, 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 Then, mothers, sing the simple lays 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, Love your neighbor as yourself - And watch her at her labor, 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, You might think perhaps 'twas a summer breeze That is murmuring such mystical rhymes; Through the quivering sprays of the linden 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, ROSES RED AND MIGNONETTE. With the night dew gleaming wet, 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! |