In bitterness we murmured, "Life is hard Like Phoenix hath from ashes had her birth And all, as brethren fond, one country love, One flag- the stars and stripes - all proudly [sung wave, One God we serve to him high praise be For all the wonders of His love and power. MRS. SARAH E. WYMAN. BORN: SHELBY, N. Y., Nov. 19, 1837. IN 1852 this lady removed to Michigan, where MRS. SARAH ELIZABETH WYMAN. she taught school for many years. She was married in 1859 to James M. Wyman, and still resides in Michigan at Weston. Mrs. Wyman has written more than one thousand poems, many of which have appeared in the Detroit Free Press and other prominent journals. THOUGHTS. I sat me down this evening The city paved with gold. As time flies swiftly on; The weeks and months seem moments. So fast they pass along. Sweet childhood hours so pleasant, Bright school days all are gone; Many dear loved schoolmates Have to their graves been borne. BABY'S GONE TO SCHOOL. My baby's gone to school. Kitty is very quiet here, No one here to pull her ear; Balls and strings, she cares for none, When baby's gone to school. ACROSTIC. Truth its motto, now and ever, Only striving with its might LOCAL AND NATIONAL POETS OF AMERICA. REV. MILO HOBART. BORN: OSWEGO Co., N. Y., DEC. 22, 1831. FOR thirty-five years Rev. Milo Hobart has been a minister of the gospel, and has preached in ten states of the union. He was three years in the federal army in the 124th Regt. REV. MILO HOBART. Ill. Vol. Inf., part of which time he was in the hospital department. Mr. Hobart was married in 1865 to Miss Mary Johnston, who died in 1889, and he now resides with his family in Rogers, Arkansas. THE HOME. Live we in house of splendor, Hark to the joyous chatter The mother toils, plans, contrives, And with constant labor strives, Nor thinks her work burdensome: For what she thinks, says or does, Is for happiness of those In the dear happy Home. 1083 Father goes to his daily toil, Toils to make a happy Home. Does joy, peace and health abound, And no bitter feelings found, As the years go and come; When parents with children vie, When comes affliction's hour, What meaneth that bitter cry? What meaneth that heaving sigh? Of orphan in his room. We're sad indeed say they, And thus it must truly be, For they are without Home. We all should be good and kind THE MOTHER. EXTRACT. A creature of utter helplessness In this world as if sent from some other; In tenderest years of childhood, When greatest watchfulness needed; Then none can take the place of Mother. In the slippery paths of youth, Bent on the gaieties of the world, When wrong all right feelings would smother, DR. CYRUS A. BARTOL. BORN: FREEPORT, ME., APRIL 30, 1813. AT the expiration of his theological studies Mr. Bartol at once entered the ministry. In 1836 he was minister at large in Boston, and the following year settled at West Church, which pulpit he has filled for over fifty years. Dr. Bartol has always been active in philanthropic movements. He has given to the press several volumes of sermons, and has also written extensively for the periodical press. The Rev. Cyrus A. Bartol is well beloved by his congregation, and is highly respected wherever he is known. WILD ROSES. On nature's clock that runs a year, But where is she that loved these flowers, What is their charm, her bloom away? Do they not miss their steadfast friend? Without her, on each lonely stem, Their fragrance to the breeze they lend, Which with them sings her requiem. In vain does every leafy fold My once fond sacrifice - put on Tints ruddier than virgin gold,The sanctifying temple gone! Better than Cain or Abel brought My firstlings from the ledgy field, I miss the punctual shrine I sought; The altar sinks, the tomb is sealed. O faithless heart, the roses say, As to his band the Master said, The soul in dust will never stay! Have we not risen from the dead? Are there no pastures o'er my fence, Clearings and groves I cannot spy? Far as may go this glassy sense, Untraveled windeth still the sky. Each plant's ascension here below Foreshows full paradise above: An upper spring for truth we sow, A blossom from each grain of love. HORTENSE CORA JACKSON. AT THE age of twenty Miss Jackson commenced to write for the press, since which time she has contributed extensively both prose and verse to current literature. Her father was a man of great literary ability, and for years was an editor and publisher. BITTER-SWEET. O! dreams of the beautiful Past, Why come ye my lone heart to thrill? NARCISSA HARRISON. BORN: SHELBYVILLE, TENN., JULY 22, 1862. AFTER graduating at the Shelbyville Female Institute, Miss Narcissa Harrison entered the profession of teaching, and is now en NARCISSA HARRISON. gaged in educational work at the Female College of Waco, Texas. The poems of this lady have appeared in many of the best college papers, and the press of Texas and the South. EARTH-LOVE. God says to all: Love me the best." If it were given me to stand And see my God upon His throne. I fear me that dear human face Shuts out the sight of one divine. When children play about my knees Or lean their bright heads on my breast, Tell me, my heart, do I love these, Or silent God, or Christ the best? HER ANCESTRY. A slender figure, draped in white, She smiled-this flower of maidenhood. She seemed; as sweet, as frail, as fair. And like the flowers, drooping down, That each the sunlight's touch might share, And had I not been half afraid- I might have thought that this white maid And then the light thought fluttered on And Mother Eve, forgive, I pray; - And, Darwin, you are hardly fair, MAGGIE D. WILLIAMS, BORN: ABBIEVILLE, KY., OCT. 8, 1863. FOR many years Miss Williams has contributed fine prose articles to the local press. and also many gems of poetry. She follows the profession of teaching, and resides in her MAGGIE D. WILLIAMS. native state at Livermore. Her poems have appeared in the Hartford Herald, Kentucky Register, Constitution, Southerner, News World, and various other publications. WHAT I WANT. I'm looking for something beautiful, My heart, when it is sad and lonely, I want sunbeams instead of shadows To hang ever on my way; I want bright flowers to bud and blossom 'Midst dull November's gray. I want glad, beautiful realities, I want to find some true, steadfast hearts Tho' I stand 'neath the shadows of grief I want somebody dear to love me, Who has found the beautiful treasures I am seeking yet to find. I want always to remember The dearest hope that has fled, That is pointing now with its memory That's leading me upward and onward MY ISLAND GRAVES. Alone on a shadowy isle, in a mystic sea, No other boat the white waves float, To weep where the silver waves gleam. And I buried there, with a whisper'd prayer, Alone on the isle, I knelt by its side, In the anguish of a boundless woe, For the poisoned dart-it pierced my heart, When its truest, best love died, In that vanished long ago. Again I come with hope and pride, And now, aimless my silent sail I heed not the light, the gloom of the night, But guard alone my island graves. What matter the wrecks that sadly floatThe fragments of wasted years? I brush them aside, on the rolling tide, From the keel of my phantom boat, EXTRACT. Never again will my heart find rest |