OLIVE VAN DENBURGH.

Would you open again your eyes to the truth That life's a battle-field,

Where you must fight, e'en day and night That to falter is to yield?

BORN: NORTHUMBERLAND, N.Y., Nov.15, 1834. MISS VAN DENBURGH follows the profession of teaching. She is a resident of Gloversville,

OLIVE VAN DENBURGH.

I in her native state. Her poems have appeared quite extensively in the local press.

PRESENT, PAST AND FUTURE.

I gazed to-day at the bright green fields,
With their buttercups so gay

And the modest daisies fringed with white,
While my mind went far away.

Went far away to the gay glad hours

Of the magic long ago,

When life all seemed like the bright, green

fields,

Where naught but flowers do grow.

Oh the airy castles I then did build,
They were fair as Heaven to view,

And when destroyed as they always were

I'd quickly build anew.

Oh! the faith and the hope of the glad young

heart,

And the eyes that will not see

That burdens of life the lot of all

Will ever come to me.

And then this question I asked myself,

Would you these days recall,

And learn that bitter lesson again
That grief is the lot of all:

Would you learn again that cruel truth,

That life is like a dream;

That persons and things of every sort
Are not like what they seem.

Would you blunder and stumble along the way

With naught to guide your feet,

And feel that ahead was death and woe,

And behind was no retreat.

Would you drink that bitter cup I asked?

And my tears did softly flow

For just that single drop of joy

That lies so far below.

..Ah no!" I cried, for I've gained the field,

I've my weapons at my side,

I would not give my armor up

For it has been sorely tried.

These conflicts soon will end I think

For Heavens stand in view;

It's fields are clad with fairer flowers

Than childhood ever knew.

THE RUM DEMONS.

I dreamed I stood by a broad highway,
Where passed a mighty crowd;
They rushed and jostled and hurried along
With laugh, and jest, and ribald song,

While oaths and curses filled the air,

As though all the fiends of woe were there. It was a strange, mixed multitude,

Of all grades, and ages, and climes.
And as they passed I held my breath, [death,
For the air seemed fraught with the dews of
So thick, and heavy, and hot it seemed,
That I shuddered, e'en as I dreamed.
They marched to a music wild and strange,
Played by demons in the van.

It sounded to me like shrieks of woe.
First loud and deep, then fast, then slow,
Like the wail of a poor soul lost to heaven,
Who never hopes to be forgiven.

A fearful sight those demons were,
Their garments dripping blood;
Their eyes, like balls of living fire,
Shot lightning as they rode.

And yet I thought they drew that crowd

By a charm unknown to me;

[along

For they pushed, and crowded and hurried
Like the waves of the rolling sea.

I thought that each one bore the mark
Of the demons in the van;

On some it stood out in bold relief,
I could read it as they ran.
Some were sad, and some were gay,
Others were wild and rude;

Some shook as though the fires of hell
Were burning in their blood.

MRS. NELLIE MARIE BURNS. THIS lady was married in 1878 to Thomas Burns, the actor and comedian. She was also a member of the dramatic profession, but abandoned it a few years after her marriage. For nearly a decade the poems of Mrs. Burns

MRS. NELLIE MARIE BURNS.

have appeared in the leading journals of the east, and she is now preparing a volume of her collected poems for publication. When not traveling with her husband, Mrs. Burns resides on the shores of the Atlantic, at Kittery Point, Maine.

CRICKET.

The golden-rod nods brightly,
The thistle-wraiths float lightly

Like a band of fairy goblins thro' the air;
Still Balder holds the fortress

And Nanna is the portress,

Yet this morn I heard a cricket chirping there.

O, banshee of the summer!

Thou sombre little comer,

In thy pallium of monasterial black,

Each tender breeze that passes

Thy synod midst the grasses,

Brings the burden of thy mournful coronach.

When merry sleigh-bells jingle,

Thy song beside the ingle

Is the lullaby of Baby, John and Dot,
While memory grows silly

At thought of stupid Tilly

Dreaming,open-mouthed, in Peerybingle's cot.

But for me beloved faces

From scented summer places
To the battle-field of life have gone away,
The ocean rote grows stronger,
The autumn evenings longer

When thy solemn little pibroch 'gins to play.
Though robin in the thicket

May drown thy chirping, cricket: Yet the warning of thy prelude doth appear; Thou'lt sing the flowers to sleeping,

Thy tiny masses keeping,

[bier.

Till the last red leaf drifts downward to its

DREAMS.

Beyond the din and wrestling

Of this common life and woe,

'Mid fairy-forests nestling

The flowers of dreamland grow.

To the sombre hills of science

That would scatter fancies bright,

We waft back our defiance

From each narcotic height.

And the soul no more regretting

Its failures of the day:

In this lotus-land forgetting

All trouble cast away.

64 Adieu," we say to sorrow,

As those slumberous mountains rise;

While we rest until the morrow

In the realm of folded eyes.

From our hands we throw the burdens

That the weary senses weigh,

To find the waiting guerdon

'Mong isles of dreamland gray.

WINDS.

When the north winds blow and waysides lie White in the arms of December;

My heart wakes up with a pitiful cry

To moan with the winds and remember. And what say the winds from their far height blown

Over the sunset towers?

Rending the air with such desolute moan,

That the frighted eagle cowers.

Shrieking aloud as they pass the door,

Hurrying on to the river:

Lashing the sea into maddened roar,

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'Till the placid shore lands shiver.

Hear, oh hear!" chant the sighing winds.

Thro' the outer turret waning;

By a mighty power we are forced to find Relief in our complaining."

. Wanderers we from our home of cloud, Hiding in places dreary:

Goaded to wrath 'till we smite the proud,

Soothed 'till we fan the weary." "Avengers we! when for long past sin

The pain of conscience ceases,

We awaken with cries, the voice within
Of a stern and sad Nemesis."

ALBERT ULYSSES LESHER.

BORN: FAYETTEVILLE, PA., OCT. 4, 1865. AFTER receiving his education, Albert taught school during the winter months for seven years; he then read law and was admitted to the bar in 1890. Mr. Lesher has written a num

ALBERT ULYSSES LESHER. ber of poems which have been widely published in the papers throughout eastern Pennsylvania. He has held numerous positions of honor at Manheim in his native state.

THE GOLDEN-ROD.

From Maine to California,
From Alleghanies' crest,
To where the Rocky Mountains
Stand guardians of the west;
From fair Dakota's fountains
To tropic Mexic wave-
From where the proud Potomac
Flows by our chieftain's grave -
Thou growest beauteous flower,
Sown by the hand of God;
Thou symbol of our power,
Thou blessed golden-rod.
When soft blow summer zephyrs,
When fall the autumn leaves,
Or when the wind of winter
Through lordly forests grieves-
Thou liftest still thy golden crest
Above the winter's snow

And heedest not November winds,

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However flerce they blow. Oh, lovely little flower, Uplifting from the sodThou symbol of our powerThou blessed golden-rod. Like thee the golden-crested, Our mighty land has grown; Like thee, the tempest breasted, Like thee, her summer's known: But God-the Great All FatherWho marks the sparrow's fall, Has raised both plant and nation, Has watched and prospered all. 'Mid storm, 'mid hail, 'neath sunshine, Still wave thy golden crest,

Still live the symbol flower

The Shamrock of the West.

Though thrones and crowns may crum

ble,

And kingdoms rise and fall,

Fair western land, the last and best,

Thou shalt survive them all;

For thee, the Great Jehovah,
Hath lifted from the sod,

And given thee, with many gifts,

The blessed golden-rod

The golden-rod of empire,

Which shall endure alway,

Until the sun to darkness turns

And earth shall pass away.

WHEN THE FRIENDS OF YOUTH ARE

GONE.

66 There are gains," the poets tell us,

For all losses" of the heart,

For the sorrows that subdue us,
For the tears that freely start,
For the golden sun of morning,
For the vanished stars that shone;
But there is no compensation

When the heart is left alone: CHO.-For, though Heaven seem more near thee

With life's battle fought and won,
Nothing on the earth can cheer thee

When the friends of youth are gone.
There are joyous hours for sorrow-
Future joy for present pain,
For to-day a bright to morrow,

For the draught-refreshing rain;
For the vanished years of childhood
Manhood's prime reserves reward;
For the desert stands a wildwood
Pleasant peace for gory sword:
There is consolation surely

In the thought of future life,
There is time for contemplation
In the rest that follows strife.
There are thoughts of old-time voices

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In the future chorus grand, And the weary heart rejoicesAlmost stirs the palsied hand:

Like the noble gray-haired statesman,

You may win life's battles all,Victor triumph o er your trials

Like the sage of Donegal,

Wear the civic crown of laurel

When thy active life is done,

But the joyous past will haunt thee
When thy heart is left alone.

TWO HARVESTS.
As you look across the grain-fields,
In the beautiful month of June,
When all the voices of nature
Blend in harmonious tune;

As you see the golden harvest
Gleam on the vernal hills;
As the merry song of the reapers
Your heart with rapture thrills;

As you gaze in admiration

On the earthly fields so fair,

Do you think of the beautiful harvest

Of the Father over there?

Of the harvest that lasts through the ages,

In the Heaven that smiles above,

Where all is light and glory,

And peace, and joy and love?

For it seems to me that in Heaven
The blest have their work to do;
That each by His wisdom is given

Some object to pursue.

Some exalted work for the Master,

Some task supremely blest; For the tireless labor of Heaven, Meanetheternal rest."

MRS. HANNAH E. M. ALLEN.

BORN: PARIS, ME., OCT. 6, 1831. UNDER the nom de plume of Rose Sanborn, this lady has contributed quite extensively to the periodical press. She now resides in the state of Nebraska at Agnew, where she is well known and highly respected.

A WINTER PANSY.

Once in the morning twilight of our love, When Hope's first red had scarcely tinged the gray,

I plucked a pansy from its winter bed
And gave it you: In its fresh face, perchance,
You read a vague, sweet prophecy of good,
Of Love surviving life's autumnal chill,
And blossoming even in its winter days.
After long years, once more I pluck for you
A pansy than hat braved a frosty sky
And worn a snow-wreath on its purple brows,
For a sweet sign that in our hearts to-day,

We find the old-time prophecy come true.

The snow, the snow, the pure white snow,
Coming down so soft and low,
Whirling and drifting through the storm,
Down on the earth to keep it warm.

It comes, it comes through the chilly blast,
Falling on woods and fields so fast;
So quickly hiding them from sight
Beneath its spotless robe of white.

It goes, it goes to the home of the poor,
It finds its way through the rich man's door;
Making the hearts of children glad,
Pinching the hungry and thinly clad.
It flies, it flies, yes everywhere,
Making diamonds here, crystals there;
Bringing with it the chirping birds,
The bleating lambs and lowing herd
O see, O see the crystals shine,
Reflections of that love divine
That gave the world a sacred light-
Making the gloomiest day grow bright.

MRS. LOUISE G. STAUNTON.

BORN: ALLEN CO., IND.

FOR the past decade the poems of this lady have been published far and wide, and have

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And did the most lovely of all that fair band, Stoop low 'mid the grasses and emerald sand, To breathe in the ear of my wonderful shell Those musical notes it forever must tell? Forever? ah, yes, when this warm, beating heart

To dust has returned, having finished its part, Keeping time to the rhythm of sorrow and tears,

Whose echoes are lost in the vanishing years. But through the thick blackness there cometh a ray

That heralds the dawn of a happier day, When the soul, free from fetters, shall pass to its rest

In the mansions of light, the home of the blest. Then sing, pretty shell, of the days yet to be, And the days that are gone, and of the deep sea The home of the mermaiden,gracious and fair, And the mansions of light o'er the river of

care.

MRS. LOUISE G. STAUNTON. been well received. Mrs. Staunton has resided in Fort Wayne since her marriage in 1882 and has two children living.

THE SEA SHELL.

O beautiful shell from the murmuring sea, Why sing of the charms of the ocean to me? Whose strange, restless waters seem ever in

quest

Of earth's brightest jewels to hide in its breast. O pink-tinted shell from the dark, stormy sea, Canst tell me if deep,gloomy caverns there be, Where mermaidens sport in the water's green light

Away from the moon and the sunbeams so bright?

Canst tell me of jewels so costly and rare, That gleam in the bands of their radiant hair

Those bright water-nymphs, who dwell under the wave,

Whose castles of coral the deep waters lave? Do they love, do they hate, as other folks do, In that strange nether world, quite hidden from view

By numberless fathoms of salt ocean spray, That guard and protect them forever and aye?

EXCELSIOR.

Fair youth, within whose manly breast
The fires of genius smolder low,
Seek well to feed the flame aright,

With steady hand, both sure and slow.

Both sure and slow, remember well
The magic these few words contain,
Till, in the fullness of God's time,
It leaps and mounts a living flame.
A shaft of fire to lead the way

Far up the rugged path to fame,
Till on the summit's dizzy height
With dexter hand you write your name.
But when bright honor's diadem
Descends upon thy manly brow
Do not forget the low of earth,
Compelled beneath the yoke to bow.
Strike ever for the poor, the weak,

For this thy God hath made thee strong; Hurl down the tyrant, lift the slave,

Oppressed by cruel, bitter wrong. The more bright honor stoops to save, The more it rises in its might, But why remind a noble soul Who conscious is of wrong and right? Accept this floral wreath from one Who knows thee not, but fain would know,

And wear the blossoms on thy breast Through summer's heat and winter's

snow.

And may their odors ever live

A tender memory in thy heart Of youthful hopes, then pass beyond When on life's stage you've played your

part.