I
8
TIIE SUNDAY OREGOXIAN, PORTLAND, OCTOBER 22, 1916.
MORE FAVORITE OLD POEMS ARE ASKED FOR BY READERS
Frequent Contributor Now Makes Request for Lost Verses.
t a MONO the requests for old favor
l ites that come in Increasing vol
XX ume along with the contributions
of poems that have been asked for, the
following: are but a few that have been
received:
B. F. Case, of Yacolt, wants the poem
In which these lines appear:
They grew in beauty side by side.
They filled our home with glee;
Their graves are sundered far and wide
By mountain, stream and lea.
Mrs. J. Mallon. of 944 Gladstone
Btreet, wants "If there, wasn't so many
onri "Th Master Is Coming."
Ruth Luce, who has been one of the
best of all the contributors to this page,
Tequests the reprinting of John Green
leaf Whittier's "Marguerite." Oliver
Wendell Holmes" "My Sunday Breeches,
which goes under the title of the "Sep
tember Gale." She also wants "Little
Brown Baby With Sparklin' Eyes and
"October's Bright Blue -Weather,' by
Helen Hunt Jackson.
She also calls attention to an error in
the reprint of "The Courtin'," which
was published on this page August 28.
The reading of the ninth stanza should
have been as follows:
He'd sparked it with full twenty gals.
He'd squired 'em. danced 'em, druv
'em,
Tust this one and then thet, by spells
All is, he couldn't love 'em.
Among the contributions received re
cently from her, one of the most in
teresting is the famous old rhyme of
"The Bachelor Sale," which we reprint
herewith.
THE BACHELOR SALE.
I dreamed a dream in the midst of my
slumbers.
And as fast as I dreamed it was coined
Into numbers:
My thoughts ran along In such beau
tiful meter.
I'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry
sweeter.
It seemed that a law had been recently
made.
That a tax on old bachelors pates
should be laid:
And in order to make them all willing
to marry.
The tax was as large as a man could
well carry.
The bachelors grumbled, and said 'twas
vn nap.
Twas cruel Injustice and horrid abuse.
And declared that to save tneir own
heart's blood from spilling
Of such a vile tax they would ne'er
pay a shilling.
But the rulers determined their scheme
to pursue.
Bo they set all the old bachelors up at
vendue,
A crier was sent through the town to
and fro.
To rattle his bell and his trumpet to
And to bawl out to all he might meet
on his way:
Ho! 40 old bachelors sold here today.
And presently all the old maids of the
town
Each one in her very best bonnet and
gown
Pram 30 to 60. fair, plain, red and pale
Of every description, all flocked to the
sale.
The auctioneer, then. In his labor
bp iran ".
And called out aloud, as he held up a
man.
"How much for a bachelor? Who wants
tf hu v ?"
. In a twink. every maiden responded:
"I. I!"
In
short, at a hugely extravagant
price..
The bachelors all were sold off in a
trice,
And 40 old maidens some younger,
some older.
Each lugged an old bachelor home on
her shoulder.
The following is contributed
Clara McKee. of Junction City:
by
DONT MARRY A MAN TO REFORM
HIM.
Don't marry a man to reform him;
To God and your own self be true.
Don't link to his vices your virtue.
You'll rue It, dear girl, if you.
No matter how fervent his pleadings,
Be not by his promise lea.
If he can't be a man while a-wooing
He'll never be one when ne s we a.
Don't marry a man to reform him
Tn rpnpnf it. alas, when too late;
The mission of wives least successful
Is the making of crooked limbs
straight.
There's many a maiden has tried It,
And proved it a failure at last
Better tread your life's pathway alone,
dear.
Than wed with a lover that's fast.
Mankind's much the same the world
over;
The exceptions you'll find are but
When the'rule Is defeat and disaster.
The chances are great against you.
Don't trust your bright hopes for the
future.
The beautiful crown of your youth.
To the keeping of him who holds
lightly
His fair name and honor and truth.
To honor and love you must promise;
Don't pledge what you cannot fulfil;
If he'll have no respect for himself,
dear.
Most surely you then never will.
'Tis told us the frown of a woman
Is Rtrone- as the blow of a man.
And the world will be better when
women
Frown on error as hard as they can
Make virtue the price of your favor;
Place wrongdoing under a ban;
And let him who would win you and
wed you
Prove himself In full measure a man.
In a collection of clippings sent by
Clara McKee, of Junction City, is the
following favorite:
LAST NIGHT.
Last night the nightingale waked me.
Last night when all was still;
It lang In the golden moonlight
From out on the woodland hill.
I opened the window gently.
And all was dreamy dew
And oh! the bird, my darling.
Was singing, singing of you.
I think of yHi In the daytime;
I dream ofvyou by night
I wake would you were near me.
And not tears blind my sight.
I hear a sigh In the lime-tree.
The wind is floating through.
And oh! the night, my darling.
Is longing, longing for you.
Nor think I can forget you!
I could not though I would!
1 see you In all around me
The stream, the night, the wood;
The flowers that sleep so gently.
The stars above the blue.
Oh. heaven Itself, my darling.
Is praying, praying for you!
This ballad, which appeared in some
of the public newspapers in or before
(he year 1724, came from the pen of
David Mallet, Esq. The copy is sent
by Ivy I). Morgan.
MARGARETS GHOST.
'Twas at the silent, solemn hour
When night and morning meet:
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost.
And stood at William's feet.
Her face was like an April morn
Clad in a wintry cloud:
And clay-cold was her lily hand,
That held her sable Bhrowd.
So shall the fairest face appear
When youth and years are flown:
Such is the robe that kings must wear
When death has reft their throne.
Her bloom was like the springing
flower
That sips the silver dew;
The rose was budded in her cheek.
Just opening to the view.
But love had. like the canker worm.
Consumed her early prime;
The rore grew pale, and left her cheek;
She dyed before her time.
'Awake!" she cried, "thy true love calls.
Come from her midnight grave;
Now let thy pity hear the maid.
Thy love refused to save.
This Is the dumb and dreary hour.
When injured ghosts complain;
Iow yawning graves give up their
dead.
To haunt the faithless swain.
'Bethink thee. William, of thy fault.
Thy pledge and broken oath;
And give me back my maiden vow,
And give me back my troth.
Why did you promise love to me.
And not that promise keep?
Why did you swear mine eyes were
bright,
Tet leave those eyes to weep?
How could you say my face was fair,
And yet that face forsake?
How could you win my virgin heart,
Yet leave that heart to break?
Why did you say my lip was sweet.
And made the scarlet pale?
And why did I young, witless maid.
Believe the flattering tale?
That face, alas! no more is fair;
These lips no longer red;
Dark are my eyes, now closed in death.
And every charm Is fled.
The hungry worm my sister is;
This winding-sheet I wear;
And cold and weary lasts our night.
Till that last morn appear.
But hark! the cock has warn'd me I
hence!
A long and last adieu!
Come see, false man, how low she lies
Who dy'd for love of you."
The lark sung loud; the morning
smil'd
With beams of rosy red;
Pale William shook In every limb.
And, raving, left his bed.
He hyed him to the fatal place
Where Margaret's body lay.
And stretch'd him on the grass-green
turf
That wrapt her breathless clay.
And thrice he call'd on Margarets
name.
And thrice he wept full sore;
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave.
And word spake never more.
"Wanted A Minister's Wife"
well-remembered old poem, for c
Is
copy
of which we are indebted to Clara Mc-
tt.ee, ol junction iity;
WASTED A MINISTER'S WIFE.
At length we have settled a pastor
I am sure I cannot tell why
The people should grow so restless
Or candidates grow so shy.
But after two years' searching
For the "smartest" man in the land,
In a fit of desperation
We took the nearest at hand.
And really he answers nicely
To "nil up the gap," you know.
To "run the machine" and "bring up
arrears
And make things generally go.
He has a few little failings.
His sermons are commonplace quite.
But his manner is very charming
And his teeth are pearly white.
And so, of all the "dear people."
Not one in a hundred complains,
For beauty and grace of manner
Are so much better than brains;
But the parish have all concluded
He needs a partner for life.
To shine, a fem, in the parlor;
Wanted a ministers wife!
Wanted a perfect lady.
Delicate, gentle, refined.
With every beauty of person
And every endowment of mind;
Fitted by early culture
To move in fashionable life
Please notice our advertisement:
'Wanted a minister's wife."
Wanted a thoroughbred worker.
Who well to her household looks.
(Shall we see our money wasted
By extragant Irish cooks?)
Who cuts the daily expenses
With economy sharp as a knife.
And washes and scrubs in the kitchen
'Wanted a minister's wife."
A "very domestic person,"
To callers she must not be "out";
It has such a bad appearance
For her to be gadding about-
Only to visit the parish
Every year of her life.
And attend the funerals and wed
dings
"Wanted a minister's wife."
To conduct the "ladles' meetings,"
The "sewing circle" attend.
And when we have work for the sol
diers
Her ready assistance to lend;
To clothe the destitute children.
Where sorrow and want are rife:
To hunt up Sunday school scholars
"Wanted a minister's wife!"
Careful to entertain strangers.
Traveling agents and "such."
Of this kind of "angels' visits"
The deacons have had so much
As to prove a perfect nuisance;
And hope these "plagues of their
life"
Can soon be sent to the parson's
"Wanted a minister's wife!"
A perfect pattern of prudence
To all others, spending less.
But never disgracing the parish
By looking shabby in dress.
Playing the organ on Sunday
Would aid our laudable strife
To save the society's money
"Wanted a minister's wife."
And when we have found the person
We hope, by working the two.
To lift our cebt and build a new
church.
Then we shall know what to do;
For they will be worn and weary.
Needing a change of life.
And so we'll advertise. "Wanted,
A minister and his wife!"
"Mysterious Rapping," by B. P. Shll-
laber, is one of the classical parodies
1 r j . ii ii
I cannot sing the old songs
I sang long years ago,
For heart and voice would fail me,
And foolish tears would flow;
For bygone hours come o'er my heart
With each familiar strain.
I cannot sing the old songs,
Or dream those dreams again, '
I cannot sing the old songs,
Their charm is sad and deep ;
Their melodies would waken
Old sorrows from their sleep;
And though all unforgotten still,
And sadly sweet they be,
I cannot sing the old songs
They are too dear to me.
I cannot sing the old songs,
For visions come again
Of golden dresms departed
And years of weary pain.
Perhaps when earthly fetters shall
Have set my spirit free,
My voice may know the old songs
For all eternity.
on Poe's "Raven," which we have re
ceived from Ruth Luce.
MYSTERIOUS RAPIMNGS.
Late one evening I was sitting, glomy
shadows round me flitting
Mrs. Partington a-knitting, occupied
the grate before.
Suddenly I heard a patter, a very
trifling matter.
As if it were if thieving rat or mouse
within my closet door
Only this and nothing mora
Then all my dreaminess forsook me;
rising tip I straightway shook
me.
A light off of the table took and swift
the rat s destruction swore.
Mrs. P. smiled approbation on my
prompt determination.
And without more hesitation oped I
wide the closet door
Darkness there and nothing more.
As
upon the sound I pondered, what
the deuce It was I wondered;
Can it be my ear had blundered as at
times it had before?
But scarce again was I reseated 'ere
I heard the sound repeated.
The same dull patter that had greeted
me from out the closet door;
Heard the patter that had greeted me
from out the closet door
A gentle patter, nothing more.
Then my rage arose unbounded.
"What." cried I. "is this con
founded
Noise with which my ear is wounded
noise I've never heard before?
If 'tis presage dread of evil, if 'tis made
by ghost or devil.
I call on ye to be more civil stop
that knocking at the door!
Stop that strange, mysterious knock
inir there within mv closet floor,
Grant me this, if nothing more."
Once again I seized the candle, rudely
erasoed the latchet s handle,
Savage as a Goth or vandal that kicked
up rumpuses of yore.
"What the dickens is the matter." said
I, "to produce this patter?"
To Mrs. P. I looked straight at her. I
don't know," she said, I m
shore:
i Lest it be a pesky rat. or something.
I don't know I m shore.
This she said and nothing more.
Still the noise kept on. unceasing, evi
dently 'twas increasing
Like a cartwheel wanting greasing.
wore it on my nerves full sore.
Patter! patter! patter! patter! the rain
ithe while made noisy cianer.
My teeth with boding ill did chatter, as
when I m troubled by a core
Some prosing, dull and dismal fellow.
coming in but just to core
Only this and nothing more.
All night long it kept on tapping: vain
T laid myself for napping.
Calling sleep my sense to wrap in dark
ness until trie nignt was o er;
dismal candle. dimly burning,
watched me as I lay there turn
ing. desperation wildly yearning that
sleen would visit me once more.
In
Sleep, refreshing sleep did I most ur
gently implore;
This I wished and nothing more.
With the day I rose next morning.
and, all idle terror scorning.
Went to find out the warning mat
annoyed me so before.
Went straightway, to my consternation
daylight made the revelation
Of a scene of devastation that annoyed
m verv sore:
Such a scene of devastation as annoyed
me very sore
This it was and nothing more:
The rotten roof had taken leaking, and
the rain, a passage seeking.
Through the murky darkness sneaking.
found my hat box on me iioor;
There, exposed to dire disaster, lay my
brand-new Sunday castor.
And Its hapless, luckless master ne'er
shall see Its beauties more
Ne'er shall see its glossy Deauty iiiat
his glory was beiore
" It Is gone for evermore!
The following clipping Is received
from J. B. Fithian:
THE MOTHER-HUNGER.
If I could only find her for the mother-
huncer'a on me:
I want to see and touch her, to know
her close beside: -
I want to put my head In tne nonow oi
fher snouiaer.
I want to feel her love me as she did
before she died.
In all the world Is nothing, love of bus
band or of children.
In all the world is nothing that can
soothe me or can stir
Like the memory of her fragile hand on
which the ring was supping-
The hand that wakes my longing at
the very thought of her.
The window In the sunshine ana tne
empty chair beside it.
The loneliness that mocks me as
find the sacred place!
O mother, is there naught in the un
erring speech or silence
To let me know your presence though
I cannot see your face?
Oh, no. Tve not forgotten the triumph
and tne glory
I would not bring you back again to
struggle and to pain.
This hour will pass, but O. Just now,
the mother-hunger s on me.
And I would give my soul tonight to
kiss your lips again.
The "Lover'8 Leap" is a contribution
r
i
requested, and for a copy of which we
are indebted also to Mrs. Rande.
THE LOVER'S LEAP,
Behold yon beetling rock, whose brow
Hangs pending o'er the glen below;
A tale, not easily forgot.
Is told of that same fearful spot;
And thus It runs: One Summer's day.
A bridal party blithe and gay.
Came hither to enjoy the scene.
And dance at evening on the green.
Maria was the gentle bride.
Her husband's Joy, her parents pride.
That morning sun arose, to phed
Its luster on her happy head.
But ere its parting beams glanc'd down.
On valley green, and mountains brown.
A mourning bride she was!
They laugh'd and revel'd 'till the sun
In heaven his midday course begun,
When, to avoid the scorching heat.
In groups they sought some cool retreat.
Maria, with her bosom friend.
In yonder grove, rctlr'd to spend
An hour of confidence, and share
The breezes that were sporting there;
While William, full of hope and Joy,
His happy moments to employ.
Wound through that rocky path to gain
A prospect of the neighboring plain.
Which, bounded by the distant skies.
In vai legated beauty lies.
His steps were watched, his way
pursued.
By one who thirsted for his blood.
Inflamed by Jealousy and fir'd
By fiendish rage, he but deslr'd
To live to strike a deadly blow.
And lay his hated rival low.
He loved Maria, and he strove.
By every strategem of love.
To captivate her gentle heart;
But vain he found his ev'ry art.
That undivided realm to phase.
For William rul'd supremely there.
Enraged and stung, his hair he tore,
A deep arid deadly vengeance swore.
And, to fulfill his dark intent.
The bridal morn he chose to vent
His smother'd rage; he traced his way.
Like bloodhound hov'ring on his prey
Silent and sure: while gay and light
The happv bridegroom climbed the
height.
Borne on the wings of bliss elate.
And thoughtless of Impending fate.
He Just had pained the dizzy place.
And felt the fresh breeze fan his face,
When pale and trembling in his Ire.
With qulv'rlng lip, and eye of fire.
His foe sprung on the fatal spot
Their lonference was brief and hot.
Insult began, defiance flash'd
A rash and sudden blow was dash'd
They grasp'd, they strove, they strained
for breath,
Their struggle was the strife of death.
Twice to the dizzy ledge they roll d,
Clasp'd In each other's deadly fold.
And twice they backward fell, and then
Henew'd the fatal fight again;
The aim of each was now to throw
His rival on the rocks below.
To compromise they bade adieu.
And nothing short of death would do.
They spoke no word of rage or hate.
But. in each fearful pause of fate.
Panting for breath, pale, parch'd. and
spent.
Their looks still gave defiance vent.
No sound was heard, no hand was
nigh.
To hold an olive branch; the sky.
As if it smiled upon the fight
Was still, blue, beautiful, and bright.
Again the frightful steep they eye'd.
And. struggling hard, again they tried
To fling each other down: at length,!
William's activity and strength,
Had work'd his now exhausted foe
Just to the grave that yawned below;
One effort more and he was free
But. in his dire extremity.
His rival drew a deadly blade.
One sure and fatal plunge he made.
The weapon plerc'd young William's
breast.
A groan and struggle marked the rest
The vector's eye no lenger flashed,
The cold drops from his brow he dash'd
And slowly rose; his haggard look
Betray'd his soul; he shudder'd, shook,
And glanc d around, with timid eye.
To see no evidence was nigh;
Then dragged the body to the edge
And from the steep and dizzy ledge
He hurled it over rocks and all;
'Twas dash'd to pieces from the fall.
And then he silently withdrew.
The bloody story no man knew;
The mangl'd limbs were found, and all
Lamented William s luckless fall.
Twas thought. In climbing the height
And turning, that his brain grew light;
Or that some faithless crag gave way.
And hurled him from the light of day
To instant death. Maria's grief
Was silent, but beyond relief.
Deep in a gloomy solitude.
She keat her maiden widowhood.
For three sad years; and. when at last.
Her lonely boundary she passed.
To mingle with the world again
All friendly efforts were in vain
Her pensive moments to beguile
Or raise one melancholy smile.
At last she died, and time roll'd on,
'Till years were counted twenty-one
Since that sad bridal-day the steep
Had long been named "The Lover's
Leap."
Although the dismal story then
Was fading from the minds of men.
When, writhing on his bed of death.
The murd'rer, with his dying breath,
In deepest agony reveal'd
The fearful tale so long conceal'd.
And then he. raving, died.
"The following piece author vn-
known was taken from the Methodist
Advocate over 40 years ago, and. is
worthy of the attention of those who
write other than after the John Wesley
style brief and to the point."
MRS. H. H. SMITH.
BOIL IT DOWN.
Whatever you have to say, my friend.
Whether witty, or grave, or gay.
Condense it as much as ever you can,
And say it In the readiest way.
And whether you write of household
affairs.
Or particular things about town.
Just take a friendly word of advlc
Boil it down.
For it you go spluttering over a page,
hen a couple of lines will do.
Tour butter is spread so much, you see,
That the bread looks plainly through:
So when you have a story to tell.
And would like a little renown.
To make quite sure of your wish, my
friend.
Boil it down.
When writing an article for the press.
W hether prose or verse, Just try
To utter your thoughts in the fewest
words.
And let them be crisp and dry;
And when it is finished, and you
suppose
It is done exactly brown.
Just look It over again, and then
Boll It down.
For editors do not like to print
An article really long.
And the busy reader does not care
For a couple of yards of -song:
So gather your wits In the' smallest
space.
If you'd win the author's crown.
And every time you write, my friend.
Boil It down.
Life Is But a Game of Cards" Is con
tributed by Mrs. W. L. Joynt. of Aber
deen:
LIFE IS BUT A GAME OF CARDS.
Life is but a game of cards, which each
nn v,nii tn .irn "
Each shuffles, cuts and deals a pack
ana each a trumn doth turn- I
Some turn a hiarh card at the ton uhlu
nih.ri turn - inw
Some hold a hand quite full of trumps.
while others none can show.
Some shuffle with a practiced hand and
pack their cards with care.
oo mey may Know, when ther are
dealt, where all the leaders are
Thus fools are made the dupes of
rogues, while rogues each other
cheat.
But he is very wise. Indeed, who never
meets defeat.
In playing, some will lead the ace, their
uu..i...K vaiu io save,
some piay tne deuce and some the tray
ana many play the knave.
oMiic pi&y lor money, some lor xun, ana
more for worldly fame.
And not till the game's played out can
tney count up their gain.
When hearts are trumps we play (or
love; then pleasures deck the
nour.
No thought of sorrow checks our Joy
In Rosy a beauteous bower:
We dance and sing, sweet music make,
our cards at random play.
And while" the heart remains on top
our game s a holiday.
when diamonds chance to crown the
top. then players stake their
erold.
And heavy sums are won and lost by
gamblers young and old.
Intent on winning, each doth watch his
cards with eager eye,
So he may watch his neighbor's hand
ana cheat him on the air.
When clubs are trumps look-out for
war. on ocean or on land!
Fcr bloody deeds are often done when
clubs are in the hand.
Then lives are staked instead of gold.
ana loving hearts may bleed
across tne oroaa Atlantic now. see!
clubs have got the lead.
And last of all is when the spade Is
turned by hand of time:
it always nnishes the game In every
jana ana clime:
No matter how much men win or how
much men may save.
Ycu 11 find the spade turns up at last
and digs the player a grave.
sends the following old clipping,
questing that we reprint it:
GROWING OLD.
little more
hair.
gray In the
lessening
Each day as the years go by;
A little more stooping in the form.
A little more dim in the eye.
A little more faltering of the step
As we tread life s pathway .o er.
And a little nearer every day
To the ones who have gone before.
A little more halting of the gait
And a dullness of the ear:
A growing weariness of the frame
With each swift passing year.
A fading of hopes, and ambition
A faltering In life's quest
And a little nearer every day
To a sweet and peaceful rest
A'llttle more loneliness In life
As the dear ones pass away
A bigger claim on the heavenly land
With every passing day.
A little further from toil and care.
A little less way to roam;
A drawing near to a peaceful voyage
Ana a nappy welcome noma,
Mrs. H. L. Conklin. of Benton Citv.l JULIA WARD HOWE.
sends "Hail to the Chief." which w.
reauested under the title of "Rodrrii
Dhu." She also sent copies ol "Poor
Little Joe" and "The Red River Valley,"
which has been already reprinted.
HAIL TO THE CHIEF.
By Sir Walter Scott.
Hail to the chief, who in triumph ad
vances !
Honored and blessed be the evergreen
pine!
Long may the tree in his banner that
glances.
Flourish, the sheltered and grace of
our line!
- Heaven send it happy dew,
Earth lend It sap anew.
Gaily to burgeon and broadly to grow.
While every Highland glen.
Sends our shout back agen,
'Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu. ho! leroe!"
Ours is no eapTing. chance-sown by the
fountain.
Blooming at Betane, in Winter to
fade.
When the whirlwind has strip'd every
leaf on the mountain.
The more shall Clan Alpine exult in
her shade.
Moor'd in the rifted rock.
Proof to the tempest's shock.
Firmer he roots him the ruder It
blow.
. Menteith and Breadalbane. then.
Echo his praise agen.
"Roderigh Vich Alptne dhu, ho! leroe!"
Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the
Highlands!
Stretch to your oars for the ever
green pine!
Oh, that the rosebud that graces yon
islands.
Were wreathed in a garland around
him to twine!
Oh. that some seedling gem.
Worthy such noble stem.
Honor'd and bless'd in their shadow
might grow!
Loud should Clan Alpine then.
Ring from the deepmost glen.
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu. ho! leroe!"
A reader recently requested "Drift
ing." The following poem of that title,
by T. Buchanan Read. Is sent by Ruth
Luce:
DRIFTING.
My soul today
Is far away.
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay!
My winged boat,
A bird afloat.
Swims round the purple peaks remote
Round purple peaks
It sails, and seeks
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks.
Where high rocks throw.
Through deeps below.
A duplicated golden glow.
Far. vague and dim.
The monutains swim;
While on Vesuvius' misty brim.
With outstretched hands.
The gray smoke stands
O'erJooking the volcanic lands.
Here Eschia smiles
O'er liquid miles:
And yonder bluest or tne isles
Calm Capri waits.
Her sapphire gates
Beguiling to her bright estates.
I heed not. If
My rippling skiff
Float swift or slow from cliff to cllff-
Wlth dreamful eyes
My spirit lies
Under the walls of Paradise.
Under the walls
Where swells and falls
The bay's deep breast at Intervals
At peace I He.
Blown softly by. s
A cloud upon this liquid sky.
The day so mild.
Is Heaven's own child.
With earth and ocean reconciled:
I The airs I feel
i a round me steal
I Are murmuring to the murmuring Reel.
I Over the rail
Mv hand I trail
Within the shadow of the sail.
A Joy Intense.
The cooling sense
Glides down my drowsy indolence.
With dreamful eyes
Mv BDirlt lies
Where Summer sings and never dies
O'ervelled with vines.
She glows and shines
Among her future oil ana wines.
Her children, hid
I Are gamboling with the gamboling kid;
i Qr down the walls,
with tlnsv calls.
ijm.h on the rocks like waterfalls.
I tk. ti.her'i child
with tresses wild.
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled,
With fflnwlno- lloa
Kinia as she skips.
I Or gazes at the far-off shipa
Ton Aeeo bark goes
Where traffic blows.
I From lands of sun to land of snow
This happier one.
Its course Is won
From lands of snow to lands of sun.
O hatDV ship.
I Tn. rise and diD.
with the blue crystal at your lip!
I O happy crew.
I My heart with you
I Sails, and sail, and sings anew!
I No more, no more
I Th wnrldlv shore
UDbralds me with Its loud uproar:
I With dreamrul eyes
I Mv unlrit lies
1 Under the walls of Paradise!
BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC,
Mine eyes have seen the glary or tne
rnminz of the Lord
He is trampling out the vintage where
the rranea of wrath are storea
He has loosed the fateful lightnings of
his terrible swift sword.
His truth Is marching on.
CHORUS.
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
Glory! Glory! Hallelujah!
His truth Is marching on
have seen him in the watchf Ires of
n hundred circling camps
Th hiva bullded him an altar mid
the evening aews ana aamps.
I can read his righteous sentence Dy
the dim and flaring lamps;
His day is marching on.
I have read his fiery gospel writ In
rows of burnlshea steel: f
'As ye deal with my contemners, so
with you my grace shall deal."
Let the hero, born of woman, crush th
serpent with his heel;
Since God Is marching on.
He has sounded forth a trumpet that
shall never call "retreat
He Is searching out the hearts of men
before his judgment seat
Be swift, my soul, to answer him; be
Jubilant my feet;
Our God is marching on.
I In the beauty of the lilies Christ was
I born across the sea.
I With a beauty In his bosom that trans
I figures you and me.
I As he died to make men holy, let ns
I die to make men Tree,
While God Is marching on.
- vi Mrs. A. G. Wallace sends "t athe
W.im03 which is prooaoiy ess known
than Louis
on it.
Carroll's" famous parody
FATHER WILLIAM. .
"You are old.' Father William," the
young man cried;
"The few locks that are left you are
gray.
You are hale. Father William, a hearty
oia man;
Now tell me the reason. I pray."
Tn the days of my youth." Father
William replied,
"I remembered that youth would fly
fast;
And abused not my health and my
vigor at first.
That I never might need them at
lost"
'You are old. Father William." the
young man cried.
"And pleasures with youth pass
away;
And yet you lament not the days that
are gone;
Now tell me the reason, I pray."
"In the days of my youth." Father
William replied.
"I remembered that youth could not
last:
thought of the future, whatever I
did.
That I never might grieve for the
past"
"You are old. Father William." the
a young man cried,
"And life must be hast'ning away:
You are cheerful, and love to converse
upon death;
Now tell me the reason, I pray."
"I am cheerful, young man," Father
William replied.
"Let the cause thy attention engage:
In the days of my youth I remembered
my God.
And he hath not forgotten my age."
Robert Southey.
A BROKEN LIFE.
By Belle W. Cook.
My little brother, fair, so fair.
With loving eyes and sun-touched hair,
Begged hard to go with me to school.
One Summer morning, sweet and cool.
I brought his prettiest little eult.
And combed his hair, while he stood
mute
And bore my pulls with patient mien.
For he was three and I fifteen.
Now," said my mother, "he's so sweet
From shining head to plump, bare feet.
L-et s nave nis picture, it there time
Before the echool-bell rings its chime "
V
Oh. yes. the artist is so near.
Come darling brother, never fear;
oun sit as still as anything.
And you shall wear my little ring."
The sunshine caught his smile and
brow.
The picture lies before me now.
With four and twenty yearn between
Since he was three and I fifteen.
To us a day of parting came.
To many a heart has come the same
A tearful, sad. yet hopeful day.
When 1 went forth to win my way.
I found it by the sunset sea.
Where work in plenty welcomed me.
The years flew by with swiftest pace.
Nor brought again my brother's face.
The voice of war thrilled all the land
(How hard it was to understand).
nd he. though etill a boy, went forth
To Join the armies of the North.
Three years of danger and of strife.
Roared to his home the dear young life.
nd. though the Jov had far to come.
We felt the thrill of welcome home.
Then came of busy life his share.
His aged parents were his care.
And who shall know what was denied.
How much of love he set aside?
month ago the tidings came
An open card that bore his name:
Would that a covering e'er so slight
Had hid the cruel words from sight.
scarce could see to walk the street.
Or stand "upon my pulseless feet;
The shock came on so suddenly.
The day grew all so dark to me.
The old. sad story.
At his post
to save a host
These words tell
Still falls the one
Instantly killed!''
all.
How Itke the valley clods they fall!
Oh! brave young heart! Oh! broken
life!
"Beyond the danger and the strife."
Could'et thou our. mother s question
see:
Did someone kiss my boy for me?"
-Contributed by Mrs. H. H. Smith.
227 East Fortieth street. City.
Mrs. H. H. Smith sends the following
choice old selection:
THE COUNTRY ALBUM.
By Hugh Mllity.
Lookin' at the old album, are you?
Well, it's no great shakes to see;
But I like to look at pictures, too.
And can tell you. p'haps, whose they
be.
It belonged to my sister Abble.
And when new 'twas right hard to
beat;
But the thing's got a trifle shabby.
And the pesky clasps won't meet
The first one's Aunt Jane, with
her
wig on;
Then comes Uncle
John, with his
specs;
The next their two sons. Zepn ana
olon.
With spick-span new etocks 'round
their necks.
Them are Ned Grim's boys, on the next
page;
I made every one of their suits;
Seth, the big chap, had Just come of
age.
And Fred had his first red-topped
boots.
That's Cousin Matilda's first husband.
Who'll be dead thirteen years next
Spring;
He left her the homestead at Upland,
But now sne don't own anything.
She was such a romantic creature.
And would have his picture made so.
With vines growin' -round a pillar.
And an urn at his left elbow.
And here is Matilda's own picture.
Token ten veans aco or more.
On the day that the Squire married her:
I remember the dress which sne wore.
You see. that limb Reub would go wuu
her.
And Just as the picture was made
She was tryin' hard not to snicker
At something or "other he'd said.
Let me see; this is Captain Stiger.
That was killed in the war down
South;
They say that he fought like a tiger.
And fell at the cannon's mouth!
The next one is his sweetheart's pic
ture Miss Meigs she's the old maid, you
know.
That lives with good Deacon Ritter
And Is the district school-marm now.
Here's the last and the oddest of all;
I wonder whose phia it can be?
It's as homely as any stone wall;
Why such people sit. I can't see.
Them curls, bangin' down in such
masses.
Remind me of someone I ve known;
Just wait till 1 put on my glasses
Why. bless me. the picture s my own!