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FLORENCE CARPENTER DIEUDONNÉ. FLORENCE CARPENTER DIEUDONNÉ,
Or again, most joyously leaping,
He clings to her neck and her breast. And when he is tenderly sighing,
And longing the bliss he would taste, It is true, there can be no denying
He twineth his arm round her waist.
A devotion so loyal and sweet,
Nature's realm hath most wonderful glories
For them who do lovingly look; And lessons and legends and stories
Embellish each page of her book. The breezes impart them in whispers;
The brooks babble fast as they flow; The leaves and the zephyrs, fair lispers,
Convey her sweet messages low. And far the divinest of pleasures
God giveth through Nature, so free, And volumes of infinite treasures
Her voices interpret for me.
Creep closer, creep close to her heart;
Co., N. Y., September 25th, 1850. In early life her parents removed to Oshkosh, Wis., where her education was completed. In her writings as a school-girl was discerned the characteristic of exceptional excellence. After her marriage she resided for some years in Minnesota, and during that period published her first poem, An Arctic Wreck," in the Oshkosh Times, and "Allie's Prayer," published in Peterson's Magazine. In 1878 she traveled extensively in Europe, and her descriptive letters written for the papers of her own and other states, gained for her an extended reputation. “A Prehistoric Romanza," was the first poem she published in book form. She also wrote several cantatas, the most successful of which was “The Captive Butterfly," for which Prof. J. B. Carpenter composed the music. Her fondness for literary pursuits made her many social engagements burdensome, and her fondness for scientific and historical reading clashed with the attention which she felt it her first duty to give to her home; but by improving spare minutes during the last ten years, Mrs. Dieudonné has written three prose works and many poems. Her descriptive style is vivid and complete. She is a member of the Woman's National Press Association, of Washington, D. C., vice-president of the Short Story Club, and founder and president of the Parzelia Circle, a conversational and literary order. Mrs. Dieudonné now resides in Washington, D. C., and her beautiful home is located only a few rods from the National. Capitol.
J. A. A.
Now those who hold his memory dear
For Burn's sake.
Art cannot make.
Fate, 'tis the tide eternal of
That shoreless sullen sea
In unseen mystery.
On this current; in it's power
From shock of time's first hour.
Upon what sphere, some little time,
We toil and hope and cry;
And pose as sovereigns high,
Sad dowered with human pain;
To make our “fate." In vain!
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
To fright the heart,
Looks blacker than the past,
On God thy burdens cast.
'HE mere mention of the name of Elizabeth
, chat the power to awaken
O RESTFUL, silent tomb! Thy night
How dreamless, moveless, still! What though thy halls are dark and low,
What though thy halls are chill. Care cannot find one place to cling,
Gold cannot shine to lure;
All coldly rest secure.
Tears never dim dead eyes.
Where sweet oblivion lies.
Older my realm than other known
Upon this fire-forged earth. In glacier's ice its altars with
Primeval man had birth.
The comfort hiding glare
And lit “Home's Hearth Fire" there.
infinite tenderness and reverence. It is so suggestiveness of sweetness, goodness, and all the lovable qualities that a true woman should possess. She has been called the ideal woman's woman; and it is said her poems have been to more women a Bible, her “Aurora Leigh” to more young girls a religion, than have the works of any other writer. She was a great poet, but a greater and grander woman, and she dearly loved and honored humanity. Little is known of her private life and character from any external incidents, for they were few, and the details of her family life have been kept from the public; but, it would be impossible to form a better or truer knowledge of the poet's inner nature, than that which is so clearly revealed in her writings. There we may learn of her love, her griefs, her friendships, her patriotism, her religion, her philanthropy; “her queenly soul shines through them as wine through crystal.” She was born in London in 1809, where she passed part of her early life, and part of which she spent in sight of the Malvern Hills. In one of her minor poems, “The Lost Bower,” the beauteous surroundings of her child-life are graphically described. Mrs. Browning showed remarkable signs of genius at the age of ten, when she wrote small effusions, which she dictated to her father. He was to her both public and critic. She received no ordinary education, being thoroughly conversant in the classics, sciences, and philosophy, while her Greek literature was most extensive. She studied Greek under the instruction of Rev. Hugh Boyd, and later in life she alluded to these hours in a pleasant and graceful manner in her poem, entitled “The Wine of Cyprus," which she dedicated to her blind friend and tutor.
At the age of twenty-seven, Mrs. Browning fell into poor health by the rupture of a blood vessel in one of her lungs. A milder climate was an absolute necessity in order to regain health and vigor, and as a means of prolonging life. Her eldest and favorite brother took her to Torquay, where they lived happily for a year, and where she steadily improved in health; but, unfortunately, a most shocking and heart-rendering event occurred which nearly resulted in the death of Mrs. Browning. While out sailing, her brother was drowned within sight of the house in which they lived. “This tragedy," writes her friend, “nearly killed Elizabeth Barrett. She was utterly prostrated by the horror and the grief, and by a natural but most unjust
Boundless my kingdom. Seas nor land,
Cold death, nor stars above, May set a limit to my realm;
Its bound is “Woman's Love."
Its guard is “Woman's Prayer."
Hear ye not my kingdom's music,
Rousing man or throning king. That song, transcendant, of the hearth,
That wondrous song the mothers sing. 'Tis immortal, my vast kingdom,
As the stars in skies' blue dome. Deathless, shrined in holiest mem'ries,
Lives “Parzelia, Hearth of Home."