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Thine is an honor of so vast a kind

That, once within its radiated gleam,
The common man feels stirring in his mind

The noble wish that right shall reign supreme. The path of perfect justice thou dost take;

Sweet virtue's halo thou dost aye retain; And seeing thee so loved for honor's sake,

The humblest of thy race doth courage gain. The baby yet unborn thy name shall hear

Dropped in some tender mother's rev'rent voice. The unborn patriot shall thy name revere,

And in its deathless strength for aye rejoice. The hero of a carnival of deeds

Thine earthly battles all are fought and won. Our love alone thy greatness still exceeds,

So sink to rest in glory-like the sun.

O happy bird, with weary, drooping wing,

The shadows gather, leave thy growing nest. Cease work while still thou hast the heart to sing;

Fly to thy shady home, sweet bird, and rest. O happy mother, with unnumbered cares,

Fold thy dear hands, the working hours are o'er. Put gladly far away the toil that wears,

And let thy soul expand and bloom once more. O man with wrinkled brow, on gain intent,

The calm night comes, put worldly ways aside. To labor always was not what God meant;

Smooth out thy brow and now with love abide. The body is not all, nor wealth, nor toil;

Far more the inner growth, the soul's expanse; Enough is wealth. God's purpose do not foil

In striving sore for pomp and circumstance.



I stood upon the ocean's brink at dawn
And waited, scarcely breathing, for the scene
I knew would come. A mass of purple cloud
Stretched low across the east. A frowning peak
Of vapor lifted high its angry head
Above its fellows, fearfully sublime,
Coldly impenetrable, as though
In its dark breast a thousand thunderbolts
Might lurk; as though its roomy caves might hold
An army of fierce winds, and its great arms
Might clasp the wildest storms the world
Has ever known. Then up the rosy rays
Came climbing The awful mass of cloud was

Illumined. Wave on wave and fold on fold
A mountain grand became, of blushing amber;
A priceless jewell, rare, clasping all close,
The modest garments of the infant morn.
One long, deep breath, and then I said: “Oh this
Is like our earthly care. How dark and grim it

looms; How dread, how overwhelming, and how full Of unborn terrors doth it seem to us; But when we wait, God's smile doth soon light up Its darkest depths, and then we see 'twas but A golden glory for our soul's best good.

When russet apples turn each bronzéd cheek
To catch a final beauty from the sun;
When the first frost with pencil fine and true
The tinting of the leaves has just begun;
Then nature still can turn one fairer page,
It is the mellow year's sweet middle age.
When the bright world hangs out a tender haze
To veil her scarlet colors grown so bold;
When in full fruitage droops the ripened corn
And nature's green is turned to red and gold;
Then do we feel that in loved nature's shrine
Four seasons' wondrous blessings doth combine.
To all the riches of the summer, spring,
The hazel copse now adds its store of wealth;
The nests are empty, but the birdlings gay,
Now sing their own sweet songs of love, by stealth;
From gen'rous laden trees the brown nuts fall,
For earth her treasure now doth yield to all.

Thus, in our human lives, those years are best,
Those harvest years, with love and children blest.
We see our nestlings mate in their glad spring,
And know their love is not so grand a thing
As it will be when autumn's glory sheds
The rapture of all seasons on their heads.



O HAPPY bee, so heavy-laden, fly!

The shadows deepen in the valleys low; Still for another night let some sweets lie;

Fly homeward in the sun's last rosy glow.

How tenderly about earth's russet breast

The yellow leaves are clinging; With what a light and careless air of rest

The lazy bees are singing.

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The science of life revealed to sight,
Electric force and warmth and light,
Are all the sunbeam's various ways,
By which what we call life, displays

Its hidden force
But what this magic force called life;
Unsolved by science through skill or knife?
Then to the sun himself I turned,
Perchance, the mystery to be learned,

He might reveal.

NE of the most enterprising of Ohio's public

women, was born in the city of Cleveland, July 19, 1842, to Hon. J. M. Hoyt, of Cleveland, and Mary Ella Beebe, daughter of Alexander M. Beebe, LL. D. of New York. Of such a parentage it would only be natural that Lydia Hoyt would receive the best educational advantages, and having a special fondness and aptitude for the arts, her tastes and inclinations were indulged to their fullest bent. She was born under a lucky plant, having escaped the toils and privation which is the lot of so many. Unlike many children of the wealthier class, however, she improved and made use of the talents given her, so that she is a most fitting representative of a family already numbering many illustrious names in its annals. Her husband, Hon. E. J. Farmer, of Cleveland, is the author of several works on politics and finance. For the past ten years Mrs. Farmer has contributed to the leading newspapers and magazines, on various lines: poems, essays, juvenile stories, historical sketches and novels. She is of a deeply religious nature, and endeavors to tinge all her writings with a moral as well as an amusing sentiment. She is now editing for the Woman's Department of the Columbian Exposition “What America Owes to Women," a souvenir for the National Exposition.

What is thy power, O King of Day!
Which works through energizing ray,
On man, and beast, and bird, and flower,
And gives to each its wondrous dower,

Of living germ?

Then written on the sunbeams bright, In shining words of golden light, Flashed forth this answer from the sky: “All life proceeds from God on high,



J. W.


I sought to learn the cause of things;
Why flowers bloom'd? why eagle's wings
Cleft the clear air? why grass-blades grew?
If blossom, bird, or leaflet knew

From whence its life?

"I would be great, O Lord!” in ignorance I plead. “I would some mighty task perform in this short

life; I would my name were carven by Fame's keen

edged knife, Upon the highest mountain-peak of human deed!" Then did the Lord a vision show that I might read

Therein the story of the lives of weary strife,
And note the bloody foot-prints in that path of

life Made by the bruised feet, poisoned by envy's weed,

And torn by the sharp rocks of cruel adversity. The vision passed, and then I prayed with fervent

voice: "Permit me, O my God, to dwell in valleys low Of humble duties; there will I gladly serve Thee. But if the Mount of Difficulty be Thy choice, May the Love-light from Calv'ry's Cross upon

me glow.”

I walked through science-beaten tracts,
To question the results of facts;
The springs of motive force to learn,
If perchance there research should earn

The key to life.

I whispered to the lily white,
Glowing with beauty in the light.
Her perfumed breath with gentle sigh,
Murmured: “Behold my life on high;

It is the sun!”


I asked the proudly prancing steed, From whence its action and its speed; But still the puzzling answer came, The energy of life the same,

The sunbeam's power.

If is a word born of sad human doubt;

There is no If, with the great God above;

“I WILL!" is His mandate of pow'r and love, And Heaven and earth obey with glad shout; For Divine Will and Pow'r all chances rout,

When we are sheltered in Infinite Love,
Our wills attuned to that GREAT WILL above;

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