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All spirits of error shall be cast out;
There will be no If with wailing refrain, Shadowing our efforts with dread, black wing;
Vulture-like hov'ring o'er every bright joy,
Utt'ring ill-omened suggestions of pain; The glad Bird of Certainty then will sing,
And effort be bliss, no doubt can annoy.
Now mark the contrast in a woman's heart!
Divorce, disgrace, the very cruelest blow
By which a woman's love could be laid low, Had fall’n on Josephine, whose keenest smart, When from the Tuileries she must depart,
Was that her awful anguish was a blow
From him, for whom she would her life bestow; 'Twas he, whose hand had sent the piercing dart, Which tore her quiv'ring soul with bitter woe; 'Twould seem but just such blow her hate had
And comfort him, whom Marie spurned,
Who shall catch his falling mantle,
Stamped with Freedom's emblems bright? Who shall sing, now he is silent,
In this Crisis, for the Right?
Bugle tones against the Wrong?
'Midst earth's toiling, tear-dimmed throng?
THE POET'S SONG.
Who shall voice the cry of sorrow
Wrung from tortured, weary souls ? Who shall shout the glad Hosannas,
When Truth's glowing scroll unrolls ? Who shall climb with steadfast footsteps
By those paths so bleak and dread, Up those rugged mountains where his
Battle Cry of Freedom led ?
Joy took up the harp of Life,
And tried to sing the poet's lay; But mortals heeded not the strains;
“That's not as we find life," they say. Then Love joined in with rapturous note,
While Joy the chords from harp-springs swept; Still was the poet's song unheard,
By toiling souls who worked and wept. But when pale Grief with melting tone,
Which voiced the world's woe, thrilled the strain, Then mortals listening, whispered low:
“Hark! to that angel's sweet refrain!" That is in truth the song of life;
We've known the Love, we feel the Pain; And only Grief's deep sympathy,
Can make the poet's meaning plain.”
Other poets interpret nature,
In as sweet and clear a song; Who shall be such valiant minstrel,
Cheering on Truth's hosts 'gainst wrong? Who will plead so well for Justice?
Who will lay on Freedom's shrine, Love's bright chaplet twined from blossoms
Plucked from Tree of Life Divine?
THE SONG OF THE UNIVERSE.
A LESSON IN LOVE.
STRANGER than aught on earth, is woman's mind;
When thou canst tell whither the wind will blow, Perchance thou canst predict where woman's
love will go. Take up the scroll of hist'ry; there you'll find The maddest freak of love in womankind.
Napoleon to Neipperg! note how low
The Empress Marie fell, who could bestow The love for which the Elban Exile pined, On one-eyed Neipperg, ugly, old and grim,
With black patch where a bullet ball had struck;
While her illustrious husband sued in vain For notice from the woman raised by him
To the proud throne of France; when dire ill-luck Had bowed the mighty Hero's head in pain.
The grand Oratoria of Creation,
Flashed forth from the Infinite Mind;
From sun, stars, seas, trees, flowers and wind,
complete. - Doom of the Holy City
God speaks, and suns flash into light;
God smiles, and flowers the fields adorn; God breathes, and fragrance fills the air; God loves, and human souls are born.
JOHN OTIS BARROWS.
and Publishing Society published a charming book of his, entitled: “On Horseback in Cappadocia." His poems are of a more recent date, he never having attempted anything of the kind until within two or three years.
E. F. S. A.
NE day a large boy, tired of the seclusion and
IN HEAVENLY PLACES.
At sunset oft along the lower sky
The sombre clouds reflect no ray of light,
But dark appear, as if approaching night Were heralded by them; yet such as high Above them move, in wondrous beauty lie
Across the wide expanse; these fill our sight
With rapture as we gaze. The lofty height Now seems a world to which we fain would fly; For more than fairest day, it is the sun
Reflected in a glory that he hides
Until this hour. And thus the Christian show's The beauty of the life in him begun,
When in the heavenly places he abides,
labor on a poor, rocky farm in Eastern Connecticut, remarked to his elder brother: "If I had a thousand dollars I would see the inside of some college." “Well I wouldn't,” was the reply. The boy was obliged to remain on the farm, to help his aged father and mother until he was twenty-one. When relieved of this duty, he borrowed fifty dollars of a friend, and set out for Kimball Union Academy, at Meriden, N. H. There, teaching school one term, and working on a farm every vacation, he fitted for college in two years, and entered Amherst before visiting his parents, having never, until he went to the academy, been absent from the paternal roof over a single Sabbath in his life. This prolonged first absence was necessitated by lack of funds; by no means caused by lack of filial affection. He was an unusually devoted son, and sent his worthy parents, regularly, most loving and cheering letters during this time. He was enrolled among the Freshmen as John Otis Barrows, of Mansfield, Conn. Mr. Barrows can boast of Puritan blood, pure and simple. His father, Andrew Barrows was descended from one, who, if he did not "come over in the Mayflower," certainly arrived very soon after. His mother, Sarah Storrs, was a lineal descendant of Samuel Storrs who came from Suttoncum-Lound, England, to America in 1663.
Mr. Barrows was born August 4th, 1833. He is one of six sons, and the youngest of a family of nine children. Graduating in 1860, he studied divinity one year at East-Windsor Hill, Conn., and then two years at Andover, Mass. After graduation, he labored as a pastor, in New Hampshire, six years, when, resigning the pastorate of the old First Church of Exeter, with his wife, Clara Storrs Freeman, he sailed for Ceserea, Asia Minor, to labor as a missionary of the American Board. They had at the time two small children, and some of the incidents of their journey up through the Cilician Gates of the Taurus Mountains were more interesting than agreeable; but at last they reached their home in safety. After spending six or seven years in the interior, they removed to Constantinople. At the end of ten years absence from America, they returned for a visit, but illness in their family compelled them to forego the privilege of entering again upon the work they so dearly loved. Mr. Barrows has spent the years since his return, in 1880, in pastorates in Atkinson, N. H., and in Newington, Conn., being at present at the latter place. In 1884 the Congregational Sunday-school
'Tis sweet to hear, in pensive hours,
The murmur of the trees,
The soft, low hum of bees;
With song birds of the dawn,
Are household voices gone.
That press the fevered brain,
That erst could soothe the pain;
Save lingering sounds of love, That once made home so sweet on earth,
But now make home above.
When gently fold the wings of night,
And hush the world to rest,
The birdling in its nest.
From heavenly realms so fair, Is heard the music of the notes
Of one bright cherub there. When tears of grief make dearer still
The mother's precious name, Her words the quickened memory fill,
But seem no more the same.
ISABELLA WILSON MCCONIHE.
They come, as borne by gentle wing,
The angel footsteps fall; They come as words which angels sing,
And sweetest of them all.
Then make the household love so strong,
That household voices true
In memories renew.
To dear ones pleasure give,
In tender hearts will live.
WHAT SHALL BE MY PRAYER ?
RS. ISABELLA WILSON MCCONIHE,
youngest daughter of John and Elizabeth Buback, was born January 15, 1826, in the county of Lancaster, Pa., where she dwelt in an earthly paradise of beautiful scenery until she was twelve years of age, when her mother, with her family, (her father having died), removed to the State of Ohio, afterward to Illinois. The natural and picturesque beauty of the home of her childhood early inspired her artistic taste to give expression to her thoughts in poetry. Mrs. McConihe has the true poet's love for the beautiful in nature and art, and had she cultivated her love for form and color might have excelled with pencil and brush as her work already accomplished gives evidence. At seventeen she taught her first term of school in the country, the second in town where many of her scholars were older than herself. At nineteen she was married to Mr. Seth Wilson, a prosperous business man and honored citizen of Medina, Ohio. Mr. Wilson died early in life; after five years she married Mr. Lucian Harper McConihe of Princeton, Ill., where she had a pleasant home endeared to her by her devoted husband and loving children, two of whom, a son and daughter are living, and a wide circle of friends. For the last few years her home has been in northern Iowa.
M. M. T.
I ASK Thee not, O Lord, for rest—
A life from toilsome burdens free; But rather for the strength to-day
To bear each burden as from Thee.
I ask Thee not to wipe the tears
From eyes that now so often weep; But rather make these tears a spring
Of new affections pure and deep.
I ask Thee not to lift the hand
That thou hast laid upon me sore; But rather grace to feel 'tis Thine,
And from its touch to love Thee more.
I ask Thee not to let me see,
Whilst thou would have me live below; But rather ask in Thee to trust
'Tis sweet to trust aud wait to know.
MY ROBIN AND BLUE-JAY.
AGAIN TO THE WORK.
The prettiest picture that I ever have seen,
We would stay on this high mount of vision,
So far from the world and its strife; Still would wait where the glory of Jesus
Transfigures the daily life. But look down on the world just below us,
See there the fierce struggle with sin, For our Leader our toils are not ended,
Then haste, His new work begin.
So while I'm admiring this picture so fair,
Yes, with gladness we'll seize our old armor,
Henceforth 'twill be strong and more bright; For this armor our Lord newly gives us
'Tis mighty, “the armor of light." Oh then, after the conflict is over,
And none of these labors remain, We will gather again with our Savior
And with Him eternally reign.
His sweet cheery tones ring out with the dawn, First matins, then snatches of songs on the lawnHe sings while it rains on his darling brown head, He sings to his mate when she dreams in her bed. Love mellows each tone of the sweet warbler's
voice, Like Indostan's thrush to the mate of his choice.