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And one that whispereth oft: O, place your hand in mine and live, Nurtured in warmth and love, that living brings

Supremest joy." “But ah! thou hast life's mission to fulfill,'

Answers the voice of conscience, low and still; “Within thy inmost soul heed first my claim;

Only in doubting me art thou to blame."



THROUGH dreamy days in autumn woods,

Along the leafy paths we strayed; 'Mong boughs o'erhung with russet vines,

Late summer sunbeams softly played Through dreamy days in autumn woods.

And here and there, above, below,

Still gleamed the colors summer wore; Æolian breezes sang to us,

Along the paths we wandered o'er, Through dreamy days in autumn woods.

DALINE HOHF was born in Hanover, Pa.,

December 20th, 1859, and removed with her parents, at the age of four years, to Maryland, where she spent her childhood days amid the rural sights and sounds along the quiet Linganore. In 1870 her family removed to Iowa, where, as a schoolgirl in her teens, she first attempted verse. A fondness for composition began its development about that time, and sketches from her pen, in the form of both poetry and prose, found their way into the local papers. She gave no particular evidence of a tendency to poetry until 1884, at which time she resided in Illinois, when the death of a friend called forth a memorial tribute, which received such commendation from personal friends as to encourage her to continue attempts at verse, and poems were frequently written by her afterward.

She completed the academic course of Mt. Morris College, Illinois, in 1882, and, about six months after graduation, entered a printing-office as compositor. She worked at the case over four years, and in May, 1885, undertook the editing of The Golden Dawn, an excellent but short-lived magazine published in Huntingdon, Pa. During her work on the Dawn she gave evidence of much strength, grasping and discussing with almost masculine vigor, yet with womanly tenderness and sympathy, many of the important moral questions of the day. She also edited certain departments of several other periodicals at different times. On the 20th of June, 1888, she was married to William Beery, an instructor in vocal music, and soon after rendered him valuable assistance in compiling an excellent sacred song book, “Gospel Chimes,” by writing hymns and some music for it. Mr. and Mrs. Beery are at present happily located in Huntingdon, and Mrs. Beery is editing a child's paper known as The Young Disciple. Their family consists of one child, a son, born in February, 1891. Mrs. Beery is of mixed ancestry. Her father, Michael Hohf, was of Dutch extraction, and her mother, whose maiden name was Elizabeth Bucher, was Swiss in blood.

F. H. G.

Through dreamy days in autumn woods,

The jay's low note sounds clear and cool; Proud maples float their banners gay,

Athwart the hazy, wind-crisped pool, Through dreamy days in autumn woods.

Through dreamy days in autumn woods

We loved to linger, loved to climb The banks where sweetbrier berries grew;

Fair fruits of joyous summer time We've gathered in the autumn woods.

And where the beech leaves rustled down,

Your soulful life you gave to me;
Beside you on the mossy knoll

My spirit listened lovingly;
Sweet joys we held in autumn woods.

Again through dimmer paths I stray;

The light winds touch, the dead leaves stir; And where the ripe roseberries glow,

With muffled sounds the pheasants whirr Makes echo in the autumn woods.


Through dreamy days in autumn woods

The sun looks down on branch and bough; I love to tread the same dear paths,

Though all my heart is lonely now That you are dead, yet in my dreams

Your spirit comes and answers mine, Through lonely light in autumn woods.

Out of the South, where dainty heaps of cloud

The pale blue tapestry of heaven emboss,

The warm wind blows the crimson woods across, And half-forgotten ripples tell aloud The gladness of the brooks, which float a crowd

Of leaves, like autumn navies; on the moss,

Fit couch for dreaming ease, the grave oaks toss Their acorns, and the banks in shadow shroud.

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The half-blown moon is limned against the west,

A lingerer to witness this pure day;
Who knows, when she pursues the stars to rest,

What sweeter smiles may charm her night away!
This is a day when joy flows to the brim,
The stately echo of a summer hymn.

Life at its midday is a stern employ, Needing all strength of mind and zeal of soul

Gathered in blossom-time, when life was joy Mainly,-a sweet, brief prelude to the whole.

Enter the gates of noon with loving heart As well as judging head; no ministry

So crowns a man with true, unconscious art As loss of self in restless energy

To make wrong right, to brace the souls that faint; To use his talent for the sake of God,

Distilling patience out of drear complaint, Smoothing the road by tribulation trod.


The east glowed like a blush rose fair, As Phæbus' wheels drove up the air; But murky banners trailed behind, Blown like a full sail by the wind.

At noon a gust of feathered rain
A hornpipe danced without the pane,
Then nestled blithely ’mid the leaves,
Whose gold and garnet brushed the eaves.

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To buy, and sell, and gain; to write a book; To build a house, or sail upon the sea;

To play the master's music, or to cook;
To be well skilled in all the arts that be

Were poor attainment, if above it all
No sense of human brotherhood held sway

As pilot of the craft. The words that fall Like gracious raindrops on an April day

Drop from the sky for you; the faithful tears Which water other lives, nor guerdon ask,

Shall bring full harvest in the sunless years Where God is light and love the only task.

The green grass took a daintier shade As the gay phantoms on it played; Gray vistas with their mirth grew dim, And earth and sky blent at their rim.

As day declined the storm waxed brave;
The blast a wintry warning gave;
A thickening sheet earth’s bosom spanned,
And moonless night crept o'er the land.



A Soft September twilight draped the sea;

In pensive monotone, among the piers

The breakers roared, and dashed their briny tears Back on its bosom; silence fell on me, Standing alone upon the sands; the free,

Wide water with an anthem filled my ears,

Ringing a prelude to the eternal years That, boundless, deep and grand, in heaven shall be.


As when the buds of oak and maple swell, We look for early glimpse of emerald spray

Thick-set with blooms, and signs begin to tell Of daisied valleys bringing in the May,

So the fresh youth, the laugh, the dewy eye, The pride of mothers and of nature, bring

The promise of rare manhood by and by, Whose fragrance of kind words and deeds shall

swing Like censers o'er the brown, dry fields of life.

Along the dim horizon swept a sail
That vanished soon; a flock of gulls flew by

Catching my transient notice; ceased the moan
Of rushing wave one instant, while a trail
Of moonlight quivered o'er it; then the sky

Was blank; the sea and I held tryst alone.


Into new pastures in the realm of thought, And vineyards where the wine of wisdom grows, Bend your young feet; for never deeds are

wrought Worthy a man, save as his whole face glows

With highest reach of knowledge in his sphere; With purpose grand, and utmost exercise

Of gift with which his God endowed him. Here Pluck the full ears of learning, for the prize

Of truth in jewels overturn the soil
With shares thrice tempered by a pliant will

To mould to greatness all the petty toil
With book and pen, and fashion good from ill.

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Her ears like ocean shell pinks

Brightly blush; She hears the choirs of cloudland

At eve's hush.

Her tresses Aling defiance

To the sun; She's blossom, bird and fairy

Blent in one.

Her lips, like trim carnations

But half-blown, I've pressed, in love's emotion,

To my own.

Her hand is like a leaf-touch,

But a thrill Enchains me, when I feel it

Speak her will.

Her soul is like the Alpine

Edelweiss; Her steel-true heart is to me

Shield from vice.

My love's the contemplation

Of my life;
I lay all gifts before her;-

She's my wife!

poet laureate, and one of the sweetest singers the world has ever known, passed peacefully away, full of years and honors, to unknown realms, early in the morning of October 6th, 1892. The announcement of such a sad event could not help being received by all who speak the English tongue with a deep sense of personal loss, for he was not only a poet's poet, but he was also the people's poet, pleasing, alike, all tastes, and appealing as he did, to the better nature and sympathies of the masses.

He was born in 1809, the same year in which Oliver Wendell Holmes and Gladstone first entered this world, at Somersby, in Lincolnshire, England. His father was the Rev. George Clayton Tennyson, LL. D., a man of noble birth and fine character, while his mother was a sweet, gentle woman, possessing great imaginative powers and much ability. His home was picturesquely situated and abounded with beauty mingled with the utmost refinement. It was partly there and partly at the village school that Tennyson received his early education, and at this early period in his life he showed signs of possessing a strong poetic vein, writing verses on a slate for pleasure and recreation. He loved the sea passionately and when its inspiration was upon him he poured out verse after verse. But it was not until 1827 that any of his efforts appeared in print, and then it was in the form of a small volume, of which almost nothing has been preserved, and which was entitled: "Poems by Two Brothers.”

In 1828 Alfred joined his two brothers at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he gained the distinction of carrying off the Chancellor's medal for a poem in blank verse on “Timbuctoo,” in which one can trace the impress of his rare genius, that was by degrees developing.

His first volume of poems known by, “Poems, Chiefly Lyrical," appeared in 1832, and it was severely criticized as being weak and immature; but, ten years hence, when he had completely revised the former volume, to which had been added many new poems, he gained for himself a position of absolute supremacy which has never since grown less, but has steadily increased.

While at Cambridge he formed an acquaintance with Arthur Henry Hallam, son of the eminent historian, which afterwards ripened into a strong and exceedingly warm friendship, and at whose death, Tennyson wrote a tribute of affection to his memory, the world renowned “In Memoriam."


The morn breaks gloriously; refreshed with sleep,

The lithe form pauses at the brink of day

With mind all set for manly toil; we say He's worthy, but he goes bare-browed to reap. He's bronzed; the sun has climbed the midday

steep; The field is treeless; briers line the way

To cooler places; yet no wreath of bay Garlands his head; he still must work and weep Till evening folds its silken garments round His bruised and wearied limbs, and all the

spheres Break into silent singing; angels bend Anear to see him by the Father crowned; “Thus shall it be to him who wrought with tears

And loved and prayed and trusted to the end.”


The yesterdays are risen

All ruthless from their tomb, And rob the young to-morrow Of all its hopeful bloom.



LADY Clara Vere de Vere,

Of me you shall not win renown; You thought to break a country heart

For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled

I saw the snare, and I retired; The daughter of a hundred Earls,

You are not one to be desired.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine,

Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake

A heart that doats on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower

Is worth a hudred coats-of-arms.

In 1847 Tennyson wrote “The Princess, A Medley,” which was written in rather a novel style, being a combination of an epic and a series of lyrics.

On the death of Wordsworth, Tennyson succeeded him as poet laureate, in which capacity he wrote many praiseworthy poems commemorating great events of national interest. Not long after this, “Maud, and Other Poems," appeared, but they lacked the enthusiastic admiration that was wont to be showered upon his efforts; however, “The Idylls of the King,” which appeared a few years later more than compensated, in every way, for any deficiency on the part of the other. It is difficult to over-estimate the value of Tennyson's works, and it is not an easy matter to criticize them dispassionately, as one is apt to become enamored with their beauties. His verse exemplifies the ornate in poetry; nothing can excel the delicate chiselling, the chaste coloring, and the exquisite polish of his lines and stanzas, and there is such a delicious blending of sound and sense pervading the whole.

He was much beloved by a circle of intimate friends, -among the number are included Carlyle and Gladstone-but for the most part, he lived a quiet and retiring life, always shrinking from the public gaze, and bearing his honors and wealth as simply and as sweetly as he had done his poverty and neglect, without the least suspicion of vanity. He was the first commoner who was ever raised to the House of Lords for literary eminence alone, being neither a politician nor a statesman.

The cordial relationship which existed between Tennyson and the United States was greatly strengthened by his attachment with Longfellow.

After his marriage with Emily Sellwood, a niece of Sir John Franklin, the great Arctic voyager, he resided for some time at a romantic spot in the Isle of Wight, where he and his family spent many of the happiest years of their lives.

The following is the description given by Carlyle to Emerson, of the poet:

“One of the finest looking men in the world. A great shock of rough, dusty dark hair; bright, laughing hazel eyes; massive, aquiline face; most massive, yet most delicate; of sallow brown complexion, almost Indian looking; clothes cynically loose, free and easy; smokes infinite tobacco. His voice is musical metallicfit for loud laughter and piercing wail and all that may be between; speech and speculation free and plenteous; I do not meet, in these late decades, such company over a pipe."

E. M. K.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is,

I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love,

And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates

Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my head; Not thrice your branching limes have blown

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh! your sweet eyes, your low replies;

A great enchantress you may be, But there was that across his throat

Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind,

She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word

That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

There stands a spectre in your hall; The guilt of blood is at your door;

You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse,

To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare,

And slew him with your noble birth.

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