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FANNY PURDY PALMER.
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
Creeping where grim death has been,
Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;
From its hale and hearty green.
Shall fatten upon the past;
Creeping on, where Time has been,
The child and the old man sat alone
In the quiet peaceful shade of the old green boughs, that had richly grown
In the deep, thick forest glade.
That rustling of the oak;
As thus the fair boy spoke:
N the company of authors and poets from time to
time chronicled in these columns belongs the name of Fanny Purdy Palmer, a resident of Rhode Island, now in the prime of her powers. Those who have known Mrs. Palmer well, long ago learned to regard her as possessed of exceptional clearness of thought, acuteness and independence of judgement, and comprehensiveness of outlook. Her work upon the school committee of the city of Providence, her connection with various philanthropic movements, and her presidency of the Rhode Island Woman's Club, furnished abundant opportunity for the exercise and strengthening of these qualities. In them all, as in whatever of public or private effort she has undertaken, she has always shown that reserve force which is the sure sign of strong character. It would be far from true, however, to give the impression that Mrs. Palmer's intellectual development has depended upon the positions of trust which she has held. She has been a good thinker, and a good student, and her growth has been along those lines of thought which, under-running all forms of organized movement are the outcome, and expression of individual character and life. A diligent reader of some of the best scientific and metaphysical works she has mastered the art of using language accurately, and of seeing things in their universal relations. The tendency to wild exaggeration of statement, and to nurse one's pet ideas into fundamental panaceas for all ills, has found no friend in her. And yet by conviction and native instinct, the trend of her career has been progressive and sympathetic.
For many years she has been a writer of stories which have appeared in various weekly and monthly publications; stories which have dealt more or less, as would be expected from such an author, with the problems of life; but I think she has done no work which for literary quality, for moral purpose, and deep spiritual insight will stand higher than some of her poems. These are new evidence of the spherical character of her outlook upon life in all its deepest meanings. They fittingly supplement, perhaps some of us who believe in the superiority of the poetic faculty would like to say they fittingly crown an already worthy and increasingly helpful use of the pen.
F. A. H.
“Dear father, what can honor be,
Of which I hear men rave?
The tempest and the grave:-
'Tis never heard or seen: Now tell me, father, I beseech,
What can this honor mean?”
“It is a name,
-a name, my child, It lived in other days, When men were rude, their passions wild,
Their sport, thick battle-frays. When in armor bright, the warrior bold,
Knelt to his lady's eyes: Beneath the abbey-pavement old
That warrior's dust now lies.
AT AN AFTERNOON TEA.
“The iron hearts of that old day
Have mouldered in the grave; And chivalry has passed away,
With knights so true and brave, The honor which to them was life
Throbs in no bosom now; It only gilds the gambler's strife,
Or decks the worthless vow."
I do not know why even yet
You meet me with a sig It was your lips which said “Forget"
In those old days gone by.
You did not know how deep your love,
Absence has proved how strong The heart by rivets such as these?
Metallic? Am I wrong?
I break your heart? We're even then!
You broke mine long ago, Ah, Charles Adair, I speak the truth!
But, really, I must go.
QUENCH not the fires which burn within the soul E'en though the world smiles chill upon their
To ashes turn the toys thou'd fain adore.
shore On stormy ventures. Quicken thy desires For ports beyond thy sights. Quench not the fires.
A few words more? No, no, not one!
Our hostess I must seek, And, oh, I'd most forgot! You'll get
My wedding cards next week.
The summers change us. 'Tis a long way back
Into last August's vanished glories, Klare. Dark Clotho has bright threads for memories,
Frail threads-False touch forbear!
On silver waters in a purple dusk,
The moonbeams splintered by the listed oar I learned of you, rose-crowned, bloom-flushed
First love's sweet lore.
YOUNG when the world was young, Antigone
Shared in the virtues of its primal power,
Beauty and strength and courage were her dower, Body to soul allied in symmetry. Clear eyed to view eternal verity,
Heroic still to bide the hapless hour
When fates implacable her hopes devour She paid with lofty calm the penalty
Of other's crimes. Self-centered woman soul
Whom lover's love could swerve not nor divert, Whom priestly threats could stay not from the goal
Of thy fixed purpose nor thy mind pervert,
OH, GREAT GREY WAVES.
Oh, great grey waves that bellow to the shore
And leap against the cliffs with loud assault
Of gathered thunders from that mystic vault Whose limits ending still stretch on before! Oh, lion waves with mad heroic roar
Deaf' ning to meaner sounds 'gainst black basalt
Of frowning cliff! I count it as the fault Of partial comprehension to deplore That law which drives untempered to their bounds
Life's mighty forces love where love belongs,
Failures, successes, in the unerring rounds
With penalties, wherein no power to save
RS. GEORGIANA KLINGLE HOLMES
was born in Philadelphia, Pa. Through her mother, Mary Hunt Morris, who became the wife of George Franklin Klingle, M. D., she is a member of the historic Morris family of Morrisania, and wife of Benjamin Proctor Holmes of New York City. She was educated in Philadelphia. Her father's ancestry is found in Upper Saxony. Hans George Klingle, her great-grandfather, came to this country in the ship “Restoration with his son, 9th October, 1747, and settled in Pennsylvania. At the breaking out of the Revolutionary War her grandfather George resided at Chestnut Hill. Dr. Klingle was a man of literary and scientific reputation. From early childhood Georgiana contributed to periodicals of the different cities. Her taste run in a groove not often entered by young authors, children's stories with a moral to leave an impression. She is an artist of merit, but writing is the passion of her life. She has written no long list of books, but the heartfelt poetry of “George Klingle” has touched many hearts. Her collection of poems entitled “Make Thy Way Mine" (New York, 1876) was made after repeated letters from interested strangers in different parts of the country. That collection was followed by “ In the Name of the King" (New York, 1888) and another volume is ready for publication. Being interested in philanthropic work, she founded Arthur's Home for Destitute Boys, at Summit, N. J., in memory of her son who died at the age of nine years, this child's unselfish savings being the germ of the institution. C. W. M.
AT PORTSMOUTH, VA.
JULY 20, 1864.
The day has dawned! The lucent mist
How fair the view! The morning scene
FROM BETHLEHEM TO JERUSALEM.
Nor knew within her manger-bed
The song of souls redeemed, for Christ the
A new Jerusalem, to be
TORRIGIANO TO HIS STATUE OF CHRIST.
When Galilee's tempestuous sea
To do His will;
It heard the winds repeat
Of its fair waves, with promises of rest.
It will be remembered that Torrigiano, the celebrated Florentine sculptor, died, amid horrible tortures, at the hands of the Inquisitors, for the breaking of his exquisite statue of the Infant Christ.
When on Mount Olivet's brow
In nature's temple to repeat,
And man beheld
At its root by pardon won,
Awoke anew and still, With depths intensified, swept on from hill to hill.
Have I shattered thee, O Beautiful! thou Christ
child pale and pure, Not broken thee, O Little-one? I thought thou
wouldst endure Down to the coming ages, and stand in all thy
grace, In all thy power of loveliness in fame's most hon
ored place, Breathing upon the distant air Torrigiano's name, Breathing with thy pure lips--rekindling his fame
But all is lost!
Is the favored part,
Thy frozen, frozen heart Knows not the woe it is to throb, to beat so high
To throb-and die! Oh, I have shattered thee, thou Fair, but passion
nerved the blow; They thought to win thee, Beautiful, but I have laid
thee low! Did they think to buy thee with their bags—their
copper bags, in truth? Their thirty ducates ?—they have learned far other
When, scourged and crucified,
And wept the fate
Her crimson stain
Jerusalem so fair!
Upon her breast the mark of God;
With the sandals of sweet peace; Consecrate; where man could turn to pray and
Had she but known
I did not mean to desecrate the Name that thou
didst bearHigh Heaven, knowing all things, knows that I
am guiltless thereI have stricken thee, O Beautiful, and jealous rage
hath sworn To drink the blood of vengeance for thy wondrous
beauty shorn: A little while and muffled feet will bear me from
this cellThe tortures of the after hours, who shall their be to
tell ? They may part my flesh among them! I have
wounded not the Christ! It was only thee, thou Little-one—thou the lost, th
To-day, across the waste of time,
Exultant voices chime Sweet alleluias of the Christ who died,
Yet death defied, One grand, tumultuous sea Of voices, sweeping through immensity;