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But, dear old face, thou art most sacred to my

heart For those far years of verdant pain and joy, When life had not yet lost the bloom it once could

boast, And when thou wert my friend, and I-a boy! Alas! all now remains of years of joys and pains

Seems pictured in that face upon the wall! Alas! that life should bloom so nigh the fatal tomb,

Which in its voiceless darkness buries all!


The mind that journeys into realms ideal,
May oft' forget the sorrows of the real;
The pen becomes the hand of Beatrice,
Guiding us on through lands of joy and peace,
Poesy like a fair enchantress waves
Her wand above the soul, and from its graves
New forms of beauty into being start,
With speech before unheard to move the heart;
A seraph uttering from a mortal's hood
The soul-thoughts of the living and the dead,
Like a shell that murmurs of the sirens' bed,
Or the weird sweet music in a haunted wood.

Constant and faithful friend! within these words I

send My greeting to thee, wheresoe'er thou art; For like a thornless rose thy lovely memory grows

And blossoms at the gateway of my heart!


Youth quickly tires of calm retreats, And loves the tumult of the streets: Age loves the noise of peaceful rills, But not the noise of babbling men! Age loves the stretch of quiet hills, While mortared bricks fatigue its ken.


Within my humble hall there hangs against the

wall A fairer flower than summer garlands knowA beautiful old face, whose gentleness and grace

Beam forth like winter flowers beside the snow.

Youth fondly seeks the glittering strife
And gayeties of busy life:
Age seeks the balm of solitude
To heal the hurts the world bestows-
The balm that's found in lonely wood,
Or converse with a blushing rose.


How calm the light which lies within those dear old

eyes! How noble the sad patience of that brow! Those furrows which the years wore deep with

many tearsAh! how serene beneath life's sunset now!

As on that face I gaze my fancy seeks the days, Long vanished, which her laughing girlhood

knew; I see the well-sweep move she oft has told me of,

And forest paths her bare feet rambled through.

LET the storms beat of Fate and Circumstance-
Her fiercest shafts let hostile Fortune Aling-
I rise above them all. In sufferance
Patient and strong, I trample like a king
Under my heel all the vile things of chance.
The soul is its own master, and to bring
The soul to its own mastery is to gain
The sceptre of the world and break its chain.

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on the summit of one of the loftiest hills of Berkshire, Mass., February 27, 1826. She is known under the pen-name of "Ida Glenwood," of Fenton, Mich. In Berkshire, in a humble home, of poor and religious parentage, her life began.

As a bright, rosy-cheeked little girl with a “foolish habit of making rhymes," she often excited the frowns of the elders and the laughter of her playmates. Unappreciated, she dwelt even at that tender age in an atmosphere of unattainable hopes. She was always a deep thinker, wondering at the mysteries of life and death and adoring the sublimities of nature, being from childhood left mnch to her own ways and meditations. In after years, when thick darkness fell over her, shutting out external beauties, there were in the gallery of her soul, pictures of what had been. When she was a year old, her father died, leaving a family of five little ones to the care of a most devoted, Christian mother. When Cynthia was fourteen, that care was taken away and she found herself an orphan. At that time she was a pupil in the seminary of Madame Willard, Troy, N. Y., where for three years she had looked forward, with bright anticipations, to the acquirement of a liberal education. She took great delight in school compositions and she wrote in such a style as to attract the favorable notice of her instructors. About that time her eyes, always full of laughter, began to show the incipient signs of that dark shadow which, later, closed her physical vision. She was solicited, by the preceptress, after her mother's death to continue her studies as a “teacher scholar,'' but the state of her eyes would not permit. At the age of twenty-one she married Mr. F. Gorton, a paper manufacturer, and six years later, during a painful illness, the dense curtains were drawn over the windows of her soul and compelled her henceforth to walk in darkness in spite of the efforts of science and affection. When recovering from three long years of physical agony, there arose in her heart, from the mold and sadness of the grave, brighter hopes and purer expectations which removed all gloom and made of her a cheerful companion and friend ever after. Her imprisoned spirit seemed to bound forth to new exertions and the hidden talent of poesy and wreathing of prose beauties shone out as in childhood. During more than thirty years her night has never been broken. For several years after that sad event her work was exceedingly limited in its progress, being dependent on others to transcribe her thoughts to paper. But the am

bition newly awakened after so long a slumber would not down. Her first prose work, “The Fatal Secret," was written wholly with a pencil, but so rapidly did she do this that her hand, all unconsciously to herself, formed an almost new alphabet, unreadable except by those who had followed the transformation. That was a serious impediment. Fortunately the typewriter appeared in that emergercy and was hailed by her with joy, and for seventeen years, covering the greater part of her literary life, she has used it with nearly as much facility and precision as those with their full sight. Her first published poem appeared in the Philadelphia Inquirer, the editor, Mr. Harding, having accidentally seen it in her husband's office. He encouraged her to work and in a short time many journals both in city and country were pleased to give publicity to her contributions. Since then from the darkness have come many serials, short stories and poems, among which are “The Fatal Secret, or a Romance of Mackinac Island," "Kate Wynans and the Forger's Daughter,

” “Ma Belle Queen,” “The Mistress of Rosedale," "Tangled Threads,” “Black France," and others. In the “Crusade" movement she became an earnest and efficient temperance worker, presiding at public meetings, lecturing and reciting original poems which were received by press and people with great enthusiasm. Her short career as a platform speaker began with the recitation of a poem entitled “Adolphus and Olivia, or a tale of Kansas." Such labor wore sadly upon her sensitive, shrinking nature, and after a few years her health demanded a cessation from so arduous work. Her powers of thought have not abated. She is a prolific and most acceptable letter writer, and many a “shut-in," of which society she is a member, will testify to their comforting influences. Her days are full of good works, of a highly religious character, embodied in an untiring and beautiful ambition, ever active, “doing with all her might whatever hands, brain or heart finds to do,” she will leave the record of a full, well rounded life, a memory to her loved ones that will ever glow with precious deeds worthy of being recorded in history for the abundance of undying examples to be imitated.

G. H. W.


I WONDER, sometimes, in the darkness,

If I'm weaving the stitches aright; Whether the threads that are put in my fingers,

Are dark-hued, or golden and bright, Whether the pattern will show in the ending That another dear hand did the blending!

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When life is darkest, then ofttimes I feel
His hand clasps mine in tenderness and love,
And though I cannot see the way, I know full well
He will not let me fall, and so
I clasp more tightly the dear hand
That leads me onward, onward to my quiet rest.

HARK! what's that?-a sound I hear!
Some one is at the door, I fear!
There! O, no,-'twas not a step;
The wind perhaps! I must have slept!
0—it is dreary, one must own
To stay all night in the house alone!
This darkness wraps me like a pall!
Rearing around my bed a wall
So high, the air seems damp and chill!
And I, imprisoned, mind and will!
0—it is dreary, one must own,
To stay all night in the house alone!

Thanks dear ones for every kindly word,
Affection ever sends her cheerful rays
Down, deep down into the imprisoned soul.
And though all is dark around her silent chambers
Are full of ht, with sympathy and love,
Our father leads us all, but most
He pities his poor sightless child!


Is all the world asleep or dead ?
It seems so still around my bed.
And yet if a slight noise I hear,
I start as if a ghost was near!
0—it is dreary one must own,
To stay all night in the house alone!
Ah-there's the clock! it's only one!
The midnight hour has but just gone!
When will the sluggard, laggard night
Draw back her curtains from the light?
0-it is dreary one must own,
To stay all night in the house alone!
“Tick,-tick," the busy clock works on,
Time drags the heavy hours along!
And morning always with her light
Has followed close the darkest night.
Yet it is dreary one must own,
To stay all night in the house alone!

I am thinking of thee to-night love
While the bright little stars above-love
Are looking at me, and winking,-
I'm looking at them and thinking, -
Thinking of thee, to-night love,
Not of the stars above, love,
But thinking of thee!

The sweet little flowers are asleep love,
The cool evening zephyrs now weep love-
But the bright little star-eyes keep winking,
And I'm looking at them and thinking,
Thinking how lonely and drear love,
Are pleasures when thou art not near love, -
Yes I am thinking of thee!

- From Don Chariot.

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