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What tho' ye search thro' hidden love
Of by-gone years, the names of yore

Renowned, to view unfold!
And then compare with Washington!
His name will blend these names in one"

Of sages, heroes old!
He fought not for an honored name
Tho' on his brow were marks of Fame

As if from Nature's hand-
Ah no! he e'en refused a throne
Declaring that he fought alone

To free his native land.

Each passing moment some frail mortal

To the Destroyer yields his breath, And enters the wide-open portal

To endless life, or endless death. Onward, still on! the foe is coming,

Concealed by midnight's gloomy hour, Or else abroad at noonday roaming,

Invisible, yet felt his pow'r;
No one can tell when it's approaching

With steps as silent as the grave;
Invading hut, palace, encroaching,

And laying low both king and slave. Onward, still on the way make ready,

The fell Destroyer 'll soon be here; While stalwart men with steps yet steady,

Staring aghast, turn pale with fear; For when the cheek begins its paling,

The death-dews settle on the brow, And poisoned vapors still inhaling,

The weary frame soon is laid low.

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Onward, still on the deep, deep ocean

Must have its victims to enwave, While through the earth a wild commotion

Is made by marchers to the grave. The beaten path they still are treading,

Which all the dead have trod before, While pale disease her ruin spreading,

Makes desolate each fertile shore.

Posterity will speak his praise
While Poets sing in Epic lays

His deeds worthy of Fame;
His star of glory ne'er will set,
For Freemen never can forget

Their benefactor's name!
And long while yon proud banner waves
Her stars and stripes o'er hallowed graves

Where rest our Fathers now,
And ages still on ages roll
His name on Fame's long written scroll

Will brighter, brighter glow!

Onward, still on! our days are fleeting,

Ah! fleeting as the passing cloud; The sum of life is e'er repeating,

“Man's days are few,” in accents loud. And yet mankind are busy seeking,

A shorter journey to the tomb, Though fate in thunder tones are speaking,

“They come, the rushing millions come!” Onward, still on! the dead and dying

Are scattered now from shore to shore, While in the East red war is crying,

Crying for human victims more. In every clime disease is raging,

And linked with war goes hand in hand, While famime some dire wrath presaging,

Threatens to devastate the land.


ONWARD, still on! the grave is yawning,

Aye, to receive earth's mighty dead; The day is come, the night is dawning,

When Death with millions must be fed.

Onward, still on! yet never ceasing,

The eager multitudes still come, While every day is still increasing

The travelers to the open tomb! List then, and hear the mighty tramping,

Proclaiming that we all must die; For on the grave there's no encamping,

Each one must pass its threshold by.

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in preparing that which later culminated in the Republican Party. Mr. Whittier was a voluminous writer and he has left a colossal monument which time will never efface.

H. M.

THE year of 1892 has come and gone, and it


He brought us wonders of the new and old.

We shared all climes with him. The Arab's tent

To him its story-telling secret lent,
And, pleased, we listened to the tales he told.
His task, beguiled with songs that shall endure,

In manly, honest thoroughness he wrought;

From humble home-lays to the heights of thought Slowly he climbed, but every step was sure. How, with the generous pride that friendship hath,

We, who so loved him, saw at last the crown

Of civic honor on his brows pressed down; Rejoiced, and knew not that the gift was death.

And now for him, whose praise in deafened ears Two nations speak, we answer but with tears.

-Bayard Taylor


taken from the world of letters four great poets; Whitman, Lowell, Whittier and Tennyson, each supreme in his own realm of versification. Of this notable quartette, Lowell and Tennyson more nearly resembled each other, while nothing could exceed the dissimilarity existing between Whittier and Whitman. Indeed, some have even gone so far as to say Whitman was not a poet. Poetical prose, is the title they bestow on his writings. Whittier's position, and his right to the bay have, however, never been questioned. His place in the hearts of the American people is unique, and can only find a parallel with that of Helen Hunt. Lowell, Longfellow, Holmes, and others of our poets are admired for the products of their genius, and a great amount of respect is felt towards the possessor of so manifestly great capabilities; but with Whittier, love mingles and even predominates in the tribute paid to him, and as the years roll on apace, it will come to be said how we admired those illustrious ones of the past, but how we loved the *Good Gray Poet."

John Greenleaf Whittier was born in Haverhill, Mass., December 17th, 1807. His parents were members of the Society of Friends, and to their beliefs and principles he adhered throughout his life. His American ancestry dates from the year 1638. Whittier was born on a farm, and his boyhood occupations were such as farmer's boys usually engage in. He learned shoemaking from one of the farm hands and by that means secured enough money to enable himself to attend Haverhillacademy six months during 1829. This served as a polishing to his previous education and he then began teaching in the district school of West Amesbury, which supplied him with the means for another six months in the academy. In his nineteenth year he began contributing poems, anonymously, to the Free Press, then edited by W. L. Garrison.

By this an acquaintance with Mr. Garrison was established, and thus was gained another pen to espouse the cause of the abolitionists. His father died and for five years Mr. Whittier conducted the farm. In 1835 he was sent to the general court from Haverhill. From the year 1829 he edited at different periods, the American Manufacturer, Boston, the Haverhill Gazette, the New England Weekly Review, Hartford, Conn., the Pennsylvania Freeman, Philadelphia, and the Middlesex Standard, Lowell, Mass. He was fearless in doing what he believed to be right, and he was a strong factor

His still the keen analysis

Of men and moods, electric wit, Free play of mirth and tenderness

To heal the slightest wound from it.
And his the pathos touching all

Lifes, sorrows and regrets,
It's hopes and fears, it's final call

And rest beneath the violets.
His sparkling surface scarce betrays

The thoughtful tide beneath it rolled,
The wishes of the latter days
And tender memories of the old.

-Our Autocrat.

Earth may not claim thee. Nothing here

Could be for thee a meet reward; Thine is a treasure far more dear,Eye hath not seen it, nor the ear

: Of living mortal heard The joys prepared, the promised bliss above, The holy presence of Eternal Love!

- The Female Martyr. PATIENCE.


There's quiet in that Angel's glance,
There's rest in his still countenance!
He mocks no grief with idle cheer,
Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear
But ills and woes he may not cure
He kindly trains us to endure.

- The Angel of Patience.

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He comes! he comes! the Frost Spirit comes,

and the quiet lake shall feel * The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to

the skater's heel; And the streams which danced on the broken rocks,

or sang to the leaning grass, Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.

- The Frost Spirit.

Oh! woman wronged can cherish hate
More deep and dark than manhood may.



Some gems

“O lady fair, I have yet a gem which a purer lustre

flings, Than the diamond flash of the jeweled crown on

the lofty brow of kings,A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, whose virtue

shall not decay, Whose light shall be as a spell to thee and a blessing on thy way!”

- The Vaudois Teacher,


“Ah, the cloud is dark, and day by day

I am moving thither;
I must pass beneath it on my way;
God pity me!-WHITHER?”

-My Soul and I.

Oh! when the soul, once pure and high,
Is stricken down from Virtue's sky,
As with the downcast star of morn,

of light are with it drawn,
And through its night of darkness, play
Some tokens of its primal day,
Some lofty feelings linger still;

The strength to dare, the nerve to meet

Whatever threatens with defeat
Its all indomitable will;
But lacks the mean of mind and heart,

Though eager for the gains of crime,

Oft, at his chosen place and time, The strength to bear his evil part, And, shielded by his very vice, Escapes from crime by cowardice.

'Tis springtime on the eastern hills!
Like torrents gush the summer rills;
Through winter's moss and dry dead leaves
The bladed grass revives and lives,
Pushes the mouldering waste away,
And glimpses to the April day.
In kindly shower and sunshine bud
The branches of the dull gray wood;
Out from its sunned and sheltered nooks
The blue eye of the violet looks;

The south west wind is warmly blowing,
And odors from the springing grass,
The pine-tree and the sassafras,
Are with it on its errands going.


The Present, the Present is all thou hast

For thy sure possessing;
Like the patriarch's angel hold it fast
Till it gives its blessing.



Like warp and woof all destinies

Are woven fast,
Linked in sympathy like the keys

Of an organ vast.
Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar;

Break but one
Of a thousand keys, and the paining jar
Through all will run.


‘Oh, in her meek, forgiving eye

There was a brightness not of mirth, A light whose clear intensity

Was borrowed not of earth.

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