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Oh! if her heart is free of love's

Perfume as this, And if her lips so beautiful

Are cold to kiss,

Would that the white camellia

To red rose turn!
Would that the warmest flame of love
Her dear heart burn!

JOHN PATTERSON, -For The Magazine of Poetry.


A soul in unison with God,
As in life's path he trod.
Fearless! He nobly spoke the truth
Whilst even yet a youth.
Convinced of wrong, his voice rang out,
Clear and clean, o'er the shout
Of multitudes, and echoes yet,
Whilst they we all forget,
Who stood for compromise of sin,
Battles without, within.
With flesh of man, with soul of God,
He loved his native sod.
He worked and prayed with hand and brain
Rending slavery's chain.
A woman equal with a man
He held was God's own plan.
One a slave without the other,
Holding each a brother.
One cannot fall without a pall
Of darkness covers all.
Through the long tides of passing years
He doubtless had his fears,
Yet swerved he not; he ne'er forgot,
Nor does one blemish blot
His spotless life of love, yet strife.

Sharp are the thrusts of this keen-bladed wind

'Gainst which I hug my mantle; frosty grim

Its arctic surge into my eyes,-so dim With night and tears, I scarce my way can find; No sleighs to-night, with music ring behind,

T'o'ertake my wavering steps; no starry beam;

No skaters gliding o'er the frozen stream, With shouts and songs, sweet to the cheerful mind;

But the wild-wailing north, the courier-sweep
Of airy cars with frosted fire-dust laden,

Winter's white harvest, winnowing to and fro; Sad-hearted, I not care, though I should sleep Wrapt in a shroud cold as some hapless maiden Has wound about her by the outcast snow.

ARTHUR JOHN LOCKHART. -For The Magazine of Poetry.

Scorn like a keen-edged knife
Pierced through his soul. He sweeter sang,
Because the passing pang
Awoke new melodies to ring,
And freedom sooner bring.
Now his great soul has gone in peace,
From sorrows all surcease.
We know the welcome of his God
From the path he trod.

DAVID HENRY WRIGHT. -From Is Peace on Earth?


Two cities dwell within thy shadowy eyes,

Twin habitations where thy spirit dwells,

Remote, as visioned up by wizard spells, Where turrets, spires and columns dimly rise.

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Our fathers' God, -to Thee,
Author of liberty,

To thee we sing;
Long may our land be bright
With freedom's holy light, -
Protect us by Thy might,
Great God, our king.


Between the sea-cliffs and the sea-shore sleeps

A garden walled about with woodland, fair
As dreams that die or days that memory keeps

Alive in holier light and lovelier air
Than clothed them round long since and blessed

them there
With less benignant blessing, set less fast
For seal on spirit and sense, than time has cast
For all time on the dead and deathless past.
Beneath the trellised flowers, the flowers that shine

And lighten all the lustrous length of way
From terrace up to terrace, bear me sign

And keep me record how no word could say
What perfect pleasure of how pure a day



Years to a century had grown

Since the explorer hailed The signs o'er darkened seas unknown,

That proved he had not failed,

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The rose no more shall meet his ardent gaze,

Like tender blushes of the maiden June, For summer birds repeat for him their lays

He hears no tune.

Full-breasted Autumn, for the lusty throng

The harvest-feast shall spread with liberal hand; But he no more shall join their harvest-song,

Nor understand.

A light unshaken of the wind of time,

That laughs upon the thunder and the threat Of years that thicken and of clouds that climb

To put the stars out that they see not set,

And bid sweet memory's rapturous faith forget. But not the lightning shafts of change can slay The life of light that dies not with the day, The glad live past that cannot pass away. The many colored joys of dawn and noon

That lit with love a child's life and a boy's, And kept a man's in concord and in tune

With life-long music of memorial joys

Where thought held life and dream in equipoise, Even now make child and boy and man seem one, And days that dawned beneath the last year's sun As days that even ere childhood died were done.

When the faint pulsings of the earth shall cease,

And on her naked form the shroud be spread, He, like the snow-bound world, shall rest in peace,

For he is dead.

WALTER STORRS BIGELOW. -American Gardening, Nov., 1892.


The sun to sport in and the cliffs to scale,

The sea to clasp and wrestle with, till breath For rapture more than weariness would fail,

All-golden gifts of dawn, whose record saith

That time nor change may turn their life to death. Live not in loving thought alone, though there The life they live be lovelier than they were When clothed in present light and actual air. Sun, moon, and stars behold the land and sea

No less than ever lovely, bright as hope Could hover, or as happiness be;

Fair as of old the lawns to seaward slope, . The fields to seaward slant and close and ope;

There on top of the down, The wild heather round me and over me June's

high blue, When I looked at the bracken so bright and the

heather so brown, I thought to myself I would offer this book to you;

This, and my love together,

To you that are seventy-seven. With a faith as clear as the heights of the Juneblue heaven,

And a fancy as summer-new As the green of the bracken amid the gloom of the NOTES.


young lawyer was so much affected that it was the means of changing all his plans for life, and consecrating himself to Christ's service, he devoted himself with his whole heart to evangelistic work. Says Dr. Phelps: “I have had requests for autograph copies of this hymn and many testimonies concerning its helpfulness to others. I have heard it sung in various and distant parts of our land, on ocean steamers, and in other countries. A friend recently showed me a hymn book in the Swedish language containing it."

At the celebration of the author's seventieth birthday, with other letters, the following words of sincere congratulation from Rev. Robert Lowry, D. D., dated in Plainfield, N. J., May 13, 1886, were read: “It is worth living seventy years even if nothing comes of it but one such hymn as

Savior! thy dying love

Thou gavest me.

Read. “Sheridan's Ride" has been the most frequently quoted of Read's poems. It was written during the civil war. General Sheridan had defeated General Early at the battle of Winchester, 1864, and had driven him beyond Cedar Creek. General Early recovered his position, got his men into line, and turning upon his adversary, came near defeating Sheridan's army. Sheridan, hearing of the battle, rode rapidly up the valley, arriving at a most critical time. He rallied his men, and again succeeded in putting the enemy to rout. The poem was written shortly after, and soon found its way into almost every publication in the country, even including school readers.

Ibid. “America.” This passage was suggested by Power's statue of “ America."

Jackson. Emerson, when asked if Helen Hunt was not our best female poet, replied: “Why not omit the word female ?

Ware. “When Nature Wreathed Her Rosy Bowers,” is Mrs. Ware's first attempt at versemaking, and grew out of a desire to emulate her brother, who had already achieved some reputation as a poet. “My Brother” and “Beautiful Rest," are tributes to her brother.

HARRIS. “Stanzas" was written not a great while before Mr. Harris' death.

Phelps. Something for Thee.” This hymn, written in 1862, was first published in the Watchman and Reflector, and was copied into various other religious papers. Later, Rev. Robert Lowry requested Dr. Phelps to furnish some hymns for a collection he was preparing. Among other hymns placed in his hands was this one, and it appeared in “Pure Gold,” with the excellent music which Dr. Lowry composed for it, and with which it will always be associated. It also appeared in “Gospel Hymns,” No. 1, and later in numerous collections in this land and lands across the sea. It has been a most helpful hymn to many hearts. A minister in Glasgow says: “A large family joined my church lately. The mother told me she had first of all happened to drop into our chapel, while a stranger in Glasgow, when she was quite overcome, as if her heart were lifted up, with the people singing

'Something for Thee.'” Professor W. F. Sherwin, a few years ago, was holding a Sunday-school Institute in Maine, and during the singing of the third verse of this hymn a

Happy is the man who can produce one song which the world will keep on singing after its author shall have passed away. May the tuneful harp preserve its strings for many a long year yet, and the last song reach us only when it is time for the singer to take his place in the heavenly choir."

At the close of the reading of Dr. Lowry's letter, the congregation, filling the First Baptist Church, New Haven, Conn., at once arose and sang the hymn.

As here printed the hymn, slightly revised, is in the form the writer desires it to be used in collections or elsewhere.

S. D. P.

TENNYSON. This engraving is made from the last photograph taken of Lord Tennyson, in 1890. IBID

“The Charge of the Light Brigade," was written after reading the first report of the Times correspondent, where only 607 sabres are are mentioned as having taken part in the charge, and was first published in the Examiner, December 9th, 1854. The version now selected is that which the soldiers themselves selected from several different readings, and sang by their watch-fires in the Crimea. It bears many points of resemblance to Drayton's ballad of "The Battle of Agincourt."

W. D. A.

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