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CHARLES F. MARKELL.

It glows with the light

Of the love of my AnnieWith the thought of the light

Of the eyes of my Annie.

THE

ANNABEL LEE.

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea, That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of ANNABEL LEE; And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love-

I and my ANNABEL LEE;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
So that her highborn kinsman came

And bore her away from me, To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.

THE Markells of Maryland represent one of the

oldest and most distinguished families in the Commonwealth, its lineage being traceable back to the sixteenth century. The house is of FrancoPrussian origin, and from an old parchment in the possession of the subject of this sketch it is learned that the name was primitively spelled Marc-kell and that its ancestry did honorable service in the armies of Frederick William I. of Prussia and Louis XV. of France. But the fires of patriotism which burned upon the hearthtsones of the father-land lost none of their lustre when transplanted to American soil and upon the military annals of the Revolution and and war of 1812 the name is found conspicuous in the cause of freedom and defense of liberty.

Charles Frederick Markell was born in Frederick City, Md., October 16th, 1855 and locating, at an early age, with his parents, in the South, received an academic and collegiate education, graduating in 1874. From the Law Department of the Columbian University, Washington D. C. he was graduated, before attaining his majority with the highest honors, in 1876, where his legal essay was awarded the first competitive prize of forty dollars in gold. He was admitted to practice at the Bar of the Supreme Court of the District of Columbia, and after making an extended tour of Europe, returned to his native city where he has since been engaged in the active prosecution of his profession. Mr. Markell represented his county in the Maryland Legislature in 1884, where he served upon some of the most important committees and won the reputation of being the most polished speaker of that body. For three years he owned and edited a daily Republican newspaper and, being a fine orator and thoroughly conversant with the political issues of the day has always been active upon the rostrum in the advocacy of his party faith.

Literary in his tastes and studious in his habits, he has devoted much of his leisure time to the mastering of modern languages, historical investigation and local and biographical sketching. In 1886 appeared a small volume entitled “Chamodine" a collection of Mr. Markell's poems designed only for circulation among his coterie of friends several selections from which received the warmest encomiums of one of America's most venerable poets. Possessed of an intense imagination, bordering upon the wierd and melancholy, he is endowed with a strange combination of strong dramatic instinct and delicious versatile humor, and no one listening to his sparkling passes in polemics, his apt response at repartee and vivacity of conversation, would suspect

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,

Went envying her and meYes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea) "That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my ANNABEL LEE.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we

Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me

dreams Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE; And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling-my darling-my life and my bride,

In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

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CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES.

C

familiar figure for many years; an observant woman with a free and spontaneous mental life, and a manner full of sincere, genial kindness. Charlotte Fiske Bates has "a learned and a manly soul;" a republican, a poet, and a Christian.

L. I. G.

RISK.

In the quiet of the evening

Two are walking in unrest; Man has touched a jealous nature, —

Anger burns in woman's breast.

These are neither wed nor plighted,

Yet the maybe hangs as near And as fragrant as the wild-rose

Which their garments hardly clear.

And as briery, too, you fancy?

Well, perhaps so—some sad morn One or both may, for a moment,

Wish they never had been born.

Happy quips and honest pleadings

Meet with silence or a sneer; But more keenly has she listened

Since she vowed she would not hear.

HARLOTTE FISKE BATES, was born in

New York, 30th November, 1838. Her father died during her infancy, and her home, from the time she was in her eighth year almost up to her marriage was with her mother and family in Cambridge, the Cambridge which is not now on land or sea, inhabited by such a race of scholars and poets as her green elms shall not see again. Miss Bates attended the public schools of the town, and then engaged herself for twenty-five years in private teaching. She began to write at eighteen, and her first paid efforts appeared in the pages of “Our Young Folks." There is extant but one volume of her verse, “Risk and Other Poems," issued in 1879, though she has much in manuscript awaiting publication, and contributes occassionally to the periodicals. She has made two compilations from the work of her friend, Longfellow, and to his memory was dedicated her last gift to the reader, “The Cambridge Book of Poetry and Song," a large critical collection of British and American verse bearing the date of 1882, to which its publishers gave a pretty, but too local name. It was arranged entirely by herself; all the laborious details, save only the indexes, are the outcome of one woman's unassisted energy, during a period of fifteen months, or rather, of such leisure as she could spare, meanwhile, from many pressing duties. Her life has been a busy and quiet one, diversified during her literature, teaching days in a celebrated school in her native city, by the tragic-comedy of her reported death which most readers will remember. Despite the impending doom declared one night, by the physicians, she survived a well-nigh fatal attack of pneumonia, so that the recording angel has no such entry as that which figures in Mr. Douglas Sladen's Younger American Poets.” As Don Adriano says, in his mischief, “ the catastrophy is a nuptial.” Miss Bates, a year and a half afterward, contracted a posthumous marriage with M. Adolphe-Edouard Rogé, of New York City, which is certainly in every sense, a marriage made in heaven. She has done much for good causes, in this world, especially for those connected with her art, and has proved herself, once at least, a successful organizer. Alone, and under difficulties, she carried out the author's reading in Sander's Theater, Cambridge, which added a loyal emphasis and a considerable sum to the Longfellow memorial fund, and which won the warmest thanks of its off ial leaders. She has given some admirable lectures and readings of her own. In the literary air of Boston, she has been a

Now a great oak parts the pathway.

“Nature gratifies your mood: To the right,----let this divide you;

It will all be understood.”

So Caprice, with childish weakness,

Yet with subtley of thought, Whispered in the ear of woman.

Love, with dread, the answer sought.

Was it superstitious feeling

Struck at once the hearts of two? Had he seen proud eyes half-sorry

For what little feet must do?

For he stretched an arm towards her,

Folding nothing but the air, Saying nothing, -just the motion

Drew, without offending there.

In the quiet of the evening

Two are walking back again; At the oak their happy voices

Whisper of a vanished pain. What if they to-night be plighted,

And the maybe hangs more near And more fragrant than the wild-rose

Which their garments hardly clear!

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