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Thine is an honor of so vast a kind
That, once within its radiated gleam,
The noble wish that right shall reign supreme. The path of perfect justice thou dost take;
Sweet virtue's halo thou dost aye retain; And seeing thee so loved for honor's sake,
The humblest of thy race doth courage gain. The baby yet unborn thy name shall hear
Dropped in some tender mother's rev'rent voice. The unborn patriot shall thy name revere,
And in its deathless strength for aye rejoice. The hero of a carnival of deeds
Thine earthly battles all are fought and won. Our love alone thy greatness still exceeds,
So sink to rest in glory-like the sun.
O happy bird, with weary, drooping wing,
The shadows gather, leave thy growing nest. Cease work while still thou hast the heart to sing;
Fly to thy shady home, sweet bird, and rest. O happy mother, with unnumbered cares,
Fold thy dear hands, the working hours are o'er. Put gladly far away the toil that wears,
And let thy soul expand and bloom once more. O man with wrinkled brow, on gain intent,
The calm night comes, put worldly ways aside. To labor always was not what God meant;
Smooth out thy brow and now with love abide. The body is not all, nor wealth, nor toil;
Far more the inner growth, the soul's expanse; Enough is wealth. God's purpose do not foil
In striving sore for pomp and circumstance.
OUR HARVEST YEARS.
I stood upon the ocean's brink at dawn
looms; How dread, how overwhelming, and how full Of unborn terrors doth it seem to us; But when we wait, God's smile doth soon light up Its darkest depths, and then we see 'twas but A golden glory for our soul's best good.
When russet apples turn each bronzéd cheek
Thus, in our human lives, those years are best,
THE TIME FOR REST.
O HAPPY bee, so heavy-laden, fly!
The shadows deepen in the valleys low; Still for another night let some sweets lie;
Fly homeward in the sun's last rosy glow.
How tenderly about earth's russet breast
The yellow leaves are clinging; With what a light and careless air of rest
The lazy bees are singing.
LYDIA HOYT FARMER.
The science of life revealed to sight,
Its hidden force
He might reveal.
women, was born in the city of Cleveland, July 19, 1842, to Hon. J. M. Hoyt, of Cleveland, and Mary Ella Beebe, daughter of Alexander M. Beebe, LL. D. of New York. Of such a parentage it would only be natural that Lydia Hoyt would receive the best educational advantages, and having a special fondness and aptitude for the arts, her tastes and inclinations were indulged to their fullest bent. She was born under a lucky plant, having escaped the toils and privation which is the lot of so many. Unlike many children of the wealthier class, however, she improved and made use of the talents given her, so that she is a most fitting representative of a family already numbering many illustrious names in its annals. Her husband, Hon. E. J. Farmer, of Cleveland, is the author of several works on politics and finance. For the past ten years Mrs. Farmer has contributed to the leading newspapers and magazines, on various lines: poems, essays, juvenile stories, historical sketches and novels. She is of a deeply religious nature, and endeavors to tinge all her writings with a moral as well as an amusing sentiment. She is now editing for the Woman's Department of the Columbian Exposition “What America Owes to Women," a souvenir for the National Exposition.
What is thy power, O King of Day!
Of living germ?
Then written on the sunbeams bright, In shining words of golden light, Flashed forth this answer from the sky: “All life proceeds from God on high,
THE FIRST GREAT CAUSE!”
THE PENALTY OF FAME.
THE SCIENCE OF LIFE.
I sought to learn the cause of things;
From whence its life?
"I would be great, O Lord!” in ignorance I plead. “I would some mighty task perform in this short
life; I would my name were carven by Fame's keen
edged knife, Upon the highest mountain-peak of human deed!" Then did the Lord a vision show that I might read
Therein the story of the lives of weary strife,
life Made by the bruised feet, poisoned by envy's weed,
And torn by the sharp rocks of cruel adversity. The vision passed, and then I prayed with fervent
voice: "Permit me, O my God, to dwell in valleys low Of humble duties; there will I gladly serve Thee. But if the Mount of Difficulty be Thy choice, May the Love-light from Calv'ry's Cross upon
I walked through science-beaten tracts,
The key to life.
I whispered to the lily white,
It is the sun!”
I asked the proudly prancing steed, From whence its action and its speed; But still the puzzling answer came, The energy of life the same,
The sunbeam's power.
If is a word born of sad human doubt;
There is no If, with the great God above;
“I WILL!" is His mandate of pow'r and love, And Heaven and earth obey with glad shout; For Divine Will and Pow'r all chances rout,
When we are sheltered in Infinite Love,