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WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

O POET, crowned with song's supremest powers,
Who, in that realm from sin and death apart,
Dost link responsive to our yearning heart
The Infinite with some stray chord of ours!
As longing Nature greets the sky-born showers,
Bidding a barren earth in verdure start,
Oh, would that we by thine inspiring art
Might weave thee garlands eloquent in flowers!
And June is here,- Interpeter, who fled,
Her halo still upon thy laureled head,
Divinely bright while countless ages roll,—
Thy pure eyes glow a June-day's ardent fire;
June symphonies awake within the lyre
A June of transport to enthrall our soul!

GALATEA.

ART thou a dream? When fled to thine
This dark imprisoned heart of mine,
Thy soul ordained from its high throne
Warm life unto the willing stone;-
Henceforth to breath the air divine.

Thy presence holdeth love's rich wine,
Around thyself my thoughts entwine-
So sure to sweet support is grown,
Art thou a dream.

Thine absence ne'er to me is known,
Where'er on earth is beauty shown
I see thee! Ah, Pygmalion, mine
Thou art, as thou hast made me thine!
But thou, dread silence of the stone,
Art thou a dream!

IN THE CEMETERY AT FRANKFORT.

I WANDER in a city, tranquil, fair,

Upon whose towers the sun's departing beam
Bespeaks the sweet surcease of human care;
Below, the music of a winding stream;
Above, bird songs in the rich, dreamy air,

And still above, blue heavens of which we dream, And souls of them who sleep the glory wear.

They sleep, to wake unfettered of the clay—
Dear forms who bore unknown, life's better part
And softly stole upon the heavenly way;

The brave, enshrined within a nation's heartAre they unmindful of our love to-day?

Each soul, well-rounded howso'er thou art, Eternity be good to thee, we pray!

I wander in a city, tranquil, fair,

I can but think, of all earth's joy 'twere best To sleep amid so much of beauty there,

Resigning all on Nature's tender breast, Far from the strife of worlds that do and dare! O blest foreshadow of most perfect rest! O heights of God-the soul's eternal share!

HEART OF THE ROSE.

WHO knows the inmost heart of the rose,
Treasure hidden of sun and dew?
Knows ere the wizard Junes unclose
Its magical meaning, who?
Ere the eager, lightsome wind doth woo,
And waft its fragrance,―heart of the rose,
Who knows?

Altho' in my heart thy beauty grows,

Purely my Love, and still more true,
Not yet of thy deepest heart disclose,
Till I, of the longing view,

May wear thee worthily, without rue;
My June, the fairest that Nature knows,
My Rose!

A ROSE.

(Pressed in a favorite volume of the In Memoriam of Tennyson.)

Is aught so sweet as is this faded rose?
But for its fragrance I had passed it by.
In this forgotten corner, wreathed in snows,
Shrouded in damask, lost and left to die,
It lay, till haply did its heart unclose

Her sorrow to a tender-hearted breeze. And in that self-same corner there mused I All in a waste of thoughts like unto these: All glory in oblivion must lie,

All beauty know consuming earth and cease.

And then that breeze love-blown sighed softly

near,

Inside my window, tenderest breath that blows Rose of the ruin and the dust of here,

And minded me of that neglected rose;

I found, I clasped it with a hungry cheer,
I buried it, a death that was a life,
Atween the lines of this immortal song,

And be, to whomso reads, this meaning rise,
This added grace, if aught so sweet belong
To earth or heav'n as is a faded life!

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L

LUCIE C. HAGER.

UCIE CAROLINE HAGER was born in

Littleton, Mass., December 29th, 1853. Her parents were Robert Dunn Gilson and Lydia Gilson. There were nine children in the family, of whom Mrs. Hager was the youngest. Heavy and peculiar trials attended her childhood, which were calculated to expel poetic aspirations from a mind less delicately and sensitively organized, supplanting them by practical thoughts and tendencies, yet these circumstances deepened and intensified her poetical nature, while the more practical side of her character was strongly developed. She had a thirst for knowledge and used all available means to satisfy it. Having entered the Normal School in Framingham, Mass., in 1875, she was recalled to her home during the first weeks of the school year, and her studies were exchanged for days of patient watching with the sick, or such employment as she could obtain near her home.

Her first poems appeared at that time. With such private instruction as her country home afforded, she again took up her studies, becoming in time a successful teacher of country schools and later a book-keeper. In October, 1882, her marriage to Mr. Simon B. Hager occurred. She has one child, a boy. Most of her poems have appeared over the name "Lucie C. Gilson."

She has also written a number of short prose stories. Her estimate of her own work is modest in the extreme and she has done little to bring herself before the public. Mrs. Hager has recently written and published a very interesting history of the town in which she resides, "Roxborough, a New England Town and its People."

SOWING AND REAPING.

J. M. R.

In spring we plough the field and till the soil,
And sow the tiny seeds on either hand,
And soon, repaying, as it were, our toil,

The blades of green begin to clothe the land.

Then carefully we work, we watch, we wait, While nourished by the summer sun and rain, Till 'neath the autumn skies with hearts elate, We gather in at last the ripened grain.

And so, if we, in Life's fair autumn days,

Would garner in the fruit of loving deeds, Of Christian word and work, in all our ways, We must in early springtime sow the seeds.

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Sometimes in the earth-strife, weary, Cheered not by kind look or tone, We forget Life's journey, dreary, Leadeth daily nearer Home.

We forget no crown is given

Him who doth the cross disown; Brighter, that for which we've striven, When at last we're gathered Home.

Sweet the rest enjoyed at even,

When the laborer's toil is done, Sweeter far the rest of Heaven,

When the Father calls, “Come Home."

"Almost Home!" O, Father guide me Upward till I reach Thy throne; From earth's bitter tempests hide me, Take my hand and lead me home.

HERE AND THERE.

A LITTLE Weeping over glad hopes perished,
A little laying down of work begun,
A little giving up of treasure cherished,

A little mourning o'er the task undone.
A little bearing of the burdens, resting

In Him who ever doeth what is best, A little longer here, the billows breasting, Which else would bear us farther from our rest.

And there beside the quiet crystal river,

'Mid pastures green and fair shall we repose; No tears shall dim the eyes nor sorrow ever Shall enter there nor aught of human woes; The Savior's presence makes the whole land glorious,

And there at last, we'll see Him face to face, When over all these earthly things victorious We enter into Heaven, our dwelling place.

ARBUTUS.

On a brown and sheltered hillside,
'Neath the trees with leaflets sere,
'Mid the mosses and the litchens,
In the morning of the year,
While the wind of early springtime
Through the pine grove sobs and grieves,
Gathered we the pale sweet flowers

From their nest beneath the leaves.
Fragrant, frail arbutus blossoms,
Waxen, spotless as the snow;
Just as sweet, and pure, and fragrant,
As they were a year ago.

One short year ago and round me
Friendship bound her silken thread;
O'er my shadowy way her radiance
Like a living glory spread.
And the rocky path and thorny

Smoother grew beneath my feet,
And beside it, just beyond me,

Bloomed hope's flowerets, fair and sweet.
But the springtime merged in summer,
And the autumn days drew near;
And the heavens grew dark and threatening,
And the leaves fell brown and sere.
Winter came, and o'er life's landscape
Fell a mantle cold and white,
All the radiance and the beauty

Shut forever from my sight.
Spring brings not to me the friendship
That the winter stole away,

But the frail, sweet springtime blossoms
Changeless come to cheer each day.

A THOUGHT.

GLAD sunshine clothes the world to-day, And, as we feel its cheering ray,

So full of light and warmth, we say,

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Oh, would 'twere always thus to stay! The hills and vales are glorified;

O, that no cloud might never hide
This flood of light, this glorious tide
Of sunshine, sweeping far and wide."
But ah! if clouds ne'er hid from sight

The sunny heavens so high,
We might not think to prize the light
That floods the cloudless sky.

So earthly friends are near to-day,
And as we feel Love's cheering ray
Diffused from heart to heart, we say,
"Would life were full of joy alway.
Let not Oblivion's depths ne'er hide
A love which has so beautified
And quickened all the sluggish tide
Of hearts to friendship ne'er allied.”
And yet, if friendship ne'er took flight,
If friends ne'er passed us by,
We might forget to prize the light
That rifts the clouded sky.

TWILIGHT.

THE day with its cares is closing,
And the twilight shades enfold
The grey old hills,

The rocks and rills,

And the pines beyond the wold.

-Work for God.

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