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Do angels list, and bear away

Our every thought? And hovering near, are angels too,

With blessings fraught?

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I cannot say; but out beyond

The trials far And kind, and good, and firm, and clear

Across the bar

There reached an earthly hand. The years

Fold over ten
But still as good, as firm, as kind,

And clear, as when

The dark veil fell around, that hand

A brother's twine To prove on earth some hearts are pure

Yet claspeth mine.

OME writers study poetry first, and thus try to

be poetic; others are poetic and study laws of verse only to express themselves the better. Of this second and smaller class is Miss Sarah Suter Taylor, now Mrs. Wolverton. Always a lover of poetry, she expressed herself poetically before she was herself aware of her gift. Married early, engrossed in home cares, and saddened by severe disappointments, she did not give any special thought to poetic expression, till fourteen years after her marriage, when, becoming an invalid, she was given time to think, and her thoughts came in rhythmic rhyme.

It is now some thirty years since she began to publish any of her poems, and though subjected to so many trials, such perhaps as would have discouraged many another, she has written a great number of poems and a few poetic dialogues.

Her contributions have been printed in the Waverly Magazine, the Christian Register, Boston; Godey's Ladies Book, Scribner's Monthly, and Liberal Christian, New York, and many magazines, weeklies and dailies in Buffalo, Detroit and other cities.

Her personal life has been varied. She was born in Boston, Mass., and was there married at an early age to George W. Wolverton, a sea captain. A few years after their marriage he retired from the sea, and thereafter they made their home in the west, living for different periods in Buffalo and Detroit. Since her husband's death she has lived in Detroit. She has had four children, three of whom, two sons and a daughter, are now living. Her present life in Detroit in spite of her desire to make it rather quiet, is busy with the constant demands of the large social circle of which she is so prominent a factor.

L. S. M'C.

Have been, some days when doubt arose;

We see not plainThe sun-light fell across, and all

Was clear again.

I think God works on human lives

Through human means; And what men call, “but kindly acts,"

God's movements screen.


'Twas a beautiful harp! but no right hand

Had e'er over its life-cords swept; And so, through the years 'twere shutting it in,

In the hall it had quietly slept.

But the south wind came, and his breath was

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You must know how the great dark settles in ?

Sometimes not a sign nor a token; How the stars go out, how the moon is not?

It is so when some ties are broken.



I Think if I were dying, and you came

And took my trembling hand; And waited by me on the bank of what

They call the Border Land.

And said, in your kind, gentle voice, “Cross not

That rapid river, dear; 'Twould darker grow, if you were gone;

We'd miss your presence daily here."

I think I'd know the hand that held; new strength

Through every vein would thrill; While from the soundings of the heart would wake

To life the sleeping will.


September, 16th, 1844, in Stockton, Chautauqua county, N. Y. She is the youngest of nine children, all of whom are living. She is of English and Scotch descent, her ancestors having emmigrated to America in pre-Revolutionary times. Her great-uncle, Arthur Fenner, was one of the early governors of Rhode Island. Her ancestors were a vigorous and hardy race, remarkable for longevity, as well as for strength and vigor of intellect. Miss Johnson retains her full share of this constitutional and intellectual vigor, her appearance being that of a person at least fifteen years younger than her age ordinarily warrants. At an early age she exhibited a fondness for reading and study. When but seven years old she was reading biography and history. At that age she displayed a passion for poetry, but showed no disposition to write until eleven years of age. At that time an elder sister removed to Nebraska, whereupon wild with grief the little Gertrude hastened to her room and wrote the poem “To My Sister." Her mother read the verses with a smile of approval, but advised her not to attempt to write poetry until she was older. This advice was followed, and no other poem was produced or attempted until the age of sixteen, when the lines “Music Everywhere” was published. The next year she entered upon her chosen vocation as principal assistant in the Oreopolis Seminary, Oreopolis, Neb. From her entrance into the school-room she was a success, and enjoying her labor, she gave little time to poetry, writing only to gratily a desire to give play to thought. For the last fifteen years she has filled a lucrative position as grammar-school principal. She resides in Kansas City, Mo.

E. L. P.

I think my soul would stay its flight, nor care

Although I'd wandered far; The City gleamed but just before, and wide

The golden gates ajar.

Nor question aught of good or ill; I'd know

Joy in ourselves is found; That if our presence lendeth light, then will

Heaven lie all around.


SOLEMN and still on the outward wind

My thoughts went from me to-day And came to the couch where wearied, and wan,

The pride of our Nation lay. They saw the brave soldier, dowered with fame,

And honors, at home, and abroad, Who saved us our flag, who conquered a

Escaped both the bullet and sword.



Six years ago, O Autumn Rain,

I sang a little song to thee,
Not dreaming of the woe and pain
Those six short years would bring to me;

Not dreaming of the sighs and tears
Enveloped by those waiting years.

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O Autumn Rain! Gray Autumn Rain!

Again I sit and list to thee.
Thou seem'st to sing an olden strain
That fills my soul with melody.

Again I hear the laughs and lays,
The oft-sung songs of other days!


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A German maiden springs the warp,

And throws the shuttle to and fro, The while she sings a little song

In accents measured, sad, and low. The sun hangs low; through all the day

Her tears the warp and woof have steeped; And still, as at the early dawn,

She sings, Ich Liebie Ungeliebt.

The school is closed! the many little feet,

That oft have climbed the hill to meet me there, Are daily patt'ring now upon the street, While I about their wand'rings feel no care,

Nor wonder will they meet me late or soon;

Ich Ruhe Nun!
The school is closed! yet, mayhap, day-by-day,

The little ones will gather blooms of spring,
Or summer's brighter blossoms, by the way,
And to their teacher's silent mansion bring.

'Twould add another joy to this one boon;

Ich Ruhe Nun!
The school is closed! the fledglings stronger grown,

Will enter soon the world's unequal strife.
I, too, shall garner what my hands have sown,
And enter school within another life.

Waiting the Master's call, or late or soon,
Ich Ruhe Nun!

The sun goes down 'mid crimson clouds,

The west with glory is aflame; The shuttle still goes to and fro;

The maiden's song is still the same. The light goes out that, all the day

Through window, curtainless, has peeped; And still the wearied maiden toils,

And sings, Ich Liebe Ungeliebt.

Deep silence creeps o'er earth and sea;

A form behind the maiden stands, And watches while the maiden still

The shuttle throws with weary hands. The hands are prisoned by a pair

That all the day have bound and reaped; And now no more the maiden toils,

And sings, Ich Liebe Ungeliebt."

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