REV. OLIVER CRANE, D. D. LIVER CRANE, clergyman, oriental scholar OLIV and poet, was born July 12th, 1822, in West Bloomfield, now Montclair, N. J.; graduated at Yale University in 1845 and Union Theological Seminary, New York City, in 1848. He has spent, at different periods, about nine years in the Turkish Empire, and has traveled extensively in different countries. He has been pastor of several churches in America, but since 1870 he has devoted his time largely to literary efforts. He published, in 1888, a unique translation of the Æneid of Virgil in dactylic hexameter, lineal and literal, and the following year a volume entitled "Minto and Other Poems." His varied scholarship has won for him repeated recognition, the honorary degree of M. A. having been conferred upon him by his Alma Mater in 1864, of M. D. by the Eclectic Medical College of New York City in 1867, of D. D. by the University of Wooster, Ohio, in 1880, and LL.D. by the Westminster College, of Fulton, Mo., in 1889. He was elected a corporate member of the American Oriental Society in 1865, and numerous other societies and associations since. He now lives in Boston in comparative retirement, still occupying his time in literary pursuits. H. B. C. SWEET ARE THE USES OF ADVERSITY. SHAKESPEARE, thou hast nodded too, Any honest mind can see How absurd is much assertion, And its only valid plea Is, it was a fool's diversion To applaud adversity. Can adversity have use, When the world a nuisance votes it? Any man who, in excuse, Other than at discount quotes it, In plain English, is a goose. Tell the debtor he is blest When his property is taken, When, by poverty oppressed, Home and all must be forsaken; He will tell you, "I know best." Tell the prisoner in chains, Sweet is his enforced confinement; He will tell you all his gains, By subservient resignment, Are his troubles for his pains. To the man who, scorched by heat, Sees his house reduced to ashes, Shakespeare's silly saw repeat. He will tell you forty lashes On his bare back are as sweet. Tell the soldier in the ranks, Vain is he by glory tempted, Victories are Fortunes blanks, And defeat, her prize preëmpted; Scorn will be his only thanks. Yet adversity, no doubt, Has advantages and uses; But it somehow comes about, That, when slipping out of nooses, Fools are in and rogues are out. Thieves and swindlers understand Call not, then, its uses sweet; Shakespeare, it was downright lying, And the man who will repeat What is common sense denying, Must be styled an arrant cheat. DIES IRE. DAY of judgment, awe-investing, What shall be the awful quaking, Peals the trump a blast astounding, Through sepulchral regions sounding, All the judgment-throne surrounding. Death aghast and nature trembling, When each creature shall, assembling, Give account without dissembling. Then shall be the volume tendered, E' EUGENIA PARHAM. 'UGENIA PARHAM was born in her father's country house, near Paducah, Ky., which home bore the poetic title of "Idlewild." Her father Dr. W. H. Parham, was a physician of ability. Dr. Parham moved to Blandville, Ky., in 1872, and it was at that place that much of Eugenia's early education was acquired. Her father, however, died before her education was completed, and she was largely left to her own resources. It is an interesting fact that a large proportion of successful women, as well as men, especially in the line of literature, were in early life teachers, and it was in this way that Miss Parham continued her education. The principal of the Blandville school soon perceived her great thirst for knowledge and her decided ability to acquire it, so he put her to teaching while she was yet a student under him. Miss Parham's success was such that she was invited to teach in the city schools of Paducah, where she taught for six years. Her religious faith is that of the Disciples of Christ. When the Disciples established West Kentucky College, she was made principal of the normal department, which she conducted three years. Later she became principal of the department of literature in the Judson Female Institute, in Marion, Ala. While teaching has been Miss Parham's chosen profession, circumstances at one time caused her to give some attention to journalism. Before she moved to Paducah, she edited for a time a weekly paper called the Blandville News. J. W. L. TWO LIVES. Two sons from out two distant homes one day Went bravely forth in life to win a way. And one had wealth to shield him from rough cares; The other, poorer, took his mother's prayers. One sought and found high honors at his hand; One fought to gain a place whereon to stand. One found his path thick-strewn with roses sweet; One struggled long through thorns, with bleeding feet. One came at noon, wealth gone and flowers dead; One stood in calm with sunshine round his head. One fell beneath temptation's wiles, unarmed; The other stood amid all dangers still unharmed. VANISHED. WHEN suddenly there passes from your sight, By which to measure your ambitition's pace, It in your loneliest hour, then you may know OVERRULED. We look into to-morrow, and we dream cheer Of happiness long sought, and faintly hear The imagined sound of melodies, which seem To float triumphant to our human realm; But when the night has passed, unto our ear Come tones, faint-touched, from chords no mortal seer Has heard, and through the strange, new day there gleam Visions of things we had not planned nor known; A HAPPY WOMAN. "I SHALL be happy!" she said, As she gathered the poppies white and red. “I will pull the blue grapes over the wall And sit in the shade and eat them all, And count the butterflies one by one, As they fly along in the morning sun. I shall be happy," she said. "I shall be happy," she said, As they placed the orange-wreath on her head; "Life will be lovely and love will be true, I shall drink the wine without the rue; I will share my joy with the poor and sad And help to make the world more glad. I shall be happy," she said. THE Woods are bare, which erst awhile were green Of perfumed breeze; far as the longing eye THE PAST. OH the dear, dead days that sleep In the tangled vales so deep Of the Past! And the faiths, and loves, and dreams Forever by their shadowy gleams Overcast! Oh, the hopes that in them lie, Coffined in a mute good bye Of despair! And the faded flowers that rest In still hands that we have pressed, Hands, so fair! Dear, dead days! forever gone! Whither, we can know not; God alone Holds the key Of thy keeping; but the soul Shall thy treasures all unroll In eternity. THE OLD YEAR. AGAIN the Christmas bells have rung The old year out forever; Its shadow on the white sands flung Shall cross Time's threshold never. No more its breathing hours shall swell Nor pæan grand, nor dirge, shall tell Its waves have swept the strand where, lo! Eternal silence guides it, we but know The mystery of its hidden trust, Of faiths grown weak, or stronger. Of coffin-lids beneath which lie Has told of springtime's bloom of light, And flowers of summer's wooing, Now drifted into heaps of white, That lonely graves are strewing; Of cross, and crown, and scepter bright, All fallen low together; Emblems of lives whose silent flight Went, asking, "Why" and "whither." We see not, hear not, but some hand Like life, like death, we trust that still There lies a "Somewhere" that shall thrill Where mist and shadow, dust and death Shall vanish but as mortal breath, NIGHT. And yet in heaven, they say, No night! Oh, glorious one! Oh, hidden thought of God! What beauties then, undone, Shall fall from out thy shroud? -Night. |