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PROGRESS. We sleep and wake and sleep, but all things move; The sun flies forward to his brother sun; The dark earth follows wheel'd in her ellipse; And human things returning on themselves Move onward, leading up the golden year.
- The Golden Year.
And forth into the fields I went,
- The Two Voices.
Whatever crazy sorrow saith,
- The Cup.
- Merlin and Vivien.
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.
- In Memoriam. SORROW.
Never morning wore
For fear divine Philosophy
Should push beyond her mark, and be
LIFE. Two children in two neighbor villages Playing mad pranks along the healthy leas; Two strangers meeting at a festival; Two lovers whispering by an orchard wall; Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease; Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower Wash'd with still rains and daisy-blossomed; Two children in one hamlet born and bred; So runs the round of life from hour to hour.
SPRING. In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the
robin's breast; In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself
another crest; In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd
dove; In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.
KISS. And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips.
Love is love for evermore.
WIFE. My name, once mine, now thine, is closelier mine, For fame, could fame be mine, that fame were
thine, And shame, could shame be thine, that shame were
mine. So trust me not at all, or all in all. -Ibid.
Comfort ? comfort scorn'd of devils! this is truth
the poet sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.
Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping
something new; That which they have done but earnest of the things
that they shall do; For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could
see; Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder
that would be; Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of
magic sails; Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales.
FLOWERS. Dead mountain flowers, dead mountain-meadow
flowers, Dearer than when you made your mountain gay, Sweeter than any violet of to-day, Richer than all the wide world-wealth of May, To me, tho' all your bloom has died away, You bloom again, dead mountain-meadow flowers.
BIRDS. “These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you
they sing Like poets, from the vanity of song? Or have they any sense of why they sing? And would they praise the heavens for what they have?”
- The Gardener's Daughter.
He had never kindly heart,
- The Princess.
MARRIAGE. Woman is not undevelopt man, But diverse; could we make her as the man, Sweet Love were slain; his dearest bond is this, Not like to like, but like in difference. Yet in the long years liker must they grow. The man be more of woman, she of man; He gain in sweetness and in moral height, Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world; She mental breadth nor fail in childward care, Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind; Till at the last she set herself to man, Like perfect music into noble words.
-Ibid. NIGHT. “Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font; The fire-fly wakens.”
PEACE. Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days
gone by, When the poor are hovel'd and hustled together,
each sex, like swine; When only the leger lives, and when only not all
men lie; Peace in her vineyard-yes!—but a company forges the wine.
Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells-
CORELLI C. W. SIMPSON.
We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair
in her flower; Do we move ourselves, or are moved by an unseen
hand at a game That pushes us off from the board, and others ever
succeed? Ah yet, we cannot be kind to each other here for
an hour; We whisper, and hint, and chuckle, and grin at a
brother's shame; However we brave it out, we men are a little breed.
Love that hath us in the net
Ah, no! no!
MONG the charming residences which make
Bangor the favorite city of homes in the Pine Tree State, that over which Mrs. Corelli C. W. Simpson presides with graceful hospitality is well known and delightful. To this happy wife and mother, in a home which gives pleasure to all her friends, the poetic gift is the crowning happiness of her life. Mrs. Simpson was one of twin daughters born to Capt. Francis Dighton Williams in Taunton, Mass., February 20, 1837. She is justifiably proud of the best New England ancestry on her father's side and also that of her mother, Corelli Caswell. Her grandfather, Cyrus Caswell, who was a lover of music, gave to his daughter the Italian name Corelli, from an air he was fond of playing on his violin. She handed it down by giving to her twin daughters the names Corelli and Salome. So much alike were these little sisters that they were designated, even in the family, by their pink and blue ribbons, and in maturer life the resemblance is still remarkable.
Corelli C. Williams was thoroughly educated in schools both public and private, chiefly the Bristol Academy and Taunton High School. After visiting Bangor, Me., she opened the first kindergarten known in that city in 1864. A hearty lover of children, cheerful, sympathetic and unwearied in her efforts, she became at once very popular, and it is not strange that A. L. Simpson, a member of the Penobscot bar and at that time a widower, as he led his little Gertrude daily to the kindergarten teacher, should perceive her rare qualities and covet the happiness of leading the teacher herself to preside over his home. They were married September 20, 1865. In December, 1866, the little Gertrude welcomed a sister Maude, and the family circle was complete on May 22, 1872, upon the advent of a son, Howard Williams, at present a law student in his father's office. Mrs. Simpson has written her poems in moments of inspiration and not as a serious task. Overflowing with enthusiasm and ardor, she finds in verse the natural expression of her feelings. Her writings have appeared in various popular periodicals, and are always warmly received. A few years ago a fair for the benefit of the Young Men's Christian Association was held in Bangor, and she was applied to for something saleable. The result was a Tête-à-Tête Cook Book, a gem of culinary art, the most of its delicious recipes being original with her, and this dainty work had an immense sale. She has since had a second copyrighted edition published. She has absolutely perfect health, and walks frequently five or six
O dear spirit half-lost
Soiling another will never make one's self clean.
- The Grandmother.