Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

She's mine! she's mine! and mine has been

More years than e'er she knew Ulysses; For me she waits her bower within,

For me she keeps her ruby kisses.

In Arbor vita's deepest shade

With other fairy forms I found her; The shamrock was her waiting maid,

And Hypnum splendens nestled round her.

And sprang from his mattress, bolt upright,
And tore his coverlet all to strings,
And quoted a number of hackneyed things
Rebuking the maiden's wanton freak,
And all he did the following week,
Of any account, was to grumble and cry.
But Luna, esteemed, demure and shy,
Leaned back her shoulders against the sky,

And snapped her fingers, and laughed, and said,
“I'm laughing at Tellus; but really I'm glad
That Summer has once in kindness dared
To kiss old Winter, in spite of his beard."
And Luna was right; and I'm prepared

To open my window and sing,
Thank God for the sunshine of Winter.

So coy, so pure, my word upon't

Not e'en a bumblebee had kissed her, But come in May-time to Vermont,

I'll introduce you to her sister.

DICKENS.

FROM THE CLASS POEM.

1874. O DARTMOUTH's Melpomene, gracefully green!

My Pegasus prances, unheeding my rein, Bellerophone's temple will surely be mine,

Unless I'm upholden by one of the Nine.

Oft as we turn we catch the gleam again
Of pearly lines that flowed from Dicken's pen!
In words as changeful as the floating smoke,
In simple Saxon clad, his genius spoke.
Now sad, now glad, now tender, now severe,
He quells a laugh to shed the pitying tear,
And laughs again before the tear is dry,
Then turns to hiss demure hypocracy;
Though aiming still to please the vicious herd
He aims a blow at thee with every word.
Howe'er he sings, as bard or mad buffoon,
His thought is harmony if wild the tune,
And when the lighter tones have died away,
A pregnant after-thought concludes the lay
That bears a balmy meaning ever new,
And lives for aye because so grandly true.

And therefore, Melpomene, Pegasus guide,

With saddle and pillion together we'll ride O'er mountain and river, o'er present and past,

While Logic and History watch us, aghast.

In general keep th' equatorial tract,

Between the dominions of fancy and fact, Where rythmical metaphors float on the breeze,

And similes sit in the shade of the trees.

[blocks in formation]

JANE E. D. CONKLIN.

Will there be thought, word, deed, of yours or mine,

So pure, so spotless, it can bear the light
In His dread presence, of whom Scriptures say

The very heavens are not clean in His sight?

JAN

Will there be prayer that had no taint of sin ?

A cup of water that recked no reward ? A deed of alms that glorified not self?

A talent consecrated to the Lord ?

A world renounced on which we looked not back?

Our dearest wish and our own will foregone? The furnace fires cheerfully endured ?

The rod of discipline in meekness borne ?

Shall we find aught that would adorn a crown?

One act that aimed not at some selfish end? Our best endeavors, if probed to the root,

Did they not to self-gratulation tend?

How then, in that day, shall we dare to raise

Our eyes unto the very lowest place, Save that the dear Redeemer's precious blood

Can make us fit to stand before his face?

ANE ELIZABETH DEXTER was born in

Utica, N. Y. Her great-grandfather, Gregor Grant, of Abernethy, Scotland, came to America in 1774. He joined the Continental army and served during the Revolutionary War. Her mother was the daughter of William W. Williams, architect, of Albany, N. Y. He spent two years in the city of Washington, superintending repairs on the Capitol. During that time he made the acquaintance of Mr. Custis, a nephew of General Washington, an acquaintance which ripened into a warm friendship, and when Mr. Williams was about to return to Albany, Mr. Custis presented him with a table which had belonged to General Washington. The table is now in Mrs. Conklin's possession. Mrs. Conklin's father was born in Paris, N. Y. His father had removed to that place from Mansfield, Conn., in the latter part of the last century. He was a cousin of John G. Saxe, the poet. From her earliest childhood Mrs. Conklin was fond of poetry. She received her education in the Utica Female Academy and in Mrs. Brinkerhoff's School for Young Ladies, in Albany, N. Y. Her first composition was written in verse. When she was fourteen years old her poems were first given to the public, and since that time she has been continuously writing. While none of her poems are strictly hymns, many of them are sung in religious meetings. She was for many years a regular contributor to the Gospel Messenger, a religious weekly published in Utica. She also wrote for a New York weekly and for several local papers, for which she wrote prose articles as well as poetry. In December, 1865, she was married to Cramer H. Conklin, a veteran of the late war, and since that time she has lived in Binghamton, N. Y. Mrs. Conklin always took great interest in the War of the Rebellion and in the defenders of the Republic. When the G. A. R. Post, to which her husband belongs, formed a relief corps of the wives and daughters of the members, her name was one of the first signed to a call for a charter. Shortly after the corps was organized she was elected its president, and for three years held that office. In 1884 she published a book of poems, which has been favorably received. She has in preparation a second volume of poems.

C. E. T.

DOWN FROM THE MOUNTAIN.

Down from the cloud-capped mountain, down,
By the winding foot-path into the town;
Down through the woodland, cool and sweet,
With the slippery pine-leaves 'neath the feet.

Down by the quarry's shelving ledge,
Where gentian and peppermint fringe the edge;
Down through the meadows, shining bright,
With the dew-drop tears of the gloomy night.

Down through the fields where the waving corn
Glints in the light of the early morn;
Down through the groves where the whispering

breeze
Tells its love-tale to the answering trees.

Over the plank that bridges the brook,
Where urchins are angling with pin for a hook;
Down past that silent town where, you know,
“The houses are all alike, in a row.”

IN THAT DAY.

Down where the orchard's bending boughs
Droop to the reach of the dappled cows;
And so by the foot-path winding down,
The traveler comes to the bustling town.
The town with its pavements’ burning glow,
Where so little is real and so much is show;
The town where the only birds that sing
Are those that never have freedom of wing.

When you and I shall stand before the gates

Which open to the new Jerusalem, Scanning the record of our life, shall we

Find aught whereof to weave a diadem ?

HARRY F. O'BEIRNE.

The town where the rich, if not happy, are gay, And the poor toil on in their plodding way; Where the poet dreams within attic bounds, And heaps up words into shapely mounds.

[ocr errors]

Where the painter pictures, in colors bright,
The scenes that never have greeted his sight;
Where the bride, as she turns from the sacred fane,
Meets at the door a funeral train.

Where riches and squalor alike abide, And but few may walk the patrician side; The busy town where the buzz of mill And the hum of steam are never still.

Where the streets are filled with a merry throng,
And the air is a-stir with music and song;
And so, from the heaven-kissed mountain down,
The traveler passed through the dusty town-

The town with its sights, its clatter and heat, Its palace-like mansions, its home-lawns neat. He thought of the hillside's daisied bloom, The clover and sweet-brier's wild perfume.

These he matched with the town's unsavory smells,
The mountain's springs, with its covered wells,
And of noisy town or country's rest,
The traveler pondered which was best.

generously, from time to time, to the current literature of our country. These are Mollie Moore, Lou Bedford, Belle Hunt and H. F. O'Beirne. The latter was born in Ireland, May 8th, 1857. His father, Edmond O'Beirne, still living, was a prosperous banker. His mother, a member of the Baron and Netterville families—the latter being the oldest title in the Irish Peerage. Their son, Harry, was educated in a French college, where he rapidly acquired a knowledge of that language, making wonderful progress in the classics at an early age. At sixteen he left college, bearing with him the largest number of prizes ever before conferred upon a pupil of that institution. From that day he ceased study and launched widely into the pleasures of the chase with his brother, one of the famous fox hunters of the day.

Harry was proficient in field sports and reveled only in forest, field and stream; but there was something better beneath the surface of this implacable pursuer of partridge and speckled trout. From May, 1872, dates his first poem, “The Wild Bee," contributed to and published in Chambers' Journal (England). Then followed others till the fall of 1873, when his father, meeting with reverses, emigrated with his family to Dallas, Tex. But Harry preferring forest over home life, became a hunter and hung upon the border till January, 1876, when he organized a prolonged expedition in company with his brother, Captain Jameson, of Stanley notoriety, and Messrs Elliott and Rosevelt, of New York. The party breaking up in three months the brothers remained upon the frontier till 1879. Those years were rife with adventure for Mr. O'Beirne, who joined in every possible adventure against the hostile Indians with that wild yearning for excitement, which is the biggest part of his nature. But the border days were over in 1881 and he bade a sorrowful farewell to the scenes of his former thrilling life. From 1885 until 1889 we find him in company with his brother, E. S. O'Beirne, conducting the National Organ of the Choctaw Nation (Indian Territory)-a journal established by themselves and well conducted. In conjunction with this brother, Mr. O'Beirne has published a handsomely illustrated work, entitled "Indian Territory." His love for the aboriginal races is remarkable.

Since the summer of 1890 he has been engaged in writing a historical and biographical work on the Five Civilized Tribes, profusely illustrated, the first volume of which appeared in

ALONE.

I am sitting alone in the twilight,

And watching the shadows gray, That are creeping over the tree-tops,

And chasing the light away.

While the dear ones fondly remembered,

Gather around in the gloom,
And memory's beautiful pictures

Are filling my little room.
I am listening again to the voices

That charmed me in days of yore. “ The shadow goes back on the dial,”

And I am a child once more.

And I stand in the dear old home again,

With a loving hand in mine, Where the crimson roses are blending

Their bloom with the fragrant vine.

Once more—but the vision has faded,

Those voices are hushed in the tomb; Dear forms and loved faces have vanished,

Alone, alone in the gloom.

[graphic][merged small][merged small][merged small][graphic][ocr errors]
« AnteriorContinuar »