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“Heart to heart," you said, we shall meet again,

The parting lie all behind us,
And only the rapture of meeting then

Shall of these days remind us."
Our lips in a lingering pressure met,

And our tears, rebellious, started; With one last look in eyes dim and wet,

With a kiss and a prayer we parted. One to wander the wide world o'er,

Nor peace nor contentment gaining;
One to dream of the days no more,

In sorrow behind remaining.
And never on earth, in the ways of men,

While the bonds of life shall bind us,
Shall we meet, lost love, heart to heart again,

And the parting lie all behind us.


N GLANCING over the columns of the press a

poem sometimes catches the eye which touches a chord long silent in the heart; a verse which remains in the memory and we wonder idly who is the writer. One perhaps unknown to fame, but singing on with as sweet and pure a note as that which ripples from the throat of some bird which warbles near our window and charms us with its melody. Among the floating poems of the press for several years past, have appeared from time to time verses from the pen of Mrs. Farrand.

May Spencer was born in Philadelphia in 1868. Her early life was passed in Chicago, where she attended school until she was eleven years of age, when she had almost finished the grammar school course. At this period her eyes became affected by study and she left school, never to return. Her mother's ill health rendered a journey to Colorado necessary, and after the mother's death the child became her father's constant companion; more of a woman than a child. At the age of fourteen years we find her in Pueblo, Colo., even then a contribu. tor to some of the leading papers of the State. Though having little school education, Mrs. Farrand's natural ability and acquisitiveness, together with her fondness for reading, have endowed her with a knowledge which many graduates of high schools do not possess. As a child her leisure was rather devoted to the perusal of books and crude attempts at verse, than to the usual pursuits of childhood. The first paper to which May Spencer was a contributor was the Denver Inter-Ocean, then owned and edited by the late Henry L. Feldwisch, who first noted and encouraged the aspirant to literary fame. From that time on her poems were printed in the Colorado and Chicago press; not always of special merit, but containing the germ of a vivid fancy, and often ascending to the plane of true poetic genius.

In 1888 Miss Spencer was married to Capt. P. E. Farrand of Denver, and is now a resident of that city.

S. W.

FLAUNTING the tinsel of shame in your face,

Heeding no warning;
Living and trading upon her disgrace,
When has she seen in the look of a face

Pity, not scorning?
Matron, with children who flee to your breast

When griefs assail them,
What if your hands were crossed dumbly in rest,
If you could guard not the birds in your nest,

If you should fail them!
Has she had ever to cheer her, and guide,

Mother's affection?
Holding her back when she faltered aside,
Softly to praise her, or gently to chide,

For her protection?
Looking in scorn npon all that she hath,

Her degradation;
Spurning the sinner, astray from the path,
Judge not, ye know not, ye righteous in wrath,

What her temptation.
What wiles have lured her to falter and fall,

Poor sister woman;
Is there between you so mighty a wall,
Barrier iron, impassable, tall ?

Is she not human ?
When has a hand been outstretched her to save,

Not to degrade her.
Erring as human she took what ye gave,
And she will go to her rest in the grave

What man hath made her.
Turn then and scoff at the wreck if you will,

(Sin-hardened features)
Turn, but while scorn doth your scrutiny fill,
Know that for all of her faults she is still

One of God's creatures!


The time drew near that our ling'ring feet

Apart must their way be taking; Two hearts in passionate protest beat,

Two hearts that were nigh to breaking. The star-gemmed heavens above us shone,

We saw not the bright June weather, We only knew we must walk alone

The ways we had known together.

And in the day when all things shall be known,

By our temptation, Not by our failures and erring alone, When we stand up face to face at God's throne,

Be our salvation.

A silence deep and vast and never ending,

A mighty ocean and a waveless beach, Where even darkness pauses ere descending,

And all unknown the blessedness of speech. The waters stretch out ever into distance,

Unchanging, quiet, as beneath a spell, Of no avail were pleading or resistance,

The waves grew silent at the word “Farewell.”



SILENT and mute the harp of love is waiting,

Thy touch alone canst wake the tender strain, Set every chord by master hand vibrating;

Unto its music let me list again. Love is but sleeping, wake him from his slumbers,

Robing the present in garments of the past, Change life's low psalm to quick and happy num

bers, Over the future love's illusion cast. Then lift the cloud that o'er that future darkens;

Let the sun shine once more upon life's slope, Bring words of love unto the ear that hearkens,

Wake in my heart the olden trust and hope; From winter snows recall fair summer weather, From dark’ning shadows summon light once

more, Bring back the love that bound us once together,

Bring back the days, the happy days of yore. Tune then, with fingers strong, the tender lyre; Breathe from its strings love's sweetest dulcet

tone; Let dreams of old its melody inspire,

Wafting thy spirit back to days agone. Save by one charm the stillness is unshaken,

Thou in thy hand dost hold the magic spell; Ah, then, dear love, to sweetest music waken

All the long silence of our sad farewell.

Help to a soul in need, forgiveness, love,
These things are my religion, and my church
On any spot beneath the arching skies
Or in my own heart. Not between four walls
Man consecrates to God and then defiles
By bringing there a heart the world doth rule,
And in brief respite turns from mammon's shrine
To bring voice-worship to the throne of God.
Nay! standing on some massive mountain peak,
Where untold ages have preserved their sway,
Nature's own church, her altars hewn by time,
My heart doth know the strange and wondrous

That tells how grand and beautiful is life.
Or on the mighty ocean, whose vast waves
Sweep as for prehistoric centuries
They have intoned their mighty, wordless hymn,
And calmed unquiet, weary, restless hearts;
Or when at night the moon's white radiance

glows, And bright her twinkling satellites appear, Looking above at that blue, mystic vault, How small a thing the petty aim of life, The greed of gold, the form, the rule doth seem, And the free soul, aspiring above, Would turn from these to thoughts of better things. Then come out from your shackles, mighty world; Leave your dry histories of ages past, And learn to know the present. It is fair. Leave your set praise of One, who, if He is, Is too grand, tender, great to need that praise, And prove it in your lives, not on one day, Set out apart by rule. Come out, come out, With ready hands, with love-filled, willing hearts; Scorn no poor wanderer whom faith hath scarred, For, world, your bitter thrust makes oft to bleed Some heart sojourning briefly in your paths; Come out and heal them! Not for a reward Or hope of heaven's payment, but for love Of all things human. Rise and tear them downThe stone walls that environ your religion And bind it round with iron bands of formAnd 'neath pure stars, fair skies, and angels' smiles, Dedicate your souls to truth and love.


The solem sea of silence is unbroken,

No wave of speech or whisper meets the ear, No message sent from you or me, no token

That I was ever loved or you were dear; No ripple on the surface of the ocean

That stretches 'twixt our hearts, so deep and wide, No sound of breakers and no sight of motion,

No slightest murmur on the quiet tide.
Oh! sea, across thy vast expanse some message

Send o'er thy waters as the sea-gull fies;
Some winged traveler, some bird of passage,

To break the strange solemnity that lies Above a shore where waters are unmoving,

And never sound to break the stillness heard, To say that I was loved or you were loving,

To mar the reigning calmness by a word.

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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.

LIVER CRANE, clergyman, oriental scholar

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.

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.

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.

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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

Well the secret how to use it; Its resources they command,

And, when victims would refuse it, Bring it on them underhand.

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