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Prayer or imprecation,
And gleefully he laughs to see the angry insect's Shriek of spirit freed.
! He runs along the meadow paths and tangles up the But the charge is over,
grass All is still again:
In traps to catch the tripping feet of pretty maids Crimson dyes the grasses,
that pass; Like a bloody rain,
He sees an open cagement wide, where some fair Where the ghastly reapers
dreamer lies, Mowed that awful lane.
And boldly enters in to kiss the sleeping beauty's
eyes; Ever in that valley
He gently stirs the perfumed hair about the dreamAt the close of day
ing face, Come the warning shadows, –
And from the rounded bosom fair he lifts the filmy Shadows blue and gray,
lace. Gathering in the moonlight
Now in the silver radiance white, within the moonTo the dreadful fray.
He sees where her white hands had placed and Shadowy lines are forming,
strung a harp for him, Marching to and fro,
And breathes upon its vibrant strings his softest, Spectral drums are beaten,
sweetest sighs, Ghostly bugles blow,
Till at his light caress awakes the soul that in it lies, Where was fought the battle
And trembling through the mystic spell the moonIn the long ago.
light ever weaves, In strangely sad sweet undertones the ghost of
Not long can dreaming beauty hold the restless little THE EVENING SOUTH-WIND.
Away, away, on eager wings, across the southern A FICKLE sprite and very bold, this rover of the
He wanders restlessly until he wearies, and in dim His jasmine-scented breath is sweet, but passion-hot
Cool forest aisles he sleeps at last, lulled by his own his mouth.
sweet hymn. He wantons 'mong the sleeping flowers, and with
his kiss that wooes, The crimson petals of the rose, drop with the evening dews.
RESTITUTION. He softly sighs to see it droop, but he has had his bliss,
SOMETIME, some great white day of days, we think And there are other sweets for him, and other flow All things that puzzle us will be made plain, ers to kiss.
And we shall find again each broken link Heruffles up the tiny brook that slips among the lands, That, somehow, we have lost from our life chain. In little merry ripples low, that tinkle o'er the sands; And shakes the lily's waxen cup with restless wings Buried in dust along the great highway that beat,
Somewhere they lie, waiting the finder's hand, Until its rare perfume is spilled, and all the night is And they will all be gathered up some day, sweet.
And we shall have again the perfect band. He rustles through the dry, dead leaves, he croons among the pines,
By and by, somewhere, the good seed that we sow, And spies where honeysuckle hangs its trumpet Though long within the ground it may have lain, 'mid the vines.
Will wake to life from its long sleep and grow, "Ah ha!” says he, “a hunter's horn within this And ripen for us into golden grain.
leafy screen, By Æolus! I'll blow a blast will wake the Færie The good we do, the kindly word we've said Queene."
To those who heard and calmly went their ways He rocks the brown bee in the rose safe housed for Unheeding, will return to us, “like bread the night,
Cast on the waters, after many days."
CLARA H. MOUNTCASTLE.
Not yet! not yet!—more dreary
And dark the evening grows;
The turbid river flows
To magnify my woes.
Not yet! not yet! he cometh!
The angry lightnings flash, The thunder deafens with its roar
Ah,-yonder goes the ashRent from the root to topmost bough,
It falleth with a crash.
LARA H. MOUNTCASTLE resides in her
native town, Clinton, Ontario, where she was born November 26, 1837. Her parents were English, of mixed Irish and Scotch descent. Her early years were passed on her father's farm, where she cultivated the acquaintance of nature in all her moods; early evincing a taste for poetry and painting that the hardships incident to a home of limited means could not subdue. Later on she studied painting in Toronto. She has taken prizes in all the provincial exhibitions. She is very proficient in pencil drawing, and, as a teacher, is also very successful.
In 1882 a Toronto firm published “The Mission of Love,” a volume of poems by Miss Mountcastle, which has been very favorably criticised. She then wrote, “The Novelette-A Mystery," which was purchased and published by the same firm. It had a good sale. Her style is clear, chaste and forcible. Miss Mountcastle was recently elected an honorary member of the Trinity Historical Society, Dallas, Texas.
O. A. R.
Not yet! not yet! he cometh!
Hark, did I hear a moan? Again the tempest louder roars,
'Twas like a human toneAh!-Do I hear his step at last ?
My Willie!--Oh, mine own!
Oh, joy! oh, joy!-he cometh!
The firelight blazeth bright; The kettle sings upon the hearth,
While blacker grows the night; The tempest loud and louder roars,
But all within is light.
THE SETTLER'S WIFE.
LUCIAN HERVEY KENT.
I HAVE “cast forth my bread on the waters,"
With purple and crimson that burn. Oh, Faith! hold me close to thy bosom
Whilst I watch and I wait its return.
I have “cast forth my bread on the waters"
Where moonbeams have kissed the dark wave; Where love lieth low sweetly sleeping,
And the death angel weeps o'er a grave.
I have sent forth my bark on the waters;
Can storms on dark Huron o'erwhelm While Faith, as a star, shines above her,
And Hope sitteth bright at the helm ?
I have sent forth my bark on the waters;
Oh, let not the tempest's wild roar In uncontrolled passionate fury,
Cast a wreck and a ruin on shore.
ART THOU THINKING OF ME?
Art thou thinking of me, my belov’d?
Though distance doth sever us wide; The fancy still haunts me, my darling,
That thou art again by my side.
UCIAN HERVEY KENT, the author, was
born in Dorset, Vt., August 4, 1816. He was the youngest of the two sons of Moses, Jr., and Jerusha Kent, grandson of Moses Kent, Sr., who took a valiant part in the battle of Bennington, and great-grandson of Cephas Kent, the first represent
ative from his district in the Vermont Legislature. ! Cephas Kent was cousin of Chancellor Kent, author
of the Commentaries, and father of John Kent, the centenarian. The paternal ancestry of Lucian Kent were a hardy, long-lived race of people, whose names have been closely identified with the history of New England from the time of the early English colonies. But while such a staunch paternity bequeathed to the subject of this sketch a generous legacy of qualities of heart and brain, by some mischance the wheel of fortune cast to his lot the impediment of poverty and a frail physique with which to overcome the many adverse elements which thickly beset his path. When but six years of age he was taken with his parents, under trying circumstances, to St. Lawrence county, New York, the journey being made in the old style overland manner by ox-team, in the middle of a winter and through an almost unbroken wilderness. Among the misfortunes of this two-hundred mile journey overland were the loss of household goods and narrow escape from freezing. At their destination, after settling in a small aboriginal hamlet consisting of ten rude log dwellings, the destitute family began the struggle for existence. With the constraints of physical disability on the part of the parents; with the barren condition of the locality in which they pitched their misfortunes, and especially the embarrassments attendant upon the lack of means with which to get a start, this struggle amounted to little less than a mortal combat. So much, indeed, were the manual services of Lucian and his brother in demand, that their only opportunity for schooling was during the severest winter weather. These opportunities, however, were in no way neglected-everything in the way of good books which they were able to obtain being eagerly studied.
After becoming of age Mr. Kent acquired, by his own efforts, an academical education, and was thereby enabled to maintain a livelihood by teaching-a profession which he followed for many winters and with marked success.
In the summer of 1849 he was married to Miss Mary McEwen, by whom he has seven childrensix sons and one daughter. Since this time Mr. Kent has followed exclusively the occupation of
I feel an intangible presence,
About me wherever I move; A something that whispers, my darling,
Of thee, and thy passionate love.
My spirit communes with thy spirit;
My thoughts cannot wander from thee; Thy aërial presence enchains them,
And haunts me wherever I be.
There is naught in this world that can give me
A tithe of the joy that doth fill My being, when whispers thy spirit
To mine—that thou lovest me still.
Accursed thing! Thou steal'st into the mind
farming. He now resides at Westfield, N. Y., and though seventy-five years of age, leads a very active life, both physically and intellectually. Besides doing a great amount of manual labor, consistent with early habits, he improves his spare intervals reading newspapers, magazines and the latest works of philosophy and science-being a constant student of the leading questions of the day and always abreast of the times. For the source of Mr. Kent's inspiration as a poet the reader is referred to his preface to “Sunshine and Storm."
H. B. K.
MATTER AND MIND.
Search all the realms of matter and of mind,
And when his feet shall fail him in the race
Thou art an angel of celestial birth!
Before thy beams, now error's minions fly,
A tyrant claiming right to sway. After his might has passed away.
A sacred sweet that's spoiled by power Like manna kept beyond the hour.
The finest note of nature's strings; The rush of passing seraphs' wings.
BEAUTY. A counterfeit of pigments made, That without virtue soon must fade.
JUSTICE. The balance which can never rest Until all wrong shall be redressed.
MERCY. Pure as the dew-drops of the morn Around a pathway else forlorn.
OBERT KERR was born at Kilmarnock,
Scotland, in March, 1829. Unfortunately, in his early childhood he received a hurt at the hand of a younger brother, which resulted in permanent injury, and · he became an invalid for life.
His youth unfolded amid scenes and associations full of history and poetry. The time from his sixth to his eighteenth year was spent in the county town of Ayr, two miles from where Burns was born. He knows what earnest struggle for life and culture
He labored from early morning till eight at night, then attended evening classes till ten, when he came home to study till one in the morning, preparing his lesson for the next night.
In his twentieth year, he wrote his first poem, “Winter," which he sent to the local paper, of which Rev. Dr. W. M. Taylor, now of New York, was editor, where it appeared in the “Poets' Corner." In 1856 he was chosen to present a public testimonial to Louis Kossuth and crown him with a Kilmarnock bonnet in presence of a large and enthusiastic assembly.
A volume published about this time, entitled, “Learn to Live," was the means of securing him admission to Cavendish (Theodore) College, Manchester, through the influence of Rev. Dr. Joseph Parker, now of City Temple, London, who had just founded the institution. In 1859 his poem, “Remember Robert Burns," written on the centennary of the poet's birth, appeared, of which Sir Archibald Alison, Bart., the Historian of Europe, said: “The touching verses on Burns are worthy of a lasting destiny.” Since 1860, many of his poems have been fugitives, appearing in papers and magazines. In 1864 he married Margaret Crawford, and their romantic courtship should have longer note than this paper can give. They have eight living children, two of whom are married.
At the close of his college studies he was ordained Rector of the Congregational Church at Caistor, Lincolnshire. While there, in 1866, he published “Sacred Hours by Living Streams," which contained sermons from his first year's ministry. In 1867 he became Pastor in succession to Rev. Prof. Hunter, at Forres, Scotland, a beautiful district made famous in “Macbeth."
In 1872 he visited the United States, examined the lands along the Northern Pacific Line in Minnesota, returned to Scotland, formed and sent out a Scotch and English colony. In 1874, in compliance with repeated solicitations, he followed as
their minister, with his wife and family. Upon his | arrival in Minnesota, he found but ten houses on
But life is short and hastens to its close Sure as the streamlet to the river flows, And blest is he who all his work has done And feels prepared to leave a victory won. Whose mission has fulfilled its prophecy Before the call to lay his armer by.
- The Polar World.
When lofty aims have well achieved their end,