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GEORGE W. WEBSTER.
But, as I looked again, it seemed not so.
Volute, modillion, cornice and festoon,
EORGE W. WEBSTER was born in Geneva,
Ohio, May 1860. He has always lived in his native town, with the exception of four years which he spent in Kenyon College, Gambier, Ohio, from which institution he took the degree of A. B. with the class of 1885. For at least six months of his life he was obliged to forego all exercise, both of mind and body, on account of rheumatism. His taste for books and study of all kinds developed very late.
He never read a book that he enjoyed till he was fourteen years old. That book was Longfellow's Poems, given him by a teacher for receiving the most head-marks in his spelling class. For the love of the teacher he read the book; for the love of that book he has read a good deal. His first attempt at writing verse was made in his nineteenth year and was very crude, both in thought and melody In school his preference was for plane geometry; next to it came psychology and ethics. His life has always been very quiet. He has never seen much of the world. Some of his poems have appeared in various Boston publications. The greater part of them have not been in print.
C. W. M.
With stealthy foot I sought the youthful sprite;
“I know the questions you would ask,” said he; “And, since my heart not holds no longer boon, The partner of its hopes, close privacy; I'll tell you of these sketches, roughly dight, While all my heart did glow, as if the moon, With silent, full-orbed glory, filled my night.
Last eve I felt Spring's warm breath in the air,
WRITTEN ON HEARING A DAY-BIRD SING
It is my season.
It is my season.
If so, pray scan their ships for me,
Those dropping out of sight, And those, that o'er the eastern sea,
Come sailing into light.
I WALKED one day among great drifts of snow, Like houses, built for the storm-children's sport;
WILLIAM BURT HARLOW.
Aye, look my bird, if thou 'rt awake,
And sing me, which is best;
My dream-way, east or west.
I, - PIANISSIMO.
A Light and gentle hand doth touch the keys,
And mellowed echoes come from far away, As if a white-robed virgin, on her knees,
Prayed God to send again the “golden day.” Aye! peace shall come, pure soul, when hope and
joy Shall mingle in the world, as in thy voice; When noon shall cease the day-spring to decoy;
When hopeful hearts in present things rejoice. Touch lighter, lighter still, the subtile chord,
Else shall thy heart be like the restless world, And discord rise to meet an angered Lord,
And peace forever from the earth be hurled. Now, o'er my heart the peaceful spell doth grow,
Methinks the dawn is near; play low, play low.
ILLIAM BURT HARLOW was born in Port
land, Maine, April 4, 1856. His father, William Harlow, was also born in Portland, but his grandfather came from Plymouth, Mass., where Sergeant William Harlow, the first of the family in this country, settled in 1637. The Harlows came originally from the village of Harlow, in Essex county, England. The mother of the subject of this sketch was Julia L. Burt, of Longmeadow, Mass. She was a direct descendant of LieutenantColonel Nathaniel Burt, who fell in the battle of Lake George, September 8, 1777. In 1861 William Harlow moved his family from Portland to Syracuse, N. Y.
William B. Harlow, after completing the public school course at Syracuse, entered Harvard College, from which he graduated in 1879. In 1880 he was appointed Professor of English Literature, Composition and Rhetoric in the Syracuse High School. In 1884 he published a work entitled "Early English Literature, from the Day of Beowulfto Edmund Spenser," and in 1890 a book of poems “Songs of Syracuse,” relating mostly to scenes and incidents in and around this beautiful city of Central New York. During the summer of 1884 he made a tour of Great Britain, France, Switzerland, Germany and Belgium. In 1886 he crossed the continent and spent some time in Colorado, Utah, California and Oregon. In 1871 he journeyed through Canada and visited Nova Scotia and New Brunswick. In 1888 he again crossed the Atlantic, and this time devoted his attention to the British Isles. The lake regions of Scotland and northern England, the mountains of Wales and the cities of Ireland were of special interest to him. In 1885 the degrees of A. M. and Ph. D. were conferred upon him, for literary work, by the Syracuse University. His articles and poems have from time to time been published in Science, Education, the New York Tribune, the Christian Register, the Academy, New England Journal of Education, and in several of the Syracuse daily papers. He is still residing in Syracuse.
D. F. M.
Ah! peace hath risen to a mighty flood,
As grows the pale light of the crescent moon, When, in the west, sinks down the sea of blood, That, pale with fright, she has seen swell since
noon. Strike loud the keys; the promised day doth break,
And waits an anthem from the purest soul, A full heart-stirring pean, such as make
Men strong to run, as they draw near the goal. High, higher yet send up the cheering song!
The Lord doth love and glory in thy power, And, as its echoes in the heart prolong,
The eastern hills laugh 'neath the dawning hour. Ha! might shall love and wed the meek-eyed peace,
And strife on earth, as in thy heart, shall cease.
“What sweets are golden ?" Youthful days, With summer's long sweet fond delays, And autumn's winding, rustling ways. “Ah yes! but you forget the maid, That was with golden fruit betrayed.” 'Tis true! but hark! I have it nowSweet apples, hanging on a bough Above a lass, all debonair, Who reaches up in mute despair, Yet blushes and is half afraid, When courtesy would lend her aid.
In hoary Kenilworth we wander yet,
Feathery yarrow leaves and clover,
Yellow mustard, tall and rank.
Of footsteps; far below the roofless hall,
Strawberries and dandelions,
In this sweet confusion spring, Butterflies above it floating,
Two white spirits on the wing. Solitary insects skating,
Where the pools are smooth and clear; Blooming apple-trees low bending;
From the grass rise teazles sere. Golden ripples on the water,
Caught by pebbles down below; Purling murmurs o'er the rock bed;
With the stream my fancies flow.
A SABBATH day, by musical Lodore-
TO A WATER-LILY.
TO A BUTTERFLY HATCHED IN FEBRUARY.
Thou airy spirit that hath burst
Thy darksome prison bands, Of summer's angels, thou the first,
Would'st float o'er sunny lands.
The honey dew of earthly flowers,
Fond one, thou seek'st in vain; Alas! no magic art is ours,
To give what thou would'st gain.
Sweet, perfect flower, that from the stagnant pool,
Soul's emblem, thou wast born to pain,
Fair Psyche with bright wings; Thou o'er some gentle heart would'st reign,
While yet the storm wind sings.
Ere blustering blasts have o'er thee blown,
Or ere those wings would rest; Flit, fairy, to the world unknown;
Where cherished hopes are blest.
BY THE BROOK.
Mint and buttercups and cresses
Springing by the water's side, Moss-fringed rocks to catch the eddies,
Tiny falls and basins wide.
A teazle, my friend,
If in it you'd look for a poem,
Fresh spring ferns and violets nodding,
From cool nooks above the bank;