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He has led an ideal life of eminent influence for good, and his published volume of poems is but a voice of all this worthy aspiration, soul growth and rich experience. He is a poet of nature and the heart. He sympathizes with life, and expresses these sympathies with a cultured mind and a trained pen. He is a poet that all should know. “The true mark of a good heart,” says Mme. de Sevigne, “is its capacity for loving.” Mr. Dickinson loveshumanity, and his poems make better the hearts and lives of all who read them, and will live among the immortals in grateful influence. He has that rare genius that sees beauty, and uses it to create good, and to plant with imperishable flowers the fields of an inspired experience.
HOW FAR FROM HEAVEN.
journal in America, and in many in England. It was spoken in schools and read on platforms, and quoted from the pulpit. It pictured the life of a sympathetic teacher among his scholars, and was a voice of the education that is inspired by the heart. The poem was signed “Charles Dickinson.” Over that name it was printed in Mrs. Kirkland's “School Girl's Garland” (Scribner & Co., 1864), and it has since found its way into nearly every collection of
About 1870, some careless compositor dropped the final letters from “Dickinson," and since then the poem has often gone the rounds of the newspapers ascribed to Charles Dickens. This poem, the most beautiful expression of the true mission of the teacher ever written, was the inspiration of Charles M. Dickinson, and grew out of his own experience in his school. What a delightful school it must have been, the picture of which will never fail!
Mr. Dickinson belongs to a substantial family, and was born at Lowville, Lewis county, N. Y., November, 1842. It is worth noting that Benjamin F. Taylor, who wrote “Oh, a Wonderful Stream is the River Time," was born in this village.
At the age of eighteen Mr. Dickinson commenced teaching school. He taught during winters, and attended Fairfield Seminary and Lowville Academy in summers. He began writing verse when about fifteen years of age.
In 1864 he went to Binghamton, N. Y., and studied law with Hon. Daniel S. Dickinson. Life was a struggle with him at that time, and he helped pay his expenses by writing stories at night. He practiced law in Binghamton and New York until 1878, when he became the editor and manager of that powerful and admirably edited journal, the Binghamton Republican.
Mr. Dickinson impresses one as a poet of great energy of character and depth of feeling; a man with width in the region of ideality, and a soulgrasp of the hand, yet with the clear vision of practical things that wins success in all undertakings. He loves a retired life, and lives in elegant seclusion amid the most picturesque scenery. His publishing house in Binghamton is among the most beautiful buildings of the city, as great a credit to the enterprise of the place as the conscientious and literary character of his paper is an honor to the county and state. He has the reputation of being interested in his employés, and he is quick to see and appreciate literary merit in new writers and to help them.
DEAR love of mine, through whom I know
I know you're near its bound'ry lines,
Your soul went upward in a prayer;
Stood open wide a moment there.
A sense of music filled the air;
A dazzling beam cleft like a blade,
Right through the midday light, and made A darkened space to left and right,
A shadow in the sunniest place, And, like an angel's smile of light,
Fell full upon your upturned face.
Come closer, Love, and tell me true,
I know you hear the choirs that sing
That you're a heavenly envoy here-
That you may make yourself more dear Than all the treasures 'neath the skies, Then, like the North Star's magnet-swayLoaned from its place, to wear by day,
You lead the soul from sin and care, O'er hills where night and morning meet,
Straight up to heaven, unaware.
And hovers with your waiting wings;
And not for aught that I have done;
And all the love my life has known,
And as I follow, I behold
Draws to itself each living thing;
Becomes a heavenly leading-string.
Through which the sunsets burn and blush, And winds repeat their heavenly psalm,
God's voice within the Burning Bush;And just beyond, the golden wall
Where those we thought were in the grave,
Send happy looks to us, and wave Their signs of welcome, over all.
Through cloudy vales of blue and gold
The sun went wandering down;
Put on its crimson crown;
In the windows of the town.
A little stream slipped through the grass,
With sad and murmuring sound;
Had left full many a mound, -
These waves upon the ground.
Some sunshine from Eternal day,
Like angel's breath or sweep of wing; And we're so near our resting place,
The very birds come out to sing, *To cheer us with their song and sight, And then fly back again at night.
And ever, where the streamlet went
Broad elms and maples grew, Whose heavy shadows o'er it bent,
Hid sun and star and blue; The heaven it saw from yonder field
Was all the heaven it knew.
But, flowers sent up the faint, sweet breath
Of her whose breath was still,
Sang out their sweetest trill;-
That Death had power to kill?
I see th' attending stars stoop down And follow nightly with your crown; I see the pearly cloud that brings
Save these, no earthly sound was heard,
No living thing was there;