Tore them from their weeping matrons, fired their souls with Bourbon whiskey, Till they battered down Brown's castle with their ladders and machines; And Old Brown, was published by E. P. Dutton & Co., New York, in 1867, and gave her at once a reputation; the second, "Swallow Flights of Song," by the same publishers in 1874. The third and last, "The Blessed Company of all Faithful People," appeared in 1879, from the press of A. D. F. Randolph & Co. Miss Kimball's hymns are remarkable not only as devotional productions, but for their lucid Received three bayonet stabs, and a cut on his brave poetical quality and artistic finish. old crown. The sweet sad hush on Nature's gladness laid; The sounds through silence heard! Pipe tenderly the passing of the year; The dry husk rustling round the yellow car; Pipe the untroubled trouble of the year; George Arnold. AMERICAN. Arnold (1834-1865) was a native of New York, and early in life applied himself to literary pursuits. His "Drift, and other Poems," edited by William Winter, appeared in 1866. Dying at an early age, Arnold left evidences of a remarkable gift for lyrical expression. His literary career extended over a period of twelve years; "and in that time," says Winter, "he wrote, with equal fluency and versatility, stories, poems, criticisms-in short, everything for which there is a demand in the literary magazines and in New York journalism." There was a time when I had higher aims On the broad river's surface glow and glisten. There was a time, perhaps, when I had thought To make a name, a home, a bright existence: But time has shown me that my dreams were naught Save a mirage that vanished with the distance. Well, it is gone: I care no longer now For fame, for fortune, or for empty praises; Rather than wear a crown upon my brow, I'd lie forever here among the daisies. So you, who wish for fame, good friend, pass by; A SUMMER LONGING. I must away to wooded hills and vales, I long for shadowy forests, where the birds I dream of uplands where the primrose shines, I think of long, sweet afternoons, when I These dreams of summer come to bid me find The forest's shade, the wild-bird's melody, While summer's rosy wreaths for me are twined, While summer's fragrance lingers on the wind, And green fields wait for me. Richard Realf. The life of Realf (1834-1878), that "most unhappy man of men," had in it the elements of the most direful trag. edy. A native of Uckfield, Sussex, England, his first volume of verses, "Guesses at the Beautiful," was published while he was yet a youth (1852), in Brighton, England, and won high praise from Thackeray and Lytton. The poor lad was of humble parentage, his father being a daylaborer in the fields, and his sister a domestic servant. He came to the United States about the year 1855, and took a conspicuous part in the Kansas and other border troubles. He subsequently served in the brigade of Gen. John F. Miller in the Civil War, and became a colonel. For a time he was associated with John Brown, "Osawatomie Brown," in Kansas. He was twice married, and became the father of twins by his second wife; but was made frantic by the persecutions of his first wife, from whom he had been separated since 1872. She followed him to Oakland, California, where, to escape the misery of her presence, he took laudanum and died. Realf gives tokens of intense, though unchastened power, as a poet. Had he been as well educated as Shelley, he might have been his peer. Among his early patronesses was Lady Byron. In the "Life and Letters" of Frederick W. Robertson, the famous Brighton preacher, we find this reference to Realf: "One day," writes Mr. A. J. Ross, "as we were speaking together of the rich endowments of a youth in whom we were mutually interested, he (Robertson) said with emphasis, 'How unhappy he will be!" With what a sad accuracy was the prophesy fulfiled! MY SLAIN. This sweet child which hath climbed upon my knee, This amber-haired, four-summered little maid, With her unconscious beauty troubleth me, With her low prattle maketh me afraid. Ah, darling! when you cling and nestle so You hurt me, though you do not see me cry, Nor hear the weariness with which I sigh, For the dear babe I killed so long ago. I tremble at the touch of your caress: I am not worthy of your innocent faith; There is no little child within me now, To sing back to the thrushes, to leap up Dances in the glad dew. Alas! alas! I have forgotten; and if my cheeks are wet, It is not with the blitheness of the child, Oh, moauing life, with life irreconciled ; Of rhythmic wonders springing from the ground. Woe worth the knowledge and the bookish lore Which makes men mummies, weighs out every grain Of that which was miraculous before, And sneers the heart down with the scoffing brain; Woe worth the peering, analytic days That dry the tender juices in the breast, What can ye give my poor, starved life in lieu once. SYMBOLISMS. All round us lie the awful sacrednesses Of babes and cradles, graves and hoary hairs; Of cottage virtues and the solemn roll The daily miracle of Life goes on And in the subtle secrets of our breath, O Earth! thou hast not any wind that blows All shapes and sounds have something which is not Forever, through the world's material forms, Heaven shoots its immaterial; night and day Sometimes (we know not how, nor why, nor whence) Within our chambers, at our household hearths, | With weights of Revelation, and our ears In sober duties and in jocund mirths; In all the unquiet hopes and fears that run The terrible abysses; in the calms Of friendship, in the ecstasies of love: In burial-dirges and in marriage-psalms; In all the far weird voices that we hear; In all the mystic visions we behold; In our souls' summers when the days are clear; And in our winters when the nights are cold, Hear voices from the Infinite that take HE, by such raptnesses and intuitions, Fettered in grossness, that these sensual prisons, Against whose bars we beat so tired wings, Avail not to ward off the clear access Of His high heralds and interpretings; Wherefore, albeit we may not fully guess The meaning of the wonder, let us keep Clean channels for the instincts which respond To the Unutterable Sanctities that sweep Down the far reaches of the strange Beyond, Whose mystery strikes the spirit into fever, And haunts, and hurts, and blesses us forever. Nancy Priest Wakefield. AMERICAN. Nancy Amelia Woodbury Priest (1834-1870), a native of Royalston, Mass., was married in 1865 to Lieut. A. C. Wakefield. Her "Over the River" has had a wide circulation, and is still one of the pieces that illustrate the doctrine of the "survival of the fittest." In the Rev. A. P. Marvin's History of Winchendon is this note: "Mrs. Wakefield, though born in the edge of Royalston, belongs to Winchendon. Her family have resided here from the beginning through five or six generations. Her father moved into Royalston a little while before her birth, and returned while she was quite young." It illustrates the rare power of genius to find two towns contending for the honor of having given birth to the author of a poem of forty-eight lines. But Mrs. Wakefield did not fail to offer other assurance than this of the poetical gift she has displayed so felicitously. We know she is safe on the farther side, Where all the ransomed and angels be; Over the river, the mystic river, My childhood's idol is waiting for me. For none return from those quiet shores, We catch a gleam of the snowy sail, And lo! they have passed from our yearning heart; They cross the stream and are gone for aye! We may not sunder the veil apart That hides from our vision the gates of day, We only know that their barks no more May sail with us over Life's stormy sea: Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, They watch and beckon and wait for me. And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold I shall one day stand by the water cold, And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; I shall know the loved who have gone before; OVER THE RIVER. Over the river they beckon to me, Loved ones who've crossed to the other side; The gleam of their snowy robes I see, But their voices are drowned in the rushing tide. There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, And eyes, the reflection of Heaven's own blue: He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, And the pale mist hid him from mortal view; We saw not the angels who met him there, The gates of the city we could not see; Over the river, over the river, My brother stands waiting to welcome me. Over the river the boatman pale Carried another,—the household pet; Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,— Darling Minnie! I see her yet. She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, And fearlessly entered the phantom bark: We watched it glide from the silver sands, And all our sunshine grew strangely dark, FROM "HEAVEN." The city's shining towers we may not see But sometimes, when adown the western sky Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly, And while they stand a moment half ajar O land unknown! O land of love divine! O guide these wandering, way-worn feet of mine |