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That warble joyous treble in the choir
Of universal melody, and notes

That music-loving Nature did inspire Give back to her, in praises for the gift.

Nor less the humbler voices do I love That lowlier creatures of her making lift

With jealousy of none that are above In giving thanks; for even that poor skill They make sufficing by sufficient will.

UNPROFITABLE. Why stand ye here all the day idle?" A HOPELESS, heartless human life, Nerved with no valor for the strife Against the evil that is rife,

And wasting in soul-sloth its lease
Of precious years, nor finding peace
In such half-death, but strange increase

Of discontent and vague unrest, Of listlessness and lack of zest, The self-tormentings of a breast

parents in the city of Montreal, Canada, on December 13, 1857. His father's duties as bank manager entailed frequent change of residence, so that the only son spent his early youth sojourning for a time in Toronto, Chicago and New York, and ultimately in 1870 in London, England, where a more permanent home was established. After studying for a while with a private tutor, a term was put in at London University College School, followed by several years at Eastbourne College, where rapid progress in all matters of general education was made. During this period Mr. Gundry's literary proclivities first manifested themselves in frequent contributions to the Eastbournian, the college organ, and for some time before leaving the college he was editor of that journal. The family returning to Canada in 1875 and taking up their abode in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Mr. Gundry attended two sessions at Dalhousie University, and at the same time kept his pen busy in the love of both prose and poetry, most of his writings finding their way into print through the local press. Going to Toronto to study law he soon became editorially connected with the Canadian Monthly, now defunct, but then in its prime. The pages of this periodical contain many signed and unsigned contributions from Mr. Gundry of a high order of merit. Other work from his pen appeared in the Toronto Nation, Montreal Spectator, and Canadian Illustrated News. Having been admitted to the bar Mr. Gundry went to Europe for a year, and on his return accepted a position in a large Wall street firm in New York, remaining there until 1884, in which year his translation of the Abbé Prévost's classic “Manon Lescaut” was published in sumptuous form and received very warm praise from the press.

In 1884 a return was made to Canada, and the practice of his profession entered upon at Ottawa, the capital of the Dominion. Mr. Gundry has filled in the chinks of leisure by doing excellent poetical work for Life, Puck, IVeekly Graphic, Belford's Magazine, New York Tribune, Evening Post, and other periodicais. Much as Mr. Gundry has written he can hardly be said to have yet done justice to himself. He is his own severest critic, and very hard to please. He has not attempted flights such as he is nevertheless well able to undertake. J. M. O.

That findeth not its task — can feel No honest warmth, no tireless zeal For change of others' woe to weal:

A life of aspirations furled,
Of Self in petty Self deep-curled
Amid the struggles of a world:

A narrow mind; a gleamless eye
That hath no glance on earth, on high,
Save for the pleasure passing by:

A godless soul cased in a creed
Of specious form and barren deed,
Transgressed for Lust, subserved for Greed,

Safe hid in which it findeth well To cry that all who doubt, rebel; To brand the Thinker, infidel:

A life like this, and thousands, aye! And millions like it here to-day Stand in the way! Stand in the way!

SONNET: “THE POETRY OF EARTH.”. Tue poetry of earth, and of the sky,

The lazy, sighing rhythm of the sea,
The heavenward roll of verse that ne'er can die,

The lover's ballad troli'd beneath a tree,–
I love them ail! -- I love the feathered throats

LOVE'S LARCENY. As Cupid, on a summer's day,

In idle sport was flitting From place to place, he chanced to stray

Near where my love was sitting.

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I'll paint a picture, ere I go;

“Of these enchanting features, * And thus admiring Gods shall know “ The loveliest of their creatures!”

From out his quiver then he drew

His palette and his brushes; Then from a rose-leaf stole the hue

To paint my lady's blushes;

To catch the color of her eyes

He hesitated whether To rob the violet, or the skies,

Or blend their tints together.

That problem solved, another vexed

His mind, and set him racking His feather-brains, for sore perplexed,

He found his canvas lacking.


Impatient to display his art

(His subject well excused it), The roguish God purloined my heart

And as a canvas used it!

fourth child of Thomas William Peacock.

His paternal grandfather was a native of Edinburgh, Scotland. Mr. Peacock is related, though distantly, to Thomas Love Peacock, an intimate friend of Shelley's. It is said that the name “ Peacock" originated in the “ Pea Mountains" of Scotland, where peacocks were found in large numbers. Mr. Peacock's ancestry can be traced back to King William of Holland, and he is one of the many heirs to the Trinity Church property, commonly known as the Anneke Jans estate. His mother's maiden name was Naomi Carson, and her parents were among the earliest settlers of Guernsey County, Ohio.

When Mr. Peacock was seven years old, his parents moved to a farm near Cambridge. Two years later the family moved to Zanesville, Ohio, Mr. Peacock pere purchasing The Aurora, the leading democratic paper of Zanesville, his Thomas, then a lad in his teens, delivering the paper to their city subscribers. Mr. Peacock's education was obtained mainly at Zanesville, Ohio. From this place the family moved to Dresden, Ohio, where the father and son together edited the Monitor. In 1870 the boy, allured by the glowing accounts given through advertising pamphlets and letters received from friends living in Texas, determined to try his fortune in the southwestern wild. He remained in Texas two years and it is quite probable that these two years were the most eventful of his life. His first year he taught school, and the second kept a hotel. During the last year of his stay, he was compelled to entertain such characters as “ Cole Younger," " Wild Bill," and “Jesse James," and from them seems to have derived his inspiration by which the “ Poems of the Plains" were written. In 1872, Mr. Peacock moved to Independence, Kan., making the trip by wagon team, a distance of eight hundred miles. Two years after he moved to Topeka, Kan., in which place he has since resided. For eight years he was associate editor of the Kansas Democrat.


It is really most distressing

That, although my needs are pressing, I cannot make the money that inferior fellows can;

Nor find an occupation

In this Philistinish nation, Congenial to a college-bred and cultivated man.

My talents—they are many

Do not bring me in a penny,
While the unenlightened vulgar go on heaping up

their gains;
I can do so much that they can'ı,

But all “situations vacant"
Are reserved, as I discover, for the men of vacant

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Mr. Peacock's “Star of the East" was written at the age of sixteen. His“ Vendetta " and some minor poems were written during his stay in Texas. The “Rhyme of the Border War," “ The Doomed Ship Atlantic" were written in Kansas.

In 1880, Mr. Peacock married Miss Ida E. Eckert, daughter of Daniel S. Eckert, a retired farmer. His wife is a woman of fine literary taste.

Mr. Peacock published his first volume of verse in 1872, which was so favorably received that he published, in 1876, a larger volume containing some of the old poems revised and many

He is printing the third edition of


-"Wanted: A Situation."

Yet this much heed — that if Ambition seek

To shut out Love, or wither it by scorn -
Then may Love come, and such harsh vengeance

wreak, As soon to make Ambition slave, in servitude forlorn.

- Conquered.

new ones.

his poems, entitled “Poems of the Plains and Songs of the Solitudes,” together with “The Rhyme of the Border War." This edition, revised, includes his complete poetic works which are being translated into German.

Mr. Peacock is of a domestic nature and derives great pleasure from the company of his sympathetic wife and little son.

N. L. M.


It is the starry hush of night,

When Hope's sweet madness thrills the heart, That coming days shall all be bright

When happiness comes, ne'er to depart: With golden, glorious, and immortal beam, Like radiant light of poet's deathless dream.

II. 'Tis midnight! and the month of June;

The music of the heavenly spheres Breathes out a sweet and wondrous tune,

Heard seldom by man's longing ears-
So sweet that listen all the lovely flowers,
And on their way the silent roving hours.

But vexed in soul, yon man of crime

Nor heeds nor feels the witching hour,
All beauty and all things sublime

Upon this wight have lost their power;
His steed impatient at his long delay,
Hangs on the bit and chases to flee away.

But hark! from yonder forest dun

The sound of horses' hoofs are heard!
A hundred clattering racers run!

The outlaw flies like some swift bird! But close behind his foes him press full sore, Their cries of vengeance on the night-winds roar!

He spurs his steed, whose sides are wet

With foam which shames the whitest snow-
His eyes blaze fire, his teeth are set,

He's armed and ready for the foe,
As e'er he'd been, when far and fierce and free,
He roamed a pirate, dreaded, o'er the sea.

Ah! fast and well his foes must run

To overtake him in his flight;
His courser is the swiftest one
Whose feet spurn earth's brown breast this

nightThis night of June, when Nature's fair and grand, When summer laughs along the lovely land.

His foes knew not the cost of hate

When hunting down this man of crime-
This son of war, this child of fate,

Who'd hurled scores to etern from time;
Whose spirits rose when armies greatest warred,
When blood flowed most and battle loudest roared.

He long defied both death and time,

Though none saw why, how it was som
For with a boldness rash, sublime,

He reckless rushed upon the foe-
He whom some power unknown protected well!
Some power unseen! some power of Heaven or

Lo! headlong falls the outlaw's horse

To rise no more-'tis his last fall!
The outlaw's fight now ends perforce,

And he alone must fight them all!
On come the mad, exultant, angry press-
Men come to death! men die in wild distress!

His foes all dead, none now debar

The outlaw from his wonted way;
He stays as though in blood of war

His soul exulted mad alway-
But ah! one foe he slew not, though five-score;
Death's iron grasp he can escape no more,


He halts! the outlaw halts to hear!

A moment in the stirrup standsHis soul is centered in his ear,

O'er his hot brow he draws his hands-
His sinewy hands which oft had choked death back,
When foes were close upon his dreaded track.

He spurs his steed, and onward flies

Beneath the stars' and moon's soft light;
Like some swift comet down the skies,

He passes through the shades of night;
Flies onward toward the yellow sea away,
Where cloud on cloud pavilioned, darkling lay.

SONNET TO MILTON. Milton! thou Titan of the epic song, Majestically thy verse moves on sublime, Above the wrecks and ruins eld of time; In stately numbers, thrilling, grand, and strong, High o'er the singers of the lower throng. Reared on the loftiest pinnacle, thy voice

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