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BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. BEAUTIFUL woman, thou art,
True to womanhood, sweet! God places in thy heart
A wealth of love that's meet.
- Sonnet to Matthew Arnohi.
TIME. As th' snow-flake lives in ocean, life lives in the
sea of Time, Man lives, dies soon, and sinks in ages' oblivious
slime. In nation's storm, a flash! - in ages' night, a
dawn Life on waves of ages rises, a bubble that bursts-is gone!
- The Vendetta.
Seems like a golden realm of rest,
- The Star in the Erit.
SUNRISE. Sol, suddenly 'rous'd, peer'd from th' east, and
espied Ten thousand horsemen, that swiftly now ride Toward land of the Turks.
- The Rhyme of the Border Ilirr.
I trust the golden days we lose,
Will bloom in beauty once again; I trust that past, on which I muse,
Beyond will live, no more to wane.
MY LOST GEM.
I MOURN the gem I might have had,
I saw it erst in crystal wave;
'Twas mine whene'er I wished to have.
For long, long years, 't was only mine,
For me God kindly placed it there; I took it not - it was divine,
For mortal hand it was too fair!
One who had looked on it with me,
And knew 't was mine, oft said: So fair, I e'er would leave it in the sea,
'T is far too bright for man to wear!"
JOHN HUGH MCNAUGHTON.
He has also written a set of twelve songs with music by V. Gabriel, issueď simultaneously in London and New York,
Mr. McNaughton has contributed to the leading reviews articles on various subjects. One of these papers, The Red Man," in The Nineteenth Century, for May, 1885, occasioned much comment. Of its effect Mr. Labouchere, Member of Parliament, wrote thus broadly (in London Truth, May 14, 1885.) “ I am glad to find that everybody is reading or talking about Mr. McNaughton's article in The Nineteenth Century on the · Red Man.'”
Mr. McNaughton's chief work, by which he will doubtless be best known, is his poetic romance
'Onnalinda” which has already won recognition in the highest literary circles, and of which an illustrated American edition has been lately issued.
S. A. L.
OHN HUGH MCNAUGHTON is of Scottish
parentage. His father and mother came from Perthshire, and settled in Caledonia, New York; and there the subject of this sketch was born July 1, 1829, and has since resided. His home, midway between Caledonia and Avon, in the beautiful Genesee Valley, secluded among the maples and evergreens, is indicative of the poet's retiracy; and from that charming retreat, with his family and occasional literary visitors, he looks out on the busy world serenely and contentedly.
Mr. McNaughton's first work was a scientific treatise on music -- a subject to which he had devoted much attention,contributing papers to Foreign and American journals, on harmony, rhythm, and kindred subjects. These were germane to the song-writer's art, into which he soon entered. Mr. Sheppard, the veteran music-publisher, used to relate an incident that doubtless led the young theorist into song-writing:
“One morning," says Mr. Sheppard, “ I was sitting in the back part of my store, wondering at the sudden influx of music-buyers calling for a certain song sung at a concert the previous evening. I noticed a stranger, quite a tall, slim young man, pacing back and forth with folded arms, between the files of music-buyers and casting furtive glances at the busy clerks. Presently he walked up to me, his steel-blue eyes glittering, and said:
" . Will the proprietor tell me what he pays for the MS. of such a song as that those people are buying?'
• A good deal,' said I, 'for a song that will make an audience cry as that did; but let me tell you, young man, not one song-writer in a hundred makes such a hit.'
*** Ah, indeed ?'- that was all he said, and passed out of the store. A few days after I received a MS. song, the handwriting of which I recognized, and with it this laconic note:--· That other song of mine I gave you. If you want this one, the price is marked in tia corner. Yours, etc., J. H. McNaughton.'
The price,” (continued Mr. Sheppard.) “ was outrageous, but I paid it, and never regretted it."
Mr. McNaughton's first volume of poems,“ Babble Brook Songs," was issued in 1864. In it are included the poems which drew from Mr. Longfellow that remarkable letter printed in “ Final Memorials of H. W. Longfellow," and beginning, " Your poems have touched me very much. Tears fell down my cheeks as I read them."
Many of Mr. McNaughton's songs in sheet music form have won a phenomenal success. Of “ Faded Coat of Blue," “ Belle Mahone," “ Jamie True," “ As We Went a-Haying,” and “ Love at Home,” an aggregate of 450,000 copies has been published.
THE DOOR AJAR.
They fly unheeded past my door;
On it I gaze forevermore!
Beyond them still I gaze afar
Nor listen when the robins sing, —
Come upward to the Endless Spring !" I wander o'er the meadows green
But only see the Blue Afar,
And left for me the door ajar.
WHEN THE PALE MOON.
Its cold light fell on my silent floor,
That vanished in years that will come no more. O pale, sweet face - sweet face! I said,
Come, sit by the window still as of yore;
That hushed the stir of the rustling bough:
A SOLDIER'S MOTHER. I'm weary of gazing into the dark —
() the dreary night! O the silent street! I start when I hear the watchdog bark,
And I trembling hark for the sound of feet. My boy! -- will he come to-night to me? I strain my eyes in the dark to see,
Through the night so dreary, dreary! Gazing south, thro' the mist, till my eyes growdim, I sit by the window awaiting for him .
O the night so weary, weary'
Does he dream, as he lies by his camp-fire low,
How I watch and wait for my boy to come ? When he paces his lonely rounds in the snow
Does he long for the blazing hearth at home? ( what if he's sentry this night so bleak, And the chill wind freezing the tear on his cheek
Through the drifting night so dreary, dreary! --Gazing south, in the dark, till her eyes grow dim She sits by the window awaiting for him,
Through the night so weary, weary!
Sweet Belle Mahone. O'er thy grave I weep good-bye, Hear, oh hear my lonely cry, O without thee what am I,
Sweet Belle Mahone?
Daisies pale are growing o'er
Sweet Belle Mahone.
Sweet Belle Mahone!
THE FADED COAT OF BLUE.
( Song with Jusic.)
I. My brave lad he sleeps in his faded coat of blue, In a lonely grave unknown lies the heart that beat
so true; He sank faint and hungry among the famish'd
brave, And they laid him sad and lonely within his name. less grave.
CHORUS. No more the bugle calls the weary one, Resi, noble spirit, in thy grave unknown! I'll find you, and know you, among the good and
true, When a robe of white is given for the faded coat of blue.
II. He cried—“Give me water and just a little crumb, And mother she will bless you through all the
years to come; Oh! tell my sweet sister, so gentle, good and true, That I'll meet her up in heaven, in my faded coat of blue."
II. He said--" My dear comrades, you cannot take
me home, But you'll mark my grave for mother, she'll find it
if she'll come; I fear she'll not know me, among the good and
true, When I meet her up in heav'n, in my faded coat of blue."
IV. Long, long years have vanished, and though he
comes no more, Yet my heart will startling beat with each footfall
at my door; I gaze o'er the hill where he waved a last adieu, But no gallant lad I see, in his faded coat of blue.
CHORU'S. Sweet Belle Mahone! Sweet Belle Mahone! Wait for me at Heaven's gate, Sweet Belle Mahone!
II. Lonely like a withered tree, What is all the world to me? Life and light were all in thee,
Sweet Belle Mahone.
V. No sweet voice was there, breathing soft a moth
er's prayer, But there's One who takes the brave and the true
in his tender care, No stone marks the sod o'er my lad so brave and
true, In his lonely grave he sleeps, in his faded coat of
Alone she stood, a maiden sweet,
Within the woodland's deepening shade;
One beam of sunset through the glade Glimmered in gold about her feet.
Musing, she lingered in covert there, Far from the clamor of camp's alarms; Above her a beech Aung out his arms
As if to shield a form so fair. A winsome girl of native grace
And moulded form the comeliest;
Scarce two and twenty Junes had kiss'd
Brunette with crimson tinged and blent,
And stirred a doubt of her descent.
Fell glossy falls of raven hair,
Half-veiling, half-revealing there The zone that clasped her lissom waist.
One hand to ear, to catch alarm,
Showed jeweled wrist and rounded arm. In purple folds her kirtle fell
The rimpling hem just kissed her feet
In shoon of chamois fitted neat
Deep in her dark eyes' lustrous glance
That winds through all Love's heritage;
- Ibid. ALLUREMENT.
O woman' wisest, brightest, best!
Or Saxon blonde, or arch brunette,
And here we grope in rifts between
In twilight vale of Is we pause
To mourn the fading light of Was; Then midnight glooms the earth and sky: Alas! - it Might Have Been
– we sigh.
- lbid. SPRING. She loved to tell of paths that wound The heathery mountain sides around; Of hedgerows sweet that lined her way Thro' blooming lanes of daisied May.
- lbid. THE FAIR ACCOMPLICE.* Now faintly pales the eastern sky
When lo! from bower above ravine
Descending covertly, unseen,
The craggy steep dim-lit with glow
Upgazing as if to her were sent
Like herald of heaven, august she stands
-Thid. WARNING Wind the clock-it striketh ten;
Heed the alarum — fools and sages! Clicking out the lives of men
Marching down the road of Ages. Soon the "eleventh hour" will chime
Stilling all the wheels of men Lay new hold of Life and Time Wind the clock - it striketh ten!
– Babble Brook Soni"s. * See illustration, p. 248.
ROSE HARTWICK THORPE.
He with step so slow and weary, she with sunny,
foating hair: He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful; she with
lips so cold and white, Struggled to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must
not ring to-night!"
** Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to
the prison old, With its walls so tall and gloomy,- moss-grown
walls, dark, damp, and cold, " I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night
to die At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help
is nigh. Cromwell will not come till sunset;" and her lips
grew strangely white As she spoke in husky whispers, “ Curfew must
not ring to-night!”
OSE HARTWICK THORPE was born at
Mishawaka, Indiana, July 18th, 1850. When eleven years of age, her parents removed to Hills. dale, Michigan, where the shy, reserved school girl grew into the quiet, modest woman, and where at the age of twenty-one she was married to Edmund C. Thorpe. This was just at the time when her poem, "Curfew Shall not King To-night," had carried her name into thousands of homes, and won for the young writer a most generous meed of honor, The poetic gift of Mrs. Thorpe is truly a bona fide gift- none of it coming by right of inheritance, unless you consider it another form of expressing the artistic talent of her father. To her only daughter, just entering young womanhood, descended the fondness for brush and pencil.
Mrs. Thorpe commenced writing at an early age, though extreme diffidence and lack of confidence in herself caused her to consign most of her productions to the obscurity of her portfolio. Her first publication, a prose sketch, appeared in her eighteenth year.
Her since celebrated poem, had then been written more than a year, but its literary value not dreamed of by the author. In 1870 Curfew Must not Ring To-night" was published by the Detroit Commercial Adiertiser and was widely copied. Gaining confidence by the unexpected and highly flattering reception of that poem, others were of. fered to the local press. Among these were The Station Agent's Story,” “In a Mining Town," " Red Cross,” and various others.
Mrs. Thorpe has been a busy writer for some years, though sadly hindered during the past few years by ill health. Under the sunny skies of California and within sound of the ocean, she is regaining health and finding increased demand for her pen pictures.
Mrs. Thorpe is essentially a home woman, finding great pleasure in the practical details of housekeeping, and frequently writing her best poems while watching the dinner. She is a close reader of all that pertains to her art, and while her real talent lies in her poetry, she is a successful writer of healthy stories for the young. Several of these have been published in book form. She has also published a book of poems, styled “Ringing Ballads."
A. B. L.
Bessie,” calmly spoke the sextou (every word
pierced her young heart Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly
poisoned dart), “ Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that
gloomy, shadowed tower; Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twi
light hour. I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and
right; Now I'm old I will not miss it: Curfew bell must
Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white
her thoughtful brow, And within her heart's deep center Bessie made a
solemn vow. She had listened while the judges read, without a
tear or sigh, “At the ringing of the curfew Basil Underwood
must die." And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes
grew large and bright; One low murmur, faintly spoken, “ Curfew must not
CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. ENGLAND's sun was slowly setting o'er the hill-tops
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one
sad day: And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and
She with quick step bounded forward, sprang
within the old church door, Left the old man coming, slowly, paths he'd trod
so oft before. Not one moment paused the maiden, but, with
cheek and brow aglow, Staggered up the gloomy tower where the bell
swung to and fro;