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The bland south breezes come, and make to quiver
The filmy surface of the moorland lake; And, loitering on, die with a moaning shiver
Among the tangled brake.
Again, and yet again, these gusts capricious,
From out the ever-moaning woodland stray, Fraught with the perfumes of some plants delicious
'Mid rugged rocks and gray.
The orchards, basking on south-lying reaches,
Are interpersed with variegated spots, That tell of blooming nectarines and peaches,
And snowy apricots.
The frogs now chant their ceasless iteration,
Far down the meads about the reedy ponds; And sparrows hold a twittering conversation
Beneath the swaying fronds.
Across the fallow-land the sunbeams glimmer,
And in the northern sky the chain-like flight Of migratory birds grows dim and dimmer,
Till fairly lost to sight.
HENRY JEROME STOCKARD. ENRY JEROME STOCKARD was born in
Chatham county, North Carolina, September 15, 1858. His paternal ancestors were Irish and German; maternal, Irish and Scotch. While he was quite young his family moved near to the villages of Burlington and Graham, in Alamance county, in the same state. He now lives at the “Old Homestead," near Graham, with his widowed mother and his own motherless little children. He is of medium height, and weighs about one hundred and seventy pounds. He has a smooth face, eyes between a hazel and blue, dark hair, fine features, tender expression, active in his movements, dignified and graceful in all his bearings. He displays that neatness of person and dress which is “next to godliness," and is always closely allied to nobleness of mind. Exceedingly sensitive, of a highly nervous temperament-impulsive,-yet over-cautious. In disposition he is retiring; shuns society, preferring the blessed peacefulness of home-when it was complete to all the world. He is slow to form friendships, but once formed they are lasting.
Mr. Stockard was for several years a teacher. He contributes occasionally to some of the leading magazines of the country. Last autumn Azrael's wings darkened his household, and his beautiful and accomplished wife, (nee Sallie Jenero Holleman) with whom he had spent about ten years so happily, passed into the sleep that comes to all.
Mr. Stockard has a passionate fondness for litera. ture, especially poetry. The writings of Whittier, the psalmist of freedom, inspired him more than any of the American poets. Young Stockard has reached his present attainments through persistent effort. He sets his mark high and always aims above it. Adversity is a rough teacher, but she often brings up giants. ·
Henry Jeroine Stockard is a Christian poet. Descended from some of the oldest families of the South, he understands the trend of thought not only of the land of the skies,” but of humanity. His parents,-yes, his ancestors for generations, are represented as having been endued with a severe and inflexible virtue; and to the influence of their precept and example must be ascribed, in no small measure, the pure moral character and the profound respect for moral obligations which Stockard has exhibited through the whole of his life.
D. A, L.
Earth, sky, and water,-every living creature,
A respite seems to gain from all their woes, When o'er her breast benignant Mother-Nature
Her vernal garment throws.
LATE AT NIGHT. 'Tis late at night; I hear the wandering Wind
Come up from distant hills and vales and seas;
I hear his spirit-wings sweep thro' the trees, His gentle tapping at each door and blind,
His far-spent echoes down the silent halls.
And Memory, soft as the night-wind, steals
From radiant reaches and from gulfs of dale,
And softly taps the portals of my soul; As whispering down its corridors she feels,
She stirs the portraits hanging on its walls.
BEYOND THE DESERT. The earth-worn caravans are tenting there;
Thou soon shalt see their white pavilions gleam; Be thou but faithful; thou shalt join them where
Cool palms upbourgeon by the crystal stream.
Yon range of hills that skirts the dim horizon,
That erst was draped in empyrean blue, Is robed in haze; the belt of oaks that lies on
Its slopes is scarce in view.
Bear yet thy load a little while, ere long
The burdens that seem nigh to weigh thee down Will fall away; thou'lt find in heaven's throng
Ten thousand joys for every sorrow known.
THE MINSTREL SEA. (ON SOUTH BEACH, MARTHA'S VINEYARD.) The ancient ocean takes his magic lyre. And sweeps with cunning hand its thousand
strings; With hoarsest voice he joins the strains and
Of great eternity-of hidden things
Lone min strel, singing round thy barren sands,Encroaching on the shore, --when earth is
dumb, Among her crumbling palaces thou'lt come, And batter down their walls with ghostly hands,
And chant thy dirge her solemn ruins o'er,-
(S. J. S., died Sept. 27, 1888.)
Is dark in meadow and vale;
Over hill and mountain trail.
The rain's unrelenting roar,
The flowers are withered and dead;
From the world with mournful tread: The bouyant birds are flown
To some serener shore,
And the boughs assume their leaves; The flowers come back to hill and plain,
The birds to lonely eaves: So the seasons on shall sweep,
But the dead they ne'er restore, And thou shalt sleep while I must weep
For the love that is no more!
“AS PERSEUS ERE HE TRIED THE
For the dominions where Medusa reigned,
Out toward the far-off skies his vision strained, And called Athene from those silences,O father, unto thee so would I call,Come in the clouds and bring at last, I pray,
And hear the unknown ocean, far below
Clad in immortal armor, even so
Safe-shod to pass beyond its frozen zones!
ESTHER WALDEN BARNES.
In a strong tower that fronts a stormy sea,
An ancient monarch placed a harp of gold,
Whereon the winds, than Orpheus of old
Uufurled the lurid storm-clouds, fold by fold,
The pulsing air, while surf and thunder rolled, Along the strings breathed infinite harmony. There is a harp with soft æolian strings Deep in the soul, and when the thunder breaks Through wrathful clouds, or 'round the dying
day The minstrel sea its endless anthem sings,Along those whispering chords a murmur wakes,
And like a far-spent echo dies away.
STHER WALDEN BARNES is a native, and
has been all her life a resident of Portsmouth, N. H. She is the fifth of nine children; six of whom have passed away. She resides, with her sister, in the homestead (which was her birth. place) in that old city by the sea.
Her father, Ludwig Bäärnhielm, was by birth a Swede; the only son of an officer in the Swedish army. His three uncles belonged to the Swedish navy. The name is pronounced Bairnyelm. It was ennobled in his native land, but is now extinct, no one remaining to inherit it. He was born in Gottenberg, in 1776; and emigrated to this country in early youth.
In 1800, he became a resident of Portsmouth, N. H., where he was long a shipping merchant. The mother of Miss Barnes was of remote English descent. She was born in Portsmouth in 1783.
Miss Barnes has published in papers, annuals, and various collections, a considerable amount of prose and verse; all of a very creditable character. She has also published several volumes for the young
DO YOU REMEMBER? Do you remember me, my glorified,
Fair dweller in the far-off spirit-land,
And see the life, so buoyantly we planned Stretch out before me now so wan and wide? Have you a care to cross the refluent tide
Of that strange, unimagined ocean, and
Teach my poor, longing heart to understand That which we pondered ere you quit my side? If you could come just for a little while,
And should not speak-but only lift your eyes To mine, and bend upon me the dear smile
That I have grieved for oh, so long and deep! And then your home resume-it would suffice!
I could more patient be, and silent keep.
(A SONG.) 'Tis “of Thine own, we give Thee,” gracious God! Flowers of the Spring-time; offerings from the
sod, Tinted, by Thine own hand, with rainbow dyes; Or with the gold and blue of sunset skies, Of all earth's boundless gifts, to Thee we bring, Nought that is holier, as an offering.
Oh! glorious symbols of the Easter morn,
rare, To blend your incense with the breath of prayer.
From narrowing limits crowded, one by one
Fix a last, longing, lingering look upon Beloved sails that topple helplessly, Then turn their faces toward immensity, Covered with clouds and night, and trusting
leap:With lifted eyes, into the shoreless deep To thee, O death-so do we leap to thee!
-As Shipwrecked Sailors.
Sealed in eternal silence here, where all
Are journeying,—a region which we call The empires of the dead. No mortal's hand Hath ever mapped its coast-upon its strand Discovery's anchor ne'er hath been let fall.
Christ hath arisen with “healing in his wings,"
A WELCOME would I give thee, new-born year!
A bright, glad welcome to this world of ours; And crown each day, of this brief life of thine,
With a rich chaplet of immortal flowers: