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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.


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

Again, and yet again, these gusts capricious,
From out the ever-

er-moaning woodland stray, Fraught with the perfumes of some plants delicious

'Mid rugged rocks and gray.

is of medium height, and weighs about one hundreds

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.

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.

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.


'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.


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.

SPRING HARBINGERS. 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.

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A TENDER morn for thee, A radiant noon, a calm reposeful even, And stars at waning twilight; o'er the Sea

The minarets of heaven!


(S. J. S., died Sept, 27, 1888.)

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 Chaos, and of worlds in mighty choir
Waking in morning chorus to their Sire;-

Of great eternity-of hidden things
Beyond the reach of Fancy's cleaving wings-

Beyond the skies—beyond Plutonian fire!
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,Oblivion's empires all forevermore.

AUTUMN with the rush of the storm

Is dark in meadow and vale;
The misty robes of his shadow-form

Over hill and mountain trail.
The wind and the stars and the sea,

The rain's unrelenting roar,
Like the burden of some vast threnody,
Keep repeating Nevermore!

The grass is brown in the fields,

The flowers are withered and dead;
The spirit of summer sadly steals

From the world with mournful tread: The bouyant birds are flown

To some serener shore,
The falling leaves are wildly blown
The graves of our loved ones o'er.

But the South shall breathe again,

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 unknown seas

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.

The winged sandals that may never stray,
Then I may leap and fly and never fall
When out upon life's furthest peak I stand,

And hear the unknown ocean, far below
The rising mists, chafe on the cold, gray stones-

Clad in immortal armor, even so
Would I leap forth for the "unshapen land,"

Safe-shod to pass beyond its frozen zones!




In a strong tower that fronts a stormy sea,

An ancient monarch placed a harp of gold,

Whereon the winds, than Orpheus of old Played sweeter strains of tangled melody. But when the winds were hushed, as silently

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 birthplace) 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

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.

B. C.

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,
Out of decay and death and darkness born;
Springing to light and life, from out the tomb
Of nature's desolation, sadness, gloom;
Ye come sweet flowers, with fragrance pure and

rare, To blend your incense with the breath of prayer.

As ship-wrecked sailors far away at sea,

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.

There is a country bordering on this land

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.

- The Border-Land.

Christ hath arisen with “healing in his wings,"
Ye have arisen, oh, bright and beauteous things!
To tell us of the resurrection morn,
When we, immortal, from the grave new-born;
With bodies glorified, to life shall rise,
And meet the Saviour, in the bending skies.


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:



A chaplet of good deeds, that brighter far,
Shine on the Christian's brow, than gems that

monarchs wear.
The deeds emblazoned on the warrior's shield,

Are on the records of his country's fame; The hungry fed; the naked clothed and blessed,

From love to God, and in the Saviour's nameThese, on imperishable tablets stand; Those, on the fleeting mist, or ever-changing

sand. Then haste thee, new-born year! Thy scroll unfold.

Each hour will have its history for thee. The page unwritten now, ere long will bear,

Its crowded record for eternity! Then gird thee, Christian! for the conflict now, Trusting in God for aid: His seal upon thy brow.


through his ingenious works on angling, was born on the 14th of February, 1810, in Argyle Square, Edinburgh, Scotland. He studied for the bar, and passed advocate in 1833. He soon relinquished the legal profession. For many years he divided his time between the pursuits of literature, and the recreation of angling. In 1831 he published “ The Deathwake, or Lunacy, a Poem;" in 1834, “ The Art of Angling;” in 1836, “Ang. ling Reminiscences;” in 1839, “Songs and Poems;" and in 1844, “Abel Massinger, or the Aëronaut, a Romance."

C. R.

ANGLING SONG. Bring the rod, the line, the reel! Bring, oh, bring the osier creel! Bring me flies of fifty kinds, Bring me showers, and clouds, and winds,

All things right and tight,

All things well and proper,
Trailer red and bright,

Dark and wily dropper;
Casts of midges bring,

Made of plover hackle,
With a gaudy wing,

And a cobweb tackle.

FOR MEMORIAL DAY. Rest, heroes rest! all conflicts now are ended, Rest, with the martyr's crown upon each brow: While grateful hearts and loving hands are trailing Flowers of the summer o'er the green truf now. Fresh is the memory of your deeds of daring, Oh, bold, brave hearts that rest beneath the sod; And we will keep it fresh, with floral incense, — A spring-time offering of the gifts of God;

Rest, warriors rest! Ye cannot die, while yet your memory liveth, Unseen, where sacred thoughts are set apart; Nor can your names from out 'Time's record perish While they are written on a nation's heart! Your blood has washed from off our country's

banner, The deep, dark stain of Slavery's cruel wrong: And now, “the stars and stripes” more fitly

symbol The “land of freedom" breathed in verse and song.

Rest, heroes rest! Your lives you've laid upon your country's altar,A bleeding sacrifice, by land and seaAnd we shall never let the memory perish, Of deeds deserving immortality. The roll of drum, the bugle-note, the clarion, No more shall call you to the field of strife; But this “Memorial Day,” to future ages, Shall tell how Liberty was bought with Life!

Rest, patriots rest!

Lead me where the river flows, Show me where the alder grows, Reed and rushes, moss and mead, To them lead me-quickly lead,

Where the roving trout

Watches round an eddy,
With his eager snout

Pointed up and ready,
Till a careless fly,

On the surface wheeling,
Tempts him, rising sly

From his safe concealing.

MEMORY. Who hath not felt the power of that sweet spell! Which bears us back to early dreams again; Which touches one bright link, and lo! unfolds, In lengthening light, the whole of memory's chain?

- Memory.

There, as with a pleasant friend,
I the happy hours will spend,
Urging on the subtle hook,
O'er the dark and chancy nook,

With a hand expert

Every motion swaying,
And on the alert

When the trout are playing;
Bring me rod and reel,

Flies of every feather,
Bring the osier creel,

Send me glorious weather!

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