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THOMAS TOD STODDART.
A chaplet of good deeds, that brighter far,
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 name These, 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.
'HOMAS TOD STODDART, well-known
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, “Angling Reminiscences;”. in 1839, “ Songs and Poems;” and in 1844. “Abel Massinger, or the Aëronaut, a Romance."
Bring the rod, the line, the reel!
All things right and tight,
All things well and proper,
Dark and wily dropper;
Made of plover hackle,
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,
Pointed up and ready,
On the surface wheeling,
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?
There, as with a pleasant friend,
With a hand expert
Every motion swaying,
When the trout are playing;
Flies of every feather,
Send me glorious weather!
ALLEN EASTMAN CROSS.
He ne'er has met-'tis Death is calling low. And still in measured beat recurs the toll-The wailing bells salute a passing soul.
But air and sympathy can ne'er control
TO THE AMHERST HILLS.
LLEN EASTMAN CROSS was born in Man
chester, New Hampshire, December 30, 1864. He graduated from the Manchester high school with honors in 1881, and from Phillips Academy in 1882. He enterd Amherst College in 1882. The attention of his friends and college mates was first attracted to him, as a young poet of promise, by the appearance, in the Boston Journal (July 25, 1885), of a poem entitled “Mt. McGregor," on the death of Grant. Devoting much of his senior year to the course in English literature, his style was developed into one of considerable beauty and power. The publication, in the Amherst Literary Monthly and current magazines, of occasional poems and sonnets on the Madonna faces of certain of the old masters, led to his unanimous election as class poet. A part of his class poem “The Amherst Hills,” was afterward published in the New England Magazine.
After graduating at Amherst in 1886, Mr. Cross continued his studies in Andover. His poems exhibit a spontaneity in the subjects chosen as well as in their treatment. Back of all the mere expression of the thought and sentiment, there is in all his poetry a depth of purpose, a sincere enthusiasm, an earnest vitality, and a deep spirituality, which will do much to overcome any present cru. dities of expression and carelessness of rhythm.
G. F. K.
Hills to the North! where, a slumbering lion,
Tobey lies couched in his carven pride, -
For the beholder still shall abide.
Felt the wild vigor your summit gives,
your gorges, Lived the sweet life that a dreamer lives.
MT. MCGREGOR. I SEE a young Lieutenant, fresh from books But bolder than a warrior in his looks, More eager than the oldest veteran To brook the insult of the Mexican; Yet even as I gaze I hear a toll The wailing bells salute a passing soul.
Hills to the East! where the early arbutus
Tenderly trails o'er your pastured lands, Where, with its glory and crowning of spruces,
High o'er the Orient, Pisgah stands.
Come to my eyes whene'er I recall
Happy art thou in thy Southern wall.
Gaineth a sweetness more pure and fine,
Grown to a lovliness more divine.
Suddenly rises before mine eyes,
Views of the College of love arise.
Again the vision rises, and I see,
I can not look to those far away hill-tops,
When in the interval thou art seen, Beautiful Hampton! the queen of the valley,
Amherst, the prince, saluteth its queen.
And now they crown the hero, President,
Lo! it is sunset; again I am standing
On the high lookout of college tower; Over the meadows the bell of old Hadley
Softly proclaimeth the twilight hour. L'p to the North where Sugar-loaf mountain
Raises its table-bluff stern and bold, Loneliest monarchs of light and of darkness
Seem to be laying their cloth of gold.
There is a nook, where blows the highland air For healing; and they sadly led him there Awhile to rest, for more resistless foe
*Thus while the waning light falls upon Amherst,
The hills round about in their glory stand, Happy old Amherst, they fitly may symbol Thy beauty and strength, that is still more
By heroic hearts 'tis counted as a crown,
That there floweth world-wide sorrow,
While a love, no prince could borrow, Doth afford the tenderest homage of renown. Call a truce for sorrow, Freedom, in the fray! For a leader hath been summoned home to-day;
And the arms of Freemen, trailing,
Mark the honor, never failing When a great courageous heart hath passed away.
TO EMMA LAZARUS.
"On reading “By the Waters of Babylon," in the Century
MATER DOLOROSA, OF GUIDO RENI. There is a holy calm in her deep eyesThe ebon cup of some dark pool is still, And all the moveless freight of stars which fill Its depths doth tell of that dark dome that lies So far above it; but the silent skies And their mute starry mirror have no speech Or pleading eloquence that so can reach The human heart as that of her deep eyes. Oh Grieving Mother, hath the earth no charm Or solace for thee that for evermore Thy raised immortal eyes should thus implore The smile of thy blessed son; and is the calm That rests within them but the fond light thrown From His dear eyes and imaged in thine own?
CRADDOCK'S “IN THE TENNESSEE
YE mountains and ye dales of Tennessee,
SISTINE MADONNA, OF RAPHAEL. A TWILIGHT star that rests above the steep Of yonder mountain as the sun goes down Hath stilly resting, for the heavens drown The bustle of our world. They may not keep A sound so petty in their spacious deep; They know no hurry; passionless and still Their far dark spaces rest, and lights which fill Their tranquil chambers are as if asleep. O Virgin Mother, thou hast purity O'ermatching e'en the heavens still remove From taint of earth. Blest Child, a deity Is in thine eyes; and in the trusting love Of each for each, the wrapt serenity Of your repose is as a star above.
Sons of the mountains, be ye also glad;
THE DEAD STATESMAN.
On the Death of John Bright.
LAY the laurel on his coffin, and a sword! Many a civil wrong he severed by his word,
And, for human right defended,
Though his battle now be ended, Wreathe the laurel for a soldier of the Lord.
MATER AMABILIS. Mater Amabilis, thy dark, sweet eyes Have made me purer with their tender shade; Upon my soul their holy spell is laid; May it rest there forever, 'till there lies The same deep power of tenderness in me, And I attain thy sweet benignity.
- Mater Amabilis of Sassoferrato.