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A maid is seated in a dreary room,

Her drearier thoughts are far, ah! far away, While with a heart immersed in utter gloom She weaves a cerement till the close of day. Fair flowers are sleeping in the frozen ground Until spring beckons them in ways unseen, To aid the glory of new Nature crowned,

And, star-like, light the meadow's dewy green.

A block of marble in a quarry lies,

Inert, unfeeling, in its silent sleep, While o'er it, roaring thro' the sombre skies, The wintry winds their doleful vigils keep.

From that same tree my coffin will be wrought, Kind hands will place that flower upon my head;

The maiden's work will be the shroud I sought, The marble block will hold me with the dead.

TOO LATE. (A SONG.)

Joy stood upon my threshold, mild and fair,
With lilies in her hair.

I bade her enter, as she turned to go.
She answered, "No."

Fortune once tarried at my porch,

And lit it with her torch.

I asked her fondly, "Have you come to stay?" She answered, "Nay."

Fame, robed in spotless white, before me came,
I longed her kiss to claim.

I told her how her presence I revered-
She disappeared'

Love came at last. How pure! how sweet!
With roses at her feet.

I begged her all her bounty to bestow-
She answered, "No."

Since then, Joy, Fortune, Love and Fame.
Have come my soul to claim.
I see them smiling everywhere-
But do not care.

ORIGINALITY.

ONCE, as I pondered o'er strange books, and sought

From secrets of the past a knowledge new, Within my mind enthralled there sudden grew The perfect germ of a stupendous thought!

No bizarre brain as yet had ever wrought

This odd, wierd wonder into shape, and few Could from the stores of Fancy bring to view A whim to equal this, to me untaught! Its radiant advent thrilled me with delight, But, as I dreamed, I heard a sad voice say: "I who am living in a spirit home With the same thought that pleasures thee to-night Charmed grim Tiberius through a festal day, And made tumultuous laughter roar through Rome!"

GRAVES.

THE sad night-wind, sighing o'er sea and strand, Haunts the cold marble where Napoleon sleeps; O'er Charlemagne's bones, far in the northern land,

A vigil through the centuries it keeps: O'er Grecian kings its plaintive music sweeps, Proud Philip's dust is by its dark wings fanned, And near old Pharaoh's, deep in desert sand, Where the grim Sphinx leers to the stars, it

creeps.

Yet weary it is of this chill, spectral gloom,
For moldering grandeur it can have no care.
Rich mausoleums in their granite doom,
It fain would leave to wander on elsewhere,
To cool the violets upon Gautier's tomb,
And lull the long grass over Baudelaire.

THE BAYADERE.

NEAR strange, weird temples, where the Ganges*

tide

Bathes domed Delhi, I watch, by spice-trees

fanned,

Her agile form in some quaint saraband; A marvel of passionate chastity and pride! Nude to the lions, superb, and leopard-eyed,

With redolent roses in her jeweled hand! Before some haughty Rajah, mute and grand, Her flexile torso bends, her white feet glide!

The dull kinoors throb one monotonous tune, And, mad with motion, as in a hasheesh trance, Her scintillant eyes in vague, ecstatic charm,

Burn like black stars below the Orient moon, While the sauve, dreamy languor of the dance Lulls the grim drowsy cobra on her arm!

THE IDEAL.

TOIL on, poor muser, to attain that goal
Where Art conceals its grandest, noblest prize;
Count every tear that dims your aching eyes,

Count all the years that seem as days, and roll The death-tides slowly on; count all your sighs; Search the wide, wondrous earth from pole to pole, Tear unbelief from out your martyred soul;

Succumb not, chase despondency, be wise; Work, toil, and struggle with the brush or pen, Revel in rhyme, strain intellect and ken;

Live on and hope despite man's sceptic leers; Praise the Ideal with your every breath,

Give it life, youth and glory, blood and tears, And to possess it pay its tribute-Death.

PASTEL.

AMONG the priceless gems and treasures rare, Old Versailles shelters in its halls sublime, I can recall one faded image fair,

A girl's sad face, praised once in every clime. Poets have sung, in rich and happy rhyme,

Her violet eyes, the wonder of her hair; An art-bijou it was, but dimmed by time, A dreamy pastel of La Valliere.

I, too, remember in my heart, a face

Whose charm I deemed would ever with me dwell;

But, as the days went by, its peerless grace

Fled like those dreams that blooming dawns

dispel,

Till of its beauty there was left no trace,
Time having blurred it like that pale pastel.

DEATH.

Down, down into the solemn depths and dim, Onward through oozing vaults and windings

drear,

To please the morbid fever of my whim,
I wandered, resolute, and without fear.
Enormous Golgothas of mildewed bones,
With reeking skeletons, corrupt and bare,
Upon the Ossuary's humid stones

In awful symmetry, lay everywhere.
And, in the slimy horror of the sight,

My heart grew warm, while trepidation fled; And the vague dawning of a strange delight Came o'er me there among the crowded dead. -The Catacombs of Paris. LONGFELLOW.

Thou art gone to join the countless hosts of shadows,

But thy sweetness will triumphantly remain, Like the perfume of the violets on the meadow, Made refreshing by the ripple of a rain!

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

MARTHA PEARSON SMITH.

M

ARTHA PEARSON SMITH is a native of North Conway, N. H., daughter of John M. and Laura Emery Pearson. Her earlier years were spent in the beautiful region of the White Mountains. At the age of seven her parents removed to Boston, Mass., where they remained four years. At the age of ten the family removed to Covington, Ky. Mrs. Smith remained in Kentucky until the fall of 1857, when she went to Minnesota. In 1859 she was married to Edson R. Smith of Le Sueur, and has resided there ever since. They have three sons. Mr. Smith is a prominent banker and mill-owner, and has filled various responsible places of trust, among them that of

state senator.

In personal appearance, Mrs. Smith is of medium height and weight, with brown hair and eyes (though the former is now threaded with silver), with a sweet, noble face.

Mrs. Smith has written much for publication, and many of her poems have been set to music. She is a warm champion of the cause of temperance, and has done much to advance the movement in her adopted state. E. M. S.

JENNY AND I.

THE Sunbeams lay in golden drifts
Among the blooming heather,
When we strolled down the woodland path-
My love and I together.

It was a summer afternoon;

Oh! never skies were bluer!

Oh! never hearts more warmly beat!
Oh! never hearts were truer!

And when we reached the rustic bridge
That spanned the brooklet over,
Where breezes from the meadow fields
Brought up the scent of clover,
And robins sang the livelong day

Their love-songs, bright and cheery, Somehow, before I knew, my heart Ran o'er with love's sweet query.

Her eyes were hid 'neath drooping lids,
Like violets 'neath the mosses,
And while I spoke, her bonny cheek
Was redder than the roses;-
And sweet her voice that murmured when
I drew her to me, nearer:

'What e'er betides-what e'er befalls-
I'll only love thee dearer."

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