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HENRY ABBEY.

A

MOTHERHOOD.

Ah, how bright
The years were then,-five golden years that

drew
Our hearts into a union closer yet,

And gave an added holiness to life,The jewel of motherhood that God had set Within my royal diadem of wife!

-Ibid. DEATH. Till one day, as in quest of Paradise,

The sun rolled down the west, all gold and red, An angel put the light out in her eyes, And I was sitting silent with my dead.

-Ibid. ACCOMPLISHMENT. I see no harm; if done, 'twere well done so; And if the end failed in accomplishment, 'Twere well done still.

- The Princess Elizabeth.

EYES. The tongue's lies, rascal though they be, Come as right honest villains, claiming nought Beyond such force as may perchance find home And lodgment in deception. But the eyes! All earth and heaven may be so deftly brought Within their compass that the truth turns churl And honesty is perjured.

-Ibid. WORDS. How like a very poet you shape The angled words into those beauteous curves Wherein perfection sits. Such dulcet tones Linger like honey in a maiden's ear, And drown her senses in a flood as dense As vapors of red wine.

-Ibid. FAILURE.

When the devil failed To tempt Saint Barnabas, he whispered “Fail!" And lo! the Saint turned villain. Speak no word Which gives a failure breath of life; 'tis fraught With half its own fruition.

-Ibid.

MUSIC.
The sweetest tunes are pregnant with a want,
And writ in minors ever. 'Tis soon past;
The cradle song is but a prelude, sung
To usher in the requiem for the dead;
The requiem's murmurs do but tone the soul
In unison with those who chant the vast,
Exultant strains of ever-living joy.

-Ibid,

JEST. One must jest sometimes, or one wears too soon The wrinkles of the wise.

-Ibid.

LADDIN selling the dishes of the genii's ban

quet while the wonderful lamp rested unused in his closet, may stand as a prophetic image of a poet put to business. Imagination, however, does not disqualify a man for practical work, and the subject of this study, Mr. Henry Abbey, has probably been as successful in business as if the gods had not made him poetical. He is at present a flour and grain dealer at Rondout, New York, is vice-president of a bank at Kingston, and a mem. ber of the Produce Exchange, of New York City.

Mr. Abbey was born at Rondout, New York, July 11, 1842. He is the eldest son of Stephen Abbey and Caroline Vail. His great-grandmother was Lucy Knox, for whom is claimed a lineal descent from John Knox the great Scotch Reformer. Mr. Abbey's grandfather came when a boy into New York state from Connecticut. Caroline Vail was a descendant of one of three brother Vails who came over in the Mayflower and whose names are engraved in the monument at Plymouth. It is said that one of the brothers married a daughter of Massasoit and a geneological tree shows that Caroline Vail was a descendant of this marriage.

Mr. Abbey received his education at several institutes in Kingston and the neighborhood. While preparing for college the panic of 1857 brought financial embarrassment to his father and he was compelled to forego his studies. Probably his training was more an affair of libraries than of schools, his determination towards letters being strong enough to survive the deprivation of college. His first book of verse was published in 1862. This and other early work he regards merely as evidence of an intuitive groping for expression. Soon after the publication of his first work, Mr. Abbey became assistant editor of the Rondout Courier. He did not serve many months in that capacity, however, as he left Rondout and went to New York. Here he wrote verses for the New York Leader and enjoyed the acquaintance of Henry Clapp, Jr., George Arnold, Fitzhugh Ludlow and other literary people of the time. From New York he went to Orange, New Jersey, and started the Orange Spectator, which paper, however, was soon discontinued. In 1864 Mr. Abbey returned to Rondout. He was married in 1865 to Mary Louise du Bois daughter of Mr. Elijah du Bois a member of the Holland Society.

In 1872 was published Mr. Abbey's “Ballads of Good Deeds.” Most of the poems in this collection had previously appeared in various periodicals Harper's Magazine, Appleton's Journal, The Galaxy, Chambers' Journal, and others. This volume, under the same name, but somewhat enlarged, was published in London in 1876 and attracted some

When each will love his neighbor as himself! The hopes of man, our dreams of higher good, Are based on Thee; we are Thy brotherhood.

THE DRAWBRIDGE KEEPER.

Drecker, a drawbridge keeper, opened wide
The dangerous gate to let the vessel through;
His little son was standing by his side,
Above Passaic River deep and blue,
While in the distance, like a moan of pain,
Was heard the whistle of the coming train.

At once brave Drecker worked to swing it back,
The gate-like bridge that seems a gate of death;
Nearer and nearer, on the slender track,
Came the swift engine, puffing its white breath.
Then, with a shriek, the loving father saw
His darling boy fall headlong from the draw!

Either at once down in the stream to spring
And save his son, and let the living freight
Rush on to death, or to his work to cling,
And leave his boy unhelped to meet his fate –
Which should he do? Were you as he was tried,
Would not your love outweigh all else beside ?

And yet the child to him was full as dear
As yours may be to you - the light of eyes,
A presence like a brighter atmosphere,
The household star that shone in love's mild skies-
Yet, side by side with duty stern and grim,
Even his child became as naught to him.

For Drecker, being great of soul and true,
Held to his work and did not aid his boy,
Who, in the deep, dark water, sank from view.
Then from the father's life went forth all joy;
But, as he fell back pallid from his pain,
Across the bridge in safety shot the train.

And yet the man was poor, and in his breast
Flowed no ancestral blood of king or lord;
True greatness needs no title and no crest
To win from men just honor and reward!
Nobility is not of rank, but mind,
And is inborn and common in our kind.

He is most noble whose humanity
Is least corrupted: to be just and good
The birthright of the lowest born may be.
Say what we can, we are one brotherhood,
And, rich or poor, or famous or unknown,
True hearts are noble, and true hearts alone.

attention in England. Mr. Abbey's last book was issued about three years ago and received generous attention. Mr. Abbey has of late become his own publisher.

In person Mr. Abbey is tall and well built, with hair considerably touched with gray. His manner is charmingly cordial and easy. It is doubtful if he would know how to make an enemy. He is a member of the Authors Club, of New York, and has a large literary acquaintance.

C. L. M.

FACIEBAT.

As thoughts possess the fashion of the mood
That gave them birth, so every deed we do
Partakes of our inborn disquietude
That spurns the old and reaches toward the new.
The noblest works of human art and pride
Show that their makers were not satisfied.

For, looking down the ladder of our deeds,
The rounds seem slender: all our work appears
Unto the doer faulty: the heart bleeds
And pale Regret comes weltering in tears,
To think how poor our best has been, how vain,
Beside the excellence we would attain.

THE AGE OF GOOD.

I HAD a vision of mankind to be:
I saw no grated windows, heard no roar
From iron mouths of war on land and sea;
Ambition broke the sway of peace no more.
Out of the chaos of ill-will had come
Cosmos, the Age of Good, Millennium!

The lowly hero had of praise his meed,
And loving-kindnesses joined roof to roof.
The poor were few, and to their daily need
Abundance ministered: men bore reproof;
On crags of self-denial sought to cull
Rare flowers to deck their doors hospitable.

The very bells rang out the Golden Rule,
For hearts were loath to give their fellows pain.
The man was chosen chief who, brave and cool,
Was king in act and thought: wise power is

plain And likes not pomp and show; he seemed to be The least in all that true democracy.

O Thou, the Christ, the Sower of the seed,
Pluck out the narrowness, the greed for pelf:
Pluck out all tares; the time let come, and speed,

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