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THOMAS TOD STODDART.

TH

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 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."

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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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.

A

But air and sympathy can ne'er control
The God within us; the too restless soul
Must rest at last, and resting be at peace
With God and man; the hero has release.
Release, release, the bells now seem to toll--
The wailing bells salute the passing soul.

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, -
Unto eternity your inspiration

For the beholder still shall abide.
Oft have I wandered your mighty sides over,

Felt the wild vigor your summit gives,
Climbed o'er your rocky spurs, roamed through

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.
Hills to the South! your most beautiful ramparts

Come to my eyes whene'er I recall
Blessed old Amherst,-my dear Alma Mater,

Happy art thou in thy Southern wall.
Like a high soul, that from struggle and sorrow

Gaineth a sweetness more pure and fine,
So hath this rampart, ice-worn and storm-riven,

Grown to a lovliness more divine.
Hills to the West! but a curtain of beauty

Suddenly rises before mine eyes,
For on the nearer and drearer horizon

Views of the College of love arise.

Again the vision rises, and I see,
A General mounted high in majesty;
A man whom comrades love and traitors hate;
The proud deliverer of a perilled state;
But over as I gaze there comes a toll-
The wailing bells salute a passing soul.

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,
To rule the nation he had gladly lent
His life and valor for, and all the ways
Rcsound with joy, a happy nation's praise.
But through it all I hear that constant toll-
The wailing bells salute the passing soul.

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

grand.

By heroic hearts 'tis counted as a crown,
When a victor heart hath laid its armor down,

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

Magazine.

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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

MOUNTAINS."

YE mountains and ye dales of Tennessee,
Be glad, for ye at last have found a tongue,
An utterance to loneliness unsung
Save by the red-bird in the laurel-tree,
Save by the Creek” that prattled noisily
Until the mountain took its lonely child
Into its lonely heart, and all the wild
Was silent as the “ harnt" of Chilhowee.

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;
Ye too have found a sympathetic heart
To give your hearts a voice. Oh, maidens sad,
Sweet tender “Clarsies,” ye shall ne'er depart
From our fond memories, for ye have had
A great prose poet now to take your part.

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.

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