A chaplet of good deeds, that brighter far, monarchs wear. The deeds emblazoned on the warrior's shield, Those, on the fleeting mist, or ever-changing sand. Then haste thee, new-born year! Thy scroll unfold. Then gird thee, Christian! for the conflict now, FOR MEMORIAL DAY. REST, heroes rest! all conflicts now are ended, Ye cannot die, while yet your memory liveth, 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. Your lives you've laid upon your country's altar,- The roll of drum, the bugle-note, the clarion, MEMORY. Who hath not felt the power of that sweet spell! THOMAS TOD STODDART. ΤΗΣ 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 me showers, and clouds, and winds, Dark and wily dropper; And a cobweb tackle. 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, On the surface wheeling, From his safe concealing. There, as with a pleasant friend, Every motion swaying, When the trout are playing; Bring me rod and reel, Flies of every feather, Bring the osier creel, Send me glorious weather! A ALLEN EASTMAN CROSS. LLEN EASTMAN CROSS was born in Manchester, 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 crudities of expression and carelessness of rhythm. G. F. K. MT. MCGREGOR. I SEE a young Lieutenant, fresh from books The wailing bells salute a passing soul. Again the vision rises, and I see, A General mounted high in majesty; A man whom comrades love and traitors hate; And now they crown the hero, President, There is a nook, where blows the highland air He ne'er has met-'tis Death is calling low. And still in measured beat recurs the tollThe wailing bells salute a passing soul. But air and sympathy can ne'er control TO THE AMHERST HILLS. 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, your gorges, Lived the sweet life that a dreamer lives. 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 Like a high soul, that from struggle and sorrow So hath this rampart, ice-worn and storm-riven, Grown to a lovliness more divine. Hills to the West! but a curtain of beauty For on the nearer and drearer horizon I can not look to those far away hill-tops, Lo! it is sunset; again I am standing Up to the North where Sugar-loaf mountain Thus while the waning light falls upon Amherst, TO EMMA LAZARUS. On reading "By the Waters of Babylon," in the Century Magazine. IN dead, dull days I heard a ringing cry Borne on the careless winds-a nation's pain, Of purest psalmody, till hearts are fain Rachel of Judah! ever mournful, sad Must be the heart which thy lamenting hears; Singer of Israel! ever proud and glad We hail a nation's hope that thus appears; CRADDOCK'S "IN THE TENNESSEE YE mountains and ye dales of Tennessee, Sons of the mountains, be ye also glad; To give your hearts a voice. Oh, maidens sad, By heroic hearts 'tis counted as a crown, While a love, no prince could borrow, Call a truce for sorrow, Freedom, in the fray! When a great courageous heart hath passed away. MATER DOLOROSA, OF GUIDO RENI. Oh Grieving Mother, hath the earth no charm SISTINE MADONNA, OF RAPHAEL. A TWILIGHT star that rests above the steep O Virgin Mother, thou hast purity 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 -Mater Amabilis of Sassoferrato. |