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Near this a course leads to the sunny side
So still the waters glide, the distant sound
When near these placid, blending, parting ways
Near Clotho's stream, and swaying to its trend,
From this amazing, bright, enchanted place,
While there you need not shudder at the sight
No one should chide you, nor objection make,
The thicket tempts you where Claytonia smiles,
And where sweet Cicely and Columbine
No hackneyed claim here hence shall honored be,
FAREWELL! The gate is down, the captive free!
If thou wert armed for strife, thy natal morn
Unfoiled by murmurs from the moaning tide. Farewell, sad crumbling walls; I could not stay; Farewell! I go beyond,-God lends the way!
MISSING LINKS OF MEMORY.
THE hour when first their eyes beheld the light
A seeming rambler in a misty way,
Though dropped seem many loops, yet gathered still
They shall be all; the web the warp shall fill, The endless pattern form; nor should we fear, But gladly follow up the thread; methinks There are in Nature's woof no missing links.
ALLEN G. BIGELOW.
A SOUL attuned to amaranthine strains
Restrain, we may not, the regretful tear,
We place the tribute of a flower, assured
Records that we in his loved songs rejoice.
EBEN PEARSON DORR.
BEN PEARSON DORR, who has occasionally during several years past contributed some modest ventures in verse to the columns of the Buffalo Times, the Review and Quips, is a young newspaper man on the Times' staff, and a grandson of the late Captain E. P. Dorr, of Buffalo. His efforts are marked chiefly by a strong sympathy with nature and acquaintance with secrets of the woods and fields. Mr. Dorr is president of the Buffalo Naturalists' Field Club and recording secretary of the Society of Natural Sciences. He was born in Buffalo and comes on his father's side from the noted New England families of Dorr, Prince and Pearson, and on his mother's side from the Schoolcraft and Johnston families. Henry R. Schoolcraft was his maternal grand-uncle. He is but a few generations descended from the celebrated Ojibway chief Wabojeeg of Lake Superior, through the marriage of John Johnston, Esq., to Wabojeeg's daughter, the fair Oshagushcadawaqua.
The Catholic Union and Times said editorially of Mr. Dorr: "He is a young man, but he has done and is doing fine literary work. There is an ease, a grace, a naturalness and sincerity about his efforts that at once commend them to the appreciative critic, and their spontaneity is one of their delightful features." N. A. G.
The gorgeous red rose has shed its seeds,
THE BLUE JAY.
THE jay, he sings a scanty lay,
As boy who would a fiddle play,
O! VAPOROUS mountains, isles of mist,
Stretch on through countless miles of airy space; In the snowy depths of cloud on high
I sometimes think I see a God-like face,
A terrible face, yet just, divine,
That watches o'er earth's trials and Babel's towers. Oft His will forbids the sun to shine;
The wrath of God rolls endless, and man cowers.
SEEKING THE LIGHT.
FREED from the prison of its earthly cell,
THE setting sun descends the western sky;
In peace and quiet all things earthly lie.
HENRY A. VAN FREDENBERG.
HENRY A. VAN FREDENBERG.
ENRY A. VAN FREDENBERG was born in Montague, Sussex county, New Jersey, December 29th, 1849. He is descended on his mother's side from the DeWitts, and on his father's side from the Van Fredenbergs, two Holland families that came to this country in 1650. His parents were the late Aaron and Maria DeWitt Van Fredenberg. His family settled in Sparrowbush, Orange county, New York, in his infancy, and he was educated in the school in that village and in Professor A. B. Wilbur's seminary, in Port Jervis, N. Y. His early life was full of hard work, as his whole life has been. He began work as a schoolteacher, at an early age, and for some years followed that occupation in New York and New Jersey. He supplemented his short school training by wide reading and hard study, including a partial course in the classics and in several modern languages. He was naturally inclined to literary work and soon began to do newspaper work on local journals and on Boston, New York and Philadelphia papers. He finally left the school-room for the editorial sanctum and edited successively the Deckertown, N. J., Independent, the Washington, N. J., Star, the Port Jervis, N. Y., Daily Union and Orange County Farmer, and the Mauch Chunk, Pa., Coal Gazette and Daily Times. Impairment of hearing incapacitated him for active work in daily journalism, and in 1885 he removed to Buffalo, where he has since edited the Lumber World, the Milling World, the Iron Industry Gazette and two other class journals. His work has covered political, literary and technical productions. His published poetical works are few in number. He contributed to Dixie, of Atlanta, Ga., when that journal was a literary periodical, and his verse has been widely copied. Caring little for publicity, he has accumulated the poetical work of years, and now has a volume of verse ready for the press. He has made a study of poetical form, and he does not believe in the careless versification that usually is called "singing by ear." He is a busy man and a prolific writer, quiet and retiring, and inclined to look on the sunny side of life. C. W. M.
THE MAIDEN WHO WINS.
Aн, maiden sweet with the drooping eye,
And the roselike cheek and tawny hair, And the siren feint of a smothered sigh, And the luring ruse of a languid air,
Thou seemest coy, but the maids who dare In the lists with thee are aye outdone;
Men turn from the sun's too ardent glare: The maiden who wins is she who's won.
The rose that brushes the passer-by
May be the sweetest, may be most fair, But he who's hurt the thorn will spy, And love flies ever from open snare; The half-hid bloom is the one he'd bear, The bloom that shrinks from the scorching sun. 'Tis the unworn charm will longest wear: The maiden who wins is she who's won.
O, timid blossom, there's none to vie With thee in the lists, so have no care. Thy prince is coming, he draweth nigh! Nay, flutter not so, but coyly spare
A first love kiss! 'Tis his guerdon rare! Such kiss is pure as the prayer of a nun, 'Tis a kiss by which he'll ever swear: The maiden who wins is she who's won.
Rose, ever of open wiles beware;
The prey the uncovered snare will shun. Never the moss from thy veiled face tear: The maiden who wins is she who's won.
THE withered rose shall be rose once more,
The dead man lives as a man again,
Sand on the desert? Not so, not so!
Faded love? Only delusion vain!
Mournful death? 'Tis a mockery mad!