WILLIAM HIBBERT-WARE. 499 WILLIAM HIBBERT-WARE. WILLIAM HIBBERT-WARE is the youngest surviving child of the late Rev. Robert Green Hibbert-Ware, M. A., and was born in Crishall Vicarage, Essex, England. He is a descendant of the royal Scottish line of Stewarts. When only eight months old William became an orphan, and was reared by his uncle, Sir Robert Stewart. He came on a visit to the United States in August, 1889, and being delighted with the country, made it his future home, and took out his first papers some three months later. On March 5th, 1893, he married Miss Weil, youngest daughter of the late George Weil of Trenton, N. J., and one year later was a widower. While Mr. Ware has written considerable verse, he has only published a small collection of his poems, under the title of "Golden Rods." J. H. And there are kindly virtues that bestir the mind And melt the heart, in moments such as this; And steeled must be the breast and sadly unrefined The soul, unmoved by Twilight's hour of bliss! 'Tis thus, my soul with sweetest thoughts has oft been filled; And I have loved the hour when I have stood And watched the setting sun's last rays of glory gild The russet leaves that strewed the Autumn woods! At such an hour I oft have heard the nightingale, Sheltered in sylvan shade, her anthem sing; And I have wandered slowly on through dell and dale, In love with Nature and with Nature's King! NATURE'S MIRROR. THOU peaceful, placid lake, that silent rests; O'er those Elysian fields bereft of sin and care, Thou glassy image of Eternity! Our sinful forms are oft reflected on thy face, Like deeds of evil on the conscience stricken race, Which Times can not displace. Thy waves are like the troubled, surging mass Of human souls, whenever lashed by stormy wind, Who roll and toss against a Providence unkind, Because they're inly blind. Thy face did once reflect thy Maker's form; When he did tread thy billowy deep, thou hushed thy roar; And thy wild waves did gently blush, to think they bore A sinless soul to shore! TWILIGHT. THERE is a calming influence at Twilight gray, THE MOCKING-BIRD. Down in a verdant valley, where the purest lilies grow, With running, rippling rills, in sweet, melodious flow, Where buttercups and daisies 'mid golden-rod entwine, And catch the whisp'ring winds as they rustle leaf and vine; Down in this verdant valley I sought a shady place, Ere Pheobus and his chariot had run the western race, Reposed I there enchanted, till floral hill and dale Were flooded with a ruby flush that floated o'er the vale! 'Twas there I heard the anthem the mocking-bird did sing, As from its lungs, full-throated, a melody would ring; And through the vale, o'er hill and plain, until twi light's calm, Well borne upon the balmy breeze, I heard this songster's psalm! THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. O THAT this voice could bid the dead arise; STANLEY FITSPATRICK. The crimson flag shall be laid low, The giants fall to rise no more; For hymns of conquest swell and flow Above the battles din and roar. THE SPIRIT OF PROPHECY. I AM Illumé-the prophet and seer The days of the ages unroll to my sight, I am the Ancient-the hoary with age The priest of Milchez—the prince of Salem— My name was impressed on Creation's first page, The wisest have sought for my trailing robe's hem. I am Illumé-the vision I see Is of conflict and strife, of peril and fear, Of power and might ingulfed in the sea! Of glory and shame! O ears, can ye hear? The vision I see is of pillage and blood On fields to the Nations of Now all unknown, Fields that are strewn with the whirlwind and flood, They garner the fruitage of that they have sownPlumes of great armies shall dance on the wave Of destruction that rolls—a sea in its might, The winds and the waters in fury shall rave— O eyes that are blind! can ye see the wild sight? I see it before me-the tossing of spears! I hear the death-groans which thicken the blast, The tumult of battle now filleth mine ears, O dream of the ages that sleep in the Past! I tell thee O King! who sitteth in pride A harvest ye reck not is white on the plain! I tell thee O Queen! who sits by his side, The storm is abroad o'er the sullen black main! I am Illumé-the Ancient of days! I am Milchezor-the Priest and the King! I speak not the words of the singer's soft lays A message of might to the willing I bring. I am Illumé-the Prophet and Seer! My vision, O World! is of that which shall be! I have spoken. He that hath ears, let him hear! He that hath eyes-let them open and see! THE MAIDEN'S SONG. ONE morning fair in early Spring A maiden tripped the green fields over And soft and clear she sweet did sing While plucking heads of blooming clover; So sweet she sang the wild birds near All paused to hear the glad notes fall, And this was the song she sang so clear: "I do not care for love at all At all-at all I do not care for love at all." In days of June so fresh and fair Rang out the singer's sweet refrain; A sturdy reaper paused to hear Among the corn so fair and tall- I do not care for love at all.” When Autumn came the damsel strayed Across the fields all brown and bare More fair had grown the blooming maidHer song still rang upon the air; The reaper paused the path beside And smiled to hear the clear notes fall, For she was now his promised bride And sang, "O love is all in all Is all in all O love" she sang "is all in all." GLEN CLAIRE. IN thee, lone glen, my heart hath found That which it e'er had sought in vain; Beyond the world's unceasing sound It found the truth it thought was slain. No evil is but want of light! Man wants but wisdom to be strong. Is not each soul a part of Him Who is of all the one great soul? E'en though in some the flame burn dim He still is part of nature's whole. Man was not made to trample down All that is helpless, poor or weak! Shall he who labors swart and brown Bend to the idler, humble, meek? Shall woman, in whose slender form I hear the voice which bids me rise 501 |