In 1884, Mrs. Converse was formally adopted by the Seneca Indians, as had been her father and grandfather before her. It was on the occasion of the re-interment, by the Buffalo Historical Society, of the remains of the famous Red Jacket. Her adoption made her the great-grand-daughter of Red Jacket with all the rights and honors pertaining to the relation. The poetical work of Mrs. Converse has won high praise. Lord Alfred Tennyson and Dom Pedro emperor of Brazil, each sent to the author graceful letters of commendation on the publication of "Sheaves." Mrs. Converse is also an industrious writer of prose, and has two volumes nearly ready for the press, one to be entitled " The Religious Festivals of the Iroquois Indians," the other "Mythology and Folk Lore of the North American Indians." In the prime of life, she has doubtless her best work before her. Mrs. Converse resides in New York City. Personally she is attractive, genial and generous. Her friendships are warm, enthusiastic and abiding, while her heart is sympathetic and her hand open to the needs of her kind. In her presence you forget that she is literary, which is perhaps the most satisfactory social trait any literary woman can exhibit. MRS. G. A. And weary of her laurelled dust), If in some hour unknown before, LIFE. I. LIFE'S whirl and din! The sands run in; Work, busy brain; Toil, care, and pain Encompass thee; Mortality Thy destiny, Humanity Thine equity, Divinity TO THE NIGHT. THE west is barred with hurrying clouds, She swoons to death, in languid trance Thou hastening Night! If o'er thy broad and darkling land Day's ghost go wandering, hand in hand With some sad secret of Life's years, Keeping her vigils through her tears, With uncreated Morrow's day Thy inward light), make fond delay, And kiss, with lingering, fragrant breath, Sweet Sleep- the image of this deathTo dreams of worlds more bright, Thou friendly Night! If from the solitudes of pain- DEATH. II. DEATH solves the doubt! Rest, weary brain, And agony, UNFOLDED HOPES. MANY a bud enfolds a hue that never sees the sun; Unfriendly thoughts have blasted hopes that love has just begun; Many a rose unwatched hath grown where summer sunbeams lie, That left its thorns unbared and brown to face the winter sky. Many a stream has babbled love to neighboring flowers in dell, That running seaward lost itself in moan and surging swell; Many a tree disdains to bend that falls before the storm, While flexile reeds submissively to frigid blasts conform. Many a life with pride is launched that bears a golden name, And drifts through waste of watery woe a wreck of bitter shame; While adverse winds have tempests blown o'er craft of humbler sail, That, tossed through spray of lashing waves, outrode the angry gale. Many a growth of flaunting ease betrays a sterile soil, While generous impulse shackeled dies in ruin of despoil; Many a heart its glory wins e'en through a chast'ning rod, And yields its sorrows, tears, and sighs to will of gracious God. THY EASTER MORN. IN the dark Gethsemane and sackcloth of thy soul, Beneath the shadowed olive tree, thy face toward the goal, Didst thou seek release in vain and, humbly trust ing, pray? Press to thy lips the cup of pain that would not pass away? Waiting in thy Judgment-Hall thy life reviewed, arraigned, While the wormwood and the gall its piteous pangs sustained, Didst thou in thy Sorrows yearn for Morning's eastern skies, Fondly to thy Christ Star turn thy mournful, tearstained eyes? Watching on thy Calvary, adoring at His feet, What sacrifice hath come to thee to make thy life complete? Receiving of its holy dust, within its saintly ground, The triumphs of thy lowly trust, was martyrdom so crowned? In the sighs of mortal breath enshrouded in thy woe, Hath thy heart some mortal death that Death alone can know? Watch not in thy Life's array its sepulchre of gloom, Thy Lord will roll the stone away from off its darkened tomb! Doth His Easter radiance glow within thy life's full years And with unturning hallowed flow, bring gladness to thy fears? Hope that sought thee in thy pain with flowers thy brow adorns! To-day the roses bloom again where yesterday were thorns! MAY PEACE WITH THEE ABIDE. And all thy heart astray. May peace with thee abide! And when thy burdens grow, Fear not, faint not; beside The rock the waters flow! May peace with thee abide! With care and toil oppressed, Submit; He will provide For thee His grace and rest. May peace with thee abide! On thee may God's light glow' His peace is not denied, Although thou falter so. IN MEDITATION. WITHIN her fair white hands the Good Book lies; And as the nightfall sure and slowly weaves, For love is strong as death!" And as she reads the Israel song Her lips are like a roseleaf curled apart In spicy sweetness warm With incense of its breath. WILLIAM WILSEY MARTIN. WIL ́ILLIAM WILSEY MARTIN was born at Reading, in Berkshire, England, on the 11th of October, 1833. He was destined for the legal profession, but while serving with a solicitor, was offered an appointment in Her Majesty's Civil Service which he accepted, and in 1854 commenced an official career which has proved a successful one. He has found time amid his exacting duties to indulge his natural love of literature and to make many a contribution in prose and verse to journals and magazines. In addition to the collection of poems under the title " By Solent and Danube" he has written many verses of a humorous character, and is the author of several plays. He is known to a large circle as an elocutionist of great power and brilliancy: perhaps, as an oral interpreter of Tennyson he has never been surpassed. A. N. J. And caught their subtle odors in the spring? Have you walk'd beneath the blossoms in the spring? Beneath the apple blossoms in the spring? Have you seen a merry bridal in the spring? In an English apple-county in the spring? If you have not, then you know not, in the spring, Half the color, beauty, wonder of the spring. Half so precious, half so tender, SYMPATHY. How shall I breathe to thee In thy hard part? How shall I preach to thee The sacred strain; Tell thee, thy loss is gain; In Heaven again? To weep with thee. When slips away The dreary day Behind the rounded hills, and solemn night, Then, my part shall be To weep with thee. |