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ROWLAND B. MAHANY.

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She need not be afraid of anything,
Because she is a daughter of the King.

Even when the angel comes that men call Death,
And name with terror, it appalls not her.
She turns to look at him with quickened breath,
Thinking, "It is the royal messenger."
Her heart rejoices that her Father calls
Her back, to live within the palace walls.

For though the land she dwells in is most fair,
Set round with streams, like picture in its frame,
Yet often in her heart deep longings are

For that imperial palace whence she came.
Not perfect quite seems any earthly thing,
Because she is a daughter of the King.

WHITE UNDERNEATH.

INTO a city street,

Narrow and noisome, chance had led my feet; Poisonous to every sense; and the sun's rays Loved not the unclean place.

It seemed that no pure thing

Its whiteness here would ever dare to bring;
Yet even into this dark place and low
God had sent down his snow.

Here, too, a little child

Played with the drifts now blackened and defiled, And with his rosy hands, in earnest play, Scraped the dark crust away.

Checking my hurried pace,

To note the busy hands and eager face,
I heard him laugh aloud in pure delight,
That underneath 't was white.

Then, through a broken pane,

A woman's voice summoned him in again, With softened mother-tones, that half excused The unclean words she used.

And as I lingered near,

His baby accents fell upon my ear:

"See, I can make the snow again for you All clean and white and new."

Ah, surely, God knows best.

Our sight is short; faith trusts to him the rest. Sometimes we know he gives to human hands To work out his commands.

Perhaps he holds apart

By baby fingers, in that mother's heart,

One fair clean spot that yet shall spread and grow, Till all be white as snow.

ROWLAND B. MAHANY.

OWLAND BLENNERHASSETT MAHANY,

R the subject of the present sketch, was born in

Buffalo, 1864, Sept. 28. He was educated in the public schools of that city and was graduated from the Central or High School with highest honors in 1881. In 1882 he matriculated at Hobart College and remained two years, during which he stood at the head of his class. He entered Harvard College in 1884 and was one of the "Detur" prize men of his freshman year; secretary and treasurer, and three times vicepresident of the Harvard Union (the University Debating Club); vice-president and president of St. Paul's Society, the Episcopalian Organization of Harvard College; elected in 1887 to the Phi Beta Kappa Society in the first eight of a class of 238 members; first marshal of the Phi Beta Kappa in the same year; Boylston Prize man, 1887 and 1888such are some of the distinctions of his college course.

He was graduated, 1888 (Summa Cum Laude), with honors and double honorable mention in History, and honorable mention in Latin.

Immediately after graduation he was chosen poet by the Ninth Veteran Regiment of New York Volunteers, at the dedication of their monument at Gettysburg, July 1, 1888, the occasion of the celebration of the Quarter Centenary of the battle.

Mr. Mahany owes his attainment of a college course largely to his own efforts, will and perseverance. His success in this respect, however, he attributes to the influence and encouragement of his mother. His ultimate ambition is the law, but it is one which many of his friends will begrudge his gratifying. Gifted with keen poetic sensibility, refined taste, an exquisite poetic diction and a rare discrimination in the use of language, he shows in the translations from German, Latin and Greek poets. which he has thus far attempted a potency and power of expression, an exactness and skill in the rendition of poetic thought which remind one of Longfellow's and Bayard Taylor's efforts in this direction. Nothing he has yet produced indicates the power of sustained effort; but the early songs of the real poetic nature are chiefly lyric, and such are Mr. Mahany's. The poetic gift is all too rare to be made a slave in the trammels of the law; and while the pecuniary rewards of a literary life are seldom munificent, it yields rich returns in what are the substantial triumphs of life-golden opinions of those, select though few, whom the soul prizes. Mr. Mahany we believe will yet find his way to the literary life, resulting in renown to himself and abiding pleasure to his friends, many of whom believe in his future as one of unusual brilliancy and success. J. F. G.

NEPENTHE.

COME, Sorrow, smooth my brow and kiss my lips,
And lay thy gentle hand upon my heart,
And on my bosom pillow thy sweet head;
For in thy silent face and loving eyes
I trace the memories of long fled years.
Ay! thou art kind as thou art beautiful.
And never joy, in its supremest hour,
Gave aught of happiness as dear as thou!
For thou, the winsome shadow of my hope,
The sweet Ideal of the vanished years,
Art still an image of the loved and lost,

E'en though on evening wings the Real hath fled.
Yea, Sorrow, I will kiss thy pensive mouth,

And call thee steadfast friend, and love thee well,
For thou wert constant when all else were false.
But, lo! the while my eyes with blinding tears
Are wet, I see thy sable raiment fall,
And in my arms I have, unconscious, clasped
The smiling, white-winged angel of the Lord.

TO THE WIND FLOWER.

SWEET, Winsome flower that decks the wold
Despite the snowdrift's chilling cold,
Dost thou to March's kiss unfold
Thy petals pure?

Or hast thou wakened at the song

The Redbreast trills, as, bold and strong,
Through early groves he wings along,
Of summer sure?

Nay, soft as is thy perfume thrown,
So is thy mystic coming known;

Thou bloomest when the winds have blown,

A beauteous thing!

That we may know when storms are rife,
And tawdry joys fade in their strife,
The sweetest flowers of human life
From trouble spring.

Thus thou within this tangled dell,
Where wildling, woodsy spirits dwell,
Has cast the magic of thy spell
O'er all the scene;

Like some fair maid with face demure,
Yet witching glance from eye-depths pure
Whose every aspect doth allure

With grace serene.

Sure, blest, sweet flower, is lot of thine, And doubly blest compared with mine; Thou seest content each sun decline, Nor askest why;

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ROBERT JONES BURDETTE.

And these years of joy and pain
Shall to me be not in vain;

For the pain will cleanse the dross,
And the joy support the cross.

Never year shall come or go,

When thy thoughts I shall not know;
And the love-light in thy face,
Will become a means of grace.

Oh, my Mother, thou and I

Still live in the years gone by; Though our wishes now are fled, They shall blossom, Christ has said.

TO HARVARD COLLEGE.

ON STORIED heights of Knowledge thou dost stand
O Mother-Queen, who from thy throne of fame
Shedst light of learning's soul-exalting flame
O'er many realms, but chief upon that land
Whose burning hopes ideals high demand;

The young Republic, stainless yet of shame,
Comes, as Prometheus to old Gaia came,
To find the Truth of Truth in thy fair hand;

As high thy state, so be thy high emprise! Nor faiths outworn, nor dreams of things agone, Find ceaseless habitation in thy halls!

Morn-fronted Progress mirrored in thine eyes, Is but the presage of thy greater dawn, If thou art true when trump of action calls!

ALL IN ALL.

WHO strangles fear, and puts hope from his throne,
Yet seats thereon a silent, tireless will,
To be not conquered, but to conquer still,—
That man can call the golden world his own!

THE DAYS OF YOUTH.

Across the light and shadow comes
The vision of a perfect day,—

A dream of thought in Grecian years,—
When winsome April dried her tears
To kiss the smiling mouth of May.
For in the beauty of the Spring,
With Loveliness,-to me more sweet,—
I wandered o'er a flowery lea
To golden-misted Arcady,
With singing heart and tripping feet.

-To my Lady in Arcady.

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ROBERT JONES BURDETTE. THE kindly humorist may or may not put his

poetry into verse, but he is always a poet. Yet the merry laughter of the world as it listens to his jests, often drowns the music of the sweet songs of his serious moods. This is notably true of Robert Jones Burdette; whom everybody knows, yet who is not commonly called a poet. The story of Mr. Burdette's life is not a new one. It has been modestly and delightfully told by himself in "The Confessions of a Reformed Humorist," and admiringly written by more than one friend.

Mr. Burdette was born in Pennsylvania, though we are apt to think of him as a Western man because as editor of The Hawkeye of Burlington, Iowa, he was first introduced to the world by fame. Indeed he was a Western man; since in the west he grew to manhood. At the age of two years he departed with his parents from Greensboro, Pa., where he was born July 30, 1844, to take up his abode in Cincinnati. Six years later another move brought the boy to Peoria, Ill. Here he entered school, graduating from the High School in 1861, to enter the army in 1862brief, as to age and stature, but valiant as to heart. He served through the war with bravery, was in more than one important battle and especially distinguished himself at Corinth. At the end of the war he marched back to peaceful scenes -a private of Co. C, 47th Regiment, Illinois Vol

unteers.

In 1869 Mr. Burdette became one of the editors of the Peoria Transcript and afterward, in connection with others established the Peoria Review, an evening paper which was unsuccessful. In 1874 he removed to Burlington, Iowa, and began work on The Hawkeye, which soon came to have a national reputation because of his witty and philosophical contributions.

In 1877 Mr. Burdette, encouraged by his wise and gentle wife, essayed the lecture field. Everybody knows how he has taught patience, honor, charity-every Christian virtue, while his laughing audiences perhaps only realized what solid food they had got when they had gone home and digested it.

For some years Mr. Burdette has not been connected with The Hawkeye, but does his work mainly for the Brooklyn Eagle. His wit is still as fresh and his laughter as spontaneous as at first. And he enjoys this rare distinction: He has never stooped to coarseness nor provoked the laughter of fools. The purest mother can read to her innocent daughter all his fun without hesitation or regret.

Personally, few men win you so quickly. His frank. unaffected kindness, his ready helpfulness and his utter lack of egotism are plain to all. He calls himself a "little nonpareil lion" and takes his reputation as if it were the gift of hosts of generous friends-something to be thankful for but not half deserved. Any notice of Mr. Burdette is incomplete without a reference to his wife, “Her Little Serene Highness," whose beautiful life was early done and whose death he has so deeply mourned. He has so honored her by word and deed that the fragrance of her tender influence has floated far. Mr. Burdette has one son-a young Robert of about twelve years, much like his father. The collections of humorous writings made by Mr. Burdette have not, he says, been eminently successful. Should he some day see fit to put into book form his soberer attempts, many a lover of tender poems, faithful to every-day, human experience and full of the genuine insights of the reverent lover of nature and mankind, would be glad. It would certainly not take the pen of the partial admirer to commend it to the homes of Americans, nor would the pen of the critical keep it out. Indeed, the critic's pen will be long unemployed before it writes an adverse line of Robert J. Burdette. MRS. G. A.

BARTIMEUS.

"And Jesus answered and said unto him, What wilt thou that I should do unto thee? The blind man said unto him, Lord, that I might receive my sight."

I WOULD receive my sight; my clouded eyes
Miss the glad radiance of the morning sun,
The changing tints that glorify the skies

With roseate splendors when the day is done,
The shadows soft and gray, the pearly light
Of summer twilight deep'ning into night.

I cannot see to keep the narrow way,
And so I blindly wander here and there,
Groping amidst the tombs, or helpless stray
Through pathless, tangled deserts, bleak and

bare;

Weeping I seek the way I cannot find:
Open my eyes, dear Lord, for I am blind.

And oft I laugh with some light, thoughtless jest,

Nor see how anguish lines some face most

dear;

And write my mirth-a mocking palimpsest—
On blotted scrolls of human pain and fear;
And never see the heartache underlined:
Pity, O Son of David! I am blind.

I do not see the pain my light words give,

The quivering, shrinking heart I cannot see; So, light of thought, midst hidden griefs I live, And mock the cypressed tombs with sightless glee;

Open mine eyes, light-blesséd ways to find:
Jesus, have mercy on me-I am blind.

My useless eyes are reservoirs of tears,
Doomed for their blind mistakes to over-

flow,

To weep for thoughtless ways of wandering

years,

Because I could not see-I did not know; These sightless eyes, than angriest glance less kind:

Light of the World, have pity! I am blind.

WHEN MY SHIP COMES IN. SOMEWHERE, out on the blue seas sailing, Where the winds dance and spin,Beyond the reach of my eager hailing,

Over the breakers' din,Out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting, Out where the blinding fog is drifting, Out where the treacherous sand is shifting, My ship is coming in.

Oh, I have watched till my eyes were aching,
Day after weary day;

Oh, I have hoped till my heart was breaking,
While the long nights ebbed away;

Could I but know where the waves have tossed her,
Could I but know what storms have crossed her,
Could I but know where the winds have lost her,

Out in the twilight gray!

But, though the storms her course have altered,
Surely the port she 'll win;

Never my faith in my ship has faltered,
I know she is coming in;

For through the restless ways of her roaming,
Through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming,
Through the white crest of the billows combing,
My ship is coming in.

Breasting the tides where the gulls are flying, Swiftly she's coming in;

Shallows and deeps and rocks defying,

Bravely she's coming in;

Precious the love she will bring to bless me,
Snowy the arms she will bring to caress me,
In the proud purple of kings she will dress me,
My ship that is coming in.

ROBERT JONES BURDETTE.

White in the sunshine her sails will be gleaming, See, where my ship comes in;

At mast-head and peak her colors streaming,
Proudly she's sailing in:

Love, hope and joy on her decks are cheering,
Music will welcome her glad appearing,
And my heart will sing at her stately nearing,
When my ship comes in.

ALONE.

SINCE she went home

The evening shadows linger longer here,
The winter days fill so much of the year,
And even summer winds are chill and drear,
Since she went home.

Since she went home

The robin's note has touched a minor strain, The old glad songs breathe but a sad refrain, And laughter sobs with hidden, bitter pain, Since she went home.

Since she went home

How still the empty rooms her presence blessed;
Untouched the pillow that her dear head pressed;
My lonely heart hath nowhere for its rest,
Since she went home.

Since she went home

The long, long days have crept away like years, The sunlight has been dimmed with doubt and fears,

And the dark nights have rained in lonely tears, Since she went home.

AT FORTY-FIVE.

"HALT!" cry the bugles, down the column's length; And nothing loth to halt and rest am I, For summer's heat hath somewhat taxed my strength,

And long the dusty ways before me lie.

The dew that glittered when the echoing horn
Called reveille to greet the waking day;
The cool sweet shadows of the cheery morn,
The birds that trilled, the bugle's roundelay;

The scented violets with eyes of blue,

That breathed sweet incense when we trod them down:

The wild-wood buds and blooms of brightest hue,
Fair prophecy of Honor's radiant crown;
And all that made the earlier marching light,
Have passed like incense of the rosy hours;
And many a beaten field of fiercest fight

Lies between noonday and auroral flowers.

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