O sage most blind-who never yet hast known, It is earth's heart which draws electric fire From soverign sun; cold space wakes no desire. Smile, happy earth! The secret, thine alone!

SIDNEY LANIER.

A POET born,

An artist, who with soulful pen

Could grasp the roseate hues of morn,
Could picture all the moods of men—
By wealth foresworn,

By pain's sharp tooth, remorseless torn, He lived, he loved, he died! and then-?

TROWBRIDGE.

"And fame has passed me with averted eye." Fame has not passed thee with averted eye, But given thee royal pledge of constancy, And thou art favored many bards above, For Fame with thee is synonyme for Love.

FERDINAND FREILIGRATH.

BUT doth not love

Rank sweetest song above?

It dries the tear, bids want and sorrow cease, And gently whispers, Peace!

CLOUDS.

See yonder silvery clouds that lie
Reposing in the far-off sky;

How, wafted by a breath, they float
In that blue shining sea, and note
The bright angelic forms they wear,
With floating robes and sun-stained hair;
Then in swift imagery we trace

The beauty of the angel face,

And wonder if those spirits bright

May not sometimes, in robes of light,

Be visible to mortal eye,

And look upon us from the sky.

-Spring Thoughts.

M

LIBBIE C. BAER.

RS. LIBBIE C. BAER, née Riley, was born near Bethel, Clermont County, Ohio, November 18, 1849. Her ancestors on the paternal side were the two families, Riley and Swing. From the original family of the former descended the distinguished poet and humorist, James Whitcomb Riley, and from the latter the eminent philosopher and divine, Prof. David Swing, of Chicago. On the maternal side she is a descendant of the Blairs, an old and favorably known family of southern Ohio. It is not surprising, therefore, that through early associations, combined with a natural taste and aptitude for literary work, her genius for poetry was evinced during childhood. Her first poem, written when she was scarcely ten years of age, was a spontaneous and really remarkable production for one so young.

In November, 1867, the subject of our memoir was married to Capt. John M. Baer, whose gallant military record is well known. Upon organization of the Women's Relief Corps, as allied with the G. A. R., Mrs. Libbie C. Baer took an important part in the benevolent work of this order, and has held various responsible positions connected therewith, devoting much time and energy to the cause, solely as a labor of love. Many of her admirable poems published in various journals were inspired by the spirit of patriotism so characteristic of her nature.

Devotion to friends and to the cause of humanity, and warm sympathy for every deserving cause that needs assistance, are reflected in her poems. Her sensitive, generous, impulsive nature responds to all that appeals to the heart. Her verse flows smoothly, with an easy rhythm and unstudied grace, which seem to indicate their spontaneous origin.

Though always devoted to and proficient in poetical composition, Libbie C. Baer really began her literary career during the past decade, and the popular favor with which her poems have been received proves the real merit of her productions. A volume of intrinsic worth might be formed by judicious selection of the patriotic, practical, serious and sentimental stanzas which have appeared under her name. F. E. P.

HOME.

O ye who say the blessed words, "our home," Throw wide the doors and let the sunshine in, Throw up the sash, sweet airs of heaven to win, And bid depart that morbid jailer, Gloom!

-Seclusion.

LOVE.

THE spring has come:

Whilst winter's snow is floating down On autumn's leaves so sear and brown,

All of life that we crave and miss
(The world denies us half its bliss),
Free, untrammeled, we have in this,-
In the beautiful land of fancy.

WHAT IS LOVE?

LOVE is joy, and love is sorrow;
Love is sweet, and bitter too;
Love is old as all creation,
Yet is love forever new.

Love is deep and love is cruel;
Love is tender, love is kind;
Love will come not at your bidding,
Yet no place but love will find.
Love will die unflinching for you;
Love will kill as quick as hate;
Love will brave the wrath of thunders,
Yet will weep if barred by fate.
You that love, you have my pity;
You that have not loved at all,
I will hope, out of compassion,
Love will soon give you a call.

A NEW YEAR'S WISH.

AND if magician, witch or seer
Should come to me this dawning year,
And say, "To you is given the power
To make one wish at midnight hour,

Which by our art shall granted be;"
If by your eyes I could but see
What you wish for, by this decree
My wish should bring it, dear, to thee.
How I should watch each thought expire;
The wish your words or look expressed,
Should swiftly come, at my behest,
If fame, or wealth, or love's desire.

And if I lingered yet a while

One moment dear-tho' selfishly,
I'm sure that you would grant to me
What I should prize the most-your smile.

AUTUMN.

'Tis creeping o'er the meadows

Where'er I turn my eye;

I see its flaming banners
Proclaim it to the sky,

That summer's days are ended
And winter's gloom is nigh.
-The Summer is Ended.

M

MOODY CURRIER.

OODY CURRIER, the banker-poet of New Hampshire, was born in Boscawen, N. H., April 22, 1806. His early years were spent on a farm, where he utilized every spare moment in the pursuit of knowledge and in preparing himself for college. He graduated from Dartmouth College with high honors in 1834, and has received from his alma mater the honorary degree of LL. D. After leaving college he was master of the high school in Lowell, Mass., about five years. During this period he employed the broken fragments of time in qualifying himself for the bar, which he entered in 1841. A few years later he became the cashier of the Amoskeag Bank, and the treasurer of the Amoskeag Savings Bank. These institutions under his management soon became the most successful banks in the state. He is also prominently connected with many other financial and manufacturing interests. Mr. Currier has won high honors in public life, having been called to nearly all the important offices at the disposal of his fellow-citizens, including the Governorship of New Hampshire, to which he was elected in 1884. From his boyhood he has been a close and untiring student. To him standard books have always been familiar friends, and much of his leisure has been passed in his library. He is an accomplished linguist, is versed in philosophy, science and art, and is a master of composition in prose and verse. Early in life he edited, for several years, a weekly journal, and was afterwards a contributor to others, but he is known to the public as an author mainly through occasional poems written for his own recreation, and his unique, polished and eloquent state papers while he was Governor. A volume of his poems was published for private circulation among his friends a few years since.

Governor Currier, while a firm believer in an infinite and eternal intelligence, has discarded as unworthy of acceptance the superstitions and dogmas of theology, and rejected all such creeds as will not bear the analysis of reason and justify themselves in the pursuits and activities of human life. This stands out boldly in his poems and in his state papers. H. M. P.

JUNE.

THE morning breaks with rosy light,
Its golden beams lead in the day,
While swiftly fly the shades of night,
And roll in sullen folds away.
The air and earth and sun conspire
To wake in all the soft desire;

Now love the genial current warms,
Now life awakes in myriad forms,
For all that's dark and all that shine
Soon feel the quick'ning power divine;
And every sleeping germ of earth
A wakes to life and springs to birth.
Unnumbered forms float in the air
And for their summer tasks prepare.
Far up the streams and mountain brooks,
To sheltered pools and shady nooks,
The finny tribes instinctive move,
To seek a hiding place of love.

The industrious bee from flower to flower
Slow gathers up her fragrant store,
And stops not till the setting sun
Reminds her that her task is done.
The feathered tenants of the grove

Now cheer their mates with songs of love,
The while, impatient of delay,
They sing the lingering hours away.
On gilded wing the insect throng
Sport in the air and float along,
Or through the drowsy shades of night
From silver shards display their light.
Now mother earth, in plenty, pours
The gathered wealth of all her stores,
With all the buds that spring prepares,
With all the robes that summer wears,
With all the fruits and golden grain
That autumn rears along the plain.
Now oft the genial showers descend,
And all the charms of nature blend
To deck the earth in rich array,
And all of summer's wealth display;
For every blush that paints the dawn,
For every tear that wets the lawn,
For every glow of purple light,
That warms the western sky at night,
Are but the tints of nature's robe,
Are but the smiles of nature's God.

What is, you ask, that wondrous power,
That spreads the leaf, that paints the flower,
That tips with gold the insect's wing,
That tunes the warbling throats that sing,
That decks the field, that clothes the grove,
And warms the throbbing hearts with love?
It is, O friend, that power divine,
That fills with light the orbs that shine,
That spreads the zephyr's silken wing,
And weaves with green the robes of spring,
That scents the air with rich perfumes,
From every summer flower that blooms,
And shines in every golden grain
Which autumn yields along the plain.

In every part, in every whole, God is the life, th' Eternal Soul.

THE ETERNAL ONE.

O TELL me, man of sacred lore,
Where dwells the Being you adore?
And where, O man of thought profound,
Where can the Eternal One be found?
Throughout the realms of boundless space
We seek in vain His dwelling-place.

He dwells where'er the beams of light
Have pierced the primal gloom of night
Beyond the planet's feeble ray;
Beyond the comet's devious way;
Where'er amid the realms afar
Shines light of sun or twinkling star.
Above, below, and all around,
Th' encircling arms of God are found.
Where'er the pulse of life may beat
His forming hand and power we meet.
While every living germ of earth
That sinks in death or springs to birth
Is but a part of that great whole
Whose life is God, and God the soul,
From plant to man, below, above,
The power divine still throbs in love.
He is the life that glows and warms
In tiniest mote of living forms,
Which quick'ning nature brings to birth,
To float in air, or sink in earth.
And every shrub, and plant, and flower,
That lives an age or blooms an hour,
Has just as much of God within
As human life or seraphim;

For all that bloom and all that shine
Are only forms of life divine.

And every ray that streaks the east,
And every beam that paints the west,
With every trembling gleam of light,
With every gloom that shades the night,
Are but the trailing robes divine
Of one whose garments ever shine.
The human soul may bend in love
And seek for blessings from above,
As well in busy haunts of men,
In forest gloom, in silent glen,
As in the altar's solemn shade,
Beneath the domes that men have made;
As well may seek a Father's love,
And ask assistance from above,
Amid the ocean's solemn roar,
Or on its barren waste of shore,
As in some distant promised land,