Where sacred fanes and temples stand.
The soul that beats in sweet attune
Finds in itself the Eternal One;
Nor needs to seek for other shrine
Than God's great temples all divine.

THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN.

THY home is on the mountain's brow,
Where clouds hang thick and tempests blow.
Unnumbered years, with silent tread,
Have passed above thy rocky head;
Whilst round these heights the beating storm
Has worn, with rage, thy deathless form.
And yet thou sit'st, unmoved, alone,
Upon this ancient mountain home.
Long as these towering peaks shall stand,
So wondrous great, so nobly grand,
Serene, on high, that face of thine
Shall mock the wasting hand of time,
Whilst all that live shall pass away,
And all the tribes of earth decay.
Old man, thy face of rock sublime
Looks back, through years, to ancient time,
When first the forming hand divine
Reared up this rocky home of thine,
And from the lowest depths of earth
These mountain forms had first their birth;
When on these shaggy heights imprest,
Thy changeless form was doomed to rest.
Then tell me, man of silent tongue,
How first the heavens and earth begun;
If all this bright and shining frame,

With all these worlds, from nothing came;
If all these starry orbs of light,
That glitter on the robes of night,
And fill creation's vast expanse,
Began at once their mystic dance.
Or, from mists that dimly shine,
Worlds spring to light by power divine,
Till all the radiant fields afar

Shall beam with light of sun and star.
And tell me where, in depths profound,
The primal germs of earth were found,
Which, rising up from realms of death,
Instinct with life and vital breath,
Have formed this wondrous orb we see
Of hill and plain and waste of sea,
Where busy life, with forming power,
Unfolds itself in plant and flower,
And upward still, with widening plan,
Kindles the pulse of beast and man.
And tell me whence, from earth or heaven,
That living spark to man was given,
Which shines in God's eternal day,
When all things else shall pass away.

MARY E. HILL.

319

RS. BENJAMIN H. HILL, née Miss Mary E.

M Carter, whose untimely death occurred in May

last, was a native of Georgia, and the eldest daughter of Mr. S. M. Carter, of Murray County.

She was of English and Scotch descent. Her paternal grandfather was of an old Virginia family, and her great-grandfather was a distinguished soldier of the Revolutionary War. He was killed while leading his men in a gallant charge against the British at the siege of Augusta, in 1775. The paternal grandmother of Mrs. Hill was Miss McDonald, and was descended from a noble Scotch family; her great-uncle, Hon. Charles J. McDonald, was Governor of Georgia in 1830. Mrs. Hill's mother was Miss Emily Colquitt, daughter of Hon. Walter T. Colquitt. He was in the United States Senate in 1845, and most ably represented the State of Georgia. He was a brilliant and eloquent advocate. His son, Hon. Alfred H. Colquitt-Mrs. Hill's only living uncle-has been United States Senator from Georgia for two terms. The people of his state had previously proven the honor and love in which they held him by twice electing him their Governor. Mrs. Hill's father-a true type of southern gentleman-resides principally on his plantation in the beautiful mountains of north Georgia. His broad lands are now tenanted by a large number of his ex-slaves, who cling to him with a devotion that is a just and beautiful tribute to his nobility. Her mother died when she was a child.

Mrs. Hill spent most of her childhood on her father's plantation, and she loved the freedom of the country. "At nine years of age," she laughingly says, "I was a fearless little rider; my horse followed at my heels like a dog, sometimes to the terror of the little girls who came to play with me on the lawn." She was under the instruction of governesses until she went to college, where she graduated at seventeen with the first honors in a large class.

She was married to Mr. B. H. Hill, Jr., eldest son of Hon. Benjamin H. Hill who died eight years ago while representing Georgia in the United States Senate. It was on the occasion of his sad and lingering death that Mrs. Hill wrote her first poem, "The River," which was at the time widely copied. Mr. B. H. Hill, Jr., her husband, has held two important offices in Georgia. He was Solicitor-General for Atlanta during eight years, and was appointed by President Cleveland to the office of District Attorney, which office he held with equal credit and honor to himself.

River of tears! Yet o'er thy bosom Joy, as a bird, flashes its gaudy wing,

And drinks its draught of ecstasy from out thy crystal spring.

Oh, sunlit river! shadowy river!

River of gladness-river of sadness-
Thou river of Life!

River of gladness! Yet o'er the blue of the beautiful sky floats a cloud,

Out of whose fleecy whiteness the Loom of God is weaving a shroud.

Oh, beautiful river! while the star of youth is glowing

From the silver-sprinkled sky;

River of Life! when health's elixir flowing
Paints thy waters its rosy dye.

Sunlit river! when the days are full of peace,

And the calm of the song the river sings,
And the quiet joy the lullaby brings,
We feel will never cease.

And while the waters glow and glisten,

Ah! how seldom do we listen

To the turning of the ponderous wheel of Time, Over whose granite sides are rushing

The waves of the river in a symphony sublime! But when the waters are black and bleeding, Dyed with dread Disease's breath,

And we feel the river leading

To the fathomless sea of Death

Then, ah! then, in our agony of soul

We cry, "Oh! wheel of Time! one moment stay! Turn back the river, and cease to roll,

For a life we love is passing away." But God is the miller, and the wheel is turning, Though Grief's hot irons our hearts are burning, And the river's song-is only a moan, And the grinding wheel-sounds a groan.

*

But from out our midnight gloom
Look up! God knowest best,

See the life we love as it catches the bloom

Of Infinite radiance and rest!
Its waters have mingled with the crystal stream
Flowing so close to the throne,

And the waves have caught the golden gleam
And the river's voice, God's tender tone.
And the river in heaven in its crystal calm
Found its way through the golden bars,
Flowing upward-beyond the garden of stars-
To the feet of God and His Lamb.

Oh, royal river! radiant river!
River of Light-river of Life-
Thou river of God!

GOING.

THE silver latch is lifted, and I am going
Far, far beyond where the stars are growing
Like flowers of gold in meadows blue
The angels sprinkled in passing through.

The silver latch is lifted, and I am going;
I hear the sound of the river flowing,
And I catch its glimmer where the trees enlace
As the leaves brush cool about my face.

The silver latch is lifted, and I am going;
The flower-kissed breezes of Eden are blowing,
And balmy sweet is the perfumed breath
That floats to me like a whisper of death.

The silver latch is lifted, and I am going;

'Tis the bloom of the dawn ere the sun is glowing, And adown the hills hang the mists of morning Like the veil of lace a bride adorning.

The silver latch is lifted, and I am going;
About me the lilies of God are snowing.
They are draperies white of a winding-sheet,
And soon I'll sleep 'neath their petals sweet.

The silver latch is lifted, and I am going;
Yet fragrant the flowers the days are sowing;
Not a worm at the root, the blooms have uncurled
For Love is the gardener of my beautiful world.
The silver latch is lifted, and I am going;
There's a nightless home of God's bestowing.
Good-bye; I take the invisible and immortal hand,
As he leads me gently into the mystic land.

MY BIRD.

CLOSE in my breast

She built her nest

Where the light lingers longest, And love grows strongest

My beautiful bird.

321

M

NARNIE HARRISON.

ISS NARNIE HARRISON, who, being a born poet and lisping in numbers in infancy, and occasionally contributing a characteristic morceau to the voluminous poetical literature of the country, yet is indifferent to fame, and careless of the rewards that ambition grants its votaries. Nevertheless her reputation is growing, and her friends confidently predict for her a future rich in the renown of poetical achievement.

Sprung from the old Harrison family of Virginia, she is a native of Tennessee, where, amid the sweet influences of nature, she grew to woman's estate. There the mountain, the valley, the woods, the rolling stream, the sunlight and darkness have talked with her. She is a variously-gifted woman, adorned and ennobled by wide culture.

Several years ago Miss Harrison became a resident of the great State of Texas. She is now a professor of English Literature in a popular female college in the city of Waco. W. L. B.

TEARS.

Он, saddest tears! tears unshed,

Tears that drop from the mists of pain That crystalize like frozen rain

To chill the heart till faith is dead.

Oh, blessed tears! tears we weep, Tears o'erflowing the sad sweet eyes Till a pearl upon the pale cheek lies And the lids close softly in sleep.

SPIRIT OF SONG.

THOU canst not catch the sweet spirit of song,
Yet thou canst hear the silken rustle of her robes
Mid leafy boughs, when soft winds blow;
Or thou mayst listen to her rippling laugh,
When o'er gleaming pebbles the streamlets flow.
Thou canst not catch the sweet spirit of song,
Yet thou canst hear her croon a low melody sweet,
When the river sings as it flows to the sea;
Or, thou mayst hear her sigh in swaying pines,
When the dark green forest moves tremblingly.

Thou canst not catch the sweet spirit of song,
Nor imprison one silver note of melody
(Save in the mystic cage of memory),

But her voice is in the air and her song in the sea,
And her tender minstrelsy is for you and for me.

EARTH LOVE.

GOD bids his creatures love Him best;
Christ says to each, "Give me thy heart;"

I can not lean upon God's breast,
The Christ and I are far apart.

If I could only touch His hand,

Or in the night-hush hear a tone; If just one moment I could stand

And see my God upon his throne;

In that one moment could be born

Love large enough to meet His will. But though I watch until the morn, The night is empty and is still.

But human hands are very near,

And loving human lips and eyes. The tender earth-tones that I hear Make me forget the silent skies.

When children play about my knees,

Or lay their head upon my breast, Tell me, my heart, do I love these Or silent God, or Christ, the best?

THE SENSE OF BEING OWNED.

WE own all things of earth and heaven, The starry silence of the night,

The tender purple of the even,

The August noondays' yellow light.

All these and smaller things are ours:
The cricket's chirp, the robin's breast,
The gold-dust in the hearts of flowers,
The soft, low twitter in the nest.

Though this possessing all things fair
Should mean a happiness complete,
Yet, God, a creature dares declare
To be possessed, is far more sweet.

When heart, and soul, and life belong

To One who claims us as His ownWhen He says, "mine!" our wild-bird's song Has not the sweetness of that tone.

The blessed twilight's gift of rest
Is not so full of perfect peace
As when we lean upon His breast

And pang, and pain, and yearning cease.

The light of stars, perfume of flowers,
Are fainter, duller than this bliss;
More glorious than the noonday hours
Is our renunciation kiss.

All nature's gifts are nothing worth, When by that love we sit enthroned. Hear me! The owning of the earth

Is not so dear as being owned.

CHARITY.

"Tis lack of charity that puts heart-ache in our today,

And makes the river's floating dead religious mockery;

That charity, I plead, that makes the heart more warmly human;

That charity-so sadly rare-of woman unto

woman.

TWO MOTHERS.

A WEE bird chirped in its lonely nest,
And, lo! its mother heard;

With outstretched wings and throbing breast,
Flew to the baby bird.

A child cried in the winter night,

And through a revel wild,

With fair round arms, and bosom white,
A woman danced and smiled.

ELIZA H. MORTON.

"HIS lady, of Deering, Maine, had her birthday

in their earlier years, but afterward gave their time to the gardens and green-houses of "Ulosa." Thus the child lived among the most beautiful things of nature and learned to love them fondly. She was educated at Westbrook Seminary. By studious habits she has since added greatly to her early store of knowledge. She commenced teaching at the age of sixteen, and at the same time wrote articles for educational journals advocating new methods of teaching in our common schools, especially in the study of geography. About this time her first poem appeared in print, which encouraged her to other efforts, and her name since then has been found in many publications, both east and west.

In 1879 Miss Morton engaged her services in the normal department of Battle Creek College, Mich., giving her attention for three years mainly to the science of geography. At this time she published a volume of verse entitled "Still Waters." Outside of this volume many of the author's best productions may be found. Hymns filled with religious fervor have been set to music by some of our best composers and used in revival work by D. L. Moody and others.

Returning from the West, she conceived the idea of preparing an elementary geography, expressing her advanced methods of teaching this important branch in education, and after five years of earnest work it was published. It is to be followed by an advance book to complete the series. Miss Morton has several other important works under way. J. A. L.

WEAKNESS.

IN weakness held by hands unseen
I struggle with the strong,
And vainly strive to rise, to work,
To mingle with the throng.
Life looks so bright, so full of joy
To those who daily feel
The glow of health within their veins,
Of strength to work with zeal.
The days and weeks and hours below
Are slipping from life's string
Like pearls, and gliding from my grasp
Like summer birds on wing.

Like ghosts my wasted years arise

And haunt each passing hour. They lift to me their spectral hands And boast of vanished power.