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FREDERIC WERDEN PANGBORN.

REDERICK W. PANGBORN, son of Zabina K. and Hattie W. Pangborn, was born at St. Albans, Vermont, March 7, 1855. His father, a graduate of the Vermont University, and afterwards a Vermont editor, entered the army at the beginning of the Civil War. When at the close of the war he returned to the North with the rank of major, he was induced to establish a Republican paper in Jersey City. In that city, at Hasbrouck Institute, Frederic was fitted for Yale College, where he entered in 1872. His literary ability was early shown in college and led to his election as one of the editors of the Yale Courant. After graduation he married Mary C. Clark, of Jersey City, and engaged in joint editorship with his father in the Evening Journal, in the interests of which he has since been identified. As secretary of the Republican State Committee he was early introduced to the world of politics, and his management of the leading newspaper of New Jersey has been a powerful factor in the advancement of Republican ideas in that state.

But it is Mr. Pangborn's poetry that we have to consider. The happy domestic surroundings of his life are favorable to the development of a talent which he modestly denies, but which friends and utter strangers recognize. From time to time he has ventured to print some of his pieces, and whether in his own publications, or in others, they have been widely copied. It is only the odd moments of his life that he can give to the muse, as the demands of practical journalism require his first and best efforts.

Mr. Pangborn has written two novels and published one. His first, "Alice," has had a reasonable success as a first effort. It is a truism, no doubt, to say that one's literary work is a reflection of the writer's experiences; this is especially true in the case of Mr. Pangborn, whose poetic efforts, even as a boy, reflect his surroundings.

With a warm heart, developed by a congenial home; a mind naturally alert and well-trained; a love for music, cultivated from boyhood, and with all the keenest appreciation of true humor, we have the elements which together make the man and poet. H. C. W.

GOD BLESS THEE, GENTLE SLEEPER.

GOD bless thee, gentle sleeper,
Thy lover's instinct knows
What dreams beguile the hours
That mark thy soft repose.

Upon thy precious tresses my folded hands I lay, Praying that God may keep thee from grief and pain alway.

Thine eyes, soft-slumber laden,

Though veiled from sight of mine,
Yet feel the passion in the gaze

Now yearning unto thine.

Soft on their marble portals my lightest kiss I lay, Grateful that Heaven doth keep them honest and pure alway.

Sweet wife, thy gentle bosom

Deep heaving, true doth tell
For whom thy breast is waiting,
Whose image there doth dwell.

Kneeling beside thy throbbing heart, my thankful soul doth pray,

Knowing that thou wilt keep it tender and true alway.

Soul of my soul, dear All in all,

It seemeth not mete this life

Should some day part the truly wed,

The husband and the wife;

God grant that, in the gloaming of earth's ephemeral day,

Our souls go forth together, one love, one life alway.

God bless thee, gentle slumberer,
So good, so pure, so fair;

I gaze on thee, and reverent awe
Steels o'er me unaware.

Hovering above thy chaste repose, my yearning soul doth pray,

Pleading that God may keep thee from grief and pain alway.

WHAT SHALL I TELL MY CHILD?
WHAT shall I tell my thoughtful little child?

When, in her simple, truth-expectant tone,
She plainly puts an honest question'forth,
And, for an answer, seeks a truthful one!
Shall I make answer that "God sent it down;"
Or say, "the Doctor" or "Old Granny Boone
Went out and got a baby in a sack,

And brought it on a broomstick from the moon?"
Or, shall I tell her, that the baby came,
Like drifting snowflake falling from the sky;
Shall I, with silly falsehoods, half believed,
Evade, and lie again to blind the lie?
Yet, such is common custom. And, alas,

The little one, all doubting still, soon grows To learn from lips less holy, souls less pure,

What mamma will not tell, but really knows.

No; I will take my darling in my arms,

And tell her all the truth; and she shall know Why mother's eyes so passionately burn

When mother smiles, and why she loves her so.

I'll tell her how, long, weary days and months
Her suffering mother bore her. How, in fear
And sadness, dread and doubt, slow days went by;
And, in their passing, brought my baby here.

I'll tell her of a woman's gloomy hours

Of anguish, in that sad Gethsemane;
The wild despair, the shadow as of death,
The awful cost that made her dear to me.

For her, another suffered midnight pain,

For her a woman bore a mother's woes, And sweat great drops of agony, that she Might live; and counted naught cruel Nature's throes.

I'll tell her all a mother's lips can tell

Of witless babe and loving mother's care, That she may know the mother-heart is true, And place her childhood confidences there.

Why should we strive to cheat, where we may trust?

My loving child can love me not the less,
To feel the fullness of her debt to me,
And know the cause of mother's tenderness.

LULLABY.

SOFTLY the Dream God to rest is beguiling,
Softly the stars at my darling are smiling,
Softly the twilight to slumber is wiling,

Rest, little happy heart, rest.

Close the white portals, and shut out the light,
Visions will enter them by the dream light,
Keeping sweet company all the long night
Visions than day-dreams more blest.
Mother will sit with the angels, and keep
Loving watch over thee; so in thy sleep,
Angel-face, Mother-face,

These and none other face,

Thou shalt behold, and by these be caressed;
Angels and Mother, dear,

These and none other near,
Rest, little happy heart, rest.

DIVIDED BLESSING.

OH mother-heart, bowed down by sorrow's load,
Gaze not so blankly on this baby face;
Think not, like one condemned for willful sin,
There is not, even here, some meed of grace.

But yester-year I knelt, like thee, in woe,
Beside an infant's coffin, like to thine;
With dripping eyes my blinded sight was dim;
I loved that baby, for it had been mine,-
And was mine still, though then I knew it not,
For hearts thus hurt are not to reason given;
It seemed that it could never more be mine,
That I was all of earth and it of heaven.

And thus I mourned, nor aught of comfort found,
Till, like a gentle shower from heaven above,
There came the thought: though taken from my
arms,

Death cannot take my baby from my love.

I cannot feel his snowy, dimpled arms
Soft-pressed about my neck, nor see his face.

But still, forever, in my secret heart,
This baby fills a love and has a place.

There is no sentiment in human soul,

Save one, which does not sometime find a death; Love only will outlive the longest life;

Love is not measured by the lease of breath.

And so 't will be when Time hath wrought his work, When Nature's solemn law hath had its will; The tender memory will yet be mine;

In death's last hour, I'll love my baby still.

Oh, little face, oh, calmly pallid brow!

So full of rest, from trouble's touch so free!
There have been times, when, in this life of mine,
My soul has yearned that it might rest like thee.
Sweet rest the kindliest boon of all our good,
The only state unmarred by any blight;
It comes to all, but when to such as thou,
We see it in its full, most perfect light.

See, mother-heart, how perfect is this rest,
How like a lily folded by Death's kiss;
No past, no present, naught but perfect peace,
And answer: could you give him rest like this?

Behold what justice, see what equity,

The blessings even of this great sorrow prove; Rest for the tender nursling of your heart, For you a pure, undying holy love.

INTELLIGENT LOVE.

THERE sat beneath a church-yard tree
Three idlers in the shade,
Three youths, discoursing cheerily
Of love, and man, and maid.

"I think," said Harold, waxing warm,

"That love to be the best,

Which gives its all, and asks for naught,
Contented so to rest."

"Thou'rt wrong," cried Hubert; "Love is best When, like a valiant knight,

It seizes hotly its desires,

Nor cares for wrong or right!"

"To me," said Gerald, "of all loves,

That love most sweet would seem, Which gives and takes in ignorant bliss, The phantoms of Love's dream."

Up rose the aged rector then,

And, with extended hand:

"These be not Love at all," he said; "Love is to Understand."

TO BELINDA.

(On receiving a present of a Turkish pipe.) COMMUNING with my Hookah, "Fool!" I cried, "To be enthralled by fair Belinda's smile; Knowest thou not Narghileh doth suffice The soul with perfumed phantoms to beguile? Visions of houris, sensuous storms, fair calms It giveth thee-and yet it seemeth true, That fact and phantasy should well combine, Like taste and odor in a savory wine, Solution sweet-so, without more ado, I'll love the Hookah and Belinda too."

LUST.

This is a passion void of name or sense; It is not love-for love should holy be, And never dare to harm the object dear On which it fastens.

Such a thing as this

Is far from love. It is a lurid fire
Unguarded, left to run its horrid course;
Destroying in its madness all itself,
And leaving only blackness in its track-
As carbons, burning in the electric lamp,
Consumed, leave but ashes, dust and night.

HEROISM.

A child fell overboard into the sea,
A sailor plunging from the prow
Saved its life. They gave him gold,
And with laurels decked his brow.
But no one thought of the silent man,
Who, lashed at the helm all night,
Had saved the lives of all on board,
As he watched at the binnacle light
And steadily guided the vessel's course,
Through the sleet which blurred his sight.

-As Seen of Men.

ELL

Ε

ELLA A. GILES.

LLA A. GILES was born at a rural home near Madison, Wisconsin, in 1851, and early gave such promise of musical ability that the famous instructor Hans Balatka gladly received her as a pupil, and predicted for her a brilliant success as a vocalist. Just as her voice had reached the zenith of its power, health failed, and the would-be songstress was compelled to abandon all hope of the expected career in music. During the isolation illness rendered necessary she wrote a romance entitled "Bachelor Ben." Hastily produced, and almost immediately published, the venture, as a whole, seemed immature; but the favor with which it was received gave much encouragement to the young author, and two other novels, "Out From the Shadows," and "Maiden Rachel," followed the first volume" in far too rapid succession," to quote their author's words. An interval of rest then ensued, after which Miss Giles accepted the position of librarian in the public library of Madison. She held this position five years, but was again fettered by failing strength from further service in this direction. Then it was that she turned to poetry as the safe refuge for the fanciful brain and overflowing heart; and with the publication of the graceful, charming idyls came friends in such numbers as to form from her home a resort for the literary people of the age.

Feeling great interest in religious thought she attended a course of lectures at the Meadville Theological School, and after the conclusion of a long session there, quietly entered the lecture-field. Shortly afterward she turned her attention to journalism, and here, perhaps, is found her greatest success. She has been a special correspondent of the Chicago Times, The Home Journal, The Post, The Nation, and other papers. M. L. B.

OH, YE BEAUTEOUS HILLS OF FRANKFORT.

Он, уe beauteous hills of Frankfort,
Wist ye why to-day we sigh?
Gentle hills that sit and listen
To the tender, leaning sky.

Shadowed hills, enlaced with sunshine,
Mist embosomed, silence clad,
Do ye feel our yearning homage,
Know why we no more are glad?

'Tis because, amid your forests,
In the hush of "Arnold's wold."
Walks a bard who speaks your language,
One to whom ye oft have told

Secrets of transcendent sadness,

Which so freely forth he breathes
That he low rebukes our rapture,
And to us your sigh bequeaths.
Oh, wild-tangled wold, soul-wooing,
Stretched in smiling, careless grace
'Neath the arch of clouds far distant,
But for him upon your face
We could only read a story

Fraught with radiant joy's deep thrills; But he lives, and he your voice is,

Your own voice, ye once-mute hills! Griefs vicarious does he suffer,

Till your strength is the world's gain; Happy hills? Nay, mounts transfigured By the Poet's steadfast pain.

AH ME! THOUGH FREE. IF I can only show thee, dear,

The truth my soul perceives (Since losing me so grieves), If I can banish all thy fear,

And thou canst to thy God draw near; Without those superstitions drear,

How happy we may be!

Ah me!

How free

And happy we may be.

If I can break the ties that hold
Thee to thy dim faith, dear,
And show thee mine so clear!
If now, as we are growing old,
We share the blessings manifold
Of liberty, by Christ foretold,
How happy may we be.
Ah me!

How free

And happy may we be.

Alas! I cannot show thee, dear,

The truth my soul perceives

(Nor tell thee how it grieves).

Thou wilt not hear my words. Dost fear,
Lest, losing some delusions drear,
Thou'lt find that my belief can cheer,
And thine is heresy?

Ah me!

How free

Ought every mind to be.

And so our souls must part for aye; Each loyal to the wraith

Of reason and of faith.

And so we sit and think and sigh,

And so the weary years go by,
And both are wondering vaguely why
We cannot happy be.

Ah me!

Though free,

We cannot happy be.

IN THE FULNESS OF TIME.

If you believe in Fate to your harm, believe in it at least for your good."-EMERSON.

FATE's store holds happiness as well as woe,
And when you question her you cannot know
How kind the answer is, how wise, how true,
Which slumbers dormant in her mind for you.
So let there be calm hope-days in your life;
Full of divine content, devoid of strife;
Hours when your inner, spiritual eye
Dwells on the law of final unity.

Ah, heart, believe it, you will have your own!
Fateful Nemesis will not always frown,—
Smiling she yet will bring you what is fit
Though now the space between seems infinite.
That which belongs to you will surely come,

And in your waiting soul find its true home.
That which great Zeus withholds a curse would be,
Seek not to aid all-powerful destiny.

O, be not faithless, though the coffin-lid
Of fate, your living as your dead hath hid,
Moan not in loneliness and grief and pain,
For surely you shall find your own again.
God planneth for your good, not to your harm-
There is no cause for doubt, distrust, alarm,
Though dim the dawn of peace, let faith sublime
Unfold in the full, noonday light of time.

TO AVOID FRUSTRATION.

BANISH all random thoughts that are not white;
Let dreams and fancies be so clean and pure
That, leaving the mind's shade, they can endure
The test of instantaneous searching light.

Mend thou thy broken speech, and make it whole;
Let thy words be so worthy that if death
Come suddenly, shall be thy latest breath
A benediction to some listening soul.
Before thy task is finished thou mayst tire;
Let thy plans be so noble and so high
That deeds undone shall be thy legacy,
To toilers whom thy life has helped inspire.
Hold cheerful views! Rest ever in content!
But think, speak, act and live as if to die
This moment were thy body's destiny,
Immortal thou in life's accomplishment.