SALATHIEL C. COFFINBERRY.

SALATHIE

ALATHIEL C. COFFINBERRY, who died at his home in Constantine, Mich., September 20, 1889, was at the time of his death the only survivor of a family of thirteen, he being the second youngest of the same. His father and mother, George L. and Elizabeth Little Coffinberry, were both born at Martinsburg, Virginia, and were each children of German parentage. His father entered the military service as a soldier in the Revolutionary war at the age of eighteen, and remained there until the close of the war. His parents moved from Martinsburg to Wheeling, thence to Lancaster, Ohio, where Salathiel was born February 26, 1809. His father published a paper called the Olive Branch, the first paper ever published at Lancaster. He soon moved to Chillicothe, Ohio, and thence to Mansfield, Ohio. Here Salathiel studied law with his brother Andrew, and was admitted to practice there in 1829. After a time he moved to Canal Dover, Tuscarawas County, Ohio, where he opened an office and remained a short time. From there returned to Mansfield, where he practiced law most of the time, until he came to Michigan.

In 1832 he married Miss Catherine Young at Martinsburg, Va. In 1843 he was married to Miss Artemisia Cook, at Mansfield. By the former marriage he had three children, by the latter six. His last wife and four children of that marriage only survive him.

Mr. Coffinberry was an officer in the war of the patriots in Canada, on the part of the patriots; took part with his men in battle, and with his American comrades narrowly escaped capture by crossing to the American side and hiding when closely pressed. He came from Ohio to St. Joseph County, Mich., in 1843, where he has resided ever since, and where he had all along been engaged in the practice of his profession, until failing health compelled him to give it up two or three years before his death. He was a prominent member of the Masonic fraternity, a Knight Templar, and had taken all consistory degrees in Masonry up to the thirty-second. He was Grand High Priest of the Grand Chapter of Michigan, and also Grand Master of the Grand Lodge of the state, respectively, for many years. In the practice of his profession, almost invariably his clients became his personal friends. He was eloquent as an advocate and was a brilliant and scholarly public speaker. He was for many years a prominent Democrat of the state, and the candidate of that party for national and state offices of high rank. He was

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enthusiastic in his love of the fine arts, was proficient in music, painting and poetry. C. W. H.

ECHO.

THOU distant tone dying,
Ah! whose canst thou be?
Say, whither art flying

O'er woodland and lea?
Thou sylph of the fountain,
Thou voice of the tree,
Thou nymph of the mountain,
Thou mock of the sea,
Thou art but a shadow
Of music and song,

As o'er the green meadow,

Midst flowerets and odors, thou gamblest along.
In vain do I chase thee

O'er mountain and hill,
And hope to embrace thee

By some sparkling rill;
Thy flight still swift winging,
I chase thee in vain;
'Twas here thou wert singing,

Thou hast flitted again.
Say, when may I bind thee,

Thou mystery, where?

Nay, come thou and find me; "Find me," thou mockest, high up in the air.

I dream then some maiden
Invisibly bright-

A sweet voice, arrayed in
Pure vestments of light-
A tone e'en dying,

Yet mocking again
On odor wings flying

The flower-clad plain.
For my singing and suing

Thou wilt not come down;
Thou laugh'st at my wooing
And gem-bedecked crown;
When homeward repairing
Thou'll follow me still,
With mockery daring,

Wilt mimic my voice from the brow of yon hill.

COUNT NOT THE HOURS.

I.

COUNT not the hours of sadness and sorrow;

Grasp life's bright sunshine swift-gliding away; Gather fresh flowers with hope that to-morrow Will bring hours of gladness more bright than to-day.

II.

Count the bright dawns in sunlight awaking,
Hope's brightest halo in beauty appears;
Still journeying onward, life's blessing partaking,
We trust in the future and smile through our tears.

III.

Bow not the head, we are not forsaken,
Smile at the dark cloud that passed away;
More fair is the rose that the zephyr has shaken,
Whose dewdrops have fallen with the dawn of
the day.

THE COQUETTE.

LET Love weave her garlands For those who will wear them, And sigh while they wither away; Let Love bind her fetters

On those who will bear them, Let others still wear them that may; But I'll laugh in Love's face,

I will ever be free

From the bonds that entangle the heart. No lover's soft sighing,

No Cupid for me,

I've broken the point of his dart.

Let beauty lay tribute

On hearts that are breaking,

And sigh while she makes them her game, Then laugh in Love's face

While her dupes are awaking

To the sense of their folly and shame.
I will ever be free

And preserve a whole heart,
Nor hazzard once Cupid's sharp stings;
I've untwisted his bow-string

And broken his dart,

And I've clipped off both of his wings.

CREATION.

At length the earth upheaved her rounded form,
The ocean sung his joy in thunders forth,
The sun burst from the wild chaotic storm,

The stars smiled brightly on the budding earth, Amid glad songs the universe had birth;

The mountains shouted to the rising hills, The laughing rivers gurgled forth their mirth, While, softly answering, sang the tiny rills.

The tall palms, hymning low, their solemn music woke,

And proudly reared his monarch's crown, the giant oak.

-The World's Progress.

C

CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.

HRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI, who was born in London, December, 1830, is generally acknowledged to be one of the greatest female writers of the nineteenth century. She is the daughter of Gabriele Rossetti and Frances Polidori, daughter of Alfieri's secretary, and sister of the young physician who traveled with Lord Byron, of whom mention is made in Moore's biographical notices. Gabriele Rossetti was a native of Vasto, in the district of the Abruzzi, ex-kingdom of Naples. He was a patriotic poet of great distinction; and, as a politician, took a part in extorting from Ferdinand I the Constitution of 1820. Owing to the failure of the Neapolitan insurrection, Rossetti was compelled to seek refuge in England, establishing himself in London about 1823, and marrying in 1826. His present position in Italy, as a poet and a patriot, is a high one, a medal having been struck in his honor. Hespent his best years in the study of Dante, and his commentaries on the great Italian master are unique, exhibiting a peculiar, personal view of Dante's conception of Beatrice.

It will be seen, therefore, that the father of the subject of these lines was highly gifted with poetic aspiration, and those who hold the doctrine of hereditary genius may find in the Rossetti family a striking exemplification of their particular theory. The collossal genius of the late Dante Gabriel Rossetti, the eldest brother of the poetess, has left an ineffaceable mark upon the history of our time; and the biographical and critical achievements of William Michael Rossetti are too well known to need more than mere incidental mention here. Maria Francesca, Miss Rossetti's gifted elder sister, whose "Shadow of Dante" shows such a breadth and power of thought, placed upon record, before her untimely death, the intense purity of mind and purpose inherited from her parents, culminating in the self-abnegation of Anglican conventual life; so that it will be clear to all that this talented group of sons and daughters has done, and still does, great honor to the well beloved and accomplished parents whose happy memory is ever-blossoming in the minds of their survivors.

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Text of Holy Scripture," 1874; "Seek and Find a Double Series of Short Studies of the Benedicite," 1879; "A Pageant and Other Poems," 1881; "Called to be Saints," 1881; "Letter and Spirit," 1883, and "Time Flies, a Reading Diary," 1885. Years ago, when the loving family circle was unbroken, Miss Rossetti was wont to engage in exercises of sonnet-skill with her brothers, Dante Gabriel and William; and the pleasures of this contact and interchange of thought led to a love for the finest of all forms of concise expression which has borne ripe fruit. J. W.

DREAM-LAND.

WHERE sunless rivers weep
Their waves into the deep,
She sleeps a charmed sleep;
Awake her not.

Led by a single star,
She came from very far
To seek where shadows are
Her pleasant lot.

She left the rosy morn,
She left the fields of corn,
For twilight cold and lorn,
And water springs.

Through sleep, as through a veil,
She sees the sky look pale,
And hears the nightingale
That sadly sings.

Rest, rest, a perfect rest, Shed over brow and breast; Her face is toward the west, The purple land.

She cannot see the grain Ripening on hill and plain, She cannot feel the rain Upon her hand.

Rest, rest, for evermore
Upon a mossy shore;

Rest, rest at the heart's core
Till time shall cease;

Sleep that no pain shall wake;
Night that no moon shall break,
Till joy shall overtake

Her perfect peace.

THE SIXTEENTH OF MAY.

IF love is not worth loving, then life is not worth

living,

Nor aught is worth remembering but well forgot, For store is not worth storing and gifts are not worth giving,

If love is not;

An idly cold is death-cold, and life-heat idly hot, And vain is any offering and vainer our receiving, And vanity of vanities is all our lot.

Better than life's heaving heart is death's heart unheaving,

Better than the opening leaves are the leaves that rot,

For there is nothing left worth achieving or retrieving,

If love is not.

AFTER DEATH.

THE Curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept
And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
He leaned above me, thinking that I slept

And could not hear him; but I heard him say:
"Poor child, poor child!" and as he turned away
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head;
He did not love me living; but once dead
He pitied me; and very sweet it is
To know he still is warm though I am cold.

"TO-DAY FOR ME."

SHE sitteth still who used to dance, She weepeth sore and more and more; Let us sit with thee weeping sore,

O fair France.

She trembleth as the days advance
Who used to be so light of heart;
We in thy trembling bear a part,
Sister France.

Her eyes shine tearful as they glance: "Who shall give back my slaughtered sons? "Bind up," she saith, "my wounded ones." Alas, France!

She struggles in a deathly trance,
As in a dream her pulses stir,
She hears the nations calling her,
"France, France, France."

Thou people of the lifted lance,
Forbear her tears, forbear her blood;
Roll back, roll back, thy whelming flood,

Back from France.

Eye not her loveliness askance, Forge not for her a galling chain; Leave her at peace to bloom again, Vine-clad France.

A time there is for change and chance, A time for passing of the cup; And One abides can yet bind up Broken France.

A time there is for change and chance; Who next shall drink the trembling cup, Wring out its dregs and suck them up, After France?

"AT HOME."

WHEN I was dead my spirit turned

To seek the much-frequented house; I passed the door, and saw my friends

Feasting beneath green orange boughs. From hand to hand they pushed the wine; They sucked the pulp of plumb and peach; They sang, they jested and they laughed, For each was loved by each.

I listened to their honest chat

Said one, "To-morrow we shall be
Plod plod along the featureless sands,
And coasting miles and miles of sea."
Said one, "Before the turn of tide
We will achieve the eyrie-seat."
Said one, "To-morrow shall be like
To-day, but much more sweet."
"To-morrow," said they, strong with hope,
And dwelt upon the pleasant way:
"To-morrow!" cried they, one and all,
While no one spoke of yesterday.
Their life stood full at blessed noon;
I, only I, had passed away.
"To-morrow and to-day," they cried;
I was of yesterday.

I shivered comfortless, but cast
No chill across the table-cloth;
I, all forgotten, shivered, sad

To stay and yet to part how loth;
I passed from the familiar room,
I, who from love had passed away,
Like the remembrance of a guest
That tarrieth but a day.

WHEN I AM DEAD? WHEN I am dead, my dearest,

Sing no sad songs for me;

Plant thou no roses at my head, Nor shady cypress tree.

Be the green grass above me

With showers and dewdrops wet; And if thou wilt, remember,

And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;

I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on as if in pain.

And, dreaming through the twilight,
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
Haply I may forget.

UP-HILL.

DOES the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place,

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin? May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night,
Those who have gone before?

Then, must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at the door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labor you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yes, beds for all who come.

WEARY.

I WOULD have gone, God bade me stay;
I would have worked, God bade me rest.
He broke my will from day to day;
He read my yearnings unexpress'd,
And said them nay.

Now I would stay, God bids me go;

Now I would rest, God bids me work. He breaks my heart tossed to and fro; My soul is wrung with doubts that lurk And vex it so!

I go, Lord, where Thou sendest me;
Day after day I plod and moil;
But, Christ my God, when will it be
That I may let alone my toil,
And rest with Thee?