« AnkstesnisTęsti »
ACROSS THE YEARS.
A HAND of love at length appears,
Its wrecks around our feet has cast.
Of those whose paths together led,
Ere youthful hopes and dreams were dead,
Is life the same? Can we forget?
Ah, no, my friend. Yet thee I greet
THE ships with silver sails go by,
They seek the far-off golden isle,
She is not wrecked or marred or torn,
Nor hopes the ocean-life to share.
As sad as wrecks in seas gone down. Thus souls are stranded from the strife Who bear no cross and win no crown.
In these days of love and duty,
Full of strength and full of beauty,
JOHN CHARLES SHEA.
OHN CHARLES SHEA was born in Halifax,
N. S., February 21, 1831. In 1837 his widowed mother removed to Niagara Falls, then called Clifton, on the Canadian side.. In 1840 his mother died at Queenstown, and under the guardianship of Rev. E. Gordon his education was commenced the same year. An early acquaintance with a printing office filled him with a love for "the art preservative of all arts," and he entered the office of the old Niagara Chronicle, where he remained for several years. He then entered the Globe office in Toronto for a year's tuition, and took his place among the leading printers at that time.
In 1849 he settled in Lockport, and was successively connected with the Cataract, the Courier and the Journal of that city. In 1853 Mr. Shea was married. His wife died May 13, 1888. In 1860 Mr. Shea removed to Chicago, filling in that city responsible positions on important papers and in the councils of his craft. He removed to Kansas in 1870, and became foreman and afterward city editor of the Leavenworth Times; afterward superintendent of the Standard Publishing Company, at Lawrence. He was the founder of the daily Standard, which paper was afterward removed to Leavenworth. Later Mr. Shea became associate editor of the Kansas City Times, and then purchased a third interest in the daily Mail. He sold his interest in the Mail in 1880, and has since been engaged in publishing and literary pursuits.
S. S. P.
ECHOES FROM AN OLD KEY-BUGLE.
"FULL twenty years have flown since then!" Why, comrade, surely no;
It cannot be! Yet time glides past
Where Erie bounds in mad career,
Above Niagara's fall,
Was heard full oft by list'ning ear
Was felt the charm that music lends,
And men who camped with "Company D," And Fletcher's troop, would tell
How cheering was the bugle sound,
That sweetly rose and fell;
No other music had a charm,
Like those pure airs sent proudly forth
A bugle, not of silver made
Nor burnished bright and fine,
But, oh, its notes were heard with joy
And then, at night, beneath the stars,
Yes, twenty years have flown since then,
Has held us rapt in many a spell,
Bewitching many an hour;
But when the heart is thrilled the most,
And many times since then I've thought,
If soldiers form the night bivouac
In heaven's camping-grounds, How quick, should that old bugle there Sound forth all full and free, Would Fletcher's troopers, friendly still, “Fall in” with “Company D"!
MY MOTHER'S VOICE.
THE Voice of her I love, how dear!
Tho' far my wand'ring footsteps stray, It lingers on my list ning ear, It vibrates thro' each passing year;
And, thinking of that voice to-day, Remembrance claims the willing tear. My mother's voice! Its gentle power Has turned temptation's face away; And tho' the tempest clouds may lower, To darken life's most joyous hour,
It comes, like sunshine on the day,
. In festive halls I hear its tone;
In whisperings that the south winds send;
Yet naught has ever touched my heart
To feel my mother's spirit near.
FOOT-PRINTS IN THE SNOW.
IT WAS morn! A virgin mantle
I could see the glistening snow-flakes,
Where the drift lay smooth and tranquil,
Pretty child! Her hood seemed falling,
You have drawn, with magic art,
MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN.
MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN, recently editor of
the New York Freeman's Journal, and at present Professor of English Literature in the University of Notre Dame, is one of those versatile writers who have the defects of their qualities. If he had been less of a journalist, he would have produced more poetry; if he was less of a ready writer on all subjects, he would no doubt in this be one of the most popular of American poets.
This exquisite and rare talent has been recognized by Longfellow, Cardinal Newman, Stedman, Gilder, and a host of critics, both here and in England, and yet he published about on an average one sonnet a year! His sonnets are technically nearly perfect. And the little book, "Songs and Sonnets," printed in London in 1886, from the type, is very rare.
Mr. Egan was born in Philadelphia on May 24, 1852. After his college course-Georgetown College is his alma mater,—he studied law in the office of a well-known lawyer in Philadelphia. But journalism attracted him. He began with Henry Peterson's staff on the Saturday Evening Post, which then included Mrs. Hodgson Burnett and half-a-dozen other celebrities then in embryo,—and continued in the treadmill of newspaper work until he succeeded to the editorship of the Freeman's Journal. His poems "Like a Lilac" and "Of Flowers," are found in many collections.
THE OLD VIOLIN. THOUGH tuneless, stringless, it lies there in dust, Like some great thought on a forgotten page; The soul of music cannot fade or rust
The voice within it stronger grows with age; Its strings and bow are only trifling things— A master-touch! its sweet soul wakes and sings.
DAPHNIS is mute, and hidden nymphs complain,
Blithe Pan is dead, and tales of ancient wrong, Done by the gods when gods and men were strong, Chanted to reeded pipes, no prize can gain:
O sweetest singer of the olden days,
In dusty books your idyls rare seem dead;
The gods are gone, but poets never die; Though men may turn their ears to newer lays, Sicilian nightingales, enrapturéd,
Caught all your songs, and nightly thrill the sky.
MAURICE DE GUERIN.
THE old wine filled him, and he saw, with eyes
He, like sad Jacques, found unheard music, rare As that of Syrinx to old Grecians wise.
A pagan heart, a Christian soul had he;
He followed Christ, yet for dead Pan he sighed ; Till earth and heaven met within his breast: As if Theocritus in Sicily
Had come upon the Figure crucified,
And lost his gods in deep, Christ-given rest.
ART is true art, when art to God is true,
And only then. To copy Nature's work Without the chains that run the whole world
Gives us the eye without the lights that lurk In its clear depths: no soul, no truth is there. Oh, praise your Rubens and his fleshly brush, Oh, love your Titian and his carnal air!
Give me the thrilling of a pure-toned thrush, And take your crimson parrots. Artist-saint! O Fra Angelico, your brush was dyed In hues of opal, not in vulgar paint;
You showed to us pure joys for which you sighed. Your heart was in your work, you never feigned; You left us here the Paradise you gained!
ON READING "THE POET AND HIS MASTER."
In all your songs the birds and trees are heard,
Your heart sings like a silver-throated bird,
Not for the dead gods, but that Christ has died.