Puslapio vaizdai

Sing loud, O ye birds, of loving,

Till all the world gives ear;

For the sun is in love in the heavens above, And June, the queen, is here.


SHE stood upon the polish'd floor, Amid the ball-room's blazing light, And slowly scan'd the circle o'er,

That form'd the dance that night.

(The waltz they play'd was Woman's Love-) She stood and stroked her long white glove.

The creamy silk her form caress'd,

A bunch of plumes hung o'er her heart, Her bosom by soft lace was press'd,

Her rich red lips apart.

(The German was the dance that night-) One high-heeled shoe was just in sight,

She held a favor in her hand

A dainty, perfumed, painted thing, A tiny heart-yet he would stand, Who won that prize, a king.

(The waltz they played was Woman's Love-) How fast my throbbing heart did move!

Men watched her there with eager eyes,
The light upon her curls did shine;
Then with a look of sweet surprise,
Her great gray eyes met mine.

(The German was the dance that night-) She smiled-her smile was wondrous bright.

She waved her fan coquettishly,

And half inclined her well poised head, As, in a tone part coy, part shy, "Here take my heart," she said.

(The waltz they play'd was Woman's Love-) Her hand in mine lay like a dove.

I felt love in my pulses start,

She was my own for that brief spaceHer heart was beating 'gainst my heart, Her breath play'd o'er my face.

(The German was the dance that night-)
The dawn broke slowly into light.

Has she who gave forgotten quite?
I wear that heart my own above.
(The German was the dance that night;

The waltz they played was Woman's Love.)



ARRIET MCEWEN KIMBALL was born in Portsmouth, N. H., in 1834, and to this day her home has been the beautiful old mansion where she first saw the light, and where, surrounded by a most delightful atmosphere of culture, her life has been passed. Not being, as a child, very robust, her education was chiefly given her in her own home, and by her mother, a lady of unusual acquirements and accomplishments. Miss Kimball's father, Dr. David Kimball, was a gentleman of the old school, a man of great refinement of thought and feeling; and in the midst of these rare homesurroundings both the practical and poetical qualities of his daughter's nature were developed. Full of interest, and helpful in all domestic cares and responsibilities, her years have been devoted to good works in the church which she ardently loves, and in charities, of which the "Cottage Hospital” in her native city is one of the crowning glories.

Literature has been with Miss Kimball rather a pastime than a profession, although she has always given her best thought and care to whatever she has written, and never allows anything to goirom her hand unless it is as well done as she is capable of doing it.

Her first volume was solicited by the publishers (E. P. Dutton & Company) in 1867. Since then she has published two others, and in November of 1889 there appeared a full and complete edition of her poems from the house of Anson D. F. Randolph & Company.

Of her poems Mr. Edmund C. Stedman says: "Her religious verse always displays, besides great purity and feeling, the artistic grace which marks her secular lyrics. The lack of such a grace has often made the poetry of faith seem rather barren; but Miss Kimball's song is the natural utterance of the poet, the woman and the saint."

Dr. Peabody, Bishop Huntington, Mr. Stedman, Mr. Whittier and others assign Miss Kimball a unique place among the poets of America. Many of her longer devotional poems have been likened to those of Faber.

Extremely modest and unassuming, Miss Kimball possesses a most interesting personality, and has the affection and admiration of many friends. She has avoided, as far as possible, all publicity, shrinking always from anything that would make her conspicuous; but in her church relations and neighborhood she is known and valued for her unselfish devotion to the interests of suffering humanity, for her poetical talent, and for her noble and generous nature. M. L. B. W.


THE day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep
My weary spirit seeks repose in thine:
Father! forgive my trespasses, and keep
This little life of mine.

With loving kindness curtain Thou my bed:
And cool in rest my burning pilgrim feet;
Thy pardon be the pillow for my head-
So shall my sleep be sweet.

At peace with all the world, dear Lord, and Thee,
No fears my soul's unwavering faith can shake;
All's well, whichever side the grave for me
The morning light may break!


PIPE, little minstrels of the waning year,

In gentle concert pipe!

Pipe the warm noons; the mellow harvest near; The apples dropping ripe;

The tempered sunshine and the softened shade; The thrill of a lonely bird;

The sweet sad hush on Nature's gladness laid;
The sounds through silence heard.

Pipe tenderly the passing of the year;
The Summer's brief reprieve;

The dry husk rustling round the yellow ear;
The chill of morn and eve!

Pipe the untroubled trouble of the year;
Pipe low the painless pain;
Pipe your unceasing melancholy cheer:
The year is in the wane.


Behold, I stand at the door and knock: if any man hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.-Rev. iii. 20.

SPEECHLESS Sorrow sat with me;
I was sighing wearily ;

Lamp and fire were out; the rain
Wildly beat the window-pane.
In the dark I heard a knock,
And a hand was on the lock.
One in waiting, spake to me,
Saying sweetly,

"I am come to sup with thee."
All my room was dark and damp;
"Sorrow," said I, trim the lamp,
Light the fire, and cheer thy face,
Set the guest-chair in its place."

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