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DA LANGWORTHY was born on the 23d of December, 1843, in the first frame house ever built in Iowa. Her father, a man of New England race, was among the very first to explore the lead regions of Iowa, and found the city of Dubuque. Her mother was a beautiful and stately lady of an old Baltimore family. None of the hardships and privations that we associate with pioneer life were known to the little Ada. The lead mines were a source of wealth to her father and his brothers, and soon a group of spacious brick mansions arose on a beautiful bluff above the city, wherein dwelt the various Langworthy households. one of these Ada grew up, a strong, vigorous, attractive child. In early girlhood she was for a time a pupil in an excellent girl's school taught by Miss Catharine Beecher in Dubuque. Afterward she went to Lasell Seminary, at Auburndale, Mass. Having always found she could accomplish anything she chose to undertake, she now thought she could do the last two years' work in one year-and had nearly succeeded-when she was struck down by brain fever. In spite of this, she graduated in 1861, at the early age of seventeen. In 1868 she was married to Mr. Robert Collier, and has since lived in the pleasant home where she has ever since dispensed a gracious hospitality. She has one son, a fine young collegian of twenty-one, so that she has not missed the crowning experience of womanhood; nor has she been so occupied with maternal cares as to leave no time for literary work. She began writing for periodicals in her girlhood. She is the author of many sketches, tales and short poems, of several novels, and of one long narrative poem, "Lilith." The latter, published in book form in 1885, is indisputably her greatest work; nor can there be any doubt that she should be accounted a poet rather than a novelist. There is nothing morbid or odd about Mrs. Collier. She is a wholesome, handsome, generous, high-souled and high-spirited woman; one of those whose very presence brings with it health, happiness and hope. MRS. C. C. S.

HIGH, high, bold Eagle, soar;

I watch thy flight above the cragged rock.
Below thee torrents roar,
Down-bursting wild with angry shock

Upon the vales. O proud bird, free!
My spirit, mounting, follows thee,
Still follows thee, still follows thee.

O Sea, O Sea so wide!

Far roll thy waves ere yet they find thy shore. I hear thy sullen tide

Break 'neath the beetling cliffs with muffled roar. Afar, afar, O moaning Sea,

My roving soul still follows thee.

O Whirlwind black, O strong!

Thy scorching breath fierce burns the crouching land,

And thou dost sweep along
The raveled clouds. O Whirlwind, see,

My spirit rising, follows thee,
Still follows thee, still follows thee.

Nay, nay! My dauntless soul,
Still higher than thy wing, O Eagle, soars,
And wider still than roll

Thy waves, and farther than thy shores,
My spirit flees-0 Sea, O Sea,
No more it follows, follows thee.

Whirlwind, more strong than thou My soul, that fearless leaps to thine embrace, And thy stern, wrinkled brow

Doth tender touch and soothingly,

And vassal art thou still to me,
That no more, Whirlwind, follows thee.


AH, linger no longer 'mong blooms of the mangoes, Nor pluck the bright shells by the low sighing sea, Swift, swift through the groves of the palms and acacias

Comes Lilith, the childless one, seeking for thee. She will bind thee so fast in her yellow-gold hair— Ah, hasten, my children, of Lilith beware!

Cold, cold are her cheeks as the spray of the wild sea,
Red, red are her lips as the pomegranate's bloom;
Cold, cold are the kisses the phantom will give thee,
Ah, cruel her kisses, that smell of the tomb.
Hist, hist! 'tis the sorceress with yellow-gold hair—
Oh! lullaby, baby-of Lilith beware.

She flies to the jungle, with false tales beguiling,

Ah, hear'st thou her elfin babes scream overhead! Close, close in her strong arms she bears my babe, smiling;

She hath sucked the soft bloom from the lips of my dead.

Now far speeds the vampire, with yellow-gold hairOh! lullaby, baby-of Lilith beware.

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I BRING the simple children of the field—
Lilies with tawny cheeks all crimson-pied;
The vagrant clans, that thriftless-seeming yield
Their scented secrets to the wind, yet hide
In dewy cups their subtler lore. More sweet

Than red-breast robin pipes, the strain they sing
Of youth and wayside lanes, where childish feet
Went glancing merrily through some dead spring.
Glad is the gift I bring at Love's behest,
The gypsy lilies of the wide-eyed West.

Lilies I bring-shy flowers that nodding grew
O'er river-beds, whereto the night-winds low
Cling odorous. Still droop these buds of blue
In tender dreams of the cool water's flow
Past gleaming crafts, among lone sunless nooks;
Of moonshine white athwart the bending trees;
Of scattered mists above brown, mottled brooks;
Of spring-time perfumes; summer's vanished bees.
A dawning hope beneath the starry crest
Of trysting lilies trembles on thy breast.

Lilies I bring that once by Nile's slow tide
From snowy censers 'neath a lucent moon

With faint, rare fragrance steeped the silence wide.
O stainless ones! The night-bird's broken tune
Falls 'mong thy pallid leaves. And fainter still
And sweeter than cold Dian's music clear
The night's far, failing murmurs, wildly thrill
Thy golden hearts. Love, pitying draw near!
An ended dream, unuttered, unexpressed,
With vestal lilies, mocks my hopeless quest.

Lilies I bring thee-languorous, passionate—
Neglected odalisques that scornful stand
Voiceless and proud, without the silent gate
That bars the dawn in some dim morning land.
'Gainst creamy chalices soft drifts the air

Of sun-kissed climes; and viols throb, and shine The twinkling feet of dancing girls, lithe, fair, Upbeating wafts of wasted yellow wine.

O fated flowers to hot lips fiercely pressed,
The siren lilies of weird lands, unblessed.

Stoop down, O Love--and nearer—for I bear
The phantom buds that ope for weary hands
When toil is done. O fragrant blossoms, fair
As shadowy asphodels, ye lean o'er lands

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Wrapped in unchanging dusk. O cold and frail, From brows more waxen than your blooms, how light

Ye slip! Yet low, sweet chimes through your lips pale

Echo from heavenly shores. O flowers white, Of realms celestial-Love's last gift and best! The clustered lilies of perpetual rest.


JUST as of yore! Let me not think of that old time;

Rather behold these marigolds, all velvet-brown, With courtly and old-fashioned grace, here leading down

In stately minuet

The slender mignonette.

And thronging groups of poppies, dusk-browed, crimson-veined,

Deep to their glowing hearts, with love's fell poison stained.

Fie! flaunting hussies, fie! For shame! With drooping throats

O'er bachelor-buttons bent, in shining green surcoats

And bonnets plumed with blue! Dun bird 'neath wrinkled yew. Cease! Voice reiterant, cease thy ghost-like chiding Of one more sad, yea, sadder far than thou. Ah


Far lieth from covert cool where thou art hiding Beyond these musky beds, the grave of Dorothy. With fragrance coldly fine, sweet-clover there! and thyme;

And wall-flowers flecked with shimmering dust


The close-ranked hollyhock's upthrusting brazen spear;

O'er clumps of gay heart's-ease,
With clinging feet, sweet-peas

Upclambering to the sunflower's disc of gold;
In snowy drifts, faint flame-streaked roses lie; and
In azure, aconite.

Th' cock's-combs blaze to

And o'er forget-me-nots waves th' gay prince'sfeather;

Shining nasturtiums here,
Sleek Creoles of the year!

Oh bearded moth, close shut within the lily sheaves,
Furl yet thy purple wings. For if thou stay or


Thou sybarite, the night beyond thee lies; and grieves

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