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E who writes a true song is the benefactor of those yet unborn," says a famous writer. If this be so, Mr. Newsam can put in a claim to praise, for he has written some true songs. His genius is lyrical; he seizes the aspect of some common experience available to his purpose, some mood, some passing occurrence, and translates it into song. He does not aim too high; he seldom shoots too low; and his verses wed themselves easily to music. It is said that the author of the famous Marseillaise composed both words and music at the same time, as he sat wrapped in the thought of the possibilities of his country. Mr. Newsam weds his words with music, not only with facility, but with grace, and has won wide praise for his companion efforts. He has also written some exquisite lyrics in exotic forms, especially in the rondeau form.

Mr. Newsam is come of a poetical race; both his grandfather and his father wrote poetry, and attained to more than local reputation. The former began "The Poets of Yorkshire," and, after his death in 1844, it was taken up and finished in 1845 by John Holland, the Sheffield poet. The Newsam family were long settled near Richmond, in Yorkshire, Eng., where they gained good standing and influence; but though the subject of this notice has been, like his progenitors, much connected with Yorkshire and the north, he was born at Nottingham in 1861. He was educated at the grammar schools of Nottingham and Clitheroe. At an early age he became connected with the press in the north; and after some years, as is the wont with young men of energy and ambition, he migrated southward, and has been for some years resident at Brighton, where, besides working for the press there, he maintains relations with London.

He was married in 1882, and has two daughters and one son. He lives a busy and active life, but is far from unsocial or burdened with the shy retiringness sometimes found in association with the literary character-a congenial companion and sterling friend as well as an original writer and versatile poet. Mr. Newsam has written under several disguises, the most familiar being that of "Claude Melville." A. H. I.


WHEN night comes on, and from the sky
The last faint, crimson blushes die,

When day's bright orb, in splendor dressed,
Has sought the shadows of the west,
The tranquil stars shine out on high.

As in the sylvan shades I lie,
I hear the gentle zephyrs sigh
Across the murmuring river's breast,
When night comes on.

Within the ivied turret nigh
Is heard the owlet's drowsy cry;
The tuneful lark has sought his nest,
The blackbird's song is hushed to rest,
And soft the golden moments fly,
When night comes on.


THE sun had set; the bells so softly pealing
Scarce broke the silence of the dying day;
Whilst thro' the air a song came sweetly stealing,
That rose, and fell, then slowly died away.
And thro' the gloom thy gentle face was beaming,
I knew not, cared not, how the hours went by;
Thy song had soothed me into blissful dreaming,
And all beside seemed nought if thou wert nigh.

That blissful hour still in my mem'ry lingers
Like some sweet vision, beautiful and fair;
I feel once more thy soft, caressing fingers

Play with the waving tresses of my hair.
Again to me thy soft, sweet voice is singing,

The same glad song is sounding in mine ear. I care not, heed not, how the hours are winging, 'Tis all to me to know that thou art near.

'Tis night once more; the summer breeze is sighing, And in the gloaming I am dreaming now; Thy hand again within my own is lying,

Thy sweet, soft kisses soothe my fevered brow. Thine eyes still shine in all their pristine splendor, And fire my soul as in the days gone by; Till love comes back, as passionate and tender, As in the blissful hours when thou wert nigh.


The rosy sunset's crimson ray

And bars of amber light
Now fade from purple into gray

And vanish into night;

The blackbird's mellow song is sung,

And evening shadows fall;

The deep-toned vesper bell is rung,

Till darkness covers all;

Save where the lighthouse, towering high
Above yon frowning steep,

Flings fitful flashes forth that fly
Far o'er the darkened deep.

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The sailor, peering through the night,
Discerns the distant ray,
And hails with joy the welcome light
That guides him on his way.

Far off on high from out the haze,
Faint, glimmering starlets peep
And see their feeble, trembling rays
Reflected in the deep;

Till, lighting all with silver glow,
Up springs the Queen of Night,
And decks the glittering sea below

In waves of shimmering light.
With wings outspread to woo the gales,
That blow as wild and free,

So swift the shad'wy silver sails
Steal o'er the shining sea,
To seek, along the moonlit way,
Those bright enchanted lands,
Where sapphire seas, in silver spray,
Break o'er the golden sands.


Drowsily, dreamily here I lie,

Deep in the bracken, beneath the trees; Listlessly watching the clouds glide by, Here do I lazily take mine ease. Cheerily, merrily, high o'er head,

Singeth the linnet his mirthful song; Bluebells and violets, round my bed, Mingle their essences all day long. -In Sylvan Shadows Dreaming.


If summer hath its roses red and violets blue,
The winter, surely, hath its beauties too;
Where snowy hawthorns blossomed in the May,
In shining clusters corals hang to-day;
The rich red radiance of the ruby glows
In the bright hip that was the summer rose;
And where those berries hang, of brilliant hue,
There once the fragrant-scented woodbine grew.

There shine the holly leaves, like emeralds green,
With gorgeous rubies sparkling in between;
Near hangs the mistletoe, cold winter's gem,
With glittering opals clustering round each stem;
And though the lark, that caroled all day long,
Fills not the welkin with its joyous song,
The gentle robin, on the icy spray,

Sings bright and cheerful through the live-long day.



OSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND was born in Belchertown, Mass., July 24, 1819. His early life was passed upon his father's farm, and his poems give evidence of the close communion with Nature,-for 'tis only to her lover that she reveals herself. Doctor Holland's early life was attended by many difficulties. It was only after an earnest and severe struggle he was enabled to enter the high school at Northampton, and being determined to make good use of his hard-won possession, he over-studied, which resulted in the giving way of his health. After a time he taught penmanship, and later became an operator in a daguerreotype gallery, and from there a district school-master. At twenty-one the study of medicine was begun, and at twenty-five he graduated from the Berkshire Medical College, at Pittsfield, Mass. Doctor Holland settled at Springfield and began practicing, but with no liking for the profession. During this time some articles were written and offered to the Knickerbocker Magazine, and were accepted. Gaining courage to venture further into literary pursuits, he started The Bay State Weekly Courier, but had to abandon it six months later. He now returned to his former vocation of school-teacher, taking a position at Richmond, Va., and three months later became superintendent of public schools in Vicksburg, Miss. Here he put in fifteen months of hard labor, endeavoring to establish a graded educational system, and just as success had crowned his efforts was obliged to return North.

We next hear of him as associate editor for Samuel Bowles, on the Springfield Republican, and we are told his first year's salary was but $480.00, the second $700.00. The third year was begun as one third owner, and in fifteen years he sold his share for fourteen times what he originally gave for it. In 1855 Doctor Holland published his first book, "History of Western Massachusetts," in two volumes. In 1857 was published "The Bay Path; A Colonial Tale," which at first was not well received. His "Timothy Titcomb's Letters to Young People, Married and Single," were now started, and in 1858 collected and published, meeting with a remarkable sale, nine editions being sold in a few months. In November was published "BitterSweet; A Poem in Dramatic Form," and this exceeded in sale even the "Titcomb Letters." It is probably as the author of this beautiful poem that Doctor Holland is best known. In 1865 the" Life of Abraham Lincoln" was brought out, and over 100,000 copies have been sold. In 1866 he sold his share

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