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I know just how the little room,
And saw my girlish tears;
My heart was filled with light and joy,
A home where I shall ever reign,
Dear love, within thy heart.
My life is now bright as the sun, 'T was then a little star.
For as each year steals swiftly by,
Some gentle trait, some loving thought,
Dear love, true heart, dear kindly face;
Some lives are clad with darkness, -
But clouds and tears shall vanish
Where souls that see more clearly,
Life lies before her blank and cold,
THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON.
WENTWORTH HIGGINSON was born in Cambridge, Mass., December 22, 1823. He graduated at Harvard College in 1841, and at the divinity school in 1847.
Mr. Higginson was first settled over a church in Newburyport in 1847, but preached himself out of that pulpit within three years by his vigorous championship of the anti-slavery cause. In the same year-1850-he was, through no desire of his own, the candidate of the Free Soil party for Congress from the third Massachusetts district.
From 1852 to 1858 Mr. Higginson was in charge of the Free Church in Worcester. His people were in hearty accord with the anti-slavery faith and works of their pastor. The originator of the plan to save Burns, Martin Stowell, was one of the faithful abolitionist circle in Worcester. Mr. Higginson, with Wendell Phillips and Theodore Parker, were indicted for murder shortly after the Burns episode, on account of the rather mysterious death of one of the defenders within the court house during the melee, but the case was never brought to trial.
In 1856 this free pastor of a free church worked energetically in organizing parties of northern emigrants to aid in securing political control of Kansas, spent some time in the new state, and served on the staff of James H. Låne in the civil war which ensued. In Kansas Mr. Higginson came to know John Brown, of Osawatomie, with whom his relations of confidence and mutual regard continued until the latter's death.
To the civil war Higginson, as a philanthropist, looked forward fearlessly and even confidently. Like Frederick Douglas and so many others, he saw that slavery, at any rate, must go down in the struggle. At once, in 1861, it was arranged with Gov. Andrew that he should raise a regiment, but just then recruiting was stopped and nothing resulted for the moment. In 1862, nevertheless, Mr. Higginson recruited two white companies in and about Worcester, and was in camp as commander of one of them when he received a most unexpected request to take command of the 1st regiment of South Carolina volunteers, then just organizing. How he trained and led to victory these refugees, fresh from slavery in South Carolina and Florida, has been modestly related by Col. Higginson himself in one of the most fascinating and instructive books which our civil war produced-" Army Life in a Black Regiment." On an exciting expedition up the Edisto, in 1863, Col. Higginson received a wound which robbed him of health and strength for several years. After a
short furlough he attempted to resume active duties, but in the following year found it necessary to resign his commission.
The most aggressive of abolitionists, brave as the bravest among soldiers, Col. Higginson has yet always continued to live in the present. Until all men and women are indeed equally free, and enjoy equal opportunity for happiness and selfimprovement, there will always be abundant occupation for a philanthropy as broad as his. He himself would, no doubt, prize most highly his fair fame as the ever faithful champion of the weaker sex. We can all honor his efforts for the elevation of women, whether we share or not his hope in the purification of politics through their influence. His outspoken sympathy for home rule in Ireland has been characteristic of the man, and, of course, also perfectly sincere and unselfish.
Col. Higginson is a scholar; a lover of books and of "divine philosophy." He is none the less a fit representative man of Cambridge and Boston for W. C. L.
THE SOUL OF A BUTTERFLY.
See! how they scatter and then assemble;
In the slanting sunlight that skirts the glade.
There goes the summer's inconstant lover, Drifting and wandering, faint and far; Only bewailed by the upland plover, Watched by only the twilight star.
Come next August, when thistles blossom, See how each is alive with wings! Butterflies seek their souls in its bosom, Changed thenceforth to immortal things.
I DREAMED one night that the calm hosts of heaven
Had lost their changeless paths; and as I stood
Up to the zenith rose the moon, and paused;
Then vanished into nothing; meteors pale
Till I awoke to find the cold gray morn
Nor less that sweet decline which ends in eve. Life were monotonous with its morning hours, Came not the hurrying years to shift our mood, Unfold an altered heaven and spread its glow O'er the changed landscape of time's afternoon.
HEIRS OF TIME.
FROM Street and square, from hill and glen
I hear the tread of marching men,
The halo of the city's lamps
Hangs, a vast torch-light, in the air; I watch it through the evening damps: The masters of the world are there.
Not ermine-clad or clothed in state, Their title-deeds not yet made plain;
But waking early, toiling late,
The heirs of all the earth remain.
Some day, by laws as fixed and fair As guide the planets in their sweep, The children of each outcast heir
The harvest-fruits of time shall reap.
The peasant brain shall yet be wise,
Some day, without a trumpet's call,
This news will o'er the world be blown: "The heritage comes back to all!
The myriad monarchs take their own!"
A SONG OF DAYS.
O RADIANT summer day,
Whose air, sweet air, steals on from flower to flower!
Couldst thou not yield one hour
When the glad heart says, "This alone is May?”