M

GRACE ADELE PIERCE.

ISS GRACE ADELE PIERCE was born in Randolph, a beautiful village in the western part of New York. The only child of devoted parents, her life has been passed in the loving atmosphere of a pleasant home, among the quiet surroundings of country life. The beauty of fertile fields and forest-covered hills ministered to the poetic spirit of the child, and fed the passionate love of nature that has always characterized her. Her education was obtained at Chamberlain Institute, a first-class seminary situated in her native town. As a student, she was marked for intelligent acquisition; the underlying principle was sought and mastered. At an early age she commenced the composition of poems and poetic dramas. When her poems were first offered to the public they were accepted and more were called for. Encouraged by this success, she tried her pen in prose essays. These met at once appreciation and response. Of late she has produced some charming stories for the young. All of her work bears the impress of her own fervent, sensitive nature. The tenderness of a warm, loving, earnest spirit, deeply imbued with religious devotion, breathes through her writings. The success she has achieved so early in her career as an author is unusual and full of promise. E. A. E.

INDUCTION TO AN ANTIQUE WEDDING SONG.

THE sheep are in the pasture, and the shepherd's gone away;

The sheep are in the pasture all this long, bright summer day;

And they alone must tarry,

For the shepherd's gone to marry,

And he'll not come back till morning; well-a-day, well-a-day!

The wedding bells are ringing,
The Troubadour is singing;
The orange blooms and daisies
Delight to frame her praises

Who walks with him she loveth best, to-day.

There is no thought of sorrow,
No thought of sad to-morrow;
For the wedding bells are ringing,
The Troubadour is singing,

And she doth walk with her best loved, to-day.

So while the sheep are waiting, and the shepherd's

far away,

Come, let us join our voices in a inerry roundelay; Let us sing to merry pipes all the long, bright, summer's day.

While we alone must tarry,

While young Collin's gone to marry, Come, let us sing his praises, well-a-day, well-a-day!

LIKE TO SOME STORM-BELATED BIRD.
LIKE to some storm-belated bird that lingers
Far from its mates upon a winter's night,
Beating its tender wings in sad affright;
So stands she now with soft unclasping fingers,
And wistful eyes that, in their strainéd sight,
Peer far beyond the darkness of the night.

O wistful eyes! that, in your tender sadness,
So long have known the ministry of tears!
O gracious mouth! that to the heart endears
A mournful smile above all youthful gladness!
O weary heart! that never leaps with fears
Nor hopes for joy through all the coming years!
Would I might lift, one moment, thy dull burden,
And, with my heart's deep sympathy, atone
For all the sorrows thou hast ever known;
Would I might give thee some celestial guerdon,
Some gift of love from God's eternal throne,
To fill the dark hours when thou art alone.

WALKING VILLAGEWARD AT EVENING. LOUD, blust'ring winds across the pastures sweep, The meadows all are silent under snow; The voiceless streams no longer, in their flow, Break from the bondage of their icy sleep. Far from the drifting woodlands, shadowed deep, Smooth and untarnished on the vale below Mid-winter's beauty lies-the glist'ning snow, And all things seem their Sabbath peace to keep. How white it is, and beautiful-this earth! Yon far-off village seems enchanted quite, Silent between the chill earth and the stars. And yet, O Vale! how much of pain hath birth Within thy seeming quiet this fair nightHow much of tumult thy calm beauty mars!

BLIND EYES.

SO MUCH, SO much, we can not understand!
So much that leaves the heart unsatisfied!
Ofttimes we turn beneath God's chast'ning hand,
And, in the passion of our human pride,
Feel that our mighty Maker is unkind,
Because we can not see-our eyes are blind.

We can not see why we should suffer so,
Who have not deeply sinned nor gone astray.
O blinded eyes, how can we rightly know
How far we wander from the blessed way!
Our finite vision can not see above us

The stretching shade of the Almighty wing:
We can not know how truly God doth love us,
Nor how He strives from pain His peace to bring.
We can not know because our eyes are blind;
We turn away from His anointing hand,
And, groping, seek that we can never find,
Until in perfect peace, we calmly stand—
Content to wait till we shall plainly see
In the new light of an eternity.

A WOMAN'S TEARS.

A WOMAN's tears; ah, yes, a woman's tears!
You, in your manly strength, say," "Tis not much
That stirs the fountain of her hopes and fears-
A woman weeps e'en at the slightest touch."

And yet, so little do you know, indeed!

So little in your own life's stirring part, How deep that fountain is; what currents feed That fountain's troubled source-a woman's

heart.

When you are loved you take it but your right, Saying, "She loves to love me." Do you know Aught of that inner heart-flood, whose swift might Sweeps to her eyes their first warm overflow?

Or when you prove, in tenderness, to be

Not all her love had thought you, do you take, In chiding to your heart, this comfort, she

Her tears and prayers will mingle for your sake?

Or when your child-her hard-earned treasure-lies

Safe on the heart that dared for it death's fears! But then you would not question if those eyesThose weary, wistful eyes-were filled with tears. Why question you at all? Her tears are not The idle things they seem; they are the flow

Of darkly troubled waters, oft begot

In hidden depths that you can never know. For woman's life is strange-yes, strange indeed! And that which can but little time defer The busy schemes of men, demands it's meed"T is thought and smiles, 't is thought and tears with her.

And so she weeps-sometimes she knows not why, Save that her heart is full. And God has given This safeguard for her nature swept too high,

Lest in it's flood-tide should the heart be riven.

WILLIAM STRUTHERS.

WILLIAM STRUTHERS was born on October

14, 1854, in Tuscarora, Schuylkill County, Pa. On the father's side he is the grandson of John Struthers, he who made and presented to the nation the marble coffins in which now rest the revered dust of General and Mrs. Washington. On his mother's side he is related to Fitz-Greene Halleck, the late famous poet, who was a nephew of Mr. Struthers's great-grandfather, in whose home Halleck dwelt from the age of ten to that of twenty years. Mr. Struthers is also related to the Beechers, Harriet Beecher Stowe and his grandmother being nieces of Harriet Foote, after whom they were both named. Mr. Struthers's father served in the Rebellion, first as a captain in the Pennsylvania cavalry, and then, after a three months' imprisonment in "Libby," as commander-in-chief of a division of the "Dismounted Camp," near Washington. While there, he had his wife and children with him; and thus the young Struthers had an opportunity of studying the poetical side of a soldier's camp life. After the war the family moved to Baltimore, and thence to Philadelphia, which is now his permanent home. Mr. Struthers had not what we call a school education. In his early years he was a delicate creature, with too slender a hold upon life for his father to think of trusting him with books; and though he managed to weather through the years to manhood, it was with the struggle of an invalid, too powerless even now to raise his voice above a whisper. Yet he is an accomplished scholar and linguist. Various translations of his, prose from the French and Italian, verse from the Spanish, have appeared in the leading magazines and newspapers; while, as a writer of original verse, his pleasing poems, sonnets, rondeaus, etc., have made his name familiar. J. W.

THE TARN.

PELLUCID as yon pure, blue-purple heights
Of welkin, now reposes this lone pool;
And yet its mirror oftentimes delights

The visions of black clouds, whose mad misrule
Confuses eagles in their mid-air flights,
When tempests make these mountains their foot-
stool.

Yes; then this virgin-gentle naiad's face

Assumes a shadow that all smiles doth tame,
As round its brow it draws a fern-wrought lace
Inmeshed with dainty cress, and thence would
claim

Release from picturing the clouds' wild race
Across the sky above its oval frame.

Yet vainly doth it strive! The misty maze

Of darkness penetrates that fern-wrought shield; The tarn doth glass both clouds and lightning's

blaze,

Whilst the great upland thunders lift and wield Their hammers huge, whose resonances daze

The goats that browse on what these bleak slopes yield.

Let joyous be thy dreams to-day, O spring!

Thou maiden daughter of these martial hills, To-day thou shalt see softest mists make cling Rare amber tints round scaurs' and crags' rude sills,

Or thou shalt image birds of passage swing

Their tireless pinions where glad sunshine spills!

Yet, whether nature strive or be at peace,

Deep, deep, lone tarn, within thy deep of deeps, Tranquillity hath charms that never cease;

And 'neath the surface, when the storm upleaps And lightning's grisly clouds do sear and crease, In purity thy heart of hearts she keeps!

AT END OF TWILIGHT.

"Quand vient le crépuscule au fond d'un vallon noir."

-VICTOR HUGO.

A LAMP's light streaks yon dusky road,
Winding away far up the hill
To meet the twilight heaven, still
Faint tinged with memories of day-
Pale rose and beryl gleams astray
Below dark clouds, where erst abode,
Like a grand symbol of love's bliss,
The carmine of the dying sun's last kiss.
Save for that lamp, the height is dim
With shadowed rocks and gloom of woods,
Where leafless cheerlessness fast broods
About the tangled throng of boughs;
Haunt of the blasts, which there carouse
O' nights, with mutters fierce and grim;
Though on this night awakes no sound-
All, all is in a solemn silence bound.
Sad picture for the tired eye's rest,
Yet not without a certain charm,
The lurking likelihood of harm
That so allures the pensive mind:
Sad picture, yet the welkin's breast
Greets the wan lamp's light with the far
Scintillant silver of the evening star.

IN QUEST OF LOVE.

LILIES dreamed in crystal fountain, 'Neath the lawn-encircled mountain, Where song-birds woke rare delight.

"Love," she questioned, "dost thou linger In this place, where beauty's finger

Glads the dell and gilds the height?" "Hear, oh, hear!" the lilies, laughing, Answered, 'mid their nectar-quaffing

From the morning's golden vase. "Hear, oh, hear!" the fount did murmur In low speech, whose tones grew firmer As they sought her blushing face. Minstrels played a dainty measure While masked dancers took their pleasure In a ball-room, grandly gay. "Love," she whispered, "art thou hiding 'Mid this joyance, whose abiding

Shall scarce last till peep of day?" "Hear, oh, hear!" mad music tinkled, Whilst the costly hangings crinkled

As the night wind by did glance. "Hear, oh, hear!" faint foot-falls pattered, As the festive maskers scattered,

Weary of both tune and dance. Sat a gray-haired mother, knitting, Whom the sunset's message, flitting, Greeted 'neath a farm-house porch. "Love," breathed maid, "where art thou beaming

While the Day of Night is dreaming,

While the Sun lets pale his torch?" "Here, oh, here!" the needles sweetly Clicked forth, as the mother neatly

Turned the stocking's woolen heel. "Here, oh, here!" the Sun made shinimer On the mother his last glimmer"Here, maid, here Love puts his seal!"

FORCE OF HABIT.

USED to its showers, we would that spring might stay,

And ruefully forecast the summer's heat;

When summer hath some time usurped spring's

seat,

Oft we, forgetting dread, do summer pray

To tarry, and when autumn comes, we say, Thereto grown used: "Fair time!" and hate the

sleet;

Yet wonted grown to winter, we entreat: "O crystal beauty! Go not thou away!"

Therefore I query if, when this life-pulse

Stops short at fiat of those lips we dread, We shall so frame our souls to the insulse,

Chill state toward which we now, reluctant, tread, That 'mid its formless dreams we'd fain not hark When life anew calls us from dust and dark.