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FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

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readers of contemporaneous poetry no name is more familiar than that of Frank Dempster Sherman. Mr. Sherman was born in Peekskill, New York, on the 6th of May, 1860. He obtained his early education in the town of his birth, and received the degree of Ph. B. from Columbia College in 1884. He was made a Fellow of this institution in 1887, and is at present connected with it as Instructor of the Department of Architecture. During the winter of 1884 and '85 he attended lectures at Harvard University where he would have taken a degree had not family interests called him for a time from the pursuance of literature. He was married in November, 1887, to Miss Joliet Mersereau Durand, daughter of the Rev. Cyrus B. Durand, of Newark, New Jersey.

Like Arthur Sherburne Hardy, Mr. Sherman unites the practical and ideal in letters, being both mathematician and poet. His taste for figures he inherits from his father, a man of rare powers; his poetic gift comes from his mother, to whose memory he has paid a most beautiful tribute in "An Old Song," which appeared in Lippincott's Magazine for August, 1888. Though no American has touched so piquantly the spirit of love in youth with blithe "patrician rhymes," it is in another direction, as Mr. Howells pointed out in a recent number of Harper's that Mr. Sherman's best and most natural expression reveals itself. He is a literary descendent of Herrick and Carew. He believes in the lyric, and never hesitates to proclaim such a belief. Every poem from his pen shows that his creed in regard to technique is the same as that proclaimed by Mr. Dobson in his "Ars Victrix." Poetry with him is never a thing to be "thrown off," as many are fond of expressing it, but something to be as carefully moulded as the most symmetrical statue. A sprightliness of fancy, a delicacy of touch, and a rare melody characterize all of his work, and his choice of epithet is unfailingly happy. Mr. Sherman is a true bibliophile, and some of his most charming poems are anent books. In this connection might be mentioned his Book-hunter," and two pieces recently printed in the Century Magazine. He is particularly successful in the line of children's verses, having, among other things, contributed in this vein a series of ten month poems to the St. Nicholas.

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THE BOOK-HUNTER.

A CUP of coffee, eggs, and rolls
Sustain him on his morning strolls:
Unconscious of the passers-by,
He trudges on with downcast eye;
He wears a queer old hat and coat,
Suggestive of a style remote;
His manner is preoccupied,-

A shambling gait, from side to side.
For him the sleek, bright-windowed shop
Is all in vain,-he does not stop.
His thoughts are fixed on dusty shelves
Where musty volumes hide themselves,—
Rare prints of poetry and prose,
And quaintly lettered folios,-
Perchance a parchment manuscript,
In some forgotten corner slipped,
Or monk-illumined missal bound
In vellum with brass clasps around;
These are the pictured things that throng
His mind the while he walks along.

A dingy street, a cellar dim,
With book-lined walls, suffices him.
The dust is white upon his sleeves;
He turns the yellow, dog-eared leaves
With just the same religious look
That priests give to the Holy Book.
He does not heed the stifling air

If so he find a treasure there.

He knows rare books, like precious wines,
Are hidden where the sun ne'er shines
For him delicious flavors dwell

In books as in old Muscatel;

He finds in features of the type

A clew to prove the grape was ripe.
And when he leaves this dismal place,
Behold, a smile lights up his face!
Upon his cheeks a genial glow,—
Within his hand Boccaccio,

A first edition worn with age,
"Firenze" on the title-page.

BACCHUS.

LISTEN to the tawny thief,
Hid behind the waxen leaf,
Growling at his fairy host,
Bidding her with angry boast
Fill his cup with wine distilled
From the dew the dawn has spilled:
Stored away in golden casks
Is the precious draught he asks.

Who,-who makes this mimic din
In this mimic meadow inn,
Sings in such a drowsy note,
Wears a golden belted coat;
Loiters in the dainty room

Of this tavern of perfume;
Dares to linger at the cup
Till the yellow sun is up?

Bacchus, 'tis, come back again
To the busy haunts of men;
Garlanded and gayly dressed,
Bands of gold about his breast;
Straying from his paradise,
Having pinions angel-wise,—
'Tis the honey-bee, who goes
Reveling within a rose!

PEPITA.

Up in her balcony where

Vines through the lattices run Spilling a scent on the air,

Setting a screen to the sun,
Fair as the morning is fair,

Sweet as a blossom is sweet,
Dwells in her rosy retreat
Pepita.

Often a glimpse of her face

When the wind rustles the vine Parting the leaves for a space Gladdens this window of minePink in its leafy embrace,

Pink as the morning is pink,
Sweet as a blossom I think
Pepita.

I who dwell over the way

Watch where Pepita is hidSafe from the glare of the day Like an eye under its lid:

Over and over I say—

Name like the song of a bird,
Melody shut in a word-
"Pepita."

Look where the little leaves stir!

Look, the green curtains are drawn!

There in a blossomy blur

Breaks a diminutive dawn

Dawn and the pink face of her

Name like a lisp of the south,
Fit for a rose's small mouth-

Pepita!

WIZARD FROST.

WONDROUS things have come to pass
On my square of window-glass.
Looking in it I have seen
Grass no longer painted green,-
Trees whose branches never stir,-
Skies without a cloud to blur,—
Birds below them sailing high,—
Church-spires pointing to the sky,-
And a funny little town

Where the people, up and down
Streets of silver, to me seem
Like the people in a dream,
Dressed in finest kinds of lace;
'T is a picture, on a space
Scarcely larger than the hand,
Of a tiny Switzerland,

Which the wizard Frost has drawn
'Twixt the nightfall and the dawn.
Quick and see what he has done
Ere 't is stolen by the Sun.

ON SOME BUTTERCUPS.

A LITTLE way below her chin,

Caught in her bosom's snowy hem, Some buttercups are fastened in,—

Ah, how I envy them!

They do not miss their meadow place, Nor are they conscious that their skies Are not the heavens, but her face,

Her hair, and mild blue eyes.

There, in the downy meshes pinned,

Such sweet illusions haunt their rest; They think her breath the fragrant wind, And tremble on her breast;

As if, close to her heart, they heard
A captive secret slip its cell,
And with desire were sudden stirred
To find a voice and tell!

A REMINISCENCE.

THERE was a time, fond girl, when you
Were partial to caresses;
Before your graceful figure grew
Too tall for ankle-dresses;

When "Keys and Pillows," and the rest

Of sentimental pastimes,
Were thought to be the very best

Amusement out of class-times.

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CAROLINE DANA HOWE.

AROLINE DANA HOWE was born in Fryeburg, Maine, but has resided in Portland since early childhood. Her pleasant house, on one of the most beautiful streets of the city, now shared with the family of her nephew, was the home of her parents, and she has lived in it more than thirty years. There has been written most of the poems that have given her a position among the leading singers of a state that enjoys the peculiar distinction of having furnished a large proportion of the best lyric verse of our country. A Massachusetts critic, in enumerating the eight songs by American women sung everywhere, calls attention to the fact that four of them were written in Maine, and one of them, "Leaf by Leaf the Roses Fall," by the subject of this sketch. This popular song was written by Mrs. Howe in 1856, and first published in Gleason's Pictorial. A few years later it appeared in another Boston paper, set to music, the composer claiming the words as his own. Several other composers have been equally unscrupulous, and it was not until after many years that the question of authorship was finally settled, through the efforts of Mr. Oliver Ditson, and proper credit given thereafter by various pub

lishers.

Her first literery work appeared in the Portland Transcript, and in this, as in other leading publications her contributions of prose and verse have long been favorably received by the public. She has written for many important occasions, and been ever ready to lend the aid of her versatile and gifted pen to charitable enterprises. In 1862, the Massachusetts S. S. Society published in book form a story written by her, which has passed through several editions.

Her verse is characterized by lyric power, by grace of dicton, by religious fervor and aspiration, and a sincere heartiness that reaches by the surest path the hearts of all readers. It has been found admirably adapted for music, and more than thirty of her hymns and songs are published in collections for church choirs, and in sheet music, and have become very popular.

We cannot give a better idea of the feeling she inspires among her friends and intimates, than by quotations from a letter written by her sister-insong, Mrs. Frances L. Mace, who first met her at a literary gathering in Portland. She says, "I shall never forget my first view of her. There was that in the greeting that made me strangly desirous for her further acquaintance. Bright, sympathetic, witty and kind, she made every one happy, and was the right hand of our hosts. In three years correspondence I find her a perennial fount of fresh and sparkling thought, and wide intelligence. She sees the comical side of people

and things, and her pen has a diamond point; but her keenest hits are without malice."

In 1885 a collection of Mrs. Howe's poems was made under title of "Ashes for Flame and Other Poems," in a handsome volume which was warmly welcomed by her many friends, and met with ready sale. S. T. P

ASHES FOR FLAME. THE amber waves of sunset drift Majestic, up the western skies! They burn, they deepen, as they sift Their glowing coals through vein and rift, Wherein strange altars seem to rise And call for living sacrifice! The picture fades. The clouds uplift

Their mantles gray, with purple dyes, And twilght brings its slow surprise, Ashes for flame! The day's last gift!

Silence through all! The senses reel !

Oh, for a breath, a voice, a sound, To tell that there is life! To feel Where sotitude has set its seal,

A Presence in the deeps profound! Still motionless are earth and air!

Are there no life-springs centred there, To move their pulses swift and strong To grand old harmonies of song?

Too long the Sabbath-hush has lain

On fevered brow, and aching brain! Bright-bird shake out thy plumage rare, And smite the silence like a prayer.

A single note! a wave! a trill!

High up the quivering leaves among, And hark! a crystal burst of song, Caught up by forest, vale, and hill,

In glad pulsations borne along, Its destined mission to fulfill, Until all Nature is athrill !

O singer at the set of sun,

With recognition still unwon, Upon whose weary heart and brain

The bitter sense of loss has lain, Who gave thee voice, in ways recluse, Hath power to hold it to His use ! Haply thy spirit, brooding long, May smite the silence with a song, That into weary hearts shall drift,

In glad pulsations pure and high, Like living coals through seam and rift, To warm, and light, and beautify!

If thou the simplest song can sing,
By which another's thought may rise
To animate and crystalize,
Although thy song unseen takes wing,
Sing on! And sing unfaltering!
Ere purple shadows onward drift,

And twilight brings its slow surprise, Ashes for flame! The day's last gift.

Fold not thy hands, and in the shadows sit;
Gird on thy faith, and in its might arise!
Hath God in vain this lamp of being lit?

Give answer thou, with soul made sorrow-wise!

One great resolve - one struggle for the true,
One generous purpose blooming in the breast—
A heart to know-a hand to dare and do,
Be these thine own, and leave to heaven the rest!

LEAF BY LEAF THE ROSES FALL.

LEAF by leaf the roses fall,

Drop by drop the springs run dry, One by one, beyond recall,

Summer beauties fade and die; But the roses bloom again,

And the springs will gush anew In the pleasant April rain,

And the summer's sun and dew.

So in hours of deepest gloom,

When the springs of gladness fail, And the roses in their bloom

Droop like maidens wan and pale, We shall find some hope that lies Like a silent germ apart, Hidden far from careless eyes, In the garden of the heart.

Some sweet hope to gladness wed,
That will spring afresh and new,
When grief's winter shall have fled,
Giving place to sun and dew.

Some sweet hope that breathes of spring,
Through the weary, weary time,

Budding for its blossoming,

In the spirit's silent clime.

DROOPING VISIONS.

THE heavens have glory for uplifted eyes, But drooping visions never see the stars. Take thou the lesson, thou made sorrow-wise, And bid thy soul ope wide its prison bars.

Seek light within; where duty bids thee go,
Go thou, with steps unfaltering and firm;
If but one ray of sunshine lends its glow,
That ray shall wake to life some sleeping germ.

What though the Past shows only ruins nigh!
A cheerful courage may rebuild again
A nobler temple, facing toward the sky,

Above whose columns storms shall rage in vain.

A GRAND OUTGROWTH. THROUGH deepest grief, may Love be manifest! For, when the trial and the conflict come, And twin-born Joy and Hope are standing dumb, If we, within the temple of each breast, Shrine faith in God, as knowing what is best, The griefs we bear will hold no martyrdom; For we rise up to entertain His guest,

With calm repose, Love's grand outgrowth therefrom.

And His chastisements cannot fall in vain,

Since grief itself, like an unmeasured chain, Whose end we see not, as clouds intercept, Linked to our hearts, may draw them nearer Heaven,

As toward the shore where Love despairing wept, Some helmless barque by storms is haply driven.

GOLDEN ROD AND ASTERS.

GOLDEN rod! in autumn splendor,
With your torches all ablaze,
Have you gathered up the sunshine,
Golden sunshine!
From the morning's jewelled sprays,
Rising up to greet September

In its soft and slumberous haze?
Smile you still! but we remember
You are counting off the days,

Heralding November!

Purple asters! sad-eyed, silent,

Do your leaves in tears unfold?
Have you gathered up the shadows,
Purple shadows!
From between the bars of gold,
Making sad your fair young faces
As with sorrows half untold?
Stand you loyal in your places!
With all life, the life we hold,

Blends and interlaces.

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