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The stately senate hall dissolved,
A church rose in its place,
And though he heard the solemn voice,
The teacher's thought was strangely wrought:
"My yearning heart, to-day,
Wept for this youth whose wayward will
The church, a phantasm, vanished soon:
"My idlest lad!" the teacher said,
The vision of a cottage home
A mother's face illumed the place
"A miracle! a miracle!
This matron, well I know,
Was but a wild and careless child,
"And when she to her children speaks
Her lips repeat, in accents sweet,
The scene was changed again, and lo,
A dream!" the sleeper, waking, said,
IN SNOWY lace and satin,
Bedecked with floral glory,
She bows, and reads, in Latin, The class salutatory.
A scarlet rose resembles
Like a singing hermit thrush's.
And my heart excited flutters.
Oh, fair and gentle creature,
Trained in language and belles lettres, I'm very sure no teacher
Than I can love you better.
She has won my heart completely
For she smiled so very sweetly
Just because she chanced to stammer.
She's the flower of the college;
I care not, Sir Professor,
What you say about her knowledge,
I shall go away, heart-laden,
Carry these enraptured roses,
In her presence like a tutor,
THE COMING MAN.
THE Coming Man I sing: the Coming Man
His solemn gaze pursues her starry light.
Not knowledge only enters in the plan
THE VENAL VOTE.
AND thou didst sell thy vote, and thou didst buy!
Stain not your flag by glancing at its stars.
TO MY WIFE.
WISE, noble, loved and loving wife,
These heart-born songs, a gift, I bring To thee, whose deeds, thy muses, sing The poem of a perfect life.
The Transcendentalist-he now transcends
A charm attends her everywhere;
A sense of beauty;
Care smiles to see her free of care;
The hard heart loves her nnaware;
Age pays her duty.
She is protected by the sky;
Good spirits tend her;
Her innocence is panoply;
God's wrath must on the miscreant lie, Who dares offend her.
-The School Girl.
LAURA JACINTA RITTENHOUSE. THE subject of this sketch, Mrs. Laura J. Rit
tenhouse, née Arter, was born in 1841, in an humble but well-provided home in Pulaski County, Illinois, on the crest of forest-crowned hills overlooking the waters of the beautiful and usually placid Ohio river. The strong natural endowments of her parents (Dr. and Mrs. Daniel Arter) were transmitted to the child. Her opportunities to improve these qualities were few and poor, but as good as the sparcely settled country afforded.
On December 31, 1863, Miss Arter was married to Mr. Wood Rittenhouse, a prosperous merchant and honored citizen of Cairo, Ill. She has lived very happily with him, and is the mother of a bright girl and four studious, industrious and promising boys.
For many years after her marriage, the cares of home and the training of her children occupied Mrs. Rittenhouse's time so fully that her literary work was almost abandoned, but for the past two or three years she has had a few hours occasionally to devote to her pen, and that she improves these intervals the columns of many magazines and papers abundantly testify.
A woman pure and fine of character, unflinching in principle, strong in her love of truth and justice, generous, warm-hearted, magnetic, cheery and gifted with large executive power, she has been a natural leader among her kind, first in all benevolent and social enterprises, a tireless worker for home and church and fellow-kind. Her warmest interest has, for years, been given to the work of the Woman's Christian Temperance Union, and for that body and its great cause she has worked and written unceasingly.
Although Mrs. Rittenhouse is the author of a number of poems, her best efforts are her stories. She possesses the peculiar faculty of clothing everyday and even commonplace incidents in most attractive garb. She never drifts into the unreasonably sensational. She invests all the topics with which she deals and all the plots she constructs with rare interest to the reader, and her style is at once healthful and elevating. M. B. H.
IN THE COUNTRY.
IN GORGEOUS chaplets on the trees,
And crystal ices flash out where
The mellow fruits of autumn clung. The cedars droop their stately heads,
Bowed down with diamonds pure and bright, And fleecy robes have draped the earth Where flowed the golden summer light.
The wild-briar twines its thorny lengths
Where gleamed the autumn's harvest gold. Within the woods no more the birds
With flutt'ring wings the green leaves stir, And 'round the hives no more the bees Are buzzing with their drowsy whirr.
The royal lily pallid lies,
The frost drank up the roses' blood,
Before the winter's chilling flood.
Where blushing sweet-briars used to grow.
The roads that wound in summer time,
So many bands of ermine made;
The rose-tinged clouds are thickly spread; Fold after fold with silv'ry fringe,
Is drawn in festoons overhead.
And in the midst the old house stands,
The dear old house, my home no more; And girlish forms flit through the rooms, And children play around the door. But nevermore beneath its roof
Shall we who made and love it meet; Our hungry hearts can only yearn
Over its memories, old and sweet.
And though to others it may seem
It gave us shelter, peace and rest.
AN OCTOBER MORNING.
THE ruby morn sprang from the close embrace of night,
Her soft wings flutt'ring o'er the drowsy earth, Her bosom throbbing with ten thousand gems
Of pearls and flashing sapphires, and the birth Of loving kisses falling from her nectared lips Upon the slumbering birds and flowers, That slept through all the weary, gloomy night, That they might greet her in her youthful hours.
Her rosy fingers shook with gentle chiding The lazy trees, till every trembling leaf Turned to the sun its many diamonds;
She, taking from her heart a gleaming sheaf Of sunlight, darted in the darkened woods, And, picking up the shadows pinned them high Upon the hills, in lines of softened blue,
Bidding the sunbeams in their places lie.
She walked with loving tread within the orchard, Where the rich, mellow fruit, golden and red, Lay on the hard, white ground, and whispering To them some kindly words, she onward sped, Pausing to bathe her beauteous form
In every glittering, limpid stream; Bending her graceful head but just a moment To see her mirrored face-the gentle gleam That shone from out her eyes,-then flying on She skimmed above the luscious, dusky grapes, And drew her magic lines of light and shade,
And gave e'en to the fleecy clouds their shapes. Then as the noon-tide waves ebbed o'er the world, Without a vain regret or parting sigh,
She kissed her children, folded 'round her azure robes,
And in the ocean sank-content to die.
I KNOW just how my girlhood's home
Just how the spring-time sun sifts down
The orchard trees their snowy foam
Of fragrant blossoms toss;
And threads of light play through the leaves, Like veins of silv'ry floss.
I know just how the yard is filled
The old swing in the cooling shade,
The swing where words of truest love,
The maple where the mocking-bird
And bright-winged robin trill, And the wood-lark with its clear, sweet notes, The leaves with rapture thrill.