VOL. VI.

General Morris was undoubtedly the best songwriter of America, and has left a rich dower of verse behind him, that will win the plaudits of all true critics. He also edited a number of works, among which are the "Atlantic Club Book,' "The SongWriters of America," "National Melodies, "" and the "Prose and Poetry of Europe and America. " In 1825, he wrote the drama of "Brier Cliff," a play in five acts, which was performed forty nights in succession and paid its author $3,500. In 1842, he composed an opera for C. E. Horn, called "The Maid of Saxony," which had a run of fourteen nights.

In 1836, he published a collection of his prose pieces, under the title of "The Little Frenchman and his Water-Lots. In 1838, appeared "The Deserted Bride, and Other Poems. "

No. 10.

No. The struggle life may cost me!
But he'll find that I have pride!
Love is not an idle flower,
Blooms and dies the self-same hour.
Title, land and broad dominion,

With himself to me he gave;
Stooped to earth his spirit's pinion,

And became my willing slave!
Knelt and prayed until he won me-
Looks he coldly now upon me?

Ingrate! Never sure was maiden
Deeply wronged as I. With grief
My true breast is overladen-

Tears afford me no relief-
Every nerve is strained and aching,
And my very heart is breaking!'

Love I him?-Thus scorned and slighted-
Thrown, like a worthless weed, apart-
Hopes and feelings seared and blighted—
Love him?-Yes, with all my heart!
With a passion superhuman—
Constancy, "thy name is woman."

Love, nor time, nor mood, can fashion-
Love?-Idolatry's the word

To speak the broadest, deepest passion,
Ever woman's heart hath stirred!
Vain to still the mind's desires,
Which consume like hidden fires!

Wrecked and wretched, lost and lonely,

Crushed by grief's oppressive weight
With a prayer for Clifford only,
I resign me to my fate.

Chains that bind the soul I've proven
Strong as they were iron woven.

Deep the woe that fast is sending
From my cheek its healthful bloom;
Sad my thoughts as willows bending
O'er the borders of the tomb!
Without Clifford, not a blessing
In the world is worth possessing.

431

M

MARION FRANKLIN HAM.

ARION F. HAM was born in Harveysburg, Warren County, Ohio, February 18th, 1867. In acquiring an education, the course of study afforded by the high school of his native village was the only schooling granted him. A voracious appetite for books in his youth led him to read everything within his reach, and this early storing of the mind with various kinds of knowledge proved of inestimable value to him in his subsequent work. Early association with the peculiar beauty of the fertile valleys of Southern Ohio developed and fostered the poetic sentiment within him.

His father descended from English ancestry; his mother is of Scotch and English descent. At the age of thirteen his father died, and six years later he, with his mother, removed to Richmond, Indiana. After a few months spent in the Quaker City of the west, ill-health compelled him to seek a milder climate. The south is now the land of his adoption. He resides with his mother in one of the quiet residence streets of Chattanoga, Tenn.

Mr. Ham's poems first appeared in print in 1891. One of his earlier poems entitled "Ad Mortem" was published in Belford's Magazine in 1892. Later his verses appeared in Frank Leslie's Weekly, December, 1892. Since the appearance of the Southern Magazine, of Louisville, Ky., in 1892, he has been a regular contributor to its pages. In December, 1893, he published the poem "Bob White" in booklet form as a Christmas souvenir. The poem drew much praise from the critics, and seemed to establish its author. D. I.

THE POET'S SACRIFICE.

O JEALOUS Muse, what wilt thou more?
Youth knelt unceasing at thy shrine
To guard the fire it knew divine;
Still watching from that sacred shore
The mystic tide that swiftly bore,

Far through the morning's purple beams,
Its golden argosy of dreams.

And manhood, with its added years,

A suppliant at thy temple gate,
Obeyed the oracle of fate
That voiced the music of the spheres;
Still sacrificed with pain and tears

Its wealth of sinew lithe and strong,
Beneath the Juggernaut of Song.

The love that should have blessed his life
With fruitage rich and manifold,
For lack of nurture loosed its hold,