M MARIAN DOUGLAS. MARIAN DOUGLAS. ARIAN DOUGLAS, (Mrs. Annie Douglas (Green) Robinson) is a resident of Bristol, N. H. She was born in Plymouth, N. H., in 1842. Her first published poem appeared, when she was fifteen, in the Southern Literary Messenger, whose editor, Mr. John R. Thompson, the poet of Virginia, showed much kind interest in her early verses. In '61 and '62, she, for a time, sent, weekly, a poem to the Boston Transcript, one of them, "The Soldier's Mother," being nearly as widely copied by the papers of the South as by those of the North. A little later, she became a contributor to Our Young Folks, and to The Nursery, a juvenile magazine of Boston, and a collection of these children's verses, called "Picture Poems for Young People." was issued in 1872. Some of these poems, as "The Motherless Turkeys," "Two Pictures," and others, were widely copied, both at home and in England. A subsequent edition of this book was issued in 1882. A small book in prose, "Peter and Polly" a story of child-life in the Revolution, appeared in the Centennial year, and this, likewise, was most favorably noticed by the reviewers. The New York Evening Post, characterizing it as "delicious in its artistic simplicity." Since her first volume, however, Marian Douglas has allowed her verses to remain uncollected, and they are now wildly scattered. Some of those originally appearing in the Atlantic, Scribner's, The Galaxy, etc. Many of her later poems are brief, like "The Rose," "The Yellow Leaf," etc.. and have found place in Harper's Bazar, to which paper she has been an Occasional contributor for many years. A BLUE RIBBON. A RIBBON of the softest blue, H. E. G. The sweet June sky's most lovely hue, I bought it to bind up my hair;- "My own! my own!" I thought him then, My heart beat high. I always knew She spied my ribbon fresh and new, When, looking up, within the door With jealous pang I knew it then- Well, let it go. Sore Heaven's grace TWO PICTURES. AN old farm-house, with meadows wide, Amid the city's constant din, A man who round the world has been, 477 THE ROPE DANCER. WHEN I was seven-O, it seems A thousand years ago! And through the green fields, to the tent, The usual dwarf, contrasted, stood, A well-instructed bear; And yards of ribbon, pink and blue, For, lightly as a spider runs Along the glistening thread, Upon a slender rope that stretched High, high above my head, A little girl tripped, to and fro, And did not cast one glance below! A girl? it rather seemed to me That fresh from fairy-land was she! She had a poppy-colored skirt, And when she came back to the ground, Well pleased, she bowed and curt'sied then, With throbbing heart, but envious eyes. For, as I watched this elf, who seemed Like Beauty's self, to me, Of happy lots, the happiest, I thought that hers must be;' But as, thus murmuring in my heart, That left the show I went, He pulled my sleeve, and whispered, "See!" Was standing, speaking with the dwarf. For, nearer seen, the face I thought And when, as we, together, home, And mount as high, and look as gay, I only shook my little head, THE PURITAN LOVERS. DRAWN out, like lingering bees to share A youth and maiden, heeding not The woods which round them brightened, Just conscious of each other's thoughts, Half happy and half frightened. Grave were their brows, and few their words, And coarse their garb and simple; The maiden's very cheek seemed shy To own its worldly dimple. For stern the time; they dwelt with Care; A sober April ushered in The pilgrim's toilful summer. And stern their creed; they tarried here The temple's sacred perfume round Their week-day robes was clinging; But as to-day they softly talked, That serious youth and maiden, Their plainest words strange beauty wore, Like weeds with dewdrops laden. The saddest theme had something sweet, The gravest, something tender, While with slow steps they wandered on, Mid summer's fading splendor. HESTER A. BENEDICT. 481 H HESTER A. BENEDICT. ESTER A. BENEDICT, nee Baldwin, is a native of Portage County, Ohio. In the choice, rural retreat of her parents, she first saw the light, and grew to be a child of beauty. As the years advanced, she developed unusual precocity, intelligence, acute, nervous and lively sensibility. She was a rapt and attentive reader, choosing many of the best authors, as well as current literature for her entertainment. She readily assimilated what she read, and made it her own. Her early poetical efforts gave promise of the success that has crowned the productions of her more mature years. Like Pope, she "lisped in numbers for the numbers came. Thus ran smoothly her youthful years, till an early marriage opened a new vista. Maternity soon followed giving to life a new field of responsibility and joy. But ere the short years of her child's infantile loveliness had passed, the destroyer came, and the winsome little girl, enjoying almost the gift of unearthly loveliness, was laid low. The rude blow almost ended the life of the stricken mother. Henceforth all of earth was changed. A great grief, a heart-breaking sorrow, often vitally stirs the fallow ground of the human soul, and brings to life the latent genius hitherto slumbering there. So has it been, eminently, in this case. Her gifts, as on eagle's wings have asserted their qualities. She resolved to devote her life to literature, and her success attests the wisdom of her decision. Some of her first productions appeared, with commendation, in the humble village newspaper. She afterwards took up her residence in New York, and became known as an acceptable and favorite contributor to many literary publications. At lenght she applied herself to the production of her poem, "Vesta." This poem brought to light the inborn vigor and pathos of her poetic genius. "Vasta," with other poems was issued in book form in Philadelphia. The book was received with favor by the public. She is now the wife of Col. P. T. Dickinson, and their residence is in California, the flowery Eden of America. Hers, has been a life of vicissitude and many sorrows, but a brave life, also, of achievement and sucess. With personal accomplishments at once brilliant and fascinating, she is yet in the vigor of womanly activity, and by her undimmed genius and and shining ability is destined to win new laurels. L. W. H. TO THE SPIRIT OF SONG. WITH bosom where burdensome breath is, From rocks where a beautiful bark |