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My heart beat high. I always knew Just when the Bonny Bride was due. “With foot on land you sail the sea,” Light laughed my cousin Jane at me, Oh, shallow-hearted, weak, and vain, But full of arts, was Cousin Jane.
She spied my ribbon fresh and new,
When, looking up, within the door
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, “ 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.
H. E. G.
With jealous pang I knew it then-
A BLUE RIBBON.
An old farm-house, with meadows wide,
A RIBBON of the softest blue,
"My own! my own!” I thought him then,
Amid the city's constant din,
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,
A gown of golden gauze,
The tent rang with applause;
Drawn out, like lingering bees to share
The last, sweet summer weather,
Two Puritans together, -
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;
To own its worldly dimple.
And Fear was oft a comer;
The pilgrim's toilful summer.
Mere desert-land sojourners:
God's humble lesson-learners.
Their week-day robes was clinging; Their mirth was but the golden bells
On priestly garments ringing.
That serious youth and maiden,
Like weeds with dewdrops laden.
The gravest, something tender,
Mid summer's fading splendor.
For, as I watched this elf, who seemed
Like Beauty's self, to me,
I thought that hers must be;'
But as, thus murmuring in my heart,
And filled with discontent, Beside my uncle, with the crowd
That left the show I went, He pulled my sleeve, and whispered, “See!” And, lo! my fairy, close to me Was standing, speaking with the dwarf. I looked, and wished her further off!
HESTER A. BENEDICT.
HESTER A. BENEDICT.
He said: “Next week the chnrch will hold
A day of prayer and fasting ;"
A white life-everlasting, -
He gave it to her, sighing ;
Her blush a mute replying.
“My fairest one and dearest! One thought is ever to my heart
The sweetest and the nearest.
“You read my soul ; you know my wish;
O, grant me its fulfilling!”
And if my father's willing!”
This quaint New England beauty! Faith was the guardian of her life,
Obedience was a duty.
Too truthful for reserve, she stood,
Her brown eyes earth ward casting, And held with trembling hand the while
Her white life-everlasting.
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 responsi. bility 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 gists, 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.
Her sober answer pleased the youth,
Frank, clear, and gravely cheerful, He left her at her father's door,
Too happy to be fearful.
She looked on high, with earnest plea,
And Heaven seemed bright above her : And when she shyly spoke his name,
Her father praised her lover.
And when, that night, she sought her couch,
With head-board high and olden, Her prayer was praise, her pillow down,
And all her dreams were golden.
And still upon her throbbing heart,
In bloom and breath undying, A few life-everlasting flowers,
Her lover's gift, was lying.
O Venus' myrtles, fresh and green!
O Cupid's blushing roses! Not on your classic flowers alone
The sacred light reposes ;
TO THE SPIRIT OF SONG.
Though gentler care may shield your buds
From north-winds rude and blasting, As dear to Love, those few, pale flowers
Of white lise-everlasting.
With bosom where burdensome breath is,
From rocks where a beautiful bark