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And weary of her laurelled dust),
Oh! give her faith that shall endure,
And make her waning strength more sure!
Haste then the Morn with swifter flight,

Thou tardy Night!

In 1884, Mrs. Converse was formally adopted by the Seneca Indians, as had been her father and grandfather before her. It was on the occasion of the re-interment, by the Buffalo Historical Society, of the remains of the famous Red Jacket. Her adoption made her the great-grand-daughter of Red Jacket with all the rights and honors pertaining to the relation.

The poetical work of Mrs. Converse has won high praise. Lord Alfred Tennyson and Dom Pedro emperor of Brazil, each sent to the author graceful letters of commendation on the publication of "Sheaves." Mrs. Converse is also an industrious writer of prose, and has two volumes nearly ready for the press, one to be entitled “The Religious Festivals of the Iroquois Indians," the other “Mythology and Folk Lore of the North American Indians." In the prime of life, she has doubtless her best work before her.

Mrs. Converse resides in New York City. Personally she is attractive, genial and generous. Her friendships are warm, enthusiastic and abiding, while her heart is sympathetic and her hand open to the needs of her kind. In her presence you forget that she is literary, which is perhaps the

satisfactory social trait any literary woman can exhibit.

Mrs. G. A.

If in some hour unknown before,
Within the threshold of thy door,
With face so fair, yet unrevealed,
Whose silent lips are yet unsealed,
Love's messenger, with patience waits,
Conduct him to thy Morning's gates
In crimsoned garments; like the rose
Adorned with dews, that blushing glows
With warmth and trusting tendance wooed,
With Life's dear light through dawn renewed,
And bring Love's day — Love's promised light,

Thou welcome Night!



Life's whirl and din!
The sands run in;

Work, busy brain;
Toil, care, and pain
Encompass thee;
Thy destiny,
Thine equity,

Thy God!

The west is barred with hurrying clouds,
Within whose deep vermilion shrouds,
While soft winds whisper mournful sighs,
In fickle lights the dear Day lies;
With dreams of distance in her grace,
She met her Morn with glowing face;
Deserted glory in her glance,
She swoons to death, in languid trance
And thy uncertain light-

Thou hastening Night!


If o'er thy broad and darkling land
Day's ghost go wandering, hand in hand
With some sad secret of Life's years,
Keeping her vigils through her tears,
With uncreated Morrow's day
(Thy inward light), make fond delay,
And kiss, with lingering, fragrant breath,
Sweet Sleep - the image of this death
To dreams of worlds more bright,

Thou friendly Night!

DEATH solves the doubt!
The sands run out;

Rest, weary brain,
From care and pain,
And agony,
In harmony,

Of God!


If from the solitudes of pain -
Through veiling mists of sorrow's rain -
To thy lone shrine, where tapers burn,
In quest of peace, some hope return
(Her future lost — through loss of trust -

MANY a bud enfolds a hue that never sees the sun; Unfr dly thoughts have blasted hopes that love

has just begun;

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May peace wish thee abide!

With care and toil oppressed, Submit; He will provide

For thee His grace and rest.

May peace with thee abide!

On thee may God's light glow! His peace is not denied,

Although thou falter so.


THY EASTER MORN. In the dark Gethsemane and sackcloth of thy soul, Beneath the shadowed olive tree, thy face toward

the goal, Didst thou seek release in vain and, humbly trust.

ing, pray ? Press to thy lips the cup of pain that would not

pass away? Waiting in thy Judgment-Hall thy life reviewed,

arraigned, While the wormwood and the gall its piteous pangs

sustained, Didst thou in thy Sorrows yearn for Morning's

eastern skies, Fondly to thy Christ Star turn thy mournful, tear

stained eyes? Watching on thy Calvary, adoring at His feet, What sacrifice hath come to thee to make thy life

complete? Receiving of its holy dust, within its saintly ground, The triumphs of thy lowly trust, was martyrdom

so crowned ?

WITHIN her fair white hands the Good Book lies;

As reverently slow she turns its leaves, The violet shadows veil her wistful eyes,

And as the nightfall sure and slowly weaves, I hear her dear voice clear and strong "Set me as a seal upon thy heart,

As a seal upon thy arm,

For love is strong as death!"
And as she reads the Israel song

Her lips are like a roseleaf curled apart
In spicy sweetness warm

With incense of its breath.

On, on she reads; hushed on her snowy breast,

Lulled in its peace as of a holy shrine, Each tender sigh doth rock itself to rest;

Her face, love lit, doth glow with fire divine, Her trembling voice doth linger long“ Jealousy is cruel as the grave,

The coals thereof are coals of fire

With most vehement flame;"
Yet as she reads the singer's song

She seems to grow more brave
In harmony of Israel's lyre

Attuned to love's dear name!

Dear, fair white hands wherein the Good Book lies,

Dear, tender sighs that hush upon her breast, Dear, blue-veined lids that veil her violet eyes,

Unto my life thou art sweet peace and rest! Love, set me as a seal upon her heart, Thou, love, art strong—as strong as death thou art!

Clasping with velvet touches, hand in hand, Love sings to love this song through all the land Where marriage bells, with silver iterance, call, Love loveth love, and love is all-in-all!


DAISY. Undergrowth of Nature's heart, and bloom that robes the sod.

- To a Field Daisy.

OCTOBER The fields are sere, the garners filled, the reapers'

harvest hymns Are echoed rough the dells, where nests hang

empty on the limbs; The streams are haunted with the sighs of muffled

summer songs, While on their lonely ripples float the willow leaves in throngs.

- Regal October.

SPRING. The sun evokes from shadows, in the genial rite Of consecrated wedlock, the day from winter's night.

- Waiting RETROSPECT. Trace thou the blooming vines of passion-flowers — The tender symbols of a sacrifice Where'er the hungry dust of grief may lie, To feed the thirsty sorrow with their dews!

-Retrospect. VIOLETS.

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And round the sovereign bloom (quite near the rose)
The modest sisterhood - the little nuns
Who veil their sweets in shade — the violets,
Amid the gorgeous blushes of the court,
Would grace perfume with blue-eyed beauty's

The wild-wood loveliness of nature's heart,
That lends, in truthfulness, to quiet lives,
The rest that even blossoms crave in shade!


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Even so, past noon, the love-lorn day pursues
The sun, entranced in brightness of its face,

And radiant grows, within, of pure delight!
Yet Peace, in quiet hushfulness, subdues
Her joy and glowing, in the smar-lit space
And shadowed glory of the holy night!


FAITH, God's holy benediction - His hushfulness - His calm!

- Through Faith.

And caught their subtle odors in the spring ?

Pink buds pouting at the light,
Crumpled petals baby-white,
Just to touch them a delight!

In the spring!

Have you walk'd beneath the blossomsin the spring?

In the spring ?
Beneath the apple blossoms in the spring ?

When the pink cascades are falling,
And the silver brooklets brawling,
And the cuckoo bird is calling,

In the spring!

Have you seen a merry bridal in the spring ?

In the spring ?
In an English apple-county in the spring ?

When the bride and maidens wear
Apple blossoms in their hair,
Apple blossoms everywhere

In the spring!

If you have not, then you know not, in the spring,

In the spring!
Half the color, beauty, wonder of the spring.

No sweet sight can I remember
Half so precious, half so tender,
As the apple blossoms render

In the spring!


How shall I breathe to thee

From my worn heart,
Words of sweet sympathy,
Thoughts that shall solace thee

In thy hard part?
How shall I preach to thee

The sacred strain;
Tell thee, thy loss is gain;
Tell thee, thy grief is joy;
Tell thee, thou'lt meet thy boy

In Heaven again?
This part is not for me,
Mine, silently shall be,

To weep with thee.
When slips away

The dreary day
Behind the rounded hills, and solemn night,
Enthroned amid her stars of argent light,
Rules the still world - the mourner's cherish'd hour,
Sacred to grief, and that mysterious power

Which we call memory –
Then, my part shall be

To weep with thee.



of October, 1833. He was destined for the legal profession, but while serving with a solicitor, was offered an appointment in Her Majesty's Civil Service which he accepted, and in 1854 commenced an official career which has proved a successful one.

He has found time amid his exacting duties to indulge his natural love of literature and to make many a contribution in prose and verse to journals and magazines. In addition to the collection of poems under the title By Solent and Danube" he has written many verses of a humorous character, and is the author of several plays.

He is known to a large circle as an elocutionist of great power and brilliancy: perhaps, as an oral interpreter of Tennyson he has never been surpassed.

A. N. J.


Rich was the harvest he vow'd to reap,

When he planted his germ below;
"Love will give sheaves of, red gold to keep,
And its fruit will be sweet, I know."

But his golden sheaves
Are the wrinkled leaves

By the gusty autumn borne;
And his fruit, the red berries of briony

That cling round a wither'd thorn.


Roses will throw me their blooms," she said,

" When winter is white on the tree; Love will bring clusters when leaves are dead The vine's purple clusters to me."

But her rose-tree stands
With roseless hands,

In the cold bleak air forlorn;
And her clusters are berries of briony

That cling round a wither'd thorn.


HAVE you seen an apple orchard in the spring ?

In the spring ?
An English apple orchard in the spring ?

When the spreading trees are hoary
With their wealth of promise-glory,
And the mavis pipes his story

In the spring!
Have you plucked the apple blossoms in the spring?

In the spring ?

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