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A rapture that doth hint of height on height A vast“ beyond "- an infinite foreground, Warmed by the rays of an undying sun.

- Meditations from Dream-Grotto."

HIS veteran author was born in the city of


Whereto doth first the power of memory come? Man knows not of a past; but shall he know? The hour that passes, shall he know it gone? Th' unknown - hath it not room for all his hopes ?

- Ibid. DECAY.

Our very hopes are nourished on decay.

- Ibid. NIGHT. Red grows the sky with wealth of light suffusedDeep-orange red, and threatening, though still; O'er-hanging clouds look solid as the hills, And the low line of hills resembles clouds; Night speedily her heavy mantle draws O'er sea and land!


June 4, 1823, of good old stock, New England and Knickerbocker; was educated at the University of the City of New York; followed for a time the profession of his father, the law, and after much journalistic experience as editor and contributor, finally settled in Washington where he now resides,

In person Mr. Bushnell is of medium height, blue-eyed, of scholarly sedateness, and unaffected affability. In the suavity of the man and his freedom from ostentation, and in his perfect repose you have the evidence of that high result of manhood, a gentleman.

It is proper to add that the poet has for a wife one of the most brilliant conversationalists in the Capital, and whose nom de plume, Helen Luqueer,” is well known to the literary world. Their charming home and united literary life is a reminder of the Howitts and the Brownings.

J. W. O.



Life conscious is, and there's no rest at all.
No rest at all — or only perfect rest
That grand repose where rest and work are one!
The rest, that is, when o'er earth's canopy
The northern lights keep at their ceaseless play;
The rest that is, when hid from human eye
The acorn prophesies the coming spring;
The rest that is, when wearied hands lie still
While thought communeth with the One Supreme!
All, all is still. The day is hid in night;
But soon the night will hide within the day;
And noiseless glides the chariot of morn.
All, all is still. This hour be consecrate.
My spirit, onward! self-controlled — self-poised!
Till this unceasing, everlasting change,
Become to thee - as to the Eternal — rest!

- Ibid. WONDER.

WHERE the rustic porch was hidden by roses, red

and white, And honeysuckle laden with wealth of blossoms

bright, And the brier gave its sweetness at the dewy even

ing hour, And the violet its perfume to the kissing of the

shower; Where bird and insect singing from the cherry

laden tree, Were answered from the clover fields by humming

of the bee: Where dozing in the shadow the faithful watch-dog

laid, And flashing through the scented grass the tiny

kittens played; And where life's chain unbroken by loved ones

forced to roam, Shone right, undim'd by sorrows in the heart's

remembered home.

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MARGUERITE. Hair as silk of corn sun-kissed, Rippling in a golden mist; Skin as calla lily white, Tinted by rose-blushes bright; Lips as if from heaven above Thou had stolen dew of love; Cheeks as angel's fair and sweet,

Tiny hands and little feet,

Pretty, dainty Marguerite.

On, on rolled the years. A woman's hand plucked

The flowers at soft eventide,
To twine in her tresses, now deeper than gold,

Ere she stood at the altar - a bride!
A song on her lips slumbered sweetly and warm,

And Love was the theme of the lay, While her heart danced as light as the sun-gilded

Eyes as when the cloudless skies
Dappled are with Summer's dyes,
And through film of stormless night
Flash soft rays of starry light;
Teeth as milk of pearl congealed,
When by tinkling laugh revealed,
And from dimples' coy retreat
Smiles peep out loved ones to greet,

Merry, artless Marguerite.


Of the brook as they hurried away.

Fair of form as wax from mold,
Gay of heart and purely souled:
Sweet of tongue, whose lispéd words
Are jubilant as songs of birds;
Charming all with winsome ways,
Moon of night and sun of days
To the hearthstone. Fairy feet
As ever danced to music's beat,

Witching, darling Marguerite.

Again a May came. A mother stood there

And robbed the rose-tree of its charms,
To twine a sweet wreath for the soft, tiny brow

Of the loved one she tossed in her arms;
And sweeter, though softer her matronly song

Filled the listening ear with its lay'Twas a heart gush of love and praise that thrilled

forthYet the brooklet kept ebbing away. A score more of years and a widow knelt low

Where the babe tossed the tiny seed high: In vain looked she now for blossom or bud,

And her laughter had changed to a sigh: The rose-tree was dying, and soon withered leaves

Graced her bier as it slow passed along It was all of the babe and the seed that remained,

Yet the brooklet sped on with a song.

Not a soil of earth yet stains,
Know not eyes of sorrow's rains;
Never were thy heartstrings strung
By passion, or by misery wrung;
Free from envy, strife or fears,
Save washed away by baby tears;
Waves of time as they retreat,
Have left no hopes wrecked at thy feet,

Pure and sinless Marguerite.



(To My W'ife.) Her hair is the gold-brown of chestnuts,

Her eyes blue as the heavenly zone, Her skin as the snow of the lily,

When rose-blushes are over it blown; Her lips shame the heart of carnation,

Her movements are exquisite grace, Her voice is the sweetest of music, And smiles lie asleep on the face

Of the woman I love.

On a green, mossy bank, near a swift speeding

When May was but roses and song,
A laughing babe played with a frail, tiny seed,

As the hours sped golden along:
She tossed it aloft in the glittering air,

Then caught as it fell from on high,
Till tired of play threw it careless away,

And the brooklet sped merrily by.

There is less of gold glint in her tresses,

A few threads of silver wove through, The crimson of lips not so vivid,

And lighter the eyes in their blue; Her movements more stately and grander,

Though losing no whit of their grace, And the smiles are more patient and tender That shine on the matronly face

Of the woman I love.

The seasons rolled on. A fair girl in her pride

Of beauty and tresses of gold, Stooped to pick a bouquet of the dew-laden buds

That grew where the tiny seed rolled; She drank in their perfume, with lips whose deep

red Shamed even the rose buds, and high Her silver voice rang in its innocent mirth —

While the brook still sped merrily by.

Faded out all the brown and the sunshine,

Burnished silver the curls of hair shine, In her eyes less of earth, more of heaven

Less stained are the cheeks with life's wing



The skin not so lily in whiteness,

Paler now the rose waves o'er them roll;
But the voice still retains all its sweetness,
And the face is illumed by the soul

Of the woman I love.
Earth, keep her to bless and to brighten,

Death, send not thy stern fiat down;
And Heaven, linger long in the weaving

Strands of gold and of pearl for her crown. There are angels enough clothed in glory

Few given life's griefs to assuage; And the tenderness, purity, beauty, Are perfected and hallowed by age

In the woman I love.

The dying daughter of Time is Love-
Honor the living son of Eternity.

The soul of the beautiful woman
Is only girl's purified snow.

Love is stronger than death, than the grave's deep

tide, As the pride of earth, 'tis of heaven the pride.

- Love After Death.

I don't 'spose yer givin' ter doin' things bad,

But ef yer ever larned that way,
Didn't thar rise up out of yer heart

Somethin' yer'd heard yer mother say?
And didn't yer think of her always,

And didn't yer hold yer breath
When a woman war sinnin' and sufferin',
And goin' down ther black gulch of Death?

-Hangtown Jim.
Before the act the action, the thought before the

deed, The bud before the flower, the flower before the

seed, In all of mind or matter another must precede. Before the song of poet the inspirations come, Before the honey sweetness the wild bees busy hum, Before the panting tempest the silence vast and dumb.

-Ab Initio,
Ours to frame the slender railway,

Belting earth, till space is naught,
O'er which rolls the lightning engine,
With the laden train of thought.

- Songs of the Toilsmen.


letter to a friend says: "What can you say of a life so sequestered as mine except, 'She is born, is married, will die,' like the needy knife-grinder; Story, God bless you I have none to tell.' I was born in Cambridge, Indiana, but have passed most of my life in Cincinnati, and have never been east of the Blue Ridge Mountains. So you see I am purely one of the aborigines. As to my ‘versing' that began soon after I was out of school. I think it was in 1872 I first sent my poems out to seek their fortune."

Mrs. Brotherton lives quietly on East Walnut Hills, Cincinnati. In her home life she is the personification of devotion and domestic happiness. Graduating from one of the Cincinnati High Schools at an early age, it was not long before her bright soul attracted its affinity, hence the love, cottage and three interesting children which now divide with her writing all the mother-poet's time. Those poems in which the heart and its phases of joy and woe are treated are by far her best productions. Living in her own home with little of the outside world to distract her, the poet has grown wise feeding upon her own soul-thoughts. Hers is a busy life in that little home in East Walnut Hills; a life full of home and its motherly and wifely duties performed so faithfully. Crowded in among these, her songs have sprung up from her rich experience-experience not with the world but with the double nature of all poetical lives. The friction of one with the other she has used; no force has been wasted. Never has the home I fe been neglected, or made secondary to the writer's life.

She has been for many years a contributor to the Century, The Independent, Atlantic Monthly, and Scrba ner's Magazine. Her first separate publication was

Beyond the Veil," issued in 1886. In June, 1887, her collected poems entitled “ The Sailing of King Olaf and Other Poems" appeared. Mrs. Brotherton's style is clear, concise and remarkable rather for strength than any marked degree of musical quality.

Mrs. Brotherton is rather slight in figure, with light brown hair worn in waves over a full high forehead. The constant use of eyeglasses has marred the beauty of her large and expressive eyes.

E. A.


What is your art, O poet?
Only to catch and to hold
In a poor, frail word-mould

A little of life;

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“ Take thou my Dragon with silken sails,”

Said Olaf, “ The Ox shall be mine in place.
If it pleases our Lord to send me gales,
In either vessel I'll win the race.

With this exchange art satisfied ?"
Ay, brother!” the crafty one replied.

King Olaf strode to the church to pray

For blessing of God on crew and ship; But Harald the traitor made haste to weigh His anchor, and out of the harbor slip.

“ Pray!” laughed Harald Haardrade, “ Pray! The wind's in my favor. Set sail ! Away!”

As Olaf knelt by the chancel rail,

Down the broad aisle came one in haste, With panting bosom and cheek all pale; Straight to King Olaf's side he paced: “Oh, waste no time in praying,” cried he,

For Harald already is far at sea!”

Ho! to the haven!" King Olaf cried,

And smote the eye of the Ox with his hand.
It leaped so madly along the tide
That never a sailor on deck could stand;

But Olaf lashed them firm and fast
With trusty cords to the strong pine mast.


Now who," the helmsman said,

will guide The vessel upon this tossing sea ?" “That will I do!” King Olaf cried; “And no man's life shall be lost through me."

Like a living coal his dark eye glowed,
As swift to the helmsman's place he strode.

Looking neither to left nor right,

Toward the land he sailed right in,
Steering straight as a line of light:
“So must I run if I would win;

Faith is stronger than hills or rocks,
Over the land speed on, good Ox!"

Into the valleys the waters rolled;

Hillocks and meadows disappeared.
Grasping the helm in his iron hold
On, right onward, St. Olaf steered;

High and higher the blue waves rose.
“On!" he shouted, “No time to loose!"

Out came running the elves in a throng,

Out from cavern and rock they came: • Now, who is this comes sailing along Over our homes? Ho! tell us thy name?”

“ I am St. Olaf, my little men,
Turn into stones till I come again."

The elf-stones rolled down the mountain-side;

The sturdy Ox sailed over them all. • Ill luck be with thee!” a carline cried, Thy ship has shattered my chamber wall!”

In Olaf's eyes flashed a fiery glint:
" Be turned forever to rock of flint!”

Never was sailing like this before:

He shot an arrow along the wind; Or ever it lighted the ship sailed o'er The mark: the arrow fell far behind.

“ Faster, faster!" cried Olaf,“ Skip Fleet as Skidbladnir, the magic ship!”.

Swifter and swifter across the foam

The quivering Ox leaped over the track,
Till Olaf came to his boyhood's home;
Then fast as it rose the tide fell back.

And Olaf was king of the whole Norse land
When Harald the third day reached the strand.

PLIGHTED. A. D., 1874.
“Two souls with but a single thought,
Two hearts that beat as one."

NELLIE loquitur.
Bless my heart! You're come at last.

Awful glad to see you, dear!
Thought you'd died or something, Belle-

Such an age since you've been here! My engagement? Gracious! Yes.

Rumor's hit the mark this time. And the victim? Charley Gray,

Know him, don't you? Well, he's prime. Such mustachios! Splendid style!

Then he's not so horrid fastWaltzes like a seraph, too,

Has some fortune-best and last. Love him? Nonsense. Don't be “soft."

Pretty much as love now goes;
He's devoted, and in time

I'll get used to him, I s'pose.
First love? Humbug. Don't talk stuff.

Bella Brown, don't be a fool!
Next you'll rave of flames and darts

Like a chit at boarding school. Don't be “miffed,” I talked just so

Some two years back. Fact, my dear! But two seasons kill romance,

Leave one's views of life quite clear. Why if Will Latrobe had asked

When he left, two years ago, I'd have thrown up all and gone

Out to Kansas, do you know? Fancy me a settler's wife!

Blest escape, dear, was it not?
Yes, it's hardly in my line

To enact “Love in a Cot."
Well, you see, I'd had my swing,

Been engaged to eight or ten:
Got to stop some time of course,

So it don't much matter when. Auntie hates old maids, and thinks

Every girl should marry youngOn that theme my whole life long

I have heard the changes rung! So, ma belle, what could I do?

Charley wants a stylish wife,
We'll suit well enough, no fear,

When we settle down for life.
But for love-stuff! See my ring ?

Lovely, isn't it? Solitaire,
Nearly made Maud Hinton turn

Green with envy and despair, Hers aint half so nice, you see-

Did I write you, Belle, about

Such was the sailing of Olaf the king,

Monarch and Saint of Norroway;
In view of whose wondrous prospering
The Norse have a saying unto this day:

“ As Harald Ilaardrade found to his cost,
Time spent in praying is never lost !"

UNAWARES. A SONG welled up in the singer's heart,

(Like song in the throat of a bird,) And loud he sang, and far it rang,

For his heart was strangely stirred; And he sang for the very joy of song,

With no thought of one who heard. Within the listener's wayward soul

A heavenly patience grew.
He fared on his way with a benison

On the singer, who never knew How the careless song of an idle hour

Had shaped a life anew.

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