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Clearer, clearer,

Until, ever drawing nearer,

There shall burst upon thy sight,
Through the darkness of earth's night,
All the eye of faith may see,

Set in God's eternity.

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HEIR advent is as silent as their going,


They have no voice nor utter any speech, No whispered murmur passes each to each, As on the bosom of the years' stream flowing, They pass beyond recall, beyond our knowing, Farther than sight can pierce or thought can reach, Nor shall we ever hear them on Time's beach, No matter how the winds of life are blowing. They bide their time, they wait the awful warning Of that dread day, when hearts and graves unsealing, The trumpet's note shall call the sea and sod, To yield their secrets to the sun's revealing: What voices then shall thrill the Judgment morning, As our lost hours shall cry aloud to God?

Paul Lawrence Dunbar


OOD-BYE,' I said, to my conscience

G Good-bye for aye and aye,

And I put her hands off harshly,
And turned my face away;
And conscience, smitten sorely,
Returned not from that day.

But a time came when my spirit
Grew weary of its pace;

And I cried: 'Come back my conscience,

I long to see thy face,'

But conscience cried: 'I cannot,

Remorse sits in my place.'

Ellen Sturgis Hooper


SLEPT, and dreamed that life was Beauty;
I woke, and found that life was Duty.
Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?
Toil on, sad heart, courageously,
And thou shalt find thy dream to be
A noonday light and truth to thee.

Joseph Grownlee Brown


Cry of the Ten Thousand

I stand upon the summit of my years.
Behind, the toil, the camp, the march, the strife,
The wandering and the desert; vast, afar,
Beyond this weary way, behold! the Sea!

The sea o'er-swept by clouds and winds and wings,
By thoughts and wishes manifold, whose breath
Is freshness and whose mighty pulse is peace.
Palter no question of the dim Beyond;

Cut loose the bark; such voyage itself is rest;
Majestic motion, unimpeded scope,

A widening heaven, a current without care.
Eternity!-Deliverance, Promise, Course!
Time-tired souls salute thee from the shore.

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And we are gone, and all our songs are done,
And naught is left unchanged beneath the sun,
What other singers shall the womb of Time
Bring forth to reap the sunny slopes of rhyme?
For surely till the thread of life be spun
The world shall not lack poets, though but one
Make lovely music like a vesper chime

Above the heedless turmoil of the street.

Those unborn poets! What melodious breath, What larger music, shall be given to these? Shall they more closely lie at Nature's feet, Reading the volume of her mysteries?

Shall they new secrets wring from darksome Death?





1. John Pierpont, b. Litchfield, Conn., Apr. 6, 1785. Graduated Yale ; admitted to the bar 1812, retired on account of conscientious scruples. Entered Harvard Divinity School, 1818. Held pastorates at Hollis Street Church, Boston; Troy, N.Y.; and Medford, Mass. When more than 70 years of age became Chaplain of a Massachusetts regiment in the Civil War-this proved too much for his strength. He then undertook the vast work of indexing the decisions of the Treasury Department at Washington, which he completed before his sudden death, Aug. 27, 1866. His poetic works were Airs of Palestine, 1816; Collected Poems, 1840.

'Universal Worship'-written for the opening of the Congregational Church in Barton Square, Salem, Mass., Dec. 7, 1824is the earliest really great hymn I have found by an American writer.

3. Andrews Norton, b. Hingham, Mass., 1786. Graduated Harvard. Librarian, Lecturer, and Professor of Sacred Literature at Harvard, 1819-30. Well known for his Historical Evidences of the Genuineness of the Gospels. d. 1853.

3. Written for the dedication of the First Church, Cambridge, Mass.

4. Charles Sprague, b. Boston, Oct. 25, 1791. (His father was one of those who, in resistance to British taxation, threw overboard the tea in Boston Harbor, 1773.) For the greater part of his life cashier in the Globe Bank, Boston. Poems appeared 1841. d. 1875.

The Winged Worshippers' was addressed to two swallows that flew into Chauncy Place Church during divine servicesee Monthly Magazine for May, 1870.

5. Nathaniel L. Frothingham, D.D., b. Boston, July 23, 1793. Graduated Harvard, 1811, with distinguished honor. When 19 years of age he became Instructor in Rhetoric and Oratory in Harvard. Studied theology, and was ordained pastor of the First Church, Boston, 1815, where he remained till failing sight,

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which ended in blindness, obliged him to resign, 1850. Much of his best poetic work was done after he had become blind. d. Apr. 4, 1870.

'A Lament,' for the Rev. Wm. Parsons Lunt, D.D., who died at Akabah, the ancient Ezion-Geber, on the Red Sea, Mar. 20, 1857, on his way to the Holy Land.

7. William Cullen Bryant, b. Nov. 3, 1794. Son of a highly cultured physician, to whose training he owed much. Before he was ten years old some of his verses appeared in the Hampshire Gazette for 1807. For two years a student at Williams College. Then studied law, and practised until 1825, first at Plainfield, Mass., and next at Great Barrington. Removing to New York became the editor of the New York Review. In the following year he joined William Coleman in conducting the New York Evening Post, assuming its entire editorial charge a year after. d. New York, 1878. Bryant was the first of American poets whose fame reached out to all English-speaking lands. Lowell describes him thus

'He's a Cowper condensed, with no craziness bitten, And the advantage that Wordsworth before him has written.

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He is almost the one of your poets that knows
How much grace, strength, and dignity lie in repose.'

For a long period his poetry held a very high place on account of its finish, and fidelity to nature, but the rise of the Impressionist School in poetry has made critics a little impatient of what they deem his over-elaboration.

'Thanotopsis,' written when he was only seventeen or eighteen years old, appeared in the North American Review in 1817. He had been engaged, as he says, in comparing Blair's poem of "The Grave," with another of the same cast by Bishop Porteus; and his mind was also considerably occupied with a recent volume of Kirke White's verses-those "Melodies of Death," to use a phrase from the Ode to the Rosary. It was in the autumn; the blue of the summer sky had faded into gray, and the brown earth was heaped with sere and withered emblems of the departed glory of the year. As he trod upon the hollow-sounding ground, in the loneliness of the woods, and among the prostrate trunks of trees that for generations had been mouldering into dust, he thought how the vast solitudes about him were filled with the same sad tokens of decay. He asked himself, as the thought expanded in his mind, What, indeed, is the whole earth but a great sepulchre of once living things, and its skies and stars but the witness and decorations

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