Prayer or imprecation, Shriek of spirit freed. But the charge is over, Ever in that valley At the close of day Come the warning shadows,Shadows blue and gray, Gathering in the moonlight To the dreadful fray. Shadowy lines are forming, Marching to and fro, Spectral drums are beaten, Ghostly bugles blow, Where was fought the battle In the long ago. THE EVENING SOUTH-WIND. A FICKLE sprite and very bold, this rover of the South, His jasmine-scented breath is sweet, but passion-hot his mouth. He wantons 'mong the sleeping flowers, and with his kiss that wooes, The crimson petals of the rose, drop with the evening dews. He softly sighs to see it droop, but he has had his bliss, And there are other sweets for him, and other flowers to kiss. He ruffles up the tiny brook that slips among the lands, In little merry ripples low, that tinkle o'er the sands; And shakes the lily's waxen cup with restless wings that beat, Until its rare perfume is spilled, and all the night is sweet. He rustles through the dry, dead leaves, he croons among the pines, And spies where honeysuckle hangs its trumpet 'mid the vines. "Ah ha!" says he, leafy screen, 66 'a hunter's horn within this By Æolus! I'll blow a blast will wake the Færie Queene." He rocks the brown bee in the rose safe housed for the night, And gleefully he laughs to see the angry insect's fright. He runs along the meadow paths and tangles up the grass In traps to catch the tripping feet of pretty maids that pass; He sees an open casement wide, where some fair dreamer lies, And boldly enters in to kiss the sleeping beauty's eyes; He gently stirs the perfumed hair about the dreaming face, And from the rounded bosom fair he lifts the filmy lace. Now in the silver radiance white, within the moonlight's rim, He sees where her white hands had placed and strung a harp for him, And breathes upon its vibrant strings his softest, sweetest sighs, Till at his light caress awakes the soul that in it lies, And trembling through the mystic spell the moonlight ever weaves, In strangely sad sweet undertones the ghost of music grieves. Not long can dreaming beauty hold the restless little sprite; Away, away, on eager wings, across the southern night He wanders restlessly until he wearies, and in dim Cool forest aisles he sleeps at last, lulled by his own sweet hymn. RESTITUTION. SOMETIME, Some great white day of days, we think Buried in dust along the great highway Somewhere they lie, waiting the finder's hand, And they will all be gathered up some day, And we shall have again the perfect band. By and by, somewhere, the good seed that we sow, The good we do, the kindly word we've said CLARA H. MOUNTCASTLE. CLARA LARA H. MOUNTCASTLE resides in her native town, Clinton, Ontario, where she was born November 26, 1837. Her parents were English, of mixed Irish and Scotch descent. Her early years were passed on her father's farm, where she cultivated the acquaintance of nature in all her moods; early evincing a taste for poetry and painting that the hardships incident to a home of limited means could not subdue. Later on she studied painting in Toronto. She has taken prizes in all the provincial exhibitions. She is very proficient in pencil drawing, and, as a teacher, is also very successful. In 1882 a Toronto firm published "The Mission of Love," a volume of poems by Miss Mountcastle, which has been very favorably criticised. She then wrote, "The Novelette-A Mystery," which was purchased and published by the same firm. It had a good sale. Her style is clear, chaste and forcible. Miss Mountcastle was recently elected an honorary member of the Trinity Historical Society, Dallas, Texas. O. A. R. Not yet! not yet!—more dreary The pine trees sway with dismal sound; Not yet! not yet! he cometh! The angry lightnings flash, The thunder deafens with its roarAh,-yonder goes the ashRent from the root to topmost bough, It falleth with a crash. Not yet! not yet! he cometh! Hark, did I hear a moan? Again the tempest louder roars, 'Twas like a human toneAh!-Do I hear his step at last? My Willie! Oh, mine own! Oh, joy! oh, joy!--he cometh! The firelight blazeth bright; The kettle sings upon the hearth, While blacker grows the night; The tempest loud and louder roars, But all within is light. THE SETTLER'S WIFE. NOT yet! not yet! he cometh! And I have waited long; I've trimmed the fire to brighter glow, I've sung his favorite song; I've spread the board to while the time, And yet it is so long. Not yet! not yet! he cometh! I hear no sound of horse's feet, Not yet! not yet!-why lingers My loved one far from me? The night is coming on apace; No longer can I see The bridge that spans the river o'er, Nor yet the cedar tree. Not yet! not yet! he cometh! And night and storm I fear; The wailing wind sweeps wildly by, The thunder is more near; The rain falls down with dreary plashOh, would that he were here! AUTUMN. AH! who, with tearless eye serene, Her youthful beauty daily flying? Whose once bright locks have ta'en the haze The crow's feet round whose eyes have traced, Her cheek that in her summer's prime Blushed with the rose's sweetest blooming, Now, like the faded lily, shows, The autumn tints their glow entombing. Had Socrates and Plato been In lieu of men-one blooming woman, Combined Philosophy had failed To hide the sting that marked them human. AN APPEAL. I HAVE "cast forth my bread on the waters," I have "cast forth my bread on the waters" Where moonbeams have kissed the dark wave; Where love lieth low sweetly sleeping, And the death angel weeps o'er a grave. I have sent forth my bark on the waters; Can storms on dark Huron o'erwhelm While Faith, as a star, shines above her, And Hope sitteth bright at the helm? I have sent forth my bark on the waters; In uncontrolled passionate fury, ART THOU THINKING OF ME? ART thou thinking of me, my belov'd? Though distance doth sever us wide; The fancy still haunts me, my darling, That thou art again by my side. I feel an intangible presence, A something that whispers, my darling, My spirit communes with thy spirit; And haunts me wherever I be. There is naught in this world that can give me My being, when whispers thy spirit SUSPICION. Accursed thing! Thou steal'st into the mind -Suspicion. L' LUCIAN HERVEY KENT. UCIAN HERVEY KENT, the author, was born in Dorset, Vt., August 4, 1816. He was the youngest of the two sons of Moses, Jr., and Jerusha Kent, grandson of Moses Kent, Sr., who took a valiant part in the battle of Bennington, and great-grandson of Cephas Kent, the first representative from his district in the Vermont Legislature. Cephas Kent was cousin of Chancellor Kent, author of the Commentaries, and father of John Kent, the centenarian. The paternal ancestry of Lucian Kent were a hardy, long-lived race of people, whose names have been closely identified with the history of New England from the time of the early English colonies. But while such a staunch paternity bequeathed to the subject of this sketch a generous legacy of qualities of heart and brain, by some mischance the wheel of fortune cast to his lot the impediment of poverty and a frail physique with which to overcome the many adverse elements which thickly beset his path. When but six years of age he was taken with his parents, under trying circumstances, to St. Lawrence county, New York, the journey being made in the old style overland manner by ox-team, in the middle of a severe winter and through an almost unbroken wilderness. Among the misfortunes of this two-hundred mile journey overland were the loss of household goods and narrow escape from freezing. At their destination, after settling in a small aboriginal hamlet consisting of ten rude log dwellings, the destitute family began the struggle for existence. With the constraints of physical disability on the part of the parents; with the barren condition of the locality in which they pitched their misfortunes, and especially the embarrassments attendant upon the lack of means with which to get a start, this struggle amounted to little less than a mortal combat. So much, indeed, were the manual services of Lucian and his brother in demand, that their only opportunity for schooling was during the severest winter weather. These opportunities, however, were in no way neglected-everything in the way of good books which they were able to obtain being eagerly studied. After becoming of age Mr. Kent acquired, by his own efforts, an academical education, and was thereby enabled to maintain a livelihood by teaching-a profession which he followed for many winters and with marked success. In the summer of 1849 he was married to Miss Mary McEwen, by whom he has seven childrensix sons and one daughter. Since this time Mr. Kent has followed exclusively the occupation of farming. He now resides at Westfield, N. Y., and though seventy-five years of age, leads a very active life, both physically and intellectually. Besides doing a great amount of manual labor, consistent with early habits, he improves his spare intervals reading newspapers, magazines and the latest works of philosophy and science-being a constant student of the leading questions of the day and always abreast of the times. For the source of Mr. Kent's inspiration as a poet the reader is referred to his preface to "Sunshine and Storm." Н. В. К. MATTER AND MIND. SEARCH all the realms of matter and of mind, And when his feet shall fail him in the race TRUTH. THOU art an angel of celestial birth! R ROBERT KERR. OBERT KERR was born at Kilmarnock, Scotland, in March, 1829. Unfortunately, in his early childhood he received a hurt at the hand of a younger brother, which resulted in permanent injury, and he became an invalid for life. His youth unfolded amid scenes and associations full of history and poetry. The time from his sixth to his eighteenth year was spent in the county town of Ayr, two miles from where Burns was born. He knows what earnest struggle for life and culture means. He labored from early morning till eight at night, then attended evening classes till ten, when he came home to study till one in the morning, preparing his lesson for the next night. In his twentieth year, he wrote his first poem, "Winter," which he sent to the local paper, of which Rev. Dr. W. M. Taylor, now of New York, was editor, where it appeared in the "Poets' Corner." In 1856 he was chosen to present a public testimonial to Louis Kossuth and crown him with a Kilmarnock bonnet in presence of a large and enthusiastic assembly. A volume published about this time, entitled, "Learn to Live," was the means of securing him admission to Cavendish (Theodore) College, Manchester, through the influence of Rev. Dr. Joseph Parker, now of City Temple, London, who had just founded the institution. In 1859 his poem, 'Remember Robert Burns," written on the centennary of the poet's birth, appeared, of which Sir Archibald Alison, Bart., the Historian of Europe, said: "The touching verses on Burns are worthy of a lasting destiny." Since 1860, many of his poems have been fugitives, appearing in papers and magazines. In 1864 he married Margaret Crawford, and their romantic courtship should have longer note than this paper can give. They have eight living children, two of whom are married. At the close of his college studies he was ordained Rector of the Congregational Church at Caistor, Lincolnshire. While there, in 1866, he published "Sacred Hours by Living Streams," which contained sermons from his first year's ministry. In 1867 he became Pastor in succession to Rev. Prof. Hunter, at Forres, Scotland, a beautiful district made famous in "Macbeth." In 1872 he visited the United States, examined the lands along the Northern Pacific Line in Minnesota, returned to Scotland, formed and sent out a Scotch and English colony. In 1874, in compliance with repeated solicitations, he followed as their minister, with his wife and family. Upon his arrival in Minnesota, he found but ten houses on |