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widen on the morning horizon of the 2othcentury?
That they will not completely cover its high
noon ? That they will not deepen, blacken, thun
der, and BREAK in awful tempest at the close of
that momentous day?
We kneel and lift our voices from the altars of
home, that -such may never be. .At last our safety
lies in the integrity and intelligence, the purity
and refinement of home, in which is the fountain
head of love, the source of private virtues and of
When we look down the pathway of time and
see surrounding the people’s homes the sacred stat
ues of personal, political, and religious liberty,
and know that the child at the mother’s knee is
taught to lisp the virtues of home and duty to God,
parent, and nation, we shall dispel all fears.
Thus recognizing home as the keystone to
our prosperity, and perpetuity let us cherish the
poet’s sentiments and spirit:
‘ Tlicro is a lanjl of every iaiul tho pride,
Beloved by Heaven o'er all tlio world beside.
a spot where’ woman reigns: mother, daughter, wife,
Strew with fresh flowers tho narrow way of life.
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And flresldo pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth bo found ?
Art thou a man ? a patriot ?—look around !
O thou shall And howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy homo !■”
(Junior Contest.) It. B. Matteuy.
My fishing-rod? Yea there It hang) above my lib’ry door,
Along with hunting-belt, and creel, and trappings half a
lhave’ntused It much of late,—at least not every day,—
For something seoms to tell me now this flslilng’s not all
Yet I can swish, swish, swish,
All the day by lake or stream;
And while I fish, flail, flsli,
X can lose myself,—and dream.
X wonder ’f Moses' rod was half so dear to him as mine
Has been to ino?l'vo oftun thought that tills was half
Obedient to its bonding tip have salmon weighing nino
To nineteen pounds left finny friends to como with mo and
Oh' I have fished, fished, fished
THE FREE LANCE'.
For salmon, trout and whale ;
And I hnvo wished, wished, wished
That my rod oould tell Its tale.
Wo'vo tramped through forest, swamp, anil brush my rod
and I together j
Wo’vo crossed the currents, whipped tlioir waves In every
kind of weather;
I’ve laid uio down beneath tho stars and slumliorod nil tho
My rod my only company—my oomfort my delight.
So I often, often, often
Take and hold In it my hands,
While my feelings soften, soften,—
Seems as if It understands I
Few men have left a more gracious record, than
the Poet Laureate, who died September 7th, 1892
at eight-five years of age. Although a victim
of ill health during a great part of his life, his
habits were so abstemious and so regular, that as
his age increased his health and power to labor
He began writing poetry at fourteen. Indian
legends of New England were among his first sub
jects, such as “Mogg Megone" and the “Bridal of
Peunacook.” These poems are not now regard
ed with mu< h interest, and the poet himself says
of them : I would “willingly let them die,” the
subjects are not such as he would have chosen at
any subsequent period.”
His quaker education and his early acquain
tance with William Lloyd Garrison, led him to
espouse the Anti-Slavery cause, and for a quarter
of a century, he devoted himself to the abolition
of American Slavery. It was during this period
that he wrote the group of poems entitled in his
collected works : “The Voices of Freedom” and
other poems. Many of these were rude in form,
and not of the highest order, judged by the can
ons of literary criticism. But they came from the
heart, seething with a white heat of indignation
against the crimes of human slavery, its iniquities,
its usurpations, its demoralizing influences upon
the nation, upon the church, upon institutions of
learning, and upon the political leaders of the