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Robert Dwyer Joyce.

A native of Glenosheen, Limerick County, Ireland, Joyce was born in 1837. He was educated chiefly in Dublin, and, entering Queen's University, became first scholar in mathematics. He got his degree of doctor in medicine in 1862, and of master in surgery in 1865. Removing to Boston, U. S. A., in 1866, he established himself there as a physician. He published, in 1868, “Legends of the Wars in Ireland;" in 1871, "Irish Fireside Tales;" in 1872, "Ballads of Irish Chivalry, Songs, and Poems;" in 1876, "Deirdrè," a charming specimen of narrative verse; in 1879, "Blanid," another poetical success, showing remarkable facility in the use of poetical diction. Notwithstanding his fruitful literary labors, accomplished mostly in moments of relaxation and leisure, Dr. Joyce has attained high success in his profession.

"Sir Gerald, my lady hates thee sore,

While heather is purple and leaves are green, While the streams dance down the hills; no more Shalt thou look on the face of fair Gwendoline!"

V.

"Thou liest, thou liest, O faithless dove!
I'll take my good steed speedily,
And hie to the bower of my lady-love,

And ask at its door if she's false to me;
I'll ne'er believe but her heart is true,
While heather is purple and leaves are green!"
And never a bridle-rein he drew

Till he rode to the bower of his Gwendoline.

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ROBERT DWYER JOYCE.-FITZ-HUGH LUDLOW.

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As, laughing gay, she winds away, The gentle, murmuring Anner.

There gallant men, for freedom born, With friendly grasp will meet you; There lovely maids, as bright as morn, With sunny smiles will greet you; And there they strove to raise, above The Red, Green Ireland's banner,— There yet its fold they'll see unrolled Upon the banks of Anner.

'Tis there we'll stand, with bosoms proud,
True soldiers of our sire-land,

When freedom's wind blows strong and loud,
And floats the flag of Ireland.
Let tyrants quake, and doubly shake

Each traitor and trepanner,

When once we raise our camp-fire's blaze
Upon the banks of Anner.

O God! be with the good old days,
The days so light and airy,
When to blithe friends I sang my lays
In gallant, gay Tipperary;

When fair maids' sighs and witching eyes
Made my young heart the planner
Of castles rare, built in the air,
Upon the banks of Auner!

The morning sun may fail to show
His light the earth illuming;
Old Sliavnamon to blush and glow
In autumn's purple blooming;
And shamrock's green no more be seen,
And breezes cease to fan her,
Ere I forget the friends I met
Upon the banks of Anner!

GLENARA.

Oh, fair shines the sun on Glenara,
And calm rest his beams on Gleuara;

But, oh, there's a light
Far dearer, more bright,

Illumines my soul in Glenara,

The light of thine eyes in Glenara.

And sweet sings the stream of Glenara,
Glancing down through the woods like an arrow;
But a sound far more sweet

Glads my heart when we meet

In the green summer woods of Glenara,— Thy voice by the wave of Glenara.

And oh, ever thus in Glenara,
Till we sleep in our graves by Glenara,
May thy voice sound as free

And as kindly to me,

And thine eyes beam as fond in Glenara, In the green summer woods of Glenara.

Fitz. Hugh Ludlow.

AMERICAN.

Ludlow (1837-1870) was a native of Poughkeepsie, N. Y. He wrote articles in prose and verse for the magazines, in which he showed fine natural abilities, if not original genius. Unfortunately, he was addicted to the use of opiates. He wrote a remarkable work, entitled "The Hasheesh Eater," portraying vividly the pleasures and pains attending the use of that drug. In his "Heart of the Continent" he gives a graphic description of a journey across the great Western plains. His short stories are among the best of their kind.

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"I've a splendid blood-horse, and—a liver

That it jars into torture to trot; My row-boat's the gem of the river,

Gout makes every knuckle a knot!

I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome, But no palate for menus, no eyes for a dome— Those belonged to the youth who must tarry at home, When no home but an attic he'd got--he'd got.

"How I longed, in that lonest of garrets,
Where the tiles baked my brains all July,
For ground to sow two pecks of carrots,
Two pigs of my own in a sty,

A rose-bush-a little thatched cottage-
Two spoons-love-a basin of pottage!—
Now in freestone I sit-and my dotage-

With a woman's chair empty close by-close by!

"Ah! now, though I sit on a rock,

I have shared one seat with the great ;

I have sat-knowing naught of the clock-
On love's high throne of state;

But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed,
To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed,
And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed
Had they only not come too late-too late!"

Arthur Munby.

Munby, a native of England, was born about the year 1837. He published in 1865 a volume of poems entitled "Verses, Old and New." His "Doris: a Pastoral," is remarkable for the melodious flow of the versification and

the ingenious arrangement of the rhymes: the third line

of the first stanza being rhythmically related to the third line of the next, etc. He has been a contributor to some of the best London magazines, and has shown in his productions that he is a literary artist as well as a poet.

AUTUMN.

Come, then, with all thy grave beatitudes,
Thou soother of the heart and of the brain,
Autumn! whose ample loveliness includes
The pleasure and the pain

Of all that is majestic in despair

Or beautiful in failure. Hast thou failed? The winds of heaven among thy branches bare Have wrestled and prevailed.

Yet, the fallen bough shall warm a winter hearth; The lost leaves kiss each other as they fall;

The ripened fruits are garnered off the earth; Thou hast not failed at all!

Nay-thou hast neither failure nor success:

Thou wearest still thy lustrous languid wreath With such sweet temper, that its hues express No thought to thee of death.

Serene in loss, in glory, too, serene,

All things to thee seem most indifferent; Thou art as one who knows not what they mean, Or knows and is content.

So yon fair tree, pure crimson to the core,
Burns like a sunset 'mid its company

Of golden limes; and cares for death no more
Than if it could not die.

DORIS: A PASTORAL.

I sat with Doris, the shepherd-maiden ;

Her crook was laden with wreathéd flowers:

I sat and wooed her, through sunlight wheeling And shadows stealing, for hours and hours.

And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses

Wild summer-roses of sweet perfume, The while I sued her, kept hushed, and hearkened, Till shades had darkened from gloss to gloom.

She touched my shoulder with fearful finger: She said, "We linger, we must not stay; My flock's in danger, my sheep will wander;

Behold them yonder, how far they stray!"

I answered bolder, "Nay, let me hear you,
And still be near you, and still adore!
No wolf nor stranger will touch one yearling,
Ah! stay, my darling, a moment more!"

She whispered, sighing, "There will be sorrow
Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day;
My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded,
I shall be scolded and sent away."

Said I, denying, "If they do miss you,

They ought to kiss you when you get home; And well rewarded by friend and neighbor Should be the labor from which you come."

"They might remember," she answered, meekly.

"That lambs are weakly, and sheep are wild:

ARTHUR MUNBY.-ABRAHAM PERRY MILLER.

But if they love me, it's none so fervent:

I am a servant, and not a child."

Then each hot ember glowed quick within me,
And love did win me to swift reply:
"Ah! do but prove me; and none shall bind you,
Nor fray nor find you, until I die!"

She blushed and started: I stood awaiting,
As if debating in dreams divine;
But I did brave them; I told her plainly
She doubted vainly, she must be mine.

So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley

Did rouse and rally her nibbling ewes; And homeward drave them, we two together, Through blooming heather and gleaming dews.

That simple duty fresh grace did lend her,
My Doris tender, my Doris true;
That I, her warder, did always bless her,
And often press her to take her due.

And now in beauty she fills my dwelling,
With love excelling, and undefiled;

And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent,
No more a servant, nor yet a child.

Abraham Perry Miller.

AMERICAN.

A native of Fairfield County, Ohio, Miller was born Oct. 15th, 1837. Educated at the University of Virginia, he chose the occupation of a journalist; and in 1880 was a resident of Worthington, Minn., where he edited The Advance, the county newspaper. One of his poems, extending to five hundred lines, entitled "Consolation, a Poetic Epistle to a Young Poet," though in the old heroic measure, which modern poets seem to avoid, is rich in passages indicating true poetic feeling and power of expression.

A SUMMER AFTERNOON.

FROM "CONSOLATION."

All through the afternoon the dreamy day
Swam listless o'er the earth, and far away
The lazy clouds went loitering round the sky,
Or sat far up and dozed on mountains high;
The green trees drooped, the panting cattle lay
In the warm shade and fought the flies away.
Along the world's far rim and down the sky,
Cloud-panoramas loomed and glided by;

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Rocks, icebergs, mountains, capped with luminous snow,

And hundred-towered cities, moving slow!
And then, with banners round the West unfurled,
The great red Sun went down behind the world.

THE DIVINE REFUGE.

FROM "CONSOLATION."

O loving God of Nature! who through all
Hast never yet betrayed me to a fall,-
While, following creeds of men, I went astray,
And in distressing mazes lost my way;

But turning back to Thee, I found Thee true,
And sweet as woman's love, and fresh as dew,-
Henceforth on Thee, and Thee alone, I rest,
Nor warring sects shall tear me from Thy breast.
While others doubt and wrangle o'er their creeds,
I rest in Thee, and satisfy my needs.

TURN TO THE HELPER.

FROM "CONSOLATION,"

As when a little child, returned from play,
Finds the door closed and latched across its way,
Against the door, with infant push and strain,
It gathers all its strength and strives in vain ;-
Unseen, within a loving father stands
And lifts the iron latch with easy hands
Then, as he lightly draws the door aside,
He hides behind it, while, with baby pride,—
And face aglow, in struts the little one,
Flushed and rejoiced to think what it has done,-
So, when men find, across life's rugged way,
Strong doors of trouble barred from day to day,
And strive with all their power of knees and hands,-
Unseen within their heavenly Father stands
And lifts each iron latch, while men pass through,
Flushed and rejoiced to think what they can do!

Turn to the Helper, unto whom thou art
More near and dear than to thy mother's heart,-
Who is more near to thee than is the blood
That warms thy bosom with its purple flood-
Who by a word can change the mental state,
And make a burden light, however great!

O loving Power! that, dwelling deep within, Consoles our spirits in their woe and sin :When days were dark and all the world went wrong, Nor any heart was left for prayer or song

When bitter memory, o'er and o'er again,
Revolved the wrongs endured from fellow-men;
And showed how hopes decayed and bore no fruit,
And He who placed us here was deaf and mute:-
If then we turned on God in angry wise,
And scanned His dealings with reproachful eyes,
Questioned His goodness, and, in foolish wrath,
Called Hope a lie and ridiculed our Faith,-
Did we not find, in such an evil hour,
That far within us dwelt this Loving Power?
No wrathful God without to smite us down,
Or turn his face away with angry frown;
But in the bitter heart a smile began,
Grew, all at once, within and upward ran,
Broke out upon the face-and, for awhile,
Despite all bitterness, we had to smile!
Because God's spirit that within us lay,
Simply rose up and smiled our wrath away!
This love endures through all things, without end,
And every soul has one Almighty Friend,
Whose angels watch and tend it from its birth,
And heaven becomes the servant of the earth!
Whate'er befall, our spirits live and move
In one vast ocean of Eternal Love!

THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER.

FROM "CONSOLATION."

How many men have passed the flames to prove
That there are better things than woman's love!
And yet when Love is scorned and made our grief,
Where shall we fly for comfort and relief?
Now that thine own is spurned and undertrod,
Fly thou to Nature, Poetry, and God;—
Nay, fly to Love itself, and Love shall be
Its own strong healer, and shall set thee free.

KEEP FAITH IN LOVE.

FROM "CONSOLATION.".

Keep faith in Love, the cure of every curse-
The strange, sweet wonder of the universe!
God loves a Lover, and while time shall roll,
This wonder, Love, shall save the human Soul!
Love is the heart's condition: youth and age,
Alike are subject to the tender rage;
Age crowns the head with venerable snow,
But Life and Love forever mated go;
Along life's far frontier the agéd move,
One foot beyond, and nothing left but Love!
And when the Soul its mortal part resigns,
The perfect world of Love around it shines!

Charles Dimitry.

AMERICAN.

Dimitry, a son of Professor Alexander Dimitry, was born in Washington, D. C., in 1838. A graduate of Georgetown College, he has been connected with the periodical press, both in New York and at the South, and has published the following novels: "Guilty or Not Guilty" (1864); "Angela's Christmas" (1865); "The Alderly Tragedy" (1866); "The House in Balfour Street" (1869). His "Viva Italia" is well adapted to dramatic effect in the recitation.

VIVA ITALIA.

ON THE AUSTRIAN DEPARTURE FROM ITALY.

Haste! open the lattice, Giulia,

And wheel me my chair where the sun May fall on my face while I welcome The sound of the life-giving gun! The Austrian leaves with the morning, And Venice hath freedom to-day"Viva! Evivva Italia!

Viva il Re !"

Would God that I only were younger, To stand with the rest on the street,

To fling up my cap on the mola,

And the tricolor banner to greet! The gondolas, girl-they are passing! And what do the gondoliers say?— "Viva! Evivva Italia! Viva il Re !"

Oh cursed be these years and this weakness
That shackle me here in my chair,
When the people's loud clamor is rending

The chains that once made their despair!
So young when the Corsican sold us!
So old when the Furies repay!
"Viva! Evviva Italia!

Viva il Re!"

Not these were the cries when our fathers

The gonfalon gave to the breeze,
When Doges sate solemn in council,
And Dandolo harried the seas!
But the years of the future are ours,
To humble the pride of the gray-
"Viva! Evivva Italia!

Viva il Re !"

Bring, girl, from the dust of yon closet The sword that your ancestor bore

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