(published in Boston, 1876) went to a second edition a month after its appearance, and a third has since been put forth. She was for years the literary critic of the Baltimore Southern Review, and a diligent contributor to several Southern journals. Her sister was the wife of Stonewall Jackson (Thomas Jonathan Jackson) of military renown, and Mrs. Preston has written a poem, worthy of the subject, on his death. The "Dedication" in her "Old Songs and New," published in Philadelphia (1870), is a favorable example of her style. DEDICATION. Day-duty done,—I've idled forth to get An hour's light pastime in the shady lanes, And here and there have plucked with careless pains These wayside waifs,-sweetbrier and violet, And such like simple things that seemed indeed Flowers, though, perhaps, I knew not flower from weed. What shall I do with them?-They find no place In stately vases where magnolias give Out sweets in which their faintness could not live: Yet tied with grasses, posy-wise, for grace, I have no heart to cast them quite away, [day. Though their brief bloom should not outlive the Upon the open pages of your book, I lay them down:-And if within your eye A little tender mist I may descry, Or a sweet sunshine flicker in your look,Right happy will I be, though all declare No eye but love's could find a violet there. THE TYRANNY OF MOOD. I. MORNING. It is enough: I feel, this golden morn, Of God's good world,-my being to its brim II. NIGHT. I press my cheek against the window-pane, SAINT CECILIA. Haven't you seen her?-and don't you know Watch as she raises her eyes to you, Look at the pretty, feminine grace, Many an ambushed smile lies hid Dove with the folded wings,-Belle White! John Esteu Cooke. AMERICAN. Cooke, a brother to Philip Pendleton Cooke, was born in Winchester, Va., in 1830. His family removed to Richmond in 1839, and, after a good education, he studied law in the office of his father, and was admitted to the Bar. Literature has, however, claimed much of his attention. He has published several popular novels, among which are "The Virginia Bohemians" and "Her Majesty the Queen." MAY. Has the old glory passed From tender MayThat never the echoing blast Of bugle-horns merry, and fast Dying away like the past, Welcomes the day? Has the old Beauty gone From golden May That not any more at dawn Or knolls of the forest withdrawn, Is the old freshness dead Of the fairy May ?-Ah! the sad tear-drops unshed! Ah! the young maidens unwed! Golden locks-cheeks rosy red! Ah! where are they? Edna Dean Proctor. AMERICAN.' Miss Proctor was born in the interesting old town of Henniker, N. H., on the Contoocook River. On completing her school education, she made Brooklyn, N. Y., her home. She published a volume of poems, national and miscellaneous, in 1867. It fixed her rank among the foremost of American feminine poets. After its publication she made an extensive European tour, visiting, with a party of friends, all the countries except Portugal, ascending the Nile, inspecting the noted attractions of Syria, and travelling in Russia over routes rarely frequented. This portion of her trip she has described in "A Russian Journey," published in 1873, and full of rare and entertaining information. Miss Proctor has been a frequent contributor to magazines and newspapers. Some of her poems seem to combine a masculine vigor and spirit with feminine purity and grace. As remarkable for personal attractions as for her graces of character, she is described by one of her friends as "a true poet in deeds as well as in words." FROM "THE RETURN OF THE DEAD." Low hung the moon, the wind was still, The bolt flew back with sudden clang, Down dropped the moon, and clear and high And groping up the threshold stair, Where were those rosy children three? My hand was on the latch, when, lo! O the long rapture, perfect rest, Then, by his side, his hand in mine, "O Death!" I cried, "if these be thine, For me the asphodels entwine, Nor stream, nor bank the way-side by, Warm hands to-day are clasped in mine; The future dawns, serenely fair. I shall awake, in rainy morn, To find my hearth left lone and drear; Thus half in sadness, half in scorn, I let my life burn on as clear, Though friends grow cold or fond love wooes; But Heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose! In golden hours the angel Peace Comes down and broods me with her wings: I gain from sorrow sweet release; My song is lost in mournful sighs, Ah! is it good or ill I choose? Edward Augustus Jenks. AMERICAN. A native of Newport, N. H., Jenks was born Oct. 30th, 1830. He was educated at the Thetford, Vt., Academy; learned to set type before he was seventeen, and, after some experience as a publisher of newspapers, was called in 1871 to the management of the Republican Press Association of Concord, N. H. Before that he had been engaged in various enterprises at the West, and was at one time a resident of Vicksburg, Miss. An amateur in verse, he is not unfrequently the true artist. |