Part 34 (2/2)

The weary soul by care opprest May utter no complaints, But loaths the weight it cannot bear And weakens till it faints.

FLOWERS.

Bring flowers for the youthful throng, Of variegated glow, And twine of them a gaudy wreath Around each childish brow.

Bring flowers for the maiden gay, Bring flowers rich and rare, And weave the buds of brightest hue Among her waving hair.

Bring flowers to the man of grief-- They hold the syren art, To charm the care-look from his brow, The sorrow from his heart.

Bring flowers for the sick girl's couch; 'Twill cheer her languid eye To know the flowers have bloomed again, And see them ere she die.

Bring flowers when her soul has fled, And place them on her breast, Tho' ere their blooming freshness fade We lay her down to rest.

LIFE.

Life at best is but a dream, We're launched upon a rapid stream, Gus.h.i.+ng from some unknown source, Rus.h.i.+ng swiftly on its course, Save when amid some painful scene, And then it flows calm and serene, That we may gaze in mute despair On every hated object there.

Fortune our bark and hope our chart, With childish glee on our voy'ge we start, The boat glides merrily o'er the wave.

But ah! there's many a storm to brave, And many a dang'rous reef to clear, And rus.h.i.+ng rapid o'er which to steer.

Anon the stream grows wide and deep, While here and there wild breakers leap, O'er rocks half hidden by the flood, Where for ages they have stood, Upon whose bleak and rugged crest, Many a proud form sank to rest, And many a heart untouched by care Laid its unstained offering there.

Ah! they have met a happier lot, Whose bark was wrecked ere they forgot The pleasing scenes of childhood's years, 'Mid that tempestuous vale of tears Which farther on begirts the stream, Where phantom hopes like lightning gleam Through the murky air, and flit around The brain with h.e.l.lish shrieking sound Conjuring up each mad'ning thought, With black despair or malice fraught.

Swiftly, on in our course we go To where sweetest flow'rs are hanging low We stretch our hand their stems to clasp But ah! they're crush'd within our grasp, While forward th' rus.h.i.+ng stream flows fast And soon the beauteous scene is past.

At last we view another sight, The sh.o.r.e with drifted snow is white, The stream grows dark and soon we feel An icy coldness o'er us steal, We cast our eyes ahead and see The ocean of Eternity.

When once amid its peaceful waves No holier joy the bosom craves-- Ten thousand stars are s.h.i.+ning bright Yet one reflects a purer light-- No sooner does its glowing blaze Attract the spirit's wand'ring gaze, Than all is turned to joy we see-- That star is Immortality.

JOHN HENRY KIMBLE.

John Henry Kimble was born in Buckingham towns.h.i.+p, Bucks county, Pennsylvania, September 8, 1850. He is the second son of Henry H.

Kimble, and is descended on his father's side from English stock, being a lineal descendant from Governor John Carver, who came to this country in the Mayflower in 1620. On his mother's side, his grandfather, Seruch t.i.tus, was a prominent citizen of Bucks county, and, as his name indicates, was of Italian descent.

Mr. Kimble moved with his parents to the Fourth Election district of Cecil county, in the Spring of 1855, and has been engaged in farming all his life, except two years spent in teaching in our public schools. He is a popular music teacher and performer on musical instruments, and has won local distinction as a debater.

In 1870 his first verses were published in the _Morris Scholastic_ a newspaper published in Grundy county, Illinois. He afterwards wrote for the _Cecil Whig_. In 1875 he wrote ”The Patrons of Husbandry,” a serial poem, which was published by the Grange organ of the State of Pennsylvania, in seven parts, with ill.u.s.trations. It was p.r.o.nounced by competent critics to be one of the ”best and most natural descriptions of farm life ever written.” It attracted wide attention and received favorable comment from the N.Y. _World_ and other leading papers. He wrote another serial in 1876, ent.i.tled ”Two Granges.”

Mr. Kimble makes no pretensions as a writer and has never allowed his love of literature to interfere with his farm work. In the Winters of 1872, '73 and '74 he taught in the public schools of this county with satisfaction to his patrons.

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