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. FAIR GWENDOLINE AND HER DOVE. I. "Come hither, come hither, thou snowy dove, For the love of his own dear Gwendoline! II. "Come hither, come hither, thou lily-white dove, While heather is purple and leaves are green; And tell its lord of thy lady's hate, That he'll ne'er look more on young Gwendoline." III. Away, away went the faithless dove, Away over castle and mount and tree, Till he lighted Dunkerron's gate above, Not the northern turret of gay Tralee: "Sir Donald, my lady hath lands and power, While heather is purple and leaves are green, And she bids thee come to her far-off bower For the love of thine own dear Gwendoline!" IV. Away, away went the false, false dove, "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! And ask at its door if she's false to me; Till he rode to the bower of his Gwendoline. VI. Dunkerron's lord came by the gate A stout and a deadly foe was heAnd with lance in rest and with frown of hate He rode at Sir Gerald of fair Tralee. Sir Gerald bent o'er his saddle-bow, While heather is purple and leaves are green, Struck his lance through the heart of his bravest foe, For the love of his own dear Gwendoline. VII. "Fair Gwendoline, 'twas a faithless dove, THE BANKS OF ANNER. In purple robes old Sliavnamon With all his woods and fountains;- In hill-side's gleam or woodland's gloom, 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, When freedom's wind blows strong and loud, Each traitor and trepanner, When once we raise our camp-fire's blaze O God! be with the good old days, When fair maids' sighs and witching eyes The morning sun may fail to show Old Sliavnamon to blush and glow Ere I forget the friends I met GLENARA. Oh, fair shines the sun on Glenara, But, oh, there's a light Illumines my soul in Glenara, The light of thine eyes in Glenara. And sweet sings the stream of Glenara, Glads my heart when we meet 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. "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, A rose-bush-a little thatched cottage- "Ah! now, though I sit on a rock, I have shared one seat with the great; I have sat knowing naught of the clock- But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed, 66 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, 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, Of golden limes; and cares for death no more 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, She whispered, sighing, "There will be sorrow 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; 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, She blushed and started: I stood awaiting, So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley That simple duty fresh grace did lend her, And now in beauty she fills my dwelling, And love doth guard her, both fast and fervent, 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 Rocks, icebergs, mountains, capped with luminous snow, And hundred-towered cities, moving slow! THE DIVINE REFUGE. FROM "CONSOLATION." O loving God of Nature! who through all But turning back to Thee, I found Thee true, TURN TO THE HELPER. FROM "CONSOLATION." As when a little child, returned from play, Turn to the Helper, unto whom thou art 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, THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER. FROM "CONSOLATION." How many men have passed the flames to prove KEEP FAITH IN LOVE. FROM "CONSOLATION." Keep faith in Love, the cure of every curse— 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 Viva il Re!" Not these were the cries when our fathers Bring, girl, from the dust of yon closet The sword that your ancestor bore |