THOMAS O'HAGAN. 'HOMAS O'HAGAN, M. A., is one of the rising littérateur of Canada, and he bids fair to take high rank amongst those who have reflected credit by their intellectual achievements on their Irish extraction. Mr. O'Hagan was born in 1855 near Toronto, the capital of the Province of Ontario. In his childhood his parents removed to the County of Bruce which was then newly settled, and was still, for the most part, a wilderness. His early education was obtained in the public school at a time when schools of its class in a new settlement were far from efficient. He made there such rapid progress that at the age of fifteen he was able to qualify as a second-class teacher. From 1870 to 1874 he attended St. Michael's College in Toronto, where he was noted for his devotion to study and especially for his fondness for language and literature. During his academic course he was a frequent prize winner in Latin and English, and even at that time he displayed a fondness for and a proficiency in composition which augured well for future literary fame. In 1874 Mr. O'Hagan entered the teaching profession and during the succeeding nine years he held the principalship of some of the leading Roman Catholic separate schools of his native province. During a considerable part of that time there was carried on an agitation for certain amendments to the act which authorized the establishment and maintenance of separate schools, the object being to enable the supporters of these schools to avail themselves more fully of the advantages the law was intended to confer upon them. In the agitation Mr. O'Hagan took an active part, and he acted in 1878 as president of the first and only convention held by the separate school teachers of Ontario. The desired amendments to the act were conceded by the Legislature a few years later but the successful issue of the agitation was largely due to the work done in its earlier stages by Mr. O'Hagan. From 1883 to 1888 Mr. O'Hagan held Classical and Modern Language Masterships in several of the leading high schools of Ontario, and the students of his classes will long remember his clear, bright and happy methods of instruction. While engaged in teaching he read the work prescribed for the arts course in the Ottawa University which conferred on him, in 1882 and 1885, the degrees of B. A. and M. A., respectively. Mr. O'Hagan's literary activity has been inces sant. His volume of poems entitled "A Gate of Flowers," has won for him an honored place among Canadian poets on the universal testimony of veterans of the literary art like J. G. Whittier and Oliver Wendell Holmes. He has been a voluminous contributor to the periodical press. While teaching he was instrumental in founding many literary societies in towns in different parts of the province and always infused some of his own literary enthusiasm into the young people whom he gathered around him. To his other accomplishments he adds that of being a graceful elocutionist. He was trained in the Philadelphia and Chautauqua schools. Mr. O'Hagan commenced, during the past year the study of law. He is taking concurrently the course for the LL. B. degree, and if past achievements are a fair basis of prediction, he will certainly win increased distinction in his new field. At the last commencement of the Syracuse University he obtained the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in the English department of the post-graduate course. Personally Mr. O'Hagan is a true, genial and warm-hearted friend whose urbanity and rare gifts of conversation make him a favorite in the social circle. It is needless to say, especially to readers of his poems, that while Mr. O'Hagan is thoroughly Canadian he has a warm place in his patriotic heart for Ireland. Few are better acquainted with her blood-and-tear-stained history and fewer still have for the Irish cause that profound sympathy of which only the poetical temperament is capable. One who has achieved so much before reaching the age of thirty-four has evidently ahead of him a useful and distinguished career the development of which will be watched with kindly interest alike by his fellow Canadians and his fellow Irishmen. W. H. A SONG OF CANADIAN RIVERS. FLOW on, noble rivers! flow on! flow on! In your beauteous course to the sea; Sweep on, noble rivers! sweep on! sweep on! Bright emblems of true liberty! Roll noiselessly on a tide of bright song, Roll happily, grandly and free; Sweep over each plain in silv'ry-tongued strain, Sweep down to the deep-sounding sea! Flow on, noble rivers! flow on! flow on! Flow swiftly and smoothly and free; Chant loudly and grand, the notes of our landFair Canada's true minstrelsy; Roll joyously on, sweep proudly along In mirthfulest accents of glee! Flow on! sweep on! sweep on! flow on! In a measureless, mystical key; Each note that you wake on steamlet and lake Will blend with the song of the sea; Through labyrinth-clad dell, in dreamy-like spell, TWO ROSES. I PLUCKED a rose at eventide, When tears from heaven were falling And shadows clad the distant hills That to my heart seemed calling ;I pluck'd a rose, and in its heart I found a dream of childhood, 'Twas fragrant with the dews of youth Still lingering in the wildwood. Ah, well I knew the dream I found,— 'Mid bower and brake and bramble. I plucked a rose-alas, too soon! While health and hope filled every bud, I plucked a rose at early morn And balmy air of leafy June Through nature's heart was playing; Within its folds was wrapt a dream Of manhood's gain and glory, And strength of years and star-crown'd days, Embalmed in verse and story. I plucked a rose-alas, so soon! Its joy-crown'd days were number'd, Its dream was o'er, its noontide gone, In Death's cold arms it slumber'd; The stars above looked down in grief, Earth's blossoms droop'd in sorrow, The rose of early morn was dead,— Its hopes reached not to-morrow. O rose of morn, O rose of eve, Within your folds I've watched the dawn THE MAPLE AND THE SHAMROCK. LET'S sing of the Maple, the broad, gen'rous Maple A type of our country, fair, lovely and free, And with it entwine in couplets the Shamrock, An emblem of union, bright symbol of three; In joyous orison let each bounding river Proclaim, as it rolls its bright wave to the sea, That liberty, peace and patriot devotion Will flourish where Maple and Shamrock agree. Hail, then, broad-leaf'd Maple, fair type of our country, May Canada's sons grow as stalwart as thee, And with the same vigor bud forth into manhood, Bright forest of greatness, on one mighty tree; May virtue ennoble each deed of our country, In letters of gold be emblazon'd her name, Towering up like the Maple, yet humble as Shamrock, An ægis of safety, a triumph of fame. Yes, this be the grandeur we seek for our country] Let virtues be nobles and toil be our King, The axe of the woodman, while smiting the forest, In bold proclamation our greatness shall ring;— Shall echo the accents of Canada's future, In pæan of labor, in triumph of song, And the grand notes of progress that greet our Dominion Proclaim that the Maple and Shamrock are one. Then weave in one garland the Maple and Shamrock, A nation's sweet incense breathe fragrance around, The pulse of our country shall quicken its paces, As quicken the measures of freedom's bright sound. May the dove of true peace wing its way o'er the country, Our people grow great in the sunshine of prayer, And Maple and Shamrock, resplendent in beauty, Embalm in sweet incense loved Canada fair! PERFECTION. O altar of eternal youth! O faith that beckons from afar! Give to our lives a blossomed fruit Give to our morns an evening star! -Ripened Fruit, JESSIE F. O'DONNELL. THE HE beautiful village of Lowville, in the northern part of New York, the early home of the poet Benjamin F. Taylor, is also the birthplace and home of one of our younger poets, who has been legitimately and surely winning a place, not only in periodical and on bookshelf, but in the hearts and memories of those who have been charmed with the melody and truth of her verse. Miss Jessie F. O'Donnell is the youngest daughter of Hon. John O'Donnell, well-known throughout the state as a member of the New York Legislature from 1863 to 1869, where he was the author and successful advocate of many reform measures on the subjects of taxation, temperance and kindred matters. He has also held the position of Clerk of the Assembly, Supervisor of the Internal Revenue, Railroad Commissioner, and is a fluent speaker and forcible writer upon assessment, taxation, and general questions of political economy. In person, Miss O'Donnell is a blonde, small and slender. In repose, perhaps there is a tinge of sadness in her face, but in conversation-in which she sustains her part with wit and brilliancy-it is lighted up with the play of thought and emotion. Her time is largely spent among her books or out of doors. Indeed, Nature in all her aspects is the principal rival of her art,-nay, rather, her art's most efficient handmaid, the inspiration of some of her best work. During the greater part of the summer season several hours of every day are spent in the saddle, for she is a fine horsewoman. Miss O'Donnell's earlier schooldays were passed at the academy in Lowville. Later she spent some years at Temple Grove Seminary, Saratoga Springs. Always absorbed in intellectual pursuits her conscientious schoolwork was rewarded with the highest honors of her class. She had the further honor of being chosen, by the class itself, both orator and poet. Following the bent of her own inclinations upon leaving school, she pursued carefully chosen lines of reading and study, almost unconsciously fitting herself for the life she could not then be said to have chosen. Though writing from an inward impulse and for her own pleasure from her earliest girlhood, it was not until three or four years after her graduation that she was led to devote herself to her pen. Her first poems were published in the Boston Transcript. In December, 1887, her first book was published, entitled "Heart Lyrics." Many of these lyrics had previously appeared in various periodicals, and are deserving of the permanency thus given them. The reception it has met with from the press must be most reassuring to so young an author. Never unpleasantly obtruding a personality, always in good taste, the reader feels that a heart experienced and disciplined is singing its song or voicing its grief. Miss O'Donnell has also essayed successfully the short story in some well-told tales and faithful character studies. M. W. H. TWO WOMEN. Two lives there were, two restless woman lives, Both lives soon learned how love's divinest might Can bring more bliss than Heaven without love give; And both were taught that Death's cold hand can blight Hope's tender blooms before they truly live. Each lonely woman saw herself shut out From dear home-life, a woman's truest one, And felt age's binding cords were drawn about Her shrinking heart, before her youth was done. To each the self-same choice was given then: Upon the plains, where many hearts beat time, To dwell; or separated from the world of men, Alone, the dreary mountain-peaks to climb. One chose the valley's sheltered, safe retreat, Where one who loved her gave her tender care; And baby-kisses kept her own lips sweet, While all life centred in the home-nest there. And who can blame the woman, that she chose Life's warmth and color, ere her first love burned To ashes? Hearts need hearts; and oh! God knows Dear love is sweet, although but half-returned. But from those heights she had not tried to gain; Down to the level of her life there swept At times, a breath so pure that the old pain And strong regret across her heart-strings crept. Oh! once upon the mountain-tops to stand, feel Her soul no smaller, but know it as grand And one the mountains chose. O still, cold heights! What joy have ye for hungry hearts? Can stars Be lovers? Clouds be home? Or pale, soft lights From heaven be sweet as gleams from earth's rose-spars? She might have nestled in the valleys, too; But oft rose-lights would tint the mountain snow, And children's voices mock her barren breast; And yearning toward the valley's warmth and glow, That half-love seemed of all past things the best. REFLECTIONS. WITHIN a sluggish pool I saw a bank Reflected, where coarse weeds and nettles grew, And glowing poison-berries that I knew Were deadly to the taste; while grasses rank Leaned o'er the edge and of the waters drank. But looking deeper, I beheld the blue Of far-off heaven, and one stray bird that flew Across the sky and to her nestlings sank. So in the soul of man I saw gross weeds Of evil that had flourished, mirrored fair, But safe beyond the sins white wings of prayer, And gleams of heavenly light in noble deeds. THE NIGHT-BLOOMING CEREUS. THE indolent four-o'clock ladies Had waked from their long, dreamy rest, But the sun-flower's golden-lashed blossoms Had turned their brown eyes to the west, And the lilies grown suddenly weary, Lay hushed on the river's cold breast. The blue-bells began a soft tinkle, The primroses opened their eyes; And the grasses waved low where the fairies Had stolen the violets' disguise; And above, through the angels' vast gardens, The stars blossomed out in the skies. A voice from the lily-bells calling, The poppy just murmured: "I'm sleepy!" But sweetly the tall, fragrant lily Uplifted her chalice of light, And the roses threw open their bosoms And gladdened the fair summer night, And the stars of the jasmine blossoms Leaned down from the trellises' height. The Lord, walking slow through the garden, Smiled back at the rose's perfume, Caressing the lily's pale petals, Or shaking the hyacinth's plume, Till He came where the Cereus slumbered, Close-hiding her beautiful bloom. She thrilled at the heavenly presence, Spellbound at the white, growing vision, som, Left a kiss on its bosom of gold. All tremulous with the keen rapture, Whenever a Cereus blossoms, 'T is said that the Master is nigh, That He watches the glorious flower Uncurl the gold stamens that lie In the petals that tremble with rapture, And shut round His kiss when they die. Sc GEORGE MACDONALD. COTLAND sends forth this ambassador and interpreter, with his revelations shaped, as always, by the threefold mold of self, nation and common nature. Scott gave us her general characteristics, "national picturesqueness," romantic history; Burns laid bare her throbbing heart; MacDonald reveals her soul's belief and hope. Aberdeenshire's mountains and moors gave height and breadth to his youthful fancies, breathing to him many thoughts which he was to clothe and send out to the world, in novel, sermon, essay and poem. Born in 1828, with the blood of the fiery MacDonalds of Glencoe in his veins, he grew up as son of a Huntley mill owner, pupil of the University of Aberdeen, theological student at Owen's College, Manchester, and Indiana College, Highbury, London; then as Independent minister, preaching in Surrey and Sussex counties; and, finally, an author, with his ancestral glow and chivalric fire and force finding outlet in words, not deeds, in these quiet times of ours. He left the Independent ministry, became a member of the Church of England, and entered upon literary life in London; not really giving up that vocation of preacher to which he was born, since he took the world for a parish." Poet-prophet he looks and has well been called. Strongly human, yet devoutly mystic, he can both feel men's joys and sorrows, and speak wise things concerning them. His wide love embraces man, Nature and God, in nowise separating them. Thought of God is thought of His love for His children, even in His wise punishments of them. The fresh breeze blowing its purifying way in nature's places, suggests to him its type: 64 "That sweet spirit-wind, which blows and blows and man, with his hopeful kinship to the perfection of nature, and his and nature's God, suggests, even in his most imperfect state, the possibility of these perfections still. He cannot set his ideal too high. He must gain something by the mere seeking of it, as the hero of his romance " Phantastes," seeking his ideal, was glad at having at least lost his shadow. His prose is full of poetry. He cannot look upon beautiful nature without a poetic rapture of words, whether he waits to put it into rhyme or not. As a poet, his rank is not yet fully established. His own measure of a poet is his power to produce intangible moods, as the thought of God, the beauty of nature does. The effect of his admiration of Wordsworth is often visible in his poetry. Whether the multitude will cling to a need of his poems, or relegate them to his own category of the many poems good enough to be 64 their own reward, yet with no claim on the public," remains for time to prove. Over and over, in poetry and prose, he overflows with his message:-God is, and God is Love; all things from birth through death, from joy through pain, are His good thought for us. His poems, therefore, deal most with belief, love and hope. His dialect poems are not unworthy a compatriot of Burns, and some of his ballads,-" Earl of Quarterdeck," "Legend of the Corrievrechan" and others are widely known. As editor of "Good Things for the Young," he has sent many messages to our embryo men and women; and children follow with delight his guidance into Faeie-land. He and his family, consisting, it is said, not only of his own sons and daughters, but of others "adopted into his great heart and home," dwell in London, wintering in Bordighera, Italy. His travels have extended over the continent, and Northern Africa, and as far as our United States. He has given to the world, since his first book, a dramatic poem-" Within and Without,"-about twenty-eight novels, and several volumes of poems and essays. Surely he has done his part, according to his own ideal: "The best that I can do For the great world is the same best I can O LASSIE AYONT THE HILL! O LASSIE ayont the hill, Come ower the tap o' the hill, Or roun' the neuk o' the hill, For I want ye sair the nicht. I'm needin' ye sair the nicht, For I am tired and sick o'mysel'. A body's sel''s the sariest weicht: O lassie come ower the hill! Gin a body culd be a thought o' grace, I'm sick o' my heid and my han's and my face, I'm sick o' the warl' and a'; O lassie ayont the hill! |