JOHN HAY.

JOHN HAY was born at Salem, Indiana, Octo

JOH

ber 8th, 1838. The family originally came from Scotland. John Hay's boyhood was spent in the West, hence we have many of his dialect poems. He graduated at Brown University in 1858. Studied law at Springfield, Illinois, and was admitted to the bar in 1861. It was during the period of his law studies that he won the friendship of Mr. Lincoln, who as President, made Mr. Hay his assistant secretary. He remained with the President as secretary and trusted friend, almost constantly until his death. He acted also as his adjutant and aide-de-camp, and served actively for several months with the rank of major and assistant adjutant-general. also brevetted lieutenant-colonel and colonel. After the war he was secretary of legation at Paris and Madrid, and chargè de affaires at Vienna, remaining in Europe from 1865 to 1870. After his return to the United States he became connected with the New York Tribune as an editorial writer, and remaind in that position for six years. He removed to Cleveland, Ohio, in 1876. From 1879 to 1881 he was Assistant Secretary of State. He now resides in Washington in an elegant residence, and is a wealthy man.

He was

But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir,
On the handful o' things I know.
I don't pan out on the prophets

And free-will, and that sort of thing,-
But I b'lieve in God and the angels,
Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips,
And my little Gabe come along,-
No four-year-old in the county

Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sassy,

Always ready to swear and fight,— And I'd larnt him to chaw terbacker Jest to keep his milk-teeth white.

Toiling, forgetting, and learning,
With labor and vigils, and prayers,
Pure heart and resolute will,
At last I shall climb the Hill,
And breathe the enchanted airs
Where the light of my life is burning,

Most lovely and fair and free; Where alone in her youth and beauty, And bound by her fate's sweet duty, Unconscious she waits for me.

FRANCE.

And when in God's good hour
Comes the time of the brave and true,
Freedom again shall rise

With a blaze in her awful eyes
That shall wither this robber-power
As the sun now dries the dew.

This Place shall roar with the voice
Of the glad triumphant people,
And the heavens be gay with the chimes
Ringing with jubilant noise
From every clamorous steeple
The coming of better times.

And the dawn of Freedom waking
Shall fling its splendors far

Like the day which now is breaking
On the great pale Arch of the Star,
And back o'er the town shall fly,
While the joy-bells wild are ringing,
To crown the Glory springing
From the Column of July!

-Sunrise in the Place de la Concorde.

SPAIN.

Land of unconquered Pelayo! land of the Cid Campeador!

Sea-girdled mother of men! Spain, name of glory and power;

Cradle of world-grasping Emperors, grave of the reckless invader,

How art thou fallen, my Spain! how art thou sunk at this hour!

-The Surrender of Spain.

NATURE.

He has no ears for Nature's voice
Whose soul is the slave of creed.
Not all in vain with beauty and love
Has God the world adorned;
And he who Nature scorns and mocks,
By Nature is mocked and scorned.
-The Monks of Basle.

M

DAVID BARKER.

ORE than thirty years ago there appeared in the New York Evening Post, the poem entitled "My Child's Origin." The lines immediately attracted attention, and were copied extensively into the newspaper press throughout the country. It is said that Massachusetts War Governor, John A. Andrew, was so impressed by them, that he carried them about in his pocket-book, affirming that they were "the sweetest lines ever read." The author of the lines was David Barker, the subject of this sketch. Mr. Barker was born September 9, 1816, in the thrifty agricultural town of Exeter, in the state of Maine, where he spent the greatest part of his life. He was the son of Nathaniel Barker, a native of Exeter, N. H., who went into the District of Maine, in the early part of the present century, and succeeded in having the name of his native town go to the one of his adoption. Mr. Barker's mother, Sarah Pease, a native of Parsonsfield, Maine, was a woman of great energy of character, and strong religious faith. David was the sixth of ten children. His father died when David was quite young. David's education until about sixteen years of age, was had at the common school, after which he attended the academy in Foxcroft, Maine, where later on he was employed as an assistant teacher, which occupation he followed for many years. Later on in life thinking that a trade would be more manly, as well as more profitable, than the profession of a pedagogue, he chose the trade of blacksmith. His health however would not stand the severe toil of that occupation, and after a short apprenticeship, he broke down and ever after was an invalid. Quite late in life Mr. Barker entered the office of the late Governor Cony of Maine, and qualified himself for the profession of law, which he practiced for a while in Bangor, Maine, and afterwards until the close of his life pursued his profession in his native town of Exeter.

David Barker died September 14, 1874, at the age of fifty-eight years, leaving a widow-the daughter of Timothy Chase, Esq., of Belfast, and a son and a daughter. He was a member of the Legislature of Maine for 1872, and he received the degree of A. M., from Bowdoin College, owing largely on account of his poetical fame. As a poet he obtained a distinguished reputation, and many of his metrical gems are destined to live. A volume of his poems with a biographical sketch by the Hon. John E. Godfrey, and which has passed through several editions, has been printed at Bangor. Mr. Barker's poetical fame, brought to him by the touching references to his mother, in several of his poems, will endear him to all who maintain their regard for the filial sentiment. H. P. C.

MY CHILD'S ORIGIN.

ONE night, as old Saint Peter slept,
He left the door of Heaven ajar,
When through, a little angel crept,

And came down with a falling star.

One summer, as the blessed beams

Of morn approached, my blushing bride Awakened from some pleasant dreams, And found that angel by her side.

God grant but this-I ask no more

That when he leaves this world of sin, He'll wing his way for that blest shore And find that door of Heaven again.

THE COVERED BRIDGE.

TELL the fainting soul in the weary form,

There's a world of the purest bliss,

That is linked as that soul and form are linked, By a covered bridge with this.

Yet to reach that realm on the other shore,
We must pass through a transient gloom,
And must walk unseen, unhelped, and alone,
Through that covered bridge-the tomb.

But we all pass over on equal terms,
For the universal toil,

Is the outer garb, which the hand of God
Has flung around the soul.

Though the eye is dim, and the bridge is dark, And the river it spans is wide,

Yet faith points through to a shining mount, That looms on the other side.

To enable our feet, in the next day's march,
To climb up that golden ridge,

We must all lie down for one night's rest,
Inside of the covered bridge.

TRY AGAIN.

SHOULD your cherished purpose fail,
Never falter, swerve, nor quail;
Nerve the arm and raise the hand,
Fling the outer garments by,
With a dauntless courage stand,
Shouting forth the battle cry,
Try again!

Is your spirit bowed by grief,
Rally quick, for life is brief;
Every saint in yonder sphere,

Borne through tribulation here,

Whispers in the anxious ear Of each mortal in despair, Try again!

What though stricken to the earth,
Up, man, as from second birth;
Yonder flower beneath the tread,
Struggling where the foot has gone,
Rising feebly in its bed,

Tells the hopeless looker-on,
Try again!

Guided by the hand of Right,
With Hope's taper for a light,
With a destiny like ours,

And that destiny to choose; With such God-created powers And a heaven to gain or lose, Try again!

THE UNDER DOG IN THE FIGHT.

I KNOW that the world-that the great big world-
From the peasant up to the king,

Has a different tale from the tale I tell,
And a different song to sing.

But for me, and I care not a single fig If they say I am wrong or am right,

I shall always go in for the weaker dog, For the under dog in the fight.

I know that the world-that the great big world-
Will never a moment stop

To see which dog may be in the fault,
But will shout for the dog on top.

But for me-I never shall pause to ask
Which dog may be in the right—
For my heart will beat, while it beats at all,
For the under dog in the fight.

Perchance what I've said, I had better not said,
Or, 'twere better I had said it incog,
But with heart and with glass filled chock to the
brim,

Here is luck to the bottom dog.

MY SISTER.

How calmly she sleeps in the grave, Let her rest;

How sadly the cypress trees wave

O'er her breast.