HUGGING THE SHORE.

66 Do you think you will hug the shore, captain, to-day?" Asked a saucy young flirt, with a smile;

With a crimson flush was dyed her cheek,

And over her brow swept the roseate hue,
While her eyes revealed in their dancing blue
All the lips declined to speak.

The captain glanced at the distant shore,
And then at the maid awhile:

The shore was distant, and she was near,
And the rose-tint deepened, as he said, "Dear,
I'll neglect the shore to-day!"

And around her waist crept the captain's hand-
It was so much better than hugging dry land!
And he said, glancing over the vessel's bow,
"The ship is hugging Cape Hatteras now,
But I'll hug the Cape of May."

KINDNESS.

One single word of heart-felt kindness
Oft is worth a mine of gold;

Yet how oft we, in our blindness,

The most precious wealth withhold.

Like soft dews on thirsting flowers,
It revives the drooping heart;

And its magical, blest showers

Is the soul's best healing art.

Oh! however sad and lonely

Life's dark, sterile path may be,
One, one single kind word only
Causeth all its gloom to flee.

How can we know of the troubles
That must rack another's soul!
All must know that empty bubbles
Of life's cares o'er all heads roll.

Then, forgiving and forgetting,

Let for aye the kind word fall;

Only our own sins regretting
With a charity for all.

Then this life will be a pleasure,
When we all speak words of love;
For we know our earthly measure

Will be more than filled above.

CHILD AND BLIND MAN ON BROADWAY.

Thank God for children! for they give
New life to those who would not live
But that the bonds, so holy, bound
Like some fresh vine an oak, around
Their aching hearts, too full of grief,
Which find in bondage sweet relief.
God bless each childish, happy face,
Each fairy form so full of grace!
For without children life would be
Devoid of all its purity.

An angel? No, 't is but a child of earth,
But Venus smiled at that fair maiden's birth.
True, Poverty has placed on her his mark

Of scanty garments;

But tattered robes hide not the wealth and grace
That nature showered on hair, and form, and face:
Full many a childless parent would bestow
Gold, yellow, glittering gold, could that fair child
With her pure face, by art's hand undefiled,

Have been her very own.

But Nature sells not-freely does she give.
God, in his wisdom, that we all may live
Contented with our lot,

Gives mind and beauty to his favored few;

To some he grants more than their meed of wealth,

And to the rest he opes his store of health.

This child is leading by her gentle hand

Her aged grandsire, on whose sightless eyes
The hand of Time has placed his seal of seals;
Nor will they open, until in the skies
Light of all light his glorious Self reveals.

On, on they pass — but ah! that piercing scream Awakes me is it but a dream?

No! there he stands in middle of Broadway,
A frozen statue, moving neither way:
A horse is near him; and, with instinct rare,
The little child, who makes his life her care,
As if to shield him from approaching harm,
Twines her fair arms about his aged form.
I hold my breath; but ah! no need of fear;
The watchful guardian of the Bridge is near,
Robed in his blue coat, with the star of gold,
Whose courage gives him mine of strength untold;
He hurls the horse back, and they onward move—
The loving guided by the hand of love.

THE DYING YEAR.

Shadows on the snow are lying,
Day is dead, the year is dying;
Wailing winds around are sighing
For the year that now is dying.

Tell me, year, before thy fleeting,
Tell me what will be the greeting
Of the year we'll soon be meeting:
Are the hopes that fill me cheating?

Old year, whisper-still I listen!
Are hopes only drops that glisten
For a moment, as they christen
Rose-buds newly born?

And the old year tells me, dying,
In the voice of winds soft sighing,

"Child of earth, cease, cease thy crying:
What is life but hope?"

Old year, give me, ere thy leaving,

Token that I may cease grieving;

Make my faith pure, keep me believing
Both in man and God.

Silver clouds are o'er me sailing,
And the stricken year, fast paling,
Softly whispers, 'mid the wailing,

"I leave thee LOVE and HOPE."

THIS

MISS MARGIE P. SWAIN.

HIS gifted young writer is a native of Taliaferro County, in the State of Georgia; but in early life she became a resident of Alabama. Her home is with her adopted parents, Mr. and Mrs. E. J. Swain, of Talladega County.

The great civil war, at its inception in 1861, found Miss Swain, then scarcely entered on her teens, a pupil of White Chapel Female Seminary, near Talladega. In common with almost all of her sex, from the youngest to the oldest, resident in the States where slavery existed, she became an ardent Southerner in her feeling. As the contest proceeded to more and more sanguinary horrors and gigantic proportions, her interest deepened accordingly, and the stirrings of genius within her broke forth in poetical expression. At a period of life when most young girls are busying themselves with lessons in geography or algebra, her daring mind actually planned and executed "Lochlin," a regular "romaunt of the war," in iambic verse, unaided by other hands, and urged forward solely by the inspiration of her own genius. It was completed, and put through the press at Selma, Alabama, at an age younger than that at which a vast majority of the poets have made their way into the publication vestibule of the temple of fame. The first edition of this poem abounded with typographical and other errors, resulting in great part from the manifold difficulties experienced by publishers as results of the war. In this first edition, the poem was entitled "Mara," for which the young authoress has substituted "Lochlin " in a new edition soon to appear.

Since the publication referred to in 1864, Miss Swain has spent a portion of her time at school; has mastered an extensive course of literary and historical reading, and has written many other poems, soon likewise to be given by her publishers to the world. The most considerable of these is "Constantius," an historical drama of the times of the immediate successors of Constantine the Great. We venture the prediction that Miss Swain's "Constantius" will prove a decided triumph in the difficult art of dramatic composition, and a faithful portraiture of Roman life in the fourth century. Her minor poems,

sufficient of themselves to form a respectable volume in point of size, display great versatility of powers, range of information, rhythmical aptitude, and rare poetic beauty.

And yet all these works of her genius have been produced while she has so constantly been seen in the school-room, or the gay circle of thoughtless companions, that it is wonder to those who know her best how or when they were written. This fact is of itself a high commentary on the force of her genius, and creates higher hopes for her future great and lasting eminence in literature. A manifest improvement in her later productions is visible; and as she has before her all of that period of life when the full maturity of her intellectual powers may be expected to be realized, other works, surpassing those already produced, may be confidently expected.

In person, Miss Swain is about the medium height, of fair complexion, handsome spirited features, and hazel eyes, that, when interested in conversation, glow with singular brilliancy. In conversation, she seldom attempts to display those powers which she seeks to wield through her pen; but when occasionally interested by a congenial companion, her conversation is peculiarly instructive and fascinating. If she can happily steer clear of the maelstrom of matrimony, and life and health be spared to her in the pursuit of literary renown, we confidently predict for her an eminence in the world of letters not excelled by that of any of her country women-and we even hope that she may surpass them all.

VANITAS.

Ah, vainly we sigh for the summer

That dwells in the land of fair flowers;
And vainly we strive for the pleasures
And the bliss of happier hours!

For joy is a flower that bloometh

At morning, and fadeth at night;

The mem'ry thereof is outblotted

By thoughts which each day brings to light.

Care roots up the planting of pleasure;
The heart is the seat of all woe;
The worst of all pains is its throbbings,
Those pains that kill life as they go.