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And I thank the Father who gives me strength
To earn my daily bread-

But I cannot still this throbbing heart,
Or ease my aching head.

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'Twas not the lips of the girl that spoke, But the cheek was thin and pale!

And I knew if her soul but dared to breathe, It would tell the same sad tale:

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There are idle hands that would gladly toil,

Had they only work to do;

And starving ones who'd welcome a crust,
O child of wealth, from you!

I turned my steps from the toiling throng
Once more to the crowded street,
The smiles of the heartless ones outside
Again in the world to meet –
And I saw no pale and hollow cheek,
Nor languid, drooping eye!

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But each form was fair, and footstep free,
As the gay throng passed me by!

And I met them all the light of heart,

Bright eye, and floating curl!

But the mirth of the merry laugh was hushed By the song of the factory girl!

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MRS. BETTIE M. ZIMMERMAN.

TH

HE "Southern Illustrated News," published at the capital of the "Confederate States," was an excellent “ war literary journal," though not much of the "illustrated!" In this paper many excellent articles appeared from writers hitherto unknown to the public, and many writers made their début therein. As some one has remarked, "many ladies turned to writing as a refuge from anxiety." Several of the writers of the "News," whose first effusions appeared in its columns, are now "high on the steps of "fame's ladder,” and are not only welcome, but well-paid contributors to Northern literary journals. It was in 1863 that the "News" contained creditable poems by “Mrs. B. M. Z———" and the following year, the "Southern Field and Fireside" (Augusta) published some poems from the same pen.

""

Mrs. Zimmerman is by birth a North-Carolinian, and daughter of the late Rev. Thomas Meredith, an eminent divine of the Baptist denomination. Some years since she was married to R. P. Zimmerman, of Georgia, since which time she has resided in that State. For several years she made the beautiful city of Augusta her home, but the shadow of death there fell upon her life, clouding its brightness; for in its lovely, peaceful "city of the dead" sleeps her boy, to whom she alludes in the beautiful poems, "Three Years in Heaven" and "Christmas Tears." During and since the close of the war she has lived in Atlanta "that monument of a conqueror's wrath," which is now, phoenix-like, rising from the ashes of desolation in renewed youth and beauty.

Mrs. Zimmerman possesses a taste and talent for literature, and writing, with her, has been a pleasing pastime merely, she only lacking the study and application to make a name in the "book of Southern literature."

CHRISTMAS TEARS.

But one little stocking hangs to-night
Upon my chimney wall,

Swinging its little, nerveless foot,

Where the fitful shadows fall.

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It sweeps away the joys of life,
To bloom no more forever.

They tell me that in hopeless love
The tender heart is broken;
That, one by one, the strings are rent
By cruel, light words spoken,
Till, like a lute with riven cords,

By master-hand forsaken,

Its voice is hushed, and melody

It ne'er again shall waken.

God never made that mystic flame,
The purest e'er was lighted,
To glow but as a meteor-flash,
So soon to be benighted.

'Twas made to kindle up through life
The sparks of hope and pleasure,
And not to live in hidden gloom,
Like miser's golden treasure.

'Tis true, some ruthless hand may sweep
The strings, till, torn and bleeding,
They give back but a wailing voice
Of vain and tearful pleading,
And day will lose its purest charm,
And life its sweetest pleasure;
But time will teach them to forget,

And wake again love's measure.

They say not true who tell that hearts
Love only once can cherish,—

That, should the first sweet dream of hope

In disappointment perish,

No other love can e'er relight

The dying, tear-stained embers, No second worship fill the soul,

Where first love still remembers.

Ah, no! the heart may thrill and throb
With first love's fondest dreaming;
The eyes may wear that tender light
Which speaks love's warmest beaming;

But yet that heart can love again,
Another idol enter

These flowery niches of the soul,
Where earth and heaven centre.

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