
Perhaps it is not infrequent that you are troubled with such as I. I am one of these fellows who wish to know what you think of my productions.
I am struggling for a position in the literary army, but it is a hard struggle, I tell you. I am nineteen years of age and have written quite a bit—poetry, humorous sketches, etc. I seem to be pretty good in the the humorous line; I wish to know whether I am a poet that is to be, or not.
I don't think I could find a better critic than you. If you will have the
gracious kindness to pass your opinion on the enclosed verses I will give you a
"soldier's, traveller's thanks" one hundred times
over.
I thought perhaps, you being an old veteran at it and knowing what is and what is not, you would kindly grant my request.
You will find on perusing the verses that I am a little melancholy in my tone, much more so than you.
Mr. Whitman if this is intrusion upon your valuable time, I would be pleased were you to say so.
Take your time to criticize these—no hurry. You will find a stamp enclosed for their return and your answer.
Most truthfully yours H.R. Maginley Norristown, Pa.
Life and Death
Dance on fair Life, yet a short while Will I allow thee to exist; But soon I'll cast my icy dart To still the beating of thy heart For I am king. Your drooping flower, In all its blushing innocence, must meet its hour. All things that are, all things that are to come Be they as pure as miry Hell is lewd, Or sunk in sin as black as God is good, Must to my power succumb and fall The blended glories 'bove the sky, And all the woes that belching Hell doth fling, The fickle wind that swift goes flitting by All these are mine; for I am king. Ay, so it is, mysterious Death. Thy solemn sickle cleaveth all; Thou layest in silent sheaves the good, And by their side the foolish lewd



Midnight.
Tis midnight solemn and serene That wields her gentle power. How truly beautiful the scene! How sweetly still the hour! You silv'ry lake, whose rippling wave The emerald grass around doth lave, Reflects the hurrying worlds on high, And choruses with evening's sigh. Lo! far off in the Eastern blue, By fleecy clouds entrapt, A laughing, silver moon doth view The Whole, in slumber wrapt. The mountains hoary and sublime,— Grand monuments of Father Time— Robed in a sleeping forest's fur, Do rise majestic in the air. The billowy land rolls off to meet Horizon's azure vail vale ; The brook flows on with tinkling sweet The distant wood to hail. Methinks strange, nightly voices tell About a lovely Spirit Dell, Where lives the God who gave serene And awe-inspiring midnight being. H. R. Maginley.

