ISA AMEND EBEEHAUT. Is A Amend Eberhart was born, May eighth, 1834, in Mercer county, Pennsyl- vania. In a note to a friend, who requested facts for a biographic notice, he said : My father is a farmer, and the story of my education is simply the same one worked over a thou- sand times by the ambitious poor. I carried my algebra and Latin grammar with me at the plow, and I watched them more closely than I did the stumps. I pinned the French verbs on the handle of my shovel-plow, and learned them whilst plowing corn. About six years ago my old life had passed away, and I found myself in a land of darkness and sorrow. It was then Poesy came to me, like a mother, taking me in her arms and lifting me out of night. Mr. Eberhart is a schoolmaster. His present residence is Chicago, Illinois. His poems have appeared in vai-ious Chicago papers, but. chiefly in the North- Western Home Journal. ONLY ONE LEFT. In the holy arms of Sabbath All the city lies asleep, And from out their twilight curtains. One by one the young stars peep, While the sweep of angel pinions Murmurs music low and deep. I am looking from my window, Peace and beauty fill my eye, But I see a tall tree near me Lift its bare arms to the sky. And I turn from all this beauty, Sadly turn away and sigh. All its leaves, but one, have perished In the cold and wint'ry air, And that lone leaf trembles, clinging Near its heart, as in despair, While the branches, closing round it. Point to heaven as if in prayer. What a world of wild emotions Through my spirit surge and swell ? Oh ! I know a heart whose picture In that lone tree seems to dwell. And the scene is sadly whispering Thoughts that language could not tell. Yes, that heart's young bloom hath per- ished. For the storms of death have blown From its side the loved and cherished Kindred spirit to its own ; Still one hope — the hope of heaven — Closely clings, though all alone. FRAGMENT. Go, ask the smiling moon at night, The stars that sweetly shine, The merry brook or happy breeze, If man should e'er repine ; The moon, the stars, the breeze, the brook Will laugh the thought to scorn, And echo back these truthful words — Man was not made to mourn. ( 664)
